I nose dove in like. Yup! This one is for real. Haaahaaa
I did not know anything about her, all I had was a smile and eyes that were full of joy. It could have simply been that she had come well prepared to this exam. Yes, it happened in the examination hall. She was a final year Computer Science student and was sitting for, oh! it doesn't matter, does it? Anyway, I was the invigilator in her hall. Oh! Come on! Don't look so scandalous. I know what you are thinking. I am a teacher and she was a student and you think it is wrong. Hey! We haven't even come to the stage of the story where it is appropriate to be shocked.
In my defence, though I am a teacher and she a student, she wasn't MY student. Hell! She wasn't even in the same college. Yes, this was in a college where I had been appointed as an external invigilator. So, as you can clearly see, she wasn't my student and I had no scruples holding me back.
Holding me back from what, you ask me. I had fallen in like at first sight. Don't roll your eyes. I didn't say, LOVE at first sight. I simply liked the way she held herself and thought that this was a person I could be comfortable around. You know, it is quite natural to like or dislike a person based purely on first impressions. Of course, first impressions can be misleading but how can you know that unless you had a chance to make second and third impressions.
That, therefore was the plan. I wanted to ask her out for coffee. Don't laugh at me. I know it is an alien concept here but a coffee date is safe and simple. I mean, it takes up less energy, time and money. And there is ample time for conversation and an hour with a person should give you enough data to decide if you wanted to invest on another date. I should admit, though, I didn't know how she would react.
The bigger problem was how was I going to ask her? And perhaps more importantly, when? Surely, even if I gathered enough guts to ask her and knew the words to do that, I couldn't ask her in the middle of an examination if she would come out with me.
I thought of a cunning plan. Yes! you are right. I had too much time to kill. Three hours of doing nothing but walk around a 25x20 feet room.
Logistically, I would have very little time after the exam to make my move, if I had any. A minute at the most. And there would be people around; other students. And logically, there was always the off-chance that she would slap me or start crying or get her classmates to kick my butt. Make that most probably.
Don't get impatient. I am coming to my cunning plan. I decided that asking her out is an elaborate process and since I did not have time for that now, I should create time for it later. Obviously, I couldn't meet her again (remember it is not my college) without being obvious that I am interested in her. So my cunning plan was... wait for it... to give her... are you ready for it: a note.
Stop laughing. It is not funny.
Maybe it is. A little.
But that is not all. The note wouldn't be something lame like, 'I like you', or 'You are so beautiful' or even 'Will you have coffee with me?'. The note will have my blog address. That's right! This very blog.
Laugh all you want but hear me out, will ya?
The idea was to not get slapped. I mean not put her or myself in an embarrassing situation. Nobody could blame me for asking her to check a website. They might think I was desperate for some readership but that wouldn't be so bad. I could do with more readers.
OK! She got the note. She thinks it is a weird request. She wonders if I am crazy. What next, you ask me.
The plan was to get her curious enough to check out my blog. There I could put up a post asking her out for coffee. If she was interested, anonymous commenting is enabled, she could leave me a message. Or mail me at the email id in my profile. And yes, it would also help her form an opinion of the kind of person I am.
What! You think she wouldn't want to go out with me after reading what I put up on my blogs. You don't know that. Lots of people think I am adorable. Anyway, I think it is only fair that she knows what to expect of me. She needs to be prepared if she was going to accept.
What if she wasn't interested? Simple. She wouldn't leave a message. Or worst case... leave a crappy one, calling me all sort of names. Well! I am the moderator of my blog, right? I could just delete it and nobody needs to know.
Either way, I couldn't lose. The plan was perfect.
Is the suspense killing you? Are you dying to know if I did ask her? I am not going to tell you.
What do you think? Did I or didn't I?
Time whizzes by and I, I write of glimpses I steal
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Saturday, December 01, 2007
Coming into light
I woke up disoriented, not knowing where I was or what I had been doing before. I wasn't even sure if I had been sleeping. All I remember was being aware of the darkness that surrounded me. There must be a switch, I thought and I will turn on the light. Then there will be some illumination and I will know what place this is. I can find out everything. If only I could find the light switch.
I felt my way through the walls, bumping into pieces of furniture; a chair here, a bed there. I felt a mirror (that could have been a picture frame) and a picture frame (which could well have been a mirror). The room was large and I was getting impatient. Where is the damn switch? Why can't I find it? My knee was badly bruised and I was a little afraid too. What if I don't find the switch? And then I heard a voice.
It was a woman's voice. I knew the voice just as well as I knew that I was alone in the room. I knew because when I hear voices, they are always of this woman. And she said to me, "Open your fucking eyes, asshole. The room is lit"
I felt my way through the walls, bumping into pieces of furniture; a chair here, a bed there. I felt a mirror (that could have been a picture frame) and a picture frame (which could well have been a mirror). The room was large and I was getting impatient. Where is the damn switch? Why can't I find it? My knee was badly bruised and I was a little afraid too. What if I don't find the switch? And then I heard a voice.
It was a woman's voice. I knew the voice just as well as I knew that I was alone in the room. I knew because when I hear voices, they are always of this woman. And she said to me, "Open your fucking eyes, asshole. The room is lit"
Monday, November 26, 2007
Kitsch
There are many surprises in this world. Every time I turn around a corner, surprise stares me in the face. Sometimes, it is sneering. NO, make that often. I don't mind. Not so much, that I have gotten used to it. Surprises no longer surprise me.
Like the other day, I was browsing through comments on Rediff (which is the next best thing after FRIENDS to cure mild depression), and someone had written that Satyajit Ray was a traitor.
Oh why! I wondered, he is the only Indian to be awarded an Oscar, surely in a country where international success or any remote connection to it is lauded and worshipped, he ought to receive more respect than that. What treason could he have committed? I read on. Do you know why Satyajit Ray is a traitor? Because he depicted poverty in India. That abject thing that does not exist anywhere in India. He is a unpatriotic because he marketed India's poverty to the west. Won awards and recognition because that is what the west wants to see of us.
Now,take a director of the Johar ilk. Well! You know he is patriotic because he depicts true Indian values and traditions. Doesn't he make us all proud? My chest is so swollen with pride, it is going to burst any second now.
All along, I described the movies of the Johar kind (lets be kind to him as these movies predate him and call it the Bollywood masala) as shit, bullshit, horseshit, manure and crap. It has just dawned on me that they are not shit. If anything they are the exact opposite of it; the negation of shit. Kitsch, if you please.
I am reminded of Milan Kundera's definition of Kitsch in the The Unbearable Lightness of Being as “the absolute denial of shit”. Kitsch, he wrote, excludes from view everything that humans find difficult to come to terms with, offering instead a sanitised view of the world.
What the writer of that article was trying to say was that Ray's vision was against their ideal of India and therefore unacceptable. Ray, despite gaining eminence overseas is not worthy of being our hero. It has nothing to do with ciematic sensibilites or style.
Why does it surprise me or ought to? We, in India (maybe it is an universal phenemenon) are so thirsty for heroes to put up on pedestals that I expected Ray to be on one. A national hero. A role-model for filmmakers of the new generation.
Perhaps it is only fitting that he is not on one. (And perhaps... he is not on this pedestal, only to be put up on a different one)
Like the other day, I was browsing through comments on Rediff (which is the next best thing after FRIENDS to cure mild depression), and someone had written that Satyajit Ray was a traitor.
Oh why! I wondered, he is the only Indian to be awarded an Oscar, surely in a country where international success or any remote connection to it is lauded and worshipped, he ought to receive more respect than that. What treason could he have committed? I read on. Do you know why Satyajit Ray is a traitor? Because he depicted poverty in India. That abject thing that does not exist anywhere in India. He is a unpatriotic because he marketed India's poverty to the west. Won awards and recognition because that is what the west wants to see of us.
Now,take a director of the Johar ilk. Well! You know he is patriotic because he depicts true Indian values and traditions. Doesn't he make us all proud? My chest is so swollen with pride, it is going to burst any second now.
All along, I described the movies of the Johar kind (lets be kind to him as these movies predate him and call it the Bollywood masala) as shit, bullshit, horseshit, manure and crap. It has just dawned on me that they are not shit. If anything they are the exact opposite of it; the negation of shit. Kitsch, if you please.
I am reminded of Milan Kundera's definition of Kitsch in the The Unbearable Lightness of Being as “the absolute denial of shit”. Kitsch, he wrote, excludes from view everything that humans find difficult to come to terms with, offering instead a sanitised view of the world.
What the writer of that article was trying to say was that Ray's vision was against their ideal of India and therefore unacceptable. Ray, despite gaining eminence overseas is not worthy of being our hero. It has nothing to do with ciematic sensibilites or style.
Why does it surprise me or ought to? We, in India (maybe it is an universal phenemenon) are so thirsty for heroes to put up on pedestals that I expected Ray to be on one. A national hero. A role-model for filmmakers of the new generation.
Perhaps it is only fitting that he is not on one. (And perhaps... he is not on this pedestal, only to be put up on a different one)
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Overheard
"I was so late today, I was fervently hoping that I hadn't missed the bus", the man panted to a halt. He hadn't missed the bus or his friend.
"No! You are alright. I think we have a couple of minutes before the bus arrives. What happened to you? You are the early bird. You should have been here before me."
"Don't get me started. Worst morning ever. I am surprised I didn't get run over by a cement truck. You got some water with you. I am..."
"Knackered with all the running you have been doing? Here! Drink some. Delayed at breakfast? Did the waiter serve you yesterday's remains or what?"
"Like that would be something new! The guy upstairs hung himself from the ceiling"
"Alright! That IS something new. Don't see someone commit suicide all the time. What happened to this friend?"
"Hey! He is no friend, OK? He just lives upstairs. I don't know what happened to him. Maybe love failure. Hung himself with the clothesline yesterday. No one realised anything was wrong until this morning when the lady who comes to clean the room knocked on his door and hearing no response decided to peep in through the window and saw him dangling from the roof"
"Then, what happened?"
"You think I am telling you a bedtime story? What else? She screamed her bloody lungs out and we had to break open the door and pull him down. As if that wasn't enough we had to call the police and an ambulance. Too much trouble for a monday morning"
"Who was this guy? Was he that tall fat one with french beard? Whatshisname... Thanikachalam or Arunachalam or something?"
"Oh no! Not that guy. Wish it was him, that arrogant prick. But if he was it would have taken us another hour to get him down from the ceiling. Or the rope would have sundered. This guy is the bald one. I don't think you have seen him"
"What an adventure man! My life, it is so boring. Nothing spicy ever happens"
"Yeah! I wouldn't mind it so much if it wasn't for the mobile phone I forgot to take in all this hullabaloo. What a terrible inconvenience!"
Saturday, September 29, 2007
I'm Explaining a Few Things
You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I'll tell you all the news.
I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.
From there you could look out
over Castille's dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with its dogs and children.
Remember, Raul?
Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother!
Everything
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.
And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings --
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.
Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!
Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!
Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.
And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?
Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!
Pablo Neruda
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I'll tell you all the news.
I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.
From there you could look out
over Castille's dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with its dogs and children.
Remember, Raul?
Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother!
Everything
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.
And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings --
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.
Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!
Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!
Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.
And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?
Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!
Pablo Neruda
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Purpose
I have been blue for a while now and that I have some time to ponder doesn’t seem to help. It actually has exacerbated it.
I asked a dear friend of mine, what he thought was the purpose of life. He looked at me like you would look at a particularly disgusting spider. Why do you wonder, he asked and I told him that since we are alive, I figured the primary question would be about its purpose. Then he told me that that was philosophy and that as engineers we need not bother about it. There are others who sit and think and write about such inane things. It was not up to us to do so.
I persisted. Being a devoutly religious person, he said that according to the scriptures, the purpose of our life is to do good, acquire ‘punya’, pray to God and hope to be liberated from the repeated cycles of birth and death.
That must be it, I thought. But then… The purpose of existence is to cease existing. We live so as to not live. Is that not a paradox?
Be that as it may, if my purpose in life is liberation, any action that takes me towards this goal is ‘good’ action and any action that isn’t, is ‘bad’. It may not necessarily take me away from the goal, but it is not taking me towards it. And these actions are to be avoided. Discouraged. Right? So how is studying engineering, or building a house or getting married helping me achieve the ‘goal’?
Obviously, I am such an idiot that simple truths skip my mind.
Duh! One needs to be at a stage of spiritual maturation where one has realized that all world is maya and then and only then would he or she renounce all worldly things and start working towards moksha. Not before that.
Oh! Spiritual maturation. That did skip my mind.
So, ok! What is our purpose now?
That’s the best part, he said. Since you and I are not in “the” spiritual zone, we don’t have to worry about purpose at all. We can do whatever we want. We’ll simply have to be good people and that’s it.
And what is being good people?
It is simple. You have to be gentle, courteous, generous, honest and just (Duh! Duh!). You should not harm others. And society has evolved some dos and don’ts and if one follows it and does whatever is acceptable to everyone, you will find yourself in the good people list.
Wokie! That was awesome man! You really opened my eyes. One last thing: What was the purpose for this birth? Don’t I have to think about it at all?
Haven’t you learnt anything? (sigh) You don’t have to think about purpose. That is the job for a later you. For now, there is no purpose. But if you insist on having one, we could say that we live this life, so we may leave a better world for the next generation.
For the next generation, uh?
Yes! One must work hard with diligence, get over 90% in the board exams, get into a good college, study well, get good grades, get placed (preferably by campus interview) and earn decent money. If you do all this well and get settled, you will get married to a good person. Then you will be happy and will have kids. And then you put those kids in reputed schools, take them to tennis and swimming, make sure they get over 90% in their boards and then get admission for them in a good university and pray for them to get placed on campus and once they are settled, find them a good husband or wife and wait for them to have children. Once you hold your grandchild in your arm once, you are so blissful that, it is as if your purpose is fulfilled. Then, you live out your life in peace and die. That is it.
That was so eloquent, I can’t help but be impressed. Of course I don’t think we are leaving a better world to our next generation. Look at the environment. We have screwed it up beyond repair and have a lifestyle that is clearly unsustainable. So I am not sure if we are leaving a better world.
Surely, that is not us. It was our forefathers. We are not responsible for what has happened to the environment. Anyway, I am sure our future generations will develop new technologies to make everything alright. It is not our problem. Why do you fret over it unnecessarily? You wanna catch a movie?
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Paradox of life
A bit beyond perception's reach
I sometimes believe I see
that Life is two locked boxes, each
containing the other's key.
-- Philosophical grook
I sometimes believe I see
that Life is two locked boxes, each
containing the other's key.
-- Philosophical grook
Friday, August 31, 2007
Wisdom
They found my wisdom
prone
My father wondered
if it was because
I read in my bed
A friend asked
if it was because
of what I read
(and as it follows
what I followed)
The dentist said
it is horizontal
And it shouldn't be
Called it impaction
It must be extracted
he said with a smile
or was the smile my imagination
Operated upon
Uhoh! I thought.
But then,
who needs wisdom anyway?
prone
My father wondered
if it was because
I read in my bed
A friend asked
if it was because
of what I read
(and as it follows
what I followed)
The dentist said
it is horizontal
And it shouldn't be
Called it impaction
It must be extracted
he said with a smile
or was the smile my imagination
Operated upon
Uhoh! I thought.
But then,
who needs wisdom anyway?
Friday, August 10, 2007
The road not taken
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I stood there in the middle
Unable to take either.
I stood there in the middle
Unable to take either.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Confessions of an eavesdropper
I don't do that often, he began, but this amazing thing happened to me yesterday. If I had a blog, I would write about it.
Having had nothing to write about for a while, I was more than just interested.
He went on.
I don't usually take the share auto. Not good for my back, you see. But the buses were so crowded and it looked like it might rain. Anyway, I got into this auto and a stop later, three girls got in. The girls were quite young. Fresh out of college, I'd guess. Working in some software company, carrying laptops, and wearing fancy slippers, vain about earning all that big bucks before they even knew the value of money.
Anyway, you know how girls are? They are gossipy and not really discreet. Even in public. The object of discussion today, was the love affair of one of them, a certain Lavanya. She wasn't drop dead gorgeous, but was quite pretty. I wasn't listening or anything but I understood from their chat that this Lavanya girl was in love with a guy called Dominic. The problem was that not only was he a couple of years younger than her, he was a good-for-nothing loafer who made no attempt to qualify himself for a decent job. This has been the bone of contention for a while now and though they fight often, their love is so strong, it endures all. Of course it hasn't stopped Lavanya from feeling hurt.
One of her friends, the girl in the green salwar, she looked quite sensible, you know; she tried to be supportive. Told her that she must try avoiding him for a while and that only then, he will realise her true worth and return to her a better man. Fair enough, I thought. Lavanya, already on the verge of crying, replied that she couldn't possibly do that. The maximum she has been away from him was a day and a half. "He has other friends and other pastimes. What am I to do without him?", she asked and like a sign the phone beeped. She picked it up and it was apparent that it was from this Dominic fellow. I tell you, her face grew a few shades brighter.
Obviously, I couldn't hear the other end of the conversation but from what I could gather, he wanted to meet her to discuss something and she was trying to tell him that she was halfway home. He convinced her that it was very important. She didn't need much convincing, if you ask me. Anyway she said she would wait near the post office, hung up and requested the autodriver to pull over. The ever supportive friends brigade walked out with her. Moral support, I believe is the word used there.
Anyway, I have been thinking about it all of yesternight. What do you think happened? Are they still together? Has he agreed to make an effort? What was the 'important' thing? I tell you, the next time, I see her or one of her friends in the auto stand, I will walk up and ask. The suspense; it is unbearable.
Having had nothing to write about for a while, I was more than just interested.
He went on.
I don't usually take the share auto. Not good for my back, you see. But the buses were so crowded and it looked like it might rain. Anyway, I got into this auto and a stop later, three girls got in. The girls were quite young. Fresh out of college, I'd guess. Working in some software company, carrying laptops, and wearing fancy slippers, vain about earning all that big bucks before they even knew the value of money.
Anyway, you know how girls are? They are gossipy and not really discreet. Even in public. The object of discussion today, was the love affair of one of them, a certain Lavanya. She wasn't drop dead gorgeous, but was quite pretty. I wasn't listening or anything but I understood from their chat that this Lavanya girl was in love with a guy called Dominic. The problem was that not only was he a couple of years younger than her, he was a good-for-nothing loafer who made no attempt to qualify himself for a decent job. This has been the bone of contention for a while now and though they fight often, their love is so strong, it endures all. Of course it hasn't stopped Lavanya from feeling hurt.
One of her friends, the girl in the green salwar, she looked quite sensible, you know; she tried to be supportive. Told her that she must try avoiding him for a while and that only then, he will realise her true worth and return to her a better man. Fair enough, I thought. Lavanya, already on the verge of crying, replied that she couldn't possibly do that. The maximum she has been away from him was a day and a half. "He has other friends and other pastimes. What am I to do without him?", she asked and like a sign the phone beeped. She picked it up and it was apparent that it was from this Dominic fellow. I tell you, her face grew a few shades brighter.
Obviously, I couldn't hear the other end of the conversation but from what I could gather, he wanted to meet her to discuss something and she was trying to tell him that she was halfway home. He convinced her that it was very important. She didn't need much convincing, if you ask me. Anyway she said she would wait near the post office, hung up and requested the autodriver to pull over. The ever supportive friends brigade walked out with her. Moral support, I believe is the word used there.
Anyway, I have been thinking about it all of yesternight. What do you think happened? Are they still together? Has he agreed to make an effort? What was the 'important' thing? I tell you, the next time, I see her or one of her friends in the auto stand, I will walk up and ask. The suspense; it is unbearable.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Wah! Taj!
I know this post has been a little late in the coming... but who cares!
It's been a week since Taj Mahal found its place in the New Seven Wonders of the World and the euphoria has just about worn out. I think it is about time that we took a moment and saw the madness of it.
The mainstream media in India went gung ho with the news of the "voting" for the new seven wonders. CNN-IBN, NDTV, why even SS Music went gaga over the Taj and urged its viewers to vote in favour of Taj. They even opened dedicated lines to sms your vote. A.R. Rahman came up with a song for the Taj and the day the results were declared, saw celebrations in every nook and corner of India.
Perhaps we forgot to ask some important questions. For instance, who is making up this list? Not many know that this was a private initiative by a Swiss concern, who as far as I can see, have no ruddy business or authority to mess up with an established list. UNESCO, which has the official mandate for preserving world heritage, has distanced itself from the campaign. So why do we even bother?
Next, how could a decision on the greatest wonders of the world involve voting from the general public? What are the parameters of selection? Do we have to accept "Might makes right"? With a billion odd population, can anyone even compete with us?
NDTV says, every patriotic Indian is proudly voting for the Taj with a very clear subtext that any one found not voting for the Taj is unpatriotic. And India voted.
One could even ask, why seven? Why not eight or nine or a hundred? Let's accept the "It's a tradition" answer for the moment.
Now that we have the Taj on the list, what next? I suppose it would become a tourist destination and find a place in the 'India Tourism' brochures. Wait a sec; it already is a tourist destination and is the most iconic building in India. So....
I am not an architect and I haven't the faintest clue as to what makes a building a wonder. Mind you, that ShahJahan constructed it for his beloved wife as a symbol of his undying love is no reason for it to be a wonder.
I remember watching a documentary on the 'Thanjavur Periya Kovil' and the filmmaker believed that the reason that the British historians/archaeologists liked the TajMahal better was that it was more closer to their concept of a spectacular building. He pointed out that the prudish Brit could not stand the extravagantly carved Hindu temples with their bare bodied Gods and Godesses. I am not sure how much of that it true. But the least that the Indian media could have done is showcase other architectural wonders of India. My apologies if I had missed such a programme but all I could hear on the tely was what a great wonder Taj is.
I am not against the Taj and please do not colour my views here. All I wanted to point was that we are being brainwashed by the media into believing whatever they dish out. Wake up!
It's been a week since Taj Mahal found its place in the New Seven Wonders of the World and the euphoria has just about worn out. I think it is about time that we took a moment and saw the madness of it.
The mainstream media in India went gung ho with the news of the "voting" for the new seven wonders. CNN-IBN, NDTV, why even SS Music went gaga over the Taj and urged its viewers to vote in favour of Taj. They even opened dedicated lines to sms your vote. A.R. Rahman came up with a song for the Taj and the day the results were declared, saw celebrations in every nook and corner of India.
Perhaps we forgot to ask some important questions. For instance, who is making up this list? Not many know that this was a private initiative by a Swiss concern, who as far as I can see, have no ruddy business or authority to mess up with an established list. UNESCO, which has the official mandate for preserving world heritage, has distanced itself from the campaign. So why do we even bother?
Next, how could a decision on the greatest wonders of the world involve voting from the general public? What are the parameters of selection? Do we have to accept "Might makes right"? With a billion odd population, can anyone even compete with us?
NDTV says, every patriotic Indian is proudly voting for the Taj with a very clear subtext that any one found not voting for the Taj is unpatriotic. And India voted.
One could even ask, why seven? Why not eight or nine or a hundred? Let's accept the "It's a tradition" answer for the moment.
Now that we have the Taj on the list, what next? I suppose it would become a tourist destination and find a place in the 'India Tourism' brochures. Wait a sec; it already is a tourist destination and is the most iconic building in India. So....
I am not an architect and I haven't the faintest clue as to what makes a building a wonder. Mind you, that ShahJahan constructed it for his beloved wife as a symbol of his undying love is no reason for it to be a wonder.
I remember watching a documentary on the 'Thanjavur Periya Kovil' and the filmmaker believed that the reason that the British historians/archaeologists liked the TajMahal better was that it was more closer to their concept of a spectacular building. He pointed out that the prudish Brit could not stand the extravagantly carved Hindu temples with their bare bodied Gods and Godesses. I am not sure how much of that it true. But the least that the Indian media could have done is showcase other architectural wonders of India. My apologies if I had missed such a programme but all I could hear on the tely was what a great wonder Taj is.
I am not against the Taj and please do not colour my views here. All I wanted to point was that we are being brainwashed by the media into believing whatever they dish out. Wake up!
Monday, June 11, 2007
Chennai Times
- Chennai sometimes surprises me. I did not expect Chennai to have a sizeable audience for world cinema but the endless stream of Film festivals have swept me off my feet. If it was French last week, it is Algerian next and an Indian retrospective and then a Short film festival. The festival circuit seems to be very active. I went to Alliance Française for the screening of Guru Dutt's 'Kaagaz ke phool' (as a part of the Indian Retrospective). And in spite of it being a weekday afternoon, it was a full house. Way to go Chennai.
- My experience with Jiddu Krishnamurti, a.k.a JK was very limited, having only skimmed through a couple of his books. I had the opportunity to visit Krishnamurti Foundation of India - KFI's Study Centre in Adyar this weekend. KFI had organised a video screening of one of the lectures of JK (delivered in Saasen, Switzerland in 1980) and again, the enthusiastic participation gladdens me. These video screenings by KFI take place every alternate Sunday and there are plans for a discussion forum on the Sundays when there is no screening. People interested in JK's philosophy, cash in!
- Auto-rickshaws in Chennai were fitted with new electronic fare meters. The fare was also revised taking into consideration the fuel prices and such. The autowallahs proved the philosophy that "Even if everything changes, nothing really changes". You can bring in the latest space-age technology, to accurately measure the number of kilometers the auto has travelled to within a millimeter, you can bring in tamper-proof meters that will give you the same accurate reading every single time, but you cannot make the autowallah charge you by the meter. Try as I did, I couldn't get even one auto guy to use the meter. They even came up with ingenious excuses for not using the meter. One guy actually said that he can't use the meter in the night time, because all the battery power is sucked by the headlights leaving none for the meter. I am thinking of compiling all the reasons that they could possibly come up with.
- Following on the same vein, you can make a law but to enforce one, needs courage. The Madras High Court made it compulsory for all riders of two-wheelers to wear helmets. Helmet sales boomed and by the first of June, when the law came into effect, almost everyone had bought one. I am guessing the cops were looking forward to an early Diwali/Christmas. But then, man proposes and the chiefminister disposes. The gutless CM, afraid that he would lose public support, issued a statement that candidly assured the public that the law will not be 'enforced'. End result: even in the centre of the city, people ride their two-wheelers without headgear fearlessly. Thank you Mr. CM. You have the interest of the public, foremost in your mind.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
RKN
I have always maintained that RK Narayan is one of my favourite authors and when Priya (of Numbskulls) tagged me to write my experiences with the Malgudi man, I can't refuse, can I? I know it has been a while since you posted that Priya, and I am sorry that I haven't been more regular to my blog. But better late than never.
Since everyone has written about Swami and friends, English teacher and Maneater of Malgudi rather extensively, I'll stay clear of it all. I'd better write about my favourite RKN novel: "Waiting for the Mahatma". Though much of WFTM happens outside Malgudi, I'd still vote it my favourite Malgudi novel. SriRam, the spoilt youngster from Malgudi, who lives with his grandmother gets transformed into a Gandhian, then a revolutionary and finally into what we hope a responsible adult. It was an amazing coming-of-age story interspered with a heart-warming romance and I cannot for the life of me imagine, why it was not made into a movie.
Similarly, I enjoyed the lesser popular collection of short stories, 'A Horse and two goats' and 'Lawley Road and other stories' and there were one or two very 'Malgudi'-ish stories in it.
Though I am as disappointed as all RKN fans that he did not receive many laurels (notable of which was the Nobel prize for Literature), I am sure the adulation of many readers spanning three-four generations was his greatest reward.
Oh! did you know his unfinished works, a collection of short stories is going to be published as Malgudi-O-Palooza.
No.... I was just kidding. I am suuposed to add Malgudi-O-Palloza to my post to help the aliens keep track of me.
Update: Gifted a collection of RKN's novels to two of my nephews. May the next generation live with the Malgudi man the way we did.
Since everyone has written about Swami and friends, English teacher and Maneater of Malgudi rather extensively, I'll stay clear of it all. I'd better write about my favourite RKN novel: "Waiting for the Mahatma". Though much of WFTM happens outside Malgudi, I'd still vote it my favourite Malgudi novel. SriRam, the spoilt youngster from Malgudi, who lives with his grandmother gets transformed into a Gandhian, then a revolutionary and finally into what we hope a responsible adult. It was an amazing coming-of-age story interspered with a heart-warming romance and I cannot for the life of me imagine, why it was not made into a movie.
Similarly, I enjoyed the lesser popular collection of short stories, 'A Horse and two goats' and 'Lawley Road and other stories' and there were one or two very 'Malgudi'-ish stories in it.
Though I am as disappointed as all RKN fans that he did not receive many laurels (notable of which was the Nobel prize for Literature), I am sure the adulation of many readers spanning three-four generations was his greatest reward.
Oh! did you know his unfinished works, a collection of short stories is going to be published as Malgudi-O-Palooza.
No.... I was just kidding. I am suuposed to add Malgudi-O-Palloza to my post to help the aliens keep track of me.
Update: Gifted a collection of RKN's novels to two of my nephews. May the next generation live with the Malgudi man the way we did.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Identity - Part 2
Have you heard someone point at an Indian-American and say, "Oh! He is an ABCD"?
ABCD, American Born Confused Desi is the title given to Indian kids born abroad, especially the States. It is believed that the cultural shock of growing up in an 'alien' environment and being far from our "traditions", "cultural heritage" and "mitti ki khusboo", these children suffer from an identity crisis. For instance, unable to decide if they are American-Indian or Indian-American. Whether to speak Hindi with an English accent or English with an Hindi accent.
I don't have any trouble with that classification. There are desis and there are confused desis. These desis can be born in any country and if born in America are ABCDs. What irks me is when people think that being confused is the prerogative of only the Indian diaspora.
If it wasn't clear from my previous post, which raised many questions and answered none, I am a confused desi. Very.
Yup! I am an IBCD. Indian Born Confused Desi.
We IBCDs aren't much different from ABCDs. You see, I wondered if my identity was of an Indian, Tamilian or Brahmin. As an ABCD, I might have wondered if I was American or Indian and perhaps Tamil or Brahmin too. I may not seriously consider my identity as a Brahmin but may use a substitute - 'Hindu'.
Likewise, our regional status fades into insignificance when we go out of the country. Not really!!? Let me put a qualifier. Most times, our regional identity fades into insignificance when we go out of the country. Tamil, Kannadiga, Bihari, Punjabi; we get along well. We are the Indian fraternity.
Even if it didn't, it is only an order of magnitude higher than an IBCD. Surely, we IBCDs deserve some recognition.
Maybe I just want company, but I think that being confused is good and that we need more messed-up people like me. Because, the opposite of being confused is blind acceptance. It is not that you know the answers to all questions; you simply don't ask any.
ABCD, American Born Confused Desi is the title given to Indian kids born abroad, especially the States. It is believed that the cultural shock of growing up in an 'alien' environment and being far from our "traditions", "cultural heritage" and "mitti ki khusboo", these children suffer from an identity crisis. For instance, unable to decide if they are American-Indian or Indian-American. Whether to speak Hindi with an English accent or English with an Hindi accent.
I don't have any trouble with that classification. There are desis and there are confused desis. These desis can be born in any country and if born in America are ABCDs. What irks me is when people think that being confused is the prerogative of only the Indian diaspora.
If it wasn't clear from my previous post, which raised many questions and answered none, I am a confused desi. Very.
Yup! I am an IBCD. Indian Born Confused Desi.
We IBCDs aren't much different from ABCDs. You see, I wondered if my identity was of an Indian, Tamilian or Brahmin. As an ABCD, I might have wondered if I was American or Indian and perhaps Tamil or Brahmin too. I may not seriously consider my identity as a Brahmin but may use a substitute - 'Hindu'.
Likewise, our regional status fades into insignificance when we go out of the country. Not really!!? Let me put a qualifier. Most times, our regional identity fades into insignificance when we go out of the country. Tamil, Kannadiga, Bihari, Punjabi; we get along well. We are the Indian fraternity.
Even if it didn't, it is only an order of magnitude higher than an IBCD. Surely, we IBCDs deserve some recognition.
Maybe I just want company, but I think that being confused is good and that we need more messed-up people like me. Because, the opposite of being confused is blind acceptance. It is not that you know the answers to all questions; you simply don't ask any.
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Identity
A while back, one of my housemates asked me this question - How would you describe yourself? Are you first and foremost an Indian, a Tamilian or a Brahmin?
My inquisitor was one-fourth Kiwi, quarter-Hungarian, half- Islander and has been in Australia for well over three decades. She was born a Jew, grew up an atheist, dabbled with Christianity and then found Buddhism. Things weren't made any easier by the fact that she was a lesbian. Somewhere down the line she must have wondered who she really was and I am guessing she found the answer. The point is, her identity was not a 'given'. She had to find it herself. And perhaps, by the process of finding it, she has become a better person.
Fed an intensive diet of 'patriotic' films I was tempted to respond with "I am an Indian first. Everything else comes after that". But does it really. Who am I?
Yes, I am an Indian, because I was born here, because my passport says so. But what is it to be 'Indian'? How would someone define Indianness? What other than Geography makes one Indian? When my grandfather was born, the concept of India as it exists now did not prevail. India, as a land that stretches from Kashmir to Kanyakumari (minus Pakistan and Bangladesh) was an invention, that is only 60 years old. India, the land of Indus has a much longer history but was not exactly a whole unit. There were many nations in it, and my nationality (and thereby my identity) would have been Pallava or Pandya or Chola or Maratha or Mughal at various times. According to which army was conquering . I was even British for a while.
Yes, I am a Tamil, because I speak the language, because I was born and raised in a Tamil speaking society. But does that make me a Tamilian before an Indian. Again, we don't know how many generations ago, my ancestors moved to Tamil land. As recent as 20 years ago, my grandfather couldn't read and write Tamil well. He was taught Sanskrit and was more comfortable with it than Tamil. Clearly the regional fervour and linguistic jingoism were also inventions of the last 5-6 decades. And the Dravidian movement did not consider us, Brahmins, as Tamils. Or did they?
Which brings us to being a Brahmin. Yes, I am a Brahmin and I have a thin rope across my shoulders to prove it. Every year I change that rope and recite the Gayathri Mantra 1008 times. Being a Brahmin has clearly defined rules and there are rites and practices unique to us.
So, does that make me a Brahmin before anything else? What am I, if I remove the tag of Brahmin?
Which begs the question: 'What exactly is an identity?'. According to one of the dictionaries, identity is the condition of being oneself or itself, and not another.
Then this raises a new question: can one be all three; an Indian, a Tamil and a Brahmin? Even if that was possible, if I were to make one, my primary identity, what would it be? Any guesses.
Somehow I feel that what defines me the best (OK! the least controversial one) is, Aeronautical Engineer.
My inquisitor was one-fourth Kiwi, quarter-Hungarian, half- Islander and has been in Australia for well over three decades. She was born a Jew, grew up an atheist, dabbled with Christianity and then found Buddhism. Things weren't made any easier by the fact that she was a lesbian. Somewhere down the line she must have wondered who she really was and I am guessing she found the answer. The point is, her identity was not a 'given'. She had to find it herself. And perhaps, by the process of finding it, she has become a better person.
Fed an intensive diet of 'patriotic' films I was tempted to respond with "I am an Indian first. Everything else comes after that". But does it really. Who am I?
Yes, I am an Indian, because I was born here, because my passport says so. But what is it to be 'Indian'? How would someone define Indianness? What other than Geography makes one Indian? When my grandfather was born, the concept of India as it exists now did not prevail. India, as a land that stretches from Kashmir to Kanyakumari (minus Pakistan and Bangladesh) was an invention, that is only 60 years old. India, the land of Indus has a much longer history but was not exactly a whole unit. There were many nations in it, and my nationality (and thereby my identity) would have been Pallava or Pandya or Chola or Maratha or Mughal at various times. According to which army was conquering . I was even British for a while.
Yes, I am a Tamil, because I speak the language, because I was born and raised in a Tamil speaking society. But does that make me a Tamilian before an Indian. Again, we don't know how many generations ago, my ancestors moved to Tamil land. As recent as 20 years ago, my grandfather couldn't read and write Tamil well. He was taught Sanskrit and was more comfortable with it than Tamil. Clearly the regional fervour and linguistic jingoism were also inventions of the last 5-6 decades. And the Dravidian movement did not consider us, Brahmins, as Tamils. Or did they?
Which brings us to being a Brahmin. Yes, I am a Brahmin and I have a thin rope across my shoulders to prove it. Every year I change that rope and recite the Gayathri Mantra 1008 times. Being a Brahmin has clearly defined rules and there are rites and practices unique to us.
So, does that make me a Brahmin before anything else? What am I, if I remove the tag of Brahmin?
Which begs the question: 'What exactly is an identity?'. According to one of the dictionaries, identity is the condition of being oneself or itself, and not another.
Then this raises a new question: can one be all three; an Indian, a Tamil and a Brahmin? Even if that was possible, if I were to make one, my primary identity, what would it be? Any guesses.
Somehow I feel that what defines me the best (OK! the least controversial one) is, Aeronautical Engineer.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Wanna go for a drive?
There are no two opinions about it: driving in India is a nightmare. It's not that the traffic is undisciplined; it is so chaotic, it is a jungle out there. No! Jungles have certain rules about them. For instance, you wouldn't see a deer chase down a cheetah and paw it down on the National Geographic, would you? So! lawless jungle it is. And what an endearing lawless jungle it is.
And did I tell you the roads were a joke. Case in point, my autorickshaw ride from Dombivili West to East. I was visiting Mumbai to attend a wedding and the nice south Indian boy that I am, I decided to wear a dhoti for the big occassion. For those of you unfamiliar with the dhoti, it is a white piece of cloth that you drape around your waist, like a toga. I am not totally unused to it myself and can pull it off any day of the week. This particular ride was a little over 3 kms. And by the time I reached my destination, the dhoti had loosened to such an extent that I had not a little trouble getting out without making an exhibition of myself. Later, I ran three flights of stairs and half a dozen times while I was at it and nothing happened to the dhoti. It stayed on my self like a stain on a new dress.
The cloud, however is not without its silver lining. For starters, it is a good physical workout. Some say, better than an hour at the gym. Also, driving on such roads detracts people from over-eating (lest they throw up on the way). The National Obesity Institute says that people who have to drive more than 5 kms in a day are less prone to obesity. They also point that the hearts are stronger because they can't be scared by sudden events. Like an old lady (with two bags of groceries in her hand and a bag of flour perched precariously on her head), jumping in front of your speeding car or a cyclist who hurls himself from the left corner to the right end with a bus on his tail. You try scaring someone on the roads, cry boo, wear a dracula costume with red blood dripping from your fangs. Zilch. Nada. You wouldn't get as much as a moan.
In the boring west, pedestrians take pride in being able to strut across roads without checking both ways at pedestrian crossings (zebra crossing, if you please). To them, I'll say, here in India, you can walk in the middle of the road with such impunity that one may think that you own the road.
And there is the thrill. People don't have to spend tons of money to holiday in, say, the Gold coast, pay atrocious amounts to enter the theme park and ride on rollercoasters or try bungee jumping. Everyday is a rollercoaster ride. Every trip to office is a near-death experience. No wonder then, that Indians are very philosophical.
Silver lining, I should say it is a silver cloud.
So come on, ye boys and girls. Hearts in your sleeves, put your feet on the brakes and the thumbs on the horn and... lets go for a drive.
And did I tell you the roads were a joke. Case in point, my autorickshaw ride from Dombivili West to East. I was visiting Mumbai to attend a wedding and the nice south Indian boy that I am, I decided to wear a dhoti for the big occassion. For those of you unfamiliar with the dhoti, it is a white piece of cloth that you drape around your waist, like a toga. I am not totally unused to it myself and can pull it off any day of the week. This particular ride was a little over 3 kms. And by the time I reached my destination, the dhoti had loosened to such an extent that I had not a little trouble getting out without making an exhibition of myself. Later, I ran three flights of stairs and half a dozen times while I was at it and nothing happened to the dhoti. It stayed on my self like a stain on a new dress.
The cloud, however is not without its silver lining. For starters, it is a good physical workout. Some say, better than an hour at the gym. Also, driving on such roads detracts people from over-eating (lest they throw up on the way). The National Obesity Institute says that people who have to drive more than 5 kms in a day are less prone to obesity. They also point that the hearts are stronger because they can't be scared by sudden events. Like an old lady (with two bags of groceries in her hand and a bag of flour perched precariously on her head), jumping in front of your speeding car or a cyclist who hurls himself from the left corner to the right end with a bus on his tail. You try scaring someone on the roads, cry boo, wear a dracula costume with red blood dripping from your fangs. Zilch. Nada. You wouldn't get as much as a moan.
In the boring west, pedestrians take pride in being able to strut across roads without checking both ways at pedestrian crossings (zebra crossing, if you please). To them, I'll say, here in India, you can walk in the middle of the road with such impunity that one may think that you own the road.
And there is the thrill. People don't have to spend tons of money to holiday in, say, the Gold coast, pay atrocious amounts to enter the theme park and ride on rollercoasters or try bungee jumping. Everyday is a rollercoaster ride. Every trip to office is a near-death experience. No wonder then, that Indians are very philosophical.
Silver lining, I should say it is a silver cloud.
So come on, ye boys and girls. Hearts in your sleeves, put your feet on the brakes and the thumbs on the horn and... lets go for a drive.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Ordinary person's guide to nostalgia
Until recently, I couldn't tell the difference between Left and Right. (I had trouble picking my right from left. Every time I had to tell directions to somebody, I had to check a mole on my left thumb to identify it as my left hand). But we are not talking about my hands here. I am talking about politics.
Like a 'proper' Tam Brahm guy, my political inclinations were non-existent. I mean, it was not 'absent' non-existent. One did watch BBC or CNN once in a while to help with the TOEFL preparations. And read the papers. I spent the most time, when I had my daily dosage of 'The Hindu' (while sipping filter kapi) on sports columns. You know how it is... you go with the general opinion. The widely-accepted stance. The safe bet.
I cried my eyes out when Rajiv Gandhi was assassinated (I wasn't even 10 at that time). I didn't support the Americans when they waged the war against Iraq (I am talking about the First Gulf War) because I adored Mr. Saddam for standing up against the superpowers (I didn't know Kurds existed). In a fight between David and Goliath, you have to take sides with David. I cheered when India flexed its nuclear muscle. I was moved to tears when an actor in a Indian movie said that Kashmir was OUR land and even a handful of our soil is not for others to usurp. Palestine was a complicated international situation that world leaders were working hard to solve.
Emergency was a grand period in Indian history because trains ran on time, government servants did their jobs and slums were cleared to make way for a beautiful city. I burst fireworks when India defeated Pakistan in the 1996 world cup quarterfinal in Bangalore. United Nations, I believed was a powerful, autonomous world body that ensured peace and prosperity for everyone. World Bank was a philanthropic organisation that gave (note, gave, not lent) money to develop the infrastructure in developing countries. Colombia was a country of druglords, Brasil of footballers and France of romantics. I hadn't heard of Chechnya, Bosnia, Eritrea or Sudan. I called an Iranian, an Arab and didn't realise it was an insult (It was my Guardian Angel's blessing that saved me from being beaten to death).
Development, to me was skyscrapers (a skyline to take beautiful pictures in front of), foreign cars (that can go from 0 to 60 in 1.2874 seconds) and thirty-two brands of toothpaste in airconditioned supermarkets. And the chocolates. How can I forget those Kit Kats and Ferrero Rochers? Or Pepsi and Coke? And Parker pens and Swiss watches? And the mobile phone towers every meter and half. These were the signs that we were catching up with the west.
Oh! Those blissful days.
Like a 'proper' Tam Brahm guy, my political inclinations were non-existent. I mean, it was not 'absent' non-existent. One did watch BBC or CNN once in a while to help with the TOEFL preparations. And read the papers. I spent the most time, when I had my daily dosage of 'The Hindu' (while sipping filter kapi) on sports columns. You know how it is... you go with the general opinion. The widely-accepted stance. The safe bet.
I cried my eyes out when Rajiv Gandhi was assassinated (I wasn't even 10 at that time). I didn't support the Americans when they waged the war against Iraq (I am talking about the First Gulf War) because I adored Mr. Saddam for standing up against the superpowers (I didn't know Kurds existed). In a fight between David and Goliath, you have to take sides with David. I cheered when India flexed its nuclear muscle. I was moved to tears when an actor in a Indian movie said that Kashmir was OUR land and even a handful of our soil is not for others to usurp. Palestine was a complicated international situation that world leaders were working hard to solve.
Emergency was a grand period in Indian history because trains ran on time, government servants did their jobs and slums were cleared to make way for a beautiful city. I burst fireworks when India defeated Pakistan in the 1996 world cup quarterfinal in Bangalore. United Nations, I believed was a powerful, autonomous world body that ensured peace and prosperity for everyone. World Bank was a philanthropic organisation that gave (note, gave, not lent) money to develop the infrastructure in developing countries. Colombia was a country of druglords, Brasil of footballers and France of romantics. I hadn't heard of Chechnya, Bosnia, Eritrea or Sudan. I called an Iranian, an Arab and didn't realise it was an insult (It was my Guardian Angel's blessing that saved me from being beaten to death).
Development, to me was skyscrapers (a skyline to take beautiful pictures in front of), foreign cars (that can go from 0 to 60 in 1.2874 seconds) and thirty-two brands of toothpaste in airconditioned supermarkets. And the chocolates. How can I forget those Kit Kats and Ferrero Rochers? Or Pepsi and Coke? And Parker pens and Swiss watches? And the mobile phone towers every meter and half. These were the signs that we were catching up with the west.
Oh! Those blissful days.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Quick tale: NRI Trouble
My last few days as an NRI (though I never saw myself as one, but lets not get into that and be termed unpatriotic or anti-national) and I have decided to vent it all out. If you are wondering what NRI is, fear not, it is not transmitted sexually. It is the term used for the Indian diaspora - Non-Resident Indian.
I have been in the States for thirty years. My children were born here and speak with a funny accent. I am returning to India now. To lead a quiet, semi-retired life. I have earned a lot, and being born in a generation that my son now not-so-affectionately calls 'people who did not know how to enjoy life', saved most of it. I can afford to withdraw from the rat-race.
In my years abroad, I have often read comments from RIs, the Resident Indians (or Real Indians, as they'd like to call themselves) that I have betrayed my country by joining hands with the white dudes. They coined a word for that - 'Brain drain'. I am not selfish but I see no rational in sacrificing my life (or my brain) for a country, mine or someone else's. I refuse to be limited by man-made boundaries and concepts of National pride. Now if someone wins an award, plays a sport or does something noteworthy, the Indian media tries manufacturing pride from that. Mr. So-and-so won this prestigious award and later when he farted, the one closest to him was an Indian. He says that he was hit by the smell the strongest. Isn't that something we all should be proud of? Bollocks.
I maybe right, I maybe wrong. Let's not debate that. I am set in my ways and nothing you say or do is going to change that. You can't teach an old dog new tricks.
Don't start wagging the plane ticket in my face and say that if I am returning to India now in my old age, it is because of the emotional strings that connects me to it. Bullshit. My return is for reasons other than emotion. Economic perhaps. It is cheaper to live in India with a live-in hired help. And I have nephews and nieces who'll fall over themselves to be of assisstance. Come visiting, and hear me talk. And I can get good dosas everyday. What? That I enjoy my dosas doesn't make me a patriot. It is a convenience not a bond with the soil. Does liking pizzas make one an Italian?
That my son and daughters haven't enough time for me is not because they grew up abroad (and weren't instilled with Indian values), it is because they are highly successful and have a life of their own. I don't expect anything else from them.
And then there are these kids, my cousin's boy one of them, who watch some movie in the social-fantasy genre and go about rambling about Indianness and social responsibility. If you ask me, these movies should be banned and the film-makers shipped to Guantanamo. This kid, I forgot his name, drugged by this 'we can change the world' shit, wrote about how all we NRIs do is complain. "Stop complaining about our bad roads or traffic or pollution or lack of water supply or poverty or illiteracy or...", he writes. I want to tell him, "You idiot! If we are complaining, it is because you are not".
Oh! forgive me, Mr. Stephanopoulos. I haven't even offered you anything. Coffee or tea? Old age, uh? Can't stop the talking.
I have been in the States for thirty years. My children were born here and speak with a funny accent. I am returning to India now. To lead a quiet, semi-retired life. I have earned a lot, and being born in a generation that my son now not-so-affectionately calls 'people who did not know how to enjoy life', saved most of it. I can afford to withdraw from the rat-race.
In my years abroad, I have often read comments from RIs, the Resident Indians (or Real Indians, as they'd like to call themselves) that I have betrayed my country by joining hands with the white dudes. They coined a word for that - 'Brain drain'. I am not selfish but I see no rational in sacrificing my life (or my brain) for a country, mine or someone else's. I refuse to be limited by man-made boundaries and concepts of National pride. Now if someone wins an award, plays a sport or does something noteworthy, the Indian media tries manufacturing pride from that. Mr. So-and-so won this prestigious award and later when he farted, the one closest to him was an Indian. He says that he was hit by the smell the strongest. Isn't that something we all should be proud of? Bollocks.
I maybe right, I maybe wrong. Let's not debate that. I am set in my ways and nothing you say or do is going to change that. You can't teach an old dog new tricks.
Don't start wagging the plane ticket in my face and say that if I am returning to India now in my old age, it is because of the emotional strings that connects me to it. Bullshit. My return is for reasons other than emotion. Economic perhaps. It is cheaper to live in India with a live-in hired help. And I have nephews and nieces who'll fall over themselves to be of assisstance. Come visiting, and hear me talk. And I can get good dosas everyday. What? That I enjoy my dosas doesn't make me a patriot. It is a convenience not a bond with the soil. Does liking pizzas make one an Italian?
That my son and daughters haven't enough time for me is not because they grew up abroad (and weren't instilled with Indian values), it is because they are highly successful and have a life of their own. I don't expect anything else from them.
And then there are these kids, my cousin's boy one of them, who watch some movie in the social-fantasy genre and go about rambling about Indianness and social responsibility. If you ask me, these movies should be banned and the film-makers shipped to Guantanamo. This kid, I forgot his name, drugged by this 'we can change the world' shit, wrote about how all we NRIs do is complain. "Stop complaining about our bad roads or traffic or pollution or lack of water supply or poverty or illiteracy or...", he writes. I want to tell him, "You idiot! If we are complaining, it is because you are not".
Oh! forgive me, Mr. Stephanopoulos. I haven't even offered you anything. Coffee or tea? Old age, uh? Can't stop the talking.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Mani-bhai
The thing about shit is that even the most sweet smelling shit, the most tastefully decorated shit, shit with caramel topping and a cherry on top is still, ultimately shit. Turd. Useless. Maniratnam's Guru is that; visually stunning and aesthetically pleasing shit.
Most of the reviews that I read were about how, even if it wasn't spectacular, the movie was worth a watch. I beg to differ. It is without any doubt Maniratnam's worst movie. The movie wasn't too bad if someone was making his/her debut feature. It was very ordinary for an experienced 'auteur' and if you consider that it was by (allegedly) the best director in the country, you begin to wonder if there is any hope for Indian cinema.
To be fair to Mani, I don't think he fared badly as a director. He wasn't at his best but could easily be forgiven. His inexcusable failure is that of the scriptwriter (which incidentally wasn't credited to him or to anyone. Yup! That sounds right. It did look like a movie without a scriptwriter). Either you have lost it sir or you tried to accommodate the script for the 'ever-so-mysterious' North Indian audience. There was no cogency, the songs were a joke and the script was incomplete and ideologically flawed.
Sir, if I may, can I make a humble request. Please, please stop trying to make movies in Hindi. (Is it your lack of understanding of the language or the people that works against you?) If you don't want to make a movie in Tamil, make one in French or Spanish. Or Elven for all I care. But not Hindi. They don't like you and you trying to bend yourself backwards to please them is not going to help. Like a Harry Potter novel, Mani sold out (but in a totally different sense). He pimped himself to make money. Mani fans, don't start lynching me. I don't hate him. I love him dearly and that is why I can't accept such substandard stuff from him.
Mani, either intentionally or inadvertently mirrors himself in Guru's character; the manipulative bastard. I can read the movie as a metaphor to his own cinema. Mani is of course the protagonist Guru; the one who gets greedy enough to sell his soul. We, his faithful fans, who first saw in him the spark of genius and the burning desire to make better cinema, are represented by Mithunda's Nanaji. We love him and we can't see him flounder and remain unmoved. Aishwarya Rai is the visual aesthetics that he brought to Indian cinema (unchanging in its beauty). Meenakshi is the hope of the Tamil filmgoer for world-class cinema. It was born with multiple-sclerosis and died with this movie. Maddy's Saxena represents the independent media (myself included) who are willing to be not overwhelmed by the halo around Mani-bhai's head and to write fearlessly to right a wrong.
Read another way, Guru, like Mani's earlier works, Roja (1992), Bombay(1995) reflects the current mindset of the majority; in this case our nation's euphoria and the India poised campaign (see previous post). Success is made out to be so important, that we, as a society have been granted license to take shortcuts to make money. With a justification that is as elegant as George Bush's speeches. A whatever-it-takes approach for the purported 'greater good' is rationalized as being 'not wrong'. That's what great people do and that is what greatness is. Whoever says so otherwise is saying that only because they are jealous.
BTW, the whole monologue at the end of the movie, in the courthouse was so ribticklingly hilarious and illogical that I expected one of the judges or at least someone in the press gallery to laugh out loud. Keeping in mind Mani's management background, I thought he must have planned it as a parody. And Priya, it is quite evident that the hostile judges are converted by his inspiring speech.
Mani was wondering why people still remembered him as the director who made 'Mouna Raagam' (1986) and 'Nayagan' (1987) and hoped that after Guru he'd be remembered as the director who made Guru. For his sake, I should hope that people forget Guru soon and not relate it with him at all.
What happened to you, sir? I wonder, surely one can't become senile at the age of 50, can one? But on a more hopeful note, the thing about shit is, even the greatest have to get it out once in a while.
Most of the reviews that I read were about how, even if it wasn't spectacular, the movie was worth a watch. I beg to differ. It is without any doubt Maniratnam's worst movie. The movie wasn't too bad if someone was making his/her debut feature. It was very ordinary for an experienced 'auteur' and if you consider that it was by (allegedly) the best director in the country, you begin to wonder if there is any hope for Indian cinema.
To be fair to Mani, I don't think he fared badly as a director. He wasn't at his best but could easily be forgiven. His inexcusable failure is that of the scriptwriter (which incidentally wasn't credited to him or to anyone. Yup! That sounds right. It did look like a movie without a scriptwriter). Either you have lost it sir or you tried to accommodate the script for the 'ever-so-mysterious' North Indian audience. There was no cogency, the songs were a joke and the script was incomplete and ideologically flawed.
Sir, if I may, can I make a humble request. Please, please stop trying to make movies in Hindi. (Is it your lack of understanding of the language or the people that works against you?) If you don't want to make a movie in Tamil, make one in French or Spanish. Or Elven for all I care. But not Hindi. They don't like you and you trying to bend yourself backwards to please them is not going to help. Like a Harry Potter novel, Mani sold out (but in a totally different sense). He pimped himself to make money. Mani fans, don't start lynching me. I don't hate him. I love him dearly and that is why I can't accept such substandard stuff from him.
Mani, either intentionally or inadvertently mirrors himself in Guru's character; the manipulative bastard. I can read the movie as a metaphor to his own cinema. Mani is of course the protagonist Guru; the one who gets greedy enough to sell his soul. We, his faithful fans, who first saw in him the spark of genius and the burning desire to make better cinema, are represented by Mithunda's Nanaji. We love him and we can't see him flounder and remain unmoved. Aishwarya Rai is the visual aesthetics that he brought to Indian cinema (unchanging in its beauty). Meenakshi is the hope of the Tamil filmgoer for world-class cinema. It was born with multiple-sclerosis and died with this movie. Maddy's Saxena represents the independent media (myself included) who are willing to be not overwhelmed by the halo around Mani-bhai's head and to write fearlessly to right a wrong.
Read another way, Guru, like Mani's earlier works, Roja (1992), Bombay(1995) reflects the current mindset of the majority; in this case our nation's euphoria and the India poised campaign (see previous post). Success is made out to be so important, that we, as a society have been granted license to take shortcuts to make money. With a justification that is as elegant as George Bush's speeches. A whatever-it-takes approach for the purported 'greater good' is rationalized as being 'not wrong'. That's what great people do and that is what greatness is. Whoever says so otherwise is saying that only because they are jealous.
BTW, the whole monologue at the end of the movie, in the courthouse was so ribticklingly hilarious and illogical that I expected one of the judges or at least someone in the press gallery to laugh out loud. Keeping in mind Mani's management background, I thought he must have planned it as a parody. And Priya, it is quite evident that the hostile judges are converted by his inspiring speech.
Mani was wondering why people still remembered him as the director who made 'Mouna Raagam' (1986) and 'Nayagan' (1987) and hoped that after Guru he'd be remembered as the director who made Guru. For his sake, I should hope that people forget Guru soon and not relate it with him at all.
What happened to you, sir? I wonder, surely one can't become senile at the age of 50, can one? But on a more hopeful note, the thing about shit is, even the greatest have to get it out once in a while.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Quick tale: Music
'You should feel the music, man!', he said, 'it doesn't matter if you understand it or not'
'I simply don't get it. How do I do it? I can't listen to some music where the only words I can make out are expletives', I managed a weak response.
'There is an energy to the music and you should let it carry you,' he gesticulated, 'Go with the ebb and flow of it. And keep listening to it enough times and you will get the lyrics. Maybe it is not Wordsworth, Shakespeare stuff, but it is cool, man!'
I rolled my eyes. 'Forget it. Maybe I don't have that deeper sense of music that you do. I'll listen to stuff that I can understand. You stop trying to convert me. I don't feel that I lose anything in life if I can't listen to someone rap about having anal sex'
'Oh! you are incorrigible. I shouldn't be even trying to educate you. What a waste of my precious two minutes'
The rest of the drive, we spoke nothing, me trying to think happy thoughts and him singing along 'An ass like that'. Thankfully it took us only one rendering of an Ass like that to reach our friend Karthik's place.
Karthik had just bought an amazing Hi-fi stereo system in the Christmas sale and we were here to celebrate it. He was, like the true Madrasi that he is, listening to A.R.Rahman. Dil se, arguably the master's best work, was playing on the stereo. In Tamil though (I didn't realise that it was made into Tamil as well... but then I do remember that it was a Tamil director who made the movie).
Our rapper hero got wild. 'Come on dude! You can't play this music. Varun and me don't know Tamil. If you have Dil se, the original Hindi one that is, then lets play that. Or else I'll run to the car and get my CD pack'
'I simply don't get it. How do I do it? I can't listen to some music where the only words I can make out are expletives', I managed a weak response.
'There is an energy to the music and you should let it carry you,' he gesticulated, 'Go with the ebb and flow of it. And keep listening to it enough times and you will get the lyrics. Maybe it is not Wordsworth, Shakespeare stuff, but it is cool, man!'
I rolled my eyes. 'Forget it. Maybe I don't have that deeper sense of music that you do. I'll listen to stuff that I can understand. You stop trying to convert me. I don't feel that I lose anything in life if I can't listen to someone rap about having anal sex'
'Oh! you are incorrigible. I shouldn't be even trying to educate you. What a waste of my precious two minutes'
The rest of the drive, we spoke nothing, me trying to think happy thoughts and him singing along 'An ass like that'. Thankfully it took us only one rendering of an Ass like that to reach our friend Karthik's place.
Karthik had just bought an amazing Hi-fi stereo system in the Christmas sale and we were here to celebrate it. He was, like the true Madrasi that he is, listening to A.R.Rahman. Dil se, arguably the master's best work, was playing on the stereo. In Tamil though (I didn't realise that it was made into Tamil as well... but then I do remember that it was a Tamil director who made the movie).
Our rapper hero got wild. 'Come on dude! You can't play this music. Varun and me don't know Tamil. If you have Dil se, the original Hindi one that is, then lets play that. Or else I'll run to the car and get my CD pack'
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
India on steroids
India is on steroids. All this rapid growth and development, it is just not natural. Oh! I know! I just committed blasphemy but I am not afraid of thunderbolts as much now. Call me a non-believer; a skeptic and a pessimist. It is true. Our speedy climb scares the shit out of me. The proverbial rise before the fall??!!
Then, it happened. I heard Amitabh Bachchan, and you know it is true when it is him, tell me that I was the leash that was holding the eager India from progressing. Oh! but conversions are on the rise and more and more people are joining the bandwagon. Yup! It's happening folks. Oh! he didn't use that bandwagon word.
Now, I so want to become a part of this India. Standing at the edge of a precipice, I wouldn't hesitate for a second. Believe me, I'll look up at the sky and jump. Hope my garage-built turbo-pack works though. Good enough to carry my steroid-muscled body. Up, up and away.
Listen, all ye rusty bastards who sit in your asses and make comments, raise questions and recommend moderation. Hear this. You are either with us, marching to a glorious future. Or you are against us impeding our parade, making it the 400m hurdles and by God you know, we suck at it.
We'll brand you unpatriotic traitors. If you are effective in actually making people question their faith, we'll have to throw you in prison. Silence you somehow. You know, we live in a democracy. The loudest voice has all the say. We can out-shout you anyday. We have the voice of India behind us.
And if you keep worrying about long term side-effects. Screw you. We don't care if the steroids shrink our testicles or lead to premature heart attacks, strokes, liver tumors, kidney failure and serious psychiatric problems. What if a third of our coutry dies of AIDS, the other two-third will be rich. We'll win this round of the bout, whatever it takes and that is all that matters. Anyone who says otherwise is an ignorant kook.
Now, choose. Are you with us?
Then, it happened. I heard Amitabh Bachchan, and you know it is true when it is him, tell me that I was the leash that was holding the eager India from progressing. Oh! but conversions are on the rise and more and more people are joining the bandwagon. Yup! It's happening folks. Oh! he didn't use that bandwagon word.
Now, I so want to become a part of this India. Standing at the edge of a precipice, I wouldn't hesitate for a second. Believe me, I'll look up at the sky and jump. Hope my garage-built turbo-pack works though. Good enough to carry my steroid-muscled body. Up, up and away.
Listen, all ye rusty bastards who sit in your asses and make comments, raise questions and recommend moderation. Hear this. You are either with us, marching to a glorious future. Or you are against us impeding our parade, making it the 400m hurdles and by God you know, we suck at it.
We'll brand you unpatriotic traitors. If you are effective in actually making people question their faith, we'll have to throw you in prison. Silence you somehow. You know, we live in a democracy. The loudest voice has all the say. We can out-shout you anyday. We have the voice of India behind us.
And if you keep worrying about long term side-effects. Screw you. We don't care if the steroids shrink our testicles or lead to premature heart attacks, strokes, liver tumors, kidney failure and serious psychiatric problems. What if a third of our coutry dies of AIDS, the other two-third will be rich. We'll win this round of the bout, whatever it takes and that is all that matters. Anyone who says otherwise is an ignorant kook.
Now, choose. Are you with us?
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Quick Tale : Unforeseen
"I want to leave. Is there any way that my tickets could be advanced? I can't imagine living here for another 3 weeks"
This was my mother. Four days into her stay in Australia. What do you say to that? I had anticipated trouble but just not this. Say for instance, using the toilets in a land that wipes their asses with paper. I had made arrangements (let's just leave it at that) and could have handled that.
I could have understood even if she had freaked out at the girlfriend with whom I have been living for the last 6 months. I haven't told her that yet and I have seen no indication that she has discovered it. You can never underestimate an Indian mother, they say, but I was as careful as humanly possible. I cleared out all my girlfriend's junk out of my bedroom (don't get me started about the troubles I had to go through to pacify her. I am simply not capable of handling two women, read problems, at the same time) and made it messy enough for my mom to believe it was still 'my' room.
The problem was something that for the life of me I could never have foreseen.
'Please tell me there is Sun'. Those were her first words after she landed in Sydney Airport.OK! I admit. I am exaggerating. Those were not her first words. I wasn't counting but it surely couldn't have been over fifty. Anyway, the only thing I remember was that we hadn't crossed the parking lot at that time. I also remember that I had responded assuringly that it was summer and the mornings are bright and sunny, even hot at times.
That was to be the first of a string of faux pas.
"Not THAT Sun, you imbecile. The other one. The more important one. The TV channel".
Really! They should teach more tact and diplomacy in school.
"Sun TV? In Australia?", I asked incredulously, "Well! I think there is service here. There is an Indian family in Liverpool..."
Well! That is all I got to say before I was silenced by a menacing look.
There! I rest my case. We need to ban television. All the satellite channels in the world. It is an alien conspiracy to control humans. I swear.
This was my mother. Four days into her stay in Australia. What do you say to that? I had anticipated trouble but just not this. Say for instance, using the toilets in a land that wipes their asses with paper. I had made arrangements (let's just leave it at that) and could have handled that.
I could have understood even if she had freaked out at the girlfriend with whom I have been living for the last 6 months. I haven't told her that yet and I have seen no indication that she has discovered it. You can never underestimate an Indian mother, they say, but I was as careful as humanly possible. I cleared out all my girlfriend's junk out of my bedroom (don't get me started about the troubles I had to go through to pacify her. I am simply not capable of handling two women, read problems, at the same time) and made it messy enough for my mom to believe it was still 'my' room.
The problem was something that for the life of me I could never have foreseen.
'Please tell me there is Sun'. Those were her first words after she landed in Sydney Airport.OK! I admit. I am exaggerating. Those were not her first words. I wasn't counting but it surely couldn't have been over fifty. Anyway, the only thing I remember was that we hadn't crossed the parking lot at that time. I also remember that I had responded assuringly that it was summer and the mornings are bright and sunny, even hot at times.
That was to be the first of a string of faux pas.
"Not THAT Sun, you imbecile. The other one. The more important one. The TV channel".
Really! They should teach more tact and diplomacy in school.
"Sun TV? In Australia?", I asked incredulously, "Well! I think there is service here. There is an Indian family in Liverpool..."
Well! That is all I got to say before I was silenced by a menacing look.
There! I rest my case. We need to ban television. All the satellite channels in the world. It is an alien conspiracy to control humans. I swear.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Best of 06
First post of 2007 and what better way to usher in the new year by remembering all that was great about the year gone by.
Blogging: Been surprisingly regular in my posts, overtaking the 62 posts of last year with 65 in 2006. That figure is a lot less impressive when you consider that I had only 7 months to pile up the 62 last year. Ah! well, a healthy average of over 5 posts a month. Can't really complain. The quality of the posts though is entirely a different matter. I would like to believe it is no worse than it was.
Reading: Like Priya, I did remember Shashi Tharoor writing in a column that he read 365 books in a year. My target was less lofty. Wanted to read one a week and bring the tally to 52 but failed. Managed only 45 (I kept count). But it included some huge tomes like Shantaram (which was around 1000 pages - my wrists hurt for a week just lugging this book around), Fountainhead (which would have to be the best book I read this year followed closely by Midnight's children). I actually read quite a few of the 'haven't you read it yet's that ideally I should have read a couple of years ago. Fountainhead, Midnight's children, English August, Lord of the Rings, Foundation trilogy and several more. Lets see if I can make the magic 52 this year.
Traveling: Loved Brisbane and Gold coast. Best trip of the year (and ever). The long drive, the adventurous camping, the crazy rides in the theme parks and the company makes it that. Couple of trips to Sydney (actually more than a couple, half a dozen, I think), the Blue Mountains, the coast last summer and a few bushwalking expeditions throughout the year were all memorable experiences.
Movies: Despite several disappointments (Vettaiyaadu Vilaiyaadu and KANK topping that list), the year stands out for RDB, by far the best Indian movie I saw in 06. Saw some amazing world cinema. Was introduced to the quirky French humour with classics, Le diner de cons and Le placard (and just about everybody has watched Amelie). Also enjoyed multilingual films like L'auberge espagnole and Va, vie et deviens (both French productions).
2006 was also a year of politics. Thought provoking movies like Syriana and Good night and Good luck (both Clooney ones), Who killed the electric car and Munich provoked thought.
TV: Usually this doesn't even feature in my list of great things. Soapy soaps aren't my forte. Was introduced to 'How I met your mother' which I think is the next best thing after Friends and 'House' which is the ultimate in Medical Drama this year and am loving it. In the words of Barney, it was Lege- wait for it- Legendary.
There sure were other things about 2006 that was awesome. But I am sparing you, my impatient readers and will not share them with you. Looking forward to an even greater 2007, what say you?
Blogging: Been surprisingly regular in my posts, overtaking the 62 posts of last year with 65 in 2006. That figure is a lot less impressive when you consider that I had only 7 months to pile up the 62 last year. Ah! well, a healthy average of over 5 posts a month. Can't really complain. The quality of the posts though is entirely a different matter. I would like to believe it is no worse than it was.
Reading: Like Priya, I did remember Shashi Tharoor writing in a column that he read 365 books in a year. My target was less lofty. Wanted to read one a week and bring the tally to 52 but failed. Managed only 45 (I kept count). But it included some huge tomes like Shantaram (which was around 1000 pages - my wrists hurt for a week just lugging this book around), Fountainhead (which would have to be the best book I read this year followed closely by Midnight's children). I actually read quite a few of the 'haven't you read it yet's that ideally I should have read a couple of years ago. Fountainhead, Midnight's children, English August, Lord of the Rings, Foundation trilogy and several more. Lets see if I can make the magic 52 this year.
Traveling: Loved Brisbane and Gold coast. Best trip of the year (and ever). The long drive, the adventurous camping, the crazy rides in the theme parks and the company makes it that. Couple of trips to Sydney (actually more than a couple, half a dozen, I think), the Blue Mountains, the coast last summer and a few bushwalking expeditions throughout the year were all memorable experiences.
Movies: Despite several disappointments (Vettaiyaadu Vilaiyaadu and KANK topping that list), the year stands out for RDB, by far the best Indian movie I saw in 06. Saw some amazing world cinema. Was introduced to the quirky French humour with classics, Le diner de cons and Le placard (and just about everybody has watched Amelie). Also enjoyed multilingual films like L'auberge espagnole and Va, vie et deviens (both French productions).
2006 was also a year of politics. Thought provoking movies like Syriana and Good night and Good luck (both Clooney ones), Who killed the electric car and Munich provoked thought.
TV: Usually this doesn't even feature in my list of great things. Soapy soaps aren't my forte. Was introduced to 'How I met your mother' which I think is the next best thing after Friends and 'House' which is the ultimate in Medical Drama this year and am loving it. In the words of Barney, it was Lege- wait for it- Legendary.
There sure were other things about 2006 that was awesome. But I am sparing you, my impatient readers and will not share them with you. Looking forward to an even greater 2007, what say you?
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