ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE.....

Dear Readers,

Hi Again.

First of all i have to print a correction. The Bong poem in the previous post was actually submitted by Mr. Siddartha from Sikkim. Jashoda only forwarded it. I guess its very important to give credit where credit is due so once again;

"Thank You Sid" (I don't even know him so I am wondering why i am abbreviating his name... phew...)

Anyway moving on...

This following true story truly belongs in Ripley's "Believe it or not."

It happened to Mr. Chuck Wong who is a fellow alumni of my alma mater St. Joseph’s School “North Point” Darjeeling.

North Point : The Fountainhead

I wanted to share this with all of you and Mr. Chuck Wong has kindly given his permission to reprint this in my blog.


So here it is in Mr. Chuck Wong’s own words:

"My friend, Roman Mukherjee, and his wife Cindy Bailey, went to visit LA.

Roman is my friend from school in Darjeeling and currently lives in Ottawa.


They land in LAX and they get lost in the multiple-maze of gates but are finally taken to the rental car complex. There are seven counters and they go to one of them. A lady asks for their ID and he gives his credit card.

"Mukherjee?" she exclaims, "You don't look like a Bengali."

He explains that his mother is Czech.

"You know I used to live in Calcutta and go to school in Loreto in Middleton Row," she says.

"Well, I used to live in Middleton Row," he replies.

"I know a Dilip Chatterjee that lived in the area," she blurted.

"Yes, yes!" he says, "I know Dilip."

"I used to live in Stephen Court and the Bata people, the Plescheks, were our neighbors," she continues.

"Oh, my father used to work for Bata, and I went to school with the Plescheks," he responds.

"My brothers used to go to school in Darjeeling," she casually remarked.

"Well, I studied in Darjeeling too. I am a North Pointer. In fact, I'm going to stay with one of them right now." he says.

By this time, she is getting suspicious that he's just jesting and making a mockery of her. "Okay, then give me his name and address" she says.

Roman pulls out a slip of paper that reads,

"Chuck Wong. Onyx Drive, Walnut. L.A"

She almost faints.

She is my sister, Haiwan.

In Los Angeles, one of the biggest cities where millions reside, amongst the dozens of car rental agencies with the tens of thousands of employees, a Chinese face with no initial hint of Indian, a Bengali who looks like a Czech.... talk about finding a needle in a haystack. Incredible!!!

"Tell my brother I have Tuesday off and he has to buy dinner" she added with a smile.

Now that part of the story I believe.

Chuck Wong"

Hi Folks,

Sorry but we are in the middle of office renovations and thus my blogging is a little late.

This week i am posting two articles which were sent to me.

The first one was sent by Bryan Sharma from Delhi who, bless him, is a regular reader of the blog and who i have no idea about. Thank you Bryan anyway.

The second is from from my dear friend Jashoda (Sikkim) who has previously managed to get some of my posts published in the Sikkim Express newspaper. So double thanks to you.

Enjoy

Vish

By the way this first poem is also one way of actually finding out whether you really know how to speak English or only to read and write it. Read this poem slowly and carefully because otherwise you’re bound to trip up. And mind your tongue!

Do you know the Queen's English?

I take it you already know

Of tough and bough and cough and dough.
Others may stumble but not you,

On hiccough, through, lough and though.

Well done! And now you wish, perhaps,

To learn of less familiar traps.
Beware of heard, a dreadful word

That looks like beard and sounds like bird,

And dead — it’s said like bed, not bead.

For goodness’s sake, don’t call it deed!
Watch out for meat and great and threat:

They rhyme with suite and straight and debt.

A moth is not a moth in mother,

Nor both in bother, broth in brother,
And here is not a match for there,

Nor dear and fear for bear and pear,

And then there’s dose and rose and lose

Just look them up — and goose and choose,
And cork and work and card and ward,

And font and front and word and sword,

And do and go and thwart and cart.

Come, come, I’ve hardly made a start.
A dreadful language? Man alive,

I’d mastered it when I was five.

Bong in Jongole

I hate to generalise/ typecast any group, nationality or people but this was too good to pass.

No offence meant dear bongs. Enjoy!

Through the jongole I am went

On shooting Tiger I am bent

Boshtaard Tiger has eaten wife

No doubt I will avenge poor darling's life

Too much quiet, snakes and leeches

But I not fear these sons of beeches

Hearing loud noise I am jumping with start

But noise is coming from damn fool's heart

Taking care not to be fright

I am clutching rifle tight with eye to sight

Should Tiger come I will shoot and fall him down

Then like hero return to native town

Then through trees I am espying one cave

I am telling self - "Bannerjee be brave"

I am now proceeding with too much care

From far I smell this Tiger's lair

My leg shaking, sweat coming, I start to pray

I think I will shoot Tiger some other day

Turning round I am going to flee

But Tiger giving bloody roar spotting this Bengalee

He bounding from cave like football player Pele

I run shouting "Kali Ma tumi kothay gele"

Through the jongole I am running

With Tiger on my tail closer looming

I am a telling that never in life

I will risk again for my damn fool wife!!!!

Jaya jaya jaya jaya hey!

On the eve of India's 60th Independance Day, I have decided not to bore you with my 'views' and 'opinions'. Instead i have excerpted an article from the latest issue of Outlook Magazine.


In a commemorative issue filled stellar articles this was one of the low profile ones about 1 young boy's recollection of that day, 60 years ago. And it would have remained just that except that somewhere near the end of the 3rd sentence he casually drops that Gandhi himself was opposed to the young boy's plans to travel to Delhi. And from then on it's a wonderfully evocative recounting of those few days when hope and pride (a new free india) mixed with shame and death (the partition).


Read On and I hope you enjoy.


Vish



There Were A Million Revellers That Night
August 1947, and a 20-year-old with a camera. A never-before-seen album.
by Munir Kadri

I had made up my mind as soon as the date was set: I would bunk medical school and go to Delhi to witness the first Independence Day celebrations. Everyone was set against it, including Gandhiji. "Are you mad?" he asked me when I met him in July and told him of my intention of going to Delhi for the celebrations. "What is there to celebrate—I shall weep tears of blood that day." But I was adamant. "Neither you nor I can change history," I told him with the easy familiarity I always assumed with him. "If you go, I shall never talk to you again," he declared, but I knew him for far too long to believe that he would actually carry out his threat.



I knew Gandhiji from the time I was nine, when he came on a visit to Jamia Millia which was then a primary school of some 75 children and 15 teachers. Since I was the only child who knew Gujarati, I was picked to deliver the welcome speech to Gandhi as we all sat in a circle around him. After that, he never forgot me, perhaps because he already knew my father, Mustafa Hasan Kadri, in Ahmedabad. My mother didn't want me to go as well, but her reasons were different: she was afraid of possible violence. But when Father readily gave his permission, she only insisted that my cousin, Sharif, accompany me. Both of us had turned 20 that year.



The first thing I started hunting for was a camera, but they were hard to come by in those days. I persuaded a friend, a fellow medical student in Ahmedabad, to lend me an old magna slide camera, a family heirloom bought by his grandfather. But in the end, I managed to get hold of two cameras—a professor lent me his brand new Ikonta.


Getting film was even more difficult. It was barely two years after the War, and film was either unavailable or prohibitively expensive. Someone suggested I go to the market where surplus war goods were sold. There we managed to lay our hands on a roll used for aerial photography during the War. It was 12 inches wide with paper backing and I had to take it into a dark room to cut it into the regular B2 size.



Sharif and I arrived in Delhi on August 13 morning, and went straight to the Jamia campus where I had plenty of friends. In the evening, I called on Zakir Hussain who also lived on the campus. He was astonished to see me at his doorstep. "What are you doing here?" was his abrupt greeting. "Things are only going to get worse and it's too dangerous for you to be out in the streets at this time." But he soon relented, and even gave me a sheaf of passes to the visitors' gallery of Parliament for the midnight transfer of power session. "Don't take your camera," was his parting advice, "the crowds will be unmanageable."



We got to Parliament House in good time, by 9 pm. But the visitors' gallery was already full, there was no getting in, even with passes. So we made do by standing on the steps, from where we had a good view of the leaders as they entered Parliament. Nehru looked quite grim, despite a large tilak on his forehead and a garland of flowers around his neck. He was the only one looking so colourfully Brahminical, all the rest, including Sardar Patel, were their usual austere selves. By midnight, the grounds outside Parliament House were packed, some 5,00,000 people at least, relentlessly shouting slogans: Gandhiji zindabad, Mountbatten zindabad, Nehru zindabad. But a pindrop silence fell outside when the speeches started. You could barely hear them over the primitive mikes, but many started crying when Nehru gave his 'tryst with destiny' speech. Personally, I thought Sarojini Naidu's speech was more impressive—she was lyrical and spoke like a true poet, but strangely no one remembers her speech at all. I was anxious not to get stranded and so we left before the ceremony ended.

We got into a tonga from India Gate, but by the time we made our way to Jama Masjid, we were too late to catch the bus to Jamia.


But it was a good thing we didn't make it back to Jamia that night. Wandering around in Chandni Chowk, I caught a breathtaking glimpse of the clock tower, Ghanta Ghar, all lit up for the occasion. I stopped to take some pictures of this magnificent tower. Everywhere, there were revellers, it was like a festival but curiously subdued.

It was 2 am by the time I finished with the pictures and realised we needed a place to spend the night. There was no option but to walk into Coronation Hotel at the corner of Chandni Chowk. We shelled out Rs 9 for the few remaining hours of the night. Nine rupees was a lot of money in 1947.But the next morning we could make our way to the Red Fort in good time for the flag-hoisting ceremony.



The Union Jack had come down on the 14th evening and the tiranga was going to be hoisted at 10 am on the 15th. The event was much publicised, with posters pasted on every wall, and hundreds of thousands responded to the public invitation. By 8.30 am when we got to the Red Fort (armed with a press pass I had issued to me from a newspaper in Ahmedabad) the place was packed—people everywhere, on the ramparts, against the walls, on the grounds, not an inch of space to stand. And still more people were arriving, mostly dehatis, riding on bullock and camel carts. It was futile to try and take photographs amongst that crowd, so I started walking back, towards Jama Masjid. I positioned myself between two trees and took two shots of the Red Fort—before free India's flag went up for the first time and after.


By the time the flag-hoisting was over, we were ravenous. We walked into Urdu bazaar and stepped into my favourite restaurant there for a cup of tea and a roti topped with rich cream. In Urdu bazaar, the subdued atmosphere I had noticed the previous night was even more palpable. But I didn't stop to worry too much; we had barely got any sleep the previous night, and now we stretched ourselves out on the lawns between Jama Masjid and Red Fort until it was time for the next flag-hoisting ceremony, at 4.30 pm in the Ramlila Grounds, or Parade Grounds as it was called then.



This time Nehru was going to hoist the flag in the presence of the Mountbattens, and a circular platform, about one and a half feet high, had already been set up with a flag post in the middle. Thanks to my spurious press pass, I stood right next to the platform, instead of among the crowd which was cordoned off. Nehru arrived first, waiting alone on the platform for the Mountbattens who were late. They were riding in the viceregal golden carriage, which had to stop many times on the route for them to get out and shake hands with the huge crowds lined up along the route.



When the carriage finally arrived at the venue, the crowds broke through the cordon and surrounded them. They eventually extricated themselves from the enthused crowd and reached the platform. Then Lord Mountbatten bent over Nehru's ear and whispered something. I could see Nehru's fair face getting very red as Mountbatten spoke. Suddenly, he sprang down from the platform and disappeared into the crowd, his baton clutched under one armpit.
It was many minutes later when he returned, leading a young girl by the hand: it was Pamela Mountbatten who had been swallowed up by the crowd somewhere along the way. Once safely aloft, Nehru broke into a sunny smile of triumph, which is when I clicked him in this picture.



We would have left Delhi the next day. But when I went to say goodbye to Zakir saheb, he asked me if I would like to go for a garden party the new minister of education, Maulana Azad, was going to hold on August 18. It was an Id-cum-Independence Day celebration. I jumped at the chance to meet all the leaders in one place. Zakir saheb wasn't going—with the killings having just started, he was in no mood to celebrate. There was a large party of us going from Jamia Millia, and by the time we got to Azad's new ministerial bungalow, the party had already begun.



Azad had posted himself in front of a low hedge, welcoming his guests with a handshake, while the left hand dangled a cigarette. Nehru arrived after we got there, and Azad shook his hand very warmly—they were old friends. But Sardar Patel didn't get such a warm welcome. I knew him as Vallabhbhai Kaka, a friend of my father's. But Azad's smile vanished as Patel came in and he looked the other way. I didn't understand the reason until much later, when I realised that Azad couldn't bring himself to forgive the new home minister for failing to stop the riots. As soon as Nehru saw Patel entering, he made straight for him, taking him into a corner. I trailed behind with my camera. I didn't dare get too close to them, but it was easy to tell from their sombre faces and body language that they were not talking about the celebrations.



That very morning Nehru spotted some rioters as he was riding through Old Delhi in his Ambassador car. They were setting fire to a house. Nehru stopped the car, got out and started beating up the rioters with the baton he always carried with him. He could no doubt have been easily overpowered by them, but when they recognised him they had the grace to apologise and leave.


Mountbatten must have come in while I was busy clicking Nehru and Patel. I noticed him standing alone. I walked up to him and, before my courage evaporated, asked him: "May I ask you a question sir?" "Fire away, young man, as long as it's not too rude," he replied."Sir, how could you bring yourself to preside over the partition of India?"The question didn't bother him. "It was the decision of your own leaders and they have publicly declared so." Just then a waiter arrived with drinks and snacks, and I slipped away without further ado.



I went straight to the railway station from Azad's home. But when I got there, I discovered I had lost my camera. Did I leave it on the bus, or was it stolen? I was frantic. The camera was the new Ikonta I had borrowed from my professor—what would I say to him? And the film inside it! Luckily for me, I had one roll which I had used up safe in my pocket. I was so stunned that I wandered around from one end of the platform to the other, looking for the waiting room. It was then I noticed the strange smell coming from the far end of the platform where some open bogeys, like the ones in which they cart coal, had been shunted out of sight.I peeped in and found that the bogeys were packed with dead bodies.



I barely registered what was happening, my thoughts still circling foolishly on the lost camera. Perhaps Vallabhbhai Kaka could help me find it. He was the home minister after all. But I couldn't remember where he lived. I hunted for a railway policeman, and asked the first one I spotted: do you know the address of the home minister? He wrote it down on a piece of paper, and half an hour later, I walked into Vallabhbhai Kaka's new ministerial home.



It was completely bare, with a few moodhas in the verandah. When his man called him out, he just stared at me. I started blabbering about the lost camera. He heard me out impassively and then said: "You must go home immediately or Mustafa will never forgive me." He put me into his ministerial car, an ordinary Ambassador without a flag, and instructed his man not to leave my side until I had boarded the train. So at half past nine on August 18, among the smell of putrefying bodies and silent passengers, my tryst with India's first Independence Day finally ended.


Text and photographs by Munir Kadri

(Kadri was a third-year medical student in August '47. A surgeon, he lives in New Zealand.

Zakir Hussein later went on to be the 3rd President of India

Vallabhai Patel was the 1st Home Minister of India)

Leadership! Leadership ?

Just came across this piece in the Times Of India by Shah Rukh Khan on is views on Leadership.

Very interesting.

Enjoy.

Vish








"What makes a leader? I'd say, really good acting skills. The most effective way to lead is not to show that you are doing it.

People hate being told what to do, and what not to do. No one likes to be led by the nose.

You must not make them feel you are the boss, guide, whatever.

You just have to carry people along with compassion, love, and not least of all, a sense of humour. In fact, not only should others not feel the burden of your leadership, the leader himself should lead without realising it, without donning the grand mantle of setting some maha example.

Achievement is the destination, leadership is showing the way to it.

Secondly, I've seen that every true leader treats people well. That's crucial. You can get away by treating some people badly some of the time, but you cannot make a practice of it. I'd say the best leadership is like parenting. You don't have to instill awe; you should create loving respect.

Thirdly, you have to have focus. But it is important that the leader's focus does not become heavy, aggressive, pressuring, troubling, aggravating for others. You should do the planning and what you have to do, and then leave everyone to get on with his or her part of it.

It's most important to believe in everyone else as much as you do in yourself.

It's your team. You've chosen it. The people on it should be good, right?

Doctorate or Duh'torate

I have been a little busy the last few days (the beginning of a new week usually does that) but even i could not help but share this weird bit of 'news' all of you.

Leeds University (UK) it seems is in a big hurry to dish out doctorates. Just 2 months back they had conferred honorary degrees to 3 bollywood personalities. The 'quantity' of simultaneous doctorates then were barely balanced by the 'quality' of the recipients:

Amitabh Bachchan, Shabana Azmi & Yash Chopra.

All 3 of them not only richly deserve the degrees but are at the pinnacle of their individual professions.

Then Leeds University decided to go one better.

They decided to dish out another degree and a Doctorate no less.

As their press statement said, "On the occasion of India celebrating 60 years of its independence, Leeds wishes to commemorate India’s struggle for freedom by honouring prominent Indian personalities who have contributed to the emergence of India as a fast developing nation"

And who was this person who has contributed to India's development??

Why Shilpa Shetty ofcourse.

In her acceptance speech, the newly minted Dr. Shetty said; "I am sincerely grateful and humbled by the honour that such a prolific academic institution has so kind heartedly presented to me and I'm proud to join the Leeds alumni as a honourary graduate from this university and that too as a doctor. No filmmaker has been so bold as to give me the role of a doctor in any of my films but you managed to do what even the magic of cinema hasn't!”

Indeed! Even foolhardy directors have never cast Shilpa as a doctor in their films for fear of ridicule but Leeds Univ has done it.

Wow. The mind boggles at the sheer stupidity of it.

P.S. Wonder how important Dr.'s Bachchan, Azmi & Chopra are feeling now?

Mera Bharat no, strike that, Mera Bollywood Mahaan

60 years and India is just beginning to produce quality movies...

HI,

Just got back from watching Chak De India (don’t look so surprised, since our weekend is Fri-Sat the movies release here on Thursday evening).

I must admit at the start that I am a SRK fan (and if you can’t get the SRK abbreviation then its best you stop reading this blog now)

I try to never miss a SRK movie but at the same time I have no illusions about him being the best actor in the industry.

Aamir is way better and so is Akshaye and lately even Saif.
But where pure unadulterated star power is concerned there is no on to match SRK.

When my generation grew up Amitabh Bachchan’s superstardom was on the wane and by the time we were of the age to really appreciate movies he had been reduced to wearing jackets with steel sleeves, stopping speeding bullets or shamelessly dancing with girls, who not only were young enough to be his daughters but looked it too.

And the only other true blue superstar that Bollywood has produced, Rajesh Khanna had become an old, fat, bloated joke who was hemorrhaging all his past glory and fans with 1 overacted movie after another.

And there weren’t any other superstars besides these two.

That is till SRK.

And before you protest, let me take the words out of your mouth and say so myself.

He hams worse than a hamster and stutters worse than a woodpecker on steroids.

No one is contesting that.
That is why his superstardom is even more amazing.
He did not become a superstar because of that but infact, inspite of it.

You can criticize him all you like but when he comes on screen he holds your attention like no one else can.

As the starlet Neha Dhupia (lets give the poor girl some credit because she isn't ever going to get it from her movies) said so immortally;

“In Bollywood only 2 things sell. Sex & Shahrukh Khan”

And now after an overdose of the Hashmis and Mallikas and Rakhis I guess its just SRK left.

In movie-land the true test of a star is how he can ‘open’ a movie.
That is, how many chairs he can fill before any reviews or word of mouth can spread.
(Thats why Cruise is still the biggest star even after the loony behaviour. )

And no one fills as many chairs as does SRK.

Not Amitabh, Not Aamir, Not Hrithik.

The biggest backhanded compliment that SRK can revel in, is the fact that even when his movies do above 50 crore business it is termed average (as happened with DON).

Dhoni gets fantastic press when he scores 75 but Sachin’s 80 is somehow disregarded.

SRK faces the same problem. He is not called King Khan without reason and like all kings, uneasy lies the head…..

Anyway this blog is not about his superstardom. Its just to emphasize his value because no other star would have been able to give this very worthy movie the audience it deserves. Without SRK it probably would have been very difficult to make, much less market.

So I am not going to waste time preaching that the grass is green.
It’s a universal fact. Period!

What I am amazed about is how well Chak De India has turned out.

The director is a new guy, just 1 film old and born in Uganda.
It has no heroines. No songs in Switzerland. 16 girls who, at best, can be called 'non-ugly'. And its about Hockey.

Even though it is the official national game of India (don’t look so shocked guys, everything does not revolve around cricket) hockey is, to be frank, very boring.

Now if a film like this can hold you rapt in its grip for 2 ½ hours then that in itself is an achievement.

I watched this movie in a cinema in Abu Dhabi with a mainly Asian audience (not all Indians) and yet there they were clapping & whistling & cheering.

You will never once be in any doubt where the movie is heading (sports movies can only have 1 ending and that is victory) yet you feel involved and you cheer like you believe.
Believe in the girls, in the game, in the country.

All this without a single soul screaming Mera Bharat Mahaan.

Quite an achievement this.

Bollywood has but a handful of movies in this genre notably Lagaan & Iqbal (both about cricket). Now Chak De India can proudly claim its place right on top among them.

Go watch this movie. You will not be disappointed. There aren’t many hindi movies you can say this about so go on……

Chak De!.

Of Friends & Frauds

I have a major grouse to air on the blog today and it concerns my best friend turned fraud.
And its now time to name and shame and its none other than…

HRH (alleged) Prabir S J B Rana.

Prabir during his Coronation... oops Wedding rituals

The lazy bum that he always was, has now resorted to an original method to not reply to mails.

He just claims he is not receiving them at all. Period!

The address is the same and everyone else’s mail seem to reach him at the same address but somehow my mails go missing into cyberspace. Close Encounters of the Third Kind anyone??

So hopefully he still has access to the internet and will be able to read this blog.

His wife meanwhile does manage to write a few bitchy lines once in a while but I am terribly worried about her.

When I met her during the wedding she & myself got along fabulously and she is quite a cracker of a girl (as opposed to Prabir who needs to take his 40 winks almost 80 times during the day) and her best quality seems to be her ability to call a spade a spade.

Lately however she is changing and getting menacingly materialistic.

However in her defense, she does like to mention to almost everyone else, that unlike us, she does have a child, a job, a hubby etc to take care of. And to buy shoes too.

Yeah! And the rest of us are just sitting idle underneath coconut trees typing out mails to friends and trying to keep in touch.

I think the problem is that she is suffering from the Brook Shields syndrome.

You know.... post-partum depression and all that jazz.

Just hope she does not end up hurting her hubby, who apparently has begun to spout new tufts of hair and a hint of a belly.

Wonder what ‘cream’ he is using and licking? Tsk Tsk

By the way the couple had sent a recent pic of the baby. Cutie Patootie! But why was there the need to disturb the little guy's sleep and distort his little fingers and make him look like an Ozzy fan. (see below)

Child Welfare anyone???

Talking about frauds…

Her work has endured for two centuries, sold in its millions and inspired countless film and television adaptations. But would Jane Austen be able to find a publisher and an agent today?

A cheeky experiment by an Austen enthusiast suggests not.

David Lassman, the director of the Jane Austen Festival in Bath decided to find out what sort of reception the writer might get if she approached publishers and agents in the age of Harry Potter and the airport blockbuster.

After making only minor changes, he sent off opening chapters and plot synopses to 18 of the UK's biggest publishers and agents. He was amazed when they all sent the manuscripts back with polite but firm "no-thank-you's" and almost all failed to spot that he was ripping off one of the world's most famous literary figures.

Bloomsbury, publisher of the Harry Potter books, for instance, suggested the chapters had been read "with interest" but were not "suited to our list".

Then he played his trump card, sending off Pride and Prejudice, calling it First Impressions. The names of the main characters and places were changed, but with no great guile.

Mr Bennet became Mr Barnett while the estate Netherfield becomes Weatherfield, and he did not change the opening line, one of the most famous in world literature:

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."

Still the deception was not spotted and the rejection letters thudded on to Mr Lassman's doormat, most notably one from Penguin. Its letter read: "Thank you for your recent letter and chapters from your book First Impressions. It seems like a really original and interesting read."

Only one person appeared to have spotted the deception. His reply read: "Thank-you for sending us the first two chapters of First Impressions; my first impression on reading these were ones of disbelief and mild annoyance, along, of course, with a moment's laughter. I suggest you reach for your copy of Pride and Prejudice, which I'd guess lives in close proximity to your typewriter, and make sure that your opening pages don't too closely mimic that book's opening."

Our alleged HRH would probably feel right at home with some of these publishers.

Continuing with the frauds….

Almost all of you must be aware, by now, of the fate of the Bollywood star Sanjay Dutt who was sentenced to 6 years rigorous imprisonment.

I am a big fan of Bollywood and would personally love it if the Supreme Court granted him bail tomorrow but at the same time you have to marvel at the Indian judicial system.

The old adage about the windmills of the gods churning slow but exceedingly fine probably best sums up the Indian system.

The whole idea about the jail system should be to make the culprits reform, repent and not repeat the same again.

It should not be incarceration for the sake of incarceration

By that measure Sanjay has not only been reformed and repented but there is no way he is ever going to repeat the same again. So what does society gain by imprisoning him.

If making him an example is the idea then it would be better served by making him use his popularity to inform & educate the aimless youth of the country against making similar foolish mistakes.

But coming back to the much reviled Indian Judicial System, just look at the facts.

Sanjay, one of the richest of actors, had access to the best legal representation money could buy. His mother was the first lady of Indian Cinema. His late father was not just a 6 term Member or Parliament (elected mind you, not nominated like the 2 Jaya’s and a Hema currently wasting time in Delhi) he was also much revered for his charity and social work even from his political opponents. Sanjay’s sister Priya, is a sitting Member of Parliament. Her party is in power in both the center as well as the state where the trial was held.

And yet…..

As a fan you can feel sad for Sanjay but as an Indian you cannot help but be proud of the system.

For Today!

Tomorrow the BMW case and and Jessica Lall case etc will bring you back to earth.

On a lighter note:

This is a packet of Dorito chips sold in Japan. I can't read Japanese and as a people they can be quite quaint but what the fcuk is this packet trying to tell/sell us?

If you have any informed guesses please do write in to me or post a comment.

A 'SACRED' CONFESSION


I have a confession to make. But more on that later.

First of all i am very saddened by the decline in people's reading habits. In this world of internet and microwaves and instant noodles there are very few people who actually spend time to read. And when I say read I don’t mean surfing the internet or flipping through magazines.


I mean actually pick up a book and read.

I admit I am in the minority that I am not the biggest fan of JK Rowling’s literary skills (granted that its very interesting but not great writing) but there is one thing we have to give her credit for. She has made children (and adults too for that matter) go back to picking up a heavy book and spend some time reading. For the last 10 years Harry and his exploits have managed, in their own small ways, to wean away (even if for a short time) a whole generation from their Playstations and Xboxes. Never mind the fact that the video game companies have themselves circumvented this by coming out with Harry Potter games.

But Back to my Confession…

Many of us in the subcontinent and generally in Asia are still very feudally acquiescent in our choice of reading matter. I don’t claim to be totally exempt from it either and hence the confession.
If you were to examine the last 10 books you’ve read you will see that the authors are mainly western ones.



And if they are Asian then there’s a good chance that it is either non-fiction or some international award winner. How many of us can really name any other titles by Arundhati Roy other than “The God of Small Things”?

Is our choice of books so influenced by the western media & hype and the NY Times and lately the Amazon list of bestsellers that we have no real freedom or independence of choice? And more importantly, do we look down on Indian-Asian literature as poor cousins simply because they do not conform to the tastes of some white guy in a suit sitting in some stuffy office in London or New York?

I know many people who read Paolo Coelho’s books simply because some emotionally bankrupt suit in New York feels ‘moved’ by the fable and recommends it.
For most of us Asians our local folklores are more resonant, evocative and deeper than the pseudo-intellectual-crap that Paolo dishes out with conveyer belt like regularity. Yet we buy the Paolos and keep them in our bookcases like a trophy or drop his name in conversation to somehow impress upon the others how wise we are.

But if an Indian strives to write the great world novel, we dismiss it as mushy and filmy and worst of all, as ‘too indian’.

Why must our appreciation of asian work be dependant on the endorsement of western critics? And why for that matter, should our films be apologetic about the song and dance routines?

Now the reason I am writing this sermon… sorry blog, is because I just completed reading Vikram Chandra’s “Sacred Games”


Now I must mention that I personally decided to read this book only because of a wonderfully evocative review by Jane Shilling of The Daily Telegraph (UK) where she wrote:

“ 'All human life is here' was the old newspaper boast, and so it is in Sacred Games, delineated with a master's grandeur and scope and a miniaturist's precision and tenderness. Seven years it took Chandra to write, and such is the haunting precision of its observation and the resonant authority of its narrative voice that one could read it seven times over and still be finding new treasures; missed flourishes of virtuosity. One uses the terms 'epic' and 'classic' with caution. But if eloquence, confidence, humanity, grace and fine observation are their raw materials, perhaps Sacred Games deserves those epithets.”

Now that I have finally completed it I cannot help but share it with all of you.

I can safely say that if anyone of you do decide to pick up this book and its 900+ pages you will not be disappointed. Wrists aching maybe but certainly not dissapointed.

I personally cannot remember the last 900+ page book I read that I never wanted to come to an end. (I can see the Potter fans nod their heads in disagreement)

The sheer, unapologetic, unitalicised, ballsiness of the language is one of the most purely enjoyable aspects of this extraordinary book with 'mumbaiyya' lingo peppered throughout.

This is a book about Bombay written by a person who understands the city. It is meant for those who know Bombay and vis a vis India. It is not written for foreign audiences or American reviewers. The strength of the book is that it is set in a vastness of grey. There are no black and whites in this book. There is no simple right and wrong. No conventional heroes and villains.

He has constructed a superbly realized world of alien languages, customs and styles, presented on the page without apologies or explanations (even as I read it, I was relishing the delicious thought of a non Indian reader reading lines like “Come on Sir, let's go to his kholi and teach the madherchod a lesson” ). That fact that this world actually exists, and is, in fact, modern-day India, makes his achievement all the more astonishing.

Sacred Games, like India, is massive, intimidating, and violent, and, like India, it somehow manages to weave its many elements together, to become something altogether original and special

"If you want to live in the city you have to think ahead three turns, and look behind a lie to see the truth and then behind that truth to see a lie," says one of the characters, Gaitonde in the book.

And if you truly want to enjoy the book you need to go back and read it again and again and look between the lines and characters and you will see the vast achievement that is encompassed in this 'indian potboiler'.

Go ahead. Close the book, turn out the lights. Even then, Ganesh Gaitonde, Sartaj Singh, and their many friends and enemies will whisper in your ear, beckoning from Mumbai and its jarring, joyous madness.

Talk about an offer you can't refuse.

Dear Friends,

I just received this mail forwarded by Rev. Fr. Van and thought i'd share it with you.


Like the best lessons of life, it is simple and yet says and means so much.



I hope you enjoy it.



Ciao



Vishal

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On Nov. 18, 1995, Itzhak Perlman, the violinist, came on stage to give a concert at Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center in New York City. If you have ever been to a Perlman concert, you know that getting on stage is no small achievement for him. He was stricken with polio as a child, and so he has braces on both legs and walks with the aid of two crutches.

To see him walk across the stage one step at a time, painfully and slowly, is an awesome sight. He walks painfully, yet majestically, until he reaches his chair. Then he sits down, slowly, puts his crutches on the floor, undoes the clasps on his legs, tucks one foot back and extends the other foot forward. Then he bends down and picks up the violin, puts it under his chin, nods to the conductor and proceeds to play.

By now, the audience is used to this ritual. They sit quietly while he makes his way across the stage to his chair. They remain reverently silent while he undoes the clasps on his legs. They wait until he is ready to play.But this time, something went wrong.

Just as he finished the first few bars, one of the strings on his violin broke.
You could hear it snap - it went off like gunfire across the room.
There was no mistaking what that sound meant.
There was no mistaking what he had to do.

We figured that he would have to get up, put on the clasps again, pick up the crutches and limp his way off stage - to either find another violin or else find another string for this one. But he didn't.

Instead, he waited a moment, closed his eyes and then signaled the conductor to begin again.

The orchestra began, and he played from where he had left off. And he played with such passion and such power and such purity as they had never heard before. Of course, anyone knows that it is impossible to play a symphonic work with just three strings. I know that, and you know that, but that night Itzhak Perlman refused to know that.You could see him modulating, changing, re-composing the piece in his head. At one point, it sounded like he was de-tuning the strings to get new sounds from them that they had never made before.

When he finished, there was an awesome silence in the room.

And then people rose and cheered.
There was an extraordinary outburst of applause from every corner of the auditorium. We were all on our feet, screaming and cheering, doing everything we could to show how much we appreciated what he had done.

He smiled, wiped the sweat from this brow, raised his bow to quiet us, and then he said - not boastfully, but in a quiet, pensive, reverent tone -
"You know, sometimes it is the artist's task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left."

What a powerful line that is.

It has stayed in my mind ever since I heard it. And who knows?
Perhaps that is the definition of life - not just for artists but for all of us.

Here is a man who has prepared all his life to make music on a violin of four strings, who, all of a sudden, in the middle of a concert, finds himself with only three strings; so he makes music with three strings, and the music he made that night with just three strings was more beautiful, more sacred, more memorable, than any that he had ever made before, when he had four strings.

So, perhaps our task in this shaky, fast-changing, bewildering world in which we live is to make music, at first with all that we have, and then, when that is no longer possible, to make music with what we have left.

~Author Unknown~