We are growing up

Friends from childhood remain children for ever in one’s memory. Until one sees a picture of the person, all grown up and minus the baby fat. In the cold storage of memory, they are chubby cheeked or awkwardly lean and tall. They have impossibly curly hair and a shrill loud voice. They wore neatly ironed school uniforms or dirtied and torn play-time clothes.

Then one day you run into one of them on the streets. The hair tamed, the voice broken, dressed in the best, on a diet. And you realise -- time has passed, we have grown up, s/he has changed and so have I.

Back then, you shared every little secret, every object of interest was discussed, every minute of the day was spent together. Now, you look into the other’s eyes and see the reflection of a world you are not familiar with, and you realise the other is seeing the same in your eyes too.

No, I did not recently run into anyone from the past. But I would like to. It’s like a refreshing blast of wind. To catch a glimpse of a familiar face in the crowd, to relate it to the impression of a much younger, much smaller face in the mind’s vault, to see the same light of recognition growing on the other’s face, to shake hands, to say "How are you, lovely to have met you", to exchange contact details, to realise how much you yourself have changed, and walk away with the warmth, with the freshly evoked memory of the security of childhood, with a smile that will linger on till a sigh of nostalgia escapes.

A spot of nostalgia

Have you tried catching a spot of sunlight? I have this old fragment of memory -- of dappled sunlight on a verandah on a warm afternoon when I tried desperately to get one spot of sun to stay in my hand.

My memory also has mango trees, like many old Malayalam film songs. I remember having asked my mother long ago why so many Malayalam songs alluded to mango trees when attempting to invoke nostalgia. Her reply was that almost every house used to have a mango tree in the yard. All the houses I stayed in during my childhood had a mango tree. The home -- to which the mind remains anchored to -- now has four. From my room, I could see two. But here, that green shade exists only in my mind.

"Bullywood"

...says The Hindu. Heheh! Apt, isn't it? Read it here. It seems to be a reaction to this year's IFFI. And he deviates to the north-south debate as well. But felt happy reading it!

First there was the IIFA awards -- International Indian Film Academy Awards. Now comes the GIFA -- Global Indian Film Awards. And what is "Indian Film"? According to these two awards, Bollywood and only Bollywood. Celebrate Bollywood, by all means celebrate the colours, the drama, the glamour that is Bollywood. But why give the world the impression that all of Indian cinema is just Bollywood?

Why why why?? What happens to all the other languages then? What happens to all the other regional film industries? The Assamese and Bengali films? The Malayalam and Tamil films?

Two years old

It's been two years, this new phase in life. And as I look around the house, I realise that most things in the house have also turned two. The appliances apart, there is a collection of things that should ideally have been used up in these two years, or at least gone into the waste bin, but have miraculously survived.

# A box of those long Homelite matchsticks. Someone called it the "theft proof" matchbox.
# A bottle of Dettol, used once long ago. Must be past expiry date by now. Should be poured down the drain.
# A bottle of liquid soap that I bought in the first "shopping for home" spree. It was then a spare, it still is. Because I keep forgetting I have this in store and continue buying more soap.
# Half a packet of soya chunks which I bought because someone said is very nutritious and forgot after the first trial because I certainly don't like it. Must get rid of it at least now.
# Battered water bottles that haven't been replaced out of sheer laziness.

These I spotted in the first round of looking around. Am sure to find more.

Hola!

After a long time!

A period when I had nothing to write. Or rather, when I had nothing good enough to write on. And now I have things swimming around in my mind and no time to write.

Because now, the sea calls. And when the sea calls, the only thing to do is drop everything and rush to the waves. So I am off to Goa in a couple of days to refill my reserve of salty breeze and sand.

Randomness

# I watched Sholay. Finally. Yeah, all you people who gaped in disbelief when I said I haven’t yet seen it, and all of you who said my life so far was a waste because I hadn’t watched it – I have finally seen Sholay.

# How can a plywood company advertise itself with the slogan “Powered by nature”? Cutting down trees is being powered by nature? Saw that ad on an auto.

# How many lifetimes will I take to visit every city, every town, every village in the world? See all the great rivers, see all of India, the rain forests, the European countryside, the beaches of the Caribbean. Oh and, who will sponsor me for this world tour?

Editorials

In your school days, were you told that you should make it a practice to read the newspaper editorial everyday in order to improve your language? I was. But I hardly read any. First, because they were immensely boring; and second, because I hardly understood what they were getting at. I still don’t, and for pretty much the same reasons :)

Anyway, now I have more reason not to read them. This is from Jyoti Sanyal’s Indlish – The Book for Every English-Speaking Indian. Sanyal was with The Statesman for 30 years, and was later the dean of Asian College of Journalism when it was in Bangalore. Anyway, after pointing out some really badly written editorials – one from “Bangalore’s leading daily” and the other from “a Karnataka daily” (not difficult guesses which these are) – he laments how the Victorian model of writing seen in these edits trickles down to children. He says:

And the moral of all this: teachers, please stop crippling children with crude didactic essays of the Victorian model; parents, never encourage your children to read those repulsive Victorian-vintage editorials in English-language newspapers.

Ha!

Travel

When I was a child, a lot of our not-so-long-distance travelling was done by the state transport buses. And later when the rail lines came, some of it by train too. One’s only pass time in a bus was to either sleep or watch in a daze as the landscape whooshed by.

It was utter joy, to press my cheek to the thin iron railings across the window of the bus and feel the wind try to rip my head off. The strong metallic smell of the railings would stick on to me for a few hours. The feel of the wind on my face would stay on for a few minutes. Though the route would be the same each time, the places we rushed through always looked different. There would be something new to gape at each time. The black tarmac, fringed by white sand or red gravel depending on where we were, followed by dense green, followed by sun flecked sky. That is the lasting memory of those journeys along the highway, though blurred because that was how I would see them through the window.

Distances have shrunk. Earlier, a one-and-a-half-hour journey to the neighbouring district was a long one – one packed clothes and tooth brush into an overnight bag, one looked up bus timings, the journey would be tiring. Now, you wake up in the morning, decide to go make a visit, hop into the car, think nothing of the one hour because it is probably as much time as you would take on your daily commute between office and home, and are back home by evening.

The whole reason I started on this when-I-was-a-child trip is because it seems incredulous to me that children these days seem to have no interest in looking out the window and just looking at things. The minute the engine wakes up and the vehicle moves, they are bored. “Let’s play a game, I am bored, give me something to eat, I am bored, are we there yet, I am bored.” Look out, look at all the pretty sights, look at the people! I can still gape out for hours, I still stick my head out to feel the wind, I still love to watch the road fly away beneath the wheels.

Last day, stuck in a traffic jam, we watched the people in the car next to us watch videos on the LCD screen hanging in the car in place of the rear-view mirror. I watched in disgust – bad enough that people go on holidays to exotic locations only to get there and watch TV, now they need to be staring at a screen even when travelling around city. But S watched with much interest, and said, We should also have a DVD player in our next car, that way our kids won’t get bored when we are going somewhere. I let out a silent scream, but S didn’t even notice the look on my face, he concentrated on the traffic. Wonder how many arguments lie ahead!

Punctured spellings

You know these small puncture fixing shops that one finds on roadsides? If anyone ever sees puncture spelt right on the boards of such shops anywhere, please send me a picture. I am yet to see one with the correct spelling. I have seen everything from "panjar", which was in Chennai, to a slightly better "puncher" in Bangalore.

Bandh

Karnataka shut down today. State-wide bandh. It's been a long time since there's been a bandh. Probably because back home, there was at least one bandh every month at one point. When there were too many bandhs, the court banned bandhs in the state. How can a concept be banned? It is not like banning smoking, is it? So people assumed that it was only the word that was banned and introduced hartals, which at some long-ago point had meant that shops supporting the cause would remain closed while vehicles would ply and offices would function as usual. But once bandh was "banned", hartal became the new bandh. So the court went ahead and banned the hartal. But the same bandh continues under various different names. I am not keeping track, don't know what its latest name is.

Anyway, there was a bandh here today. From last night, the roads have been dotted with police vans and bus-loads of the rapid action force. And today, deserted roads, closed shops and offices. All by force, isn't it? If given a choice, how many of us would have stayed indoors? How many shops and offices would have remained closed if they were given a choice? But in a bandh, there is nothing called a choice, at least not anymore. If you are not a hospital or a newspaper office and yet you are open, we will shatter your glass facade. If you are not an ambulance or a press vehicle, we will stone you. If you as much as dare touch the shutter of your shop, we'll beat you up.

How can a handful of people and their decision to paralyse life affect the collective psyche so much? How can they put fear into minds so that we would much rather sympathise with the cause (by force, let me add) and stay at home rather than go out and carry on with life?

I want to protest against bandhs. Someone tell me how.

Oh by the way, one good thing came out of the day's shut-down in the city -- the traffic police got the road markings re-painted!

Gandhigiri update

In Bangalore this time. A teacher and her students are flooding a difficult tenant with flowers and cards. Good days for the florists. :)

This car is backing up

When will it occur to someone that these backing-up music of cars/lorries/vans/bullock carts must be banned?

I wake up everyday to a medley of this irritatingly high-pitched noise. A truck in the neighbouring compound trying ot get itself out. See, it is a large empty ground. I have not yet discovered why the truck's driver needs to shift to reverse gear so many times to get it out of there. And each time, the Airtel jingle is flung out into the world. Why isn't AR Rehman protesting? Doesn't he realise how bad his tune sounds when it comes at as a sad string of beeps through loud and jarring speakers? Anyway, if that doesn't wake me up, there is plenty of choice. As in, I can choose what music irritates me the most and wake up to that. Because shortly will follow a version of Neele neele ambar par. Which will be followed by two other versions of the Airtel jingle. And then will come the Happy birthday song. Which will be followed by Raghupati raghava raja ram and Vandemataram. Why bother about anniversaries of songs and Gandhi Jayantis and so on? We can sing it everyday as many times as we want to reverse! So anyway, all these songs play in the morning, in this sequence, everyday. And in reverse order at night. What joy.

Oh, at 4 this morning I was treated to a Tamil song. I hope that car doesn't decide to stay on in this area.

A close shave

Logic is a powerful tool; it can be used to discern and to discover truth. Sometimes though, this tool falls into the hands of those who would abuse it. I would not abuse it as my logic is nothing to write home about. Or may be due to a lack of logic I might be abusing it unknowingly!

I read this paradox of the Barber recently which incidentally is attributed to the British philosopher Bertrand Russell.

The barber paradox asks us to consider the following situation:

In a village, the barber shaves everyone who does not shave himself, but no one else.
The question that prompts the paradox is this:

Who shaves the barber?

No matter how we try to answer this question, we get into trouble.

If we say that the barber shaves himself, then we get into trouble. The barber shaves only those who do not shave themselves, so if he shaves himself then he doesn’t shave himself, which is self-contradictory.

If we say that the barber does not shave himself, then problems also arise. The barber shaves everyone who does not shave himself, so if he doesn’t shave himself then he shaves himself, which is again absurd.

Both cases, then, are impossible; the question ‘Who shaves the barber?’ is unanswerable.

Perplexed and confused?

Gandhigiri

Who ever thought that Gandhian principles would get such a peppy new avtaar in the 21st century?! When watching Lage Raho Munnabhai, I wondered if the film would make a difference to people, whether they would leave the theatre and actually think of putting into practice the lovable Bhai’s style of protest. There’s this bit where one of the characters is talking about how Munnabhai’s radio show is catching on, and how people are voluntarily washing off walls when someone spits. And I thought, yeah it’s a film, they can say these things will happen, but off the silver screen it is never going to happen.

But now, look at all the buzz around Gandhigiri. People are protesting with roses. It has lead to discussions among youngsters and is apparently inspiring them. The word has taken over the headlines – ‘PM pleads for Gandhigiri at NAM’, ‘After Munnabhai, America takes to Gandhigiri’, and so on. No, they are not talking about the film, only about maintaining and promoting peace. And if you want to read all articles on Gandhigiri, there is even a dedicated website. And of course, when something is this popular, someone has to protest.

That apart, I met someone last week who thought that the entire film was a long Congress campaign. The minute Gandhi appeared on the screen, the idea fixed itself in his head, and he couldn't even sit through the film. He left during interval. That was a new perspective for me, though now I am wondering why I didn't think of it that way!

It's in the way you play it

When one listens to great guitarists and drummers, the one thing that strikes you most is the originality of the sound. I've grown up listening to artists who made it big just by their sheer individual brilliance - Billy Cobham (Mahavishnu Orchestra, Miles Davis and later also went solo as a drummer), Stanley Clarke (Bass Guitar), Al De Meola (awesome jazz guitarist) to name a few. Also bands like Grateful Dead have influenced my tastes in music a lot. Jerry Garcia of Dead is an amazing songwriter and a fabulous guitarist in his own right.

All these guys had one thing in common, they developed thier own style and worked on their trademark sound. The "feel" with which these guys play their instruments is the major difference between a great musician and a wannabe one.

Talking of individual sound and style of play, check this video out.
Allow the video to buffer fully before it plays out entirely- As soon as the link opens, click the Play/Pause button and allow it to buffer fully. Then click the same button to play. Don't let it buffer in between, you will only kill the magic that is Music.

RTOh!

Yeah, its taken a long time to start. Better late than never.
I was on leave today and my assignments for the day were to get the car ready for our weekend jaunt and also to get done with the road tax for Sav's bike.

I get to the RTO and am immediately swamped by agents who sensed a deal looking at the TN registered scooter. Saar!, DL aah?, Tax aah, kannada gottha?( do you know kannada?). I cut short their aahs and oohs and quickly run upto the 3rd floor where the Road Tax section is.

Can you believe that all the Forms that you are supposed to fill up are in Kannada? I flip the page hoping for a English version.None. Ive learnt to read and write kannada ever since ive been in school and have been comfortable with it but just imagine the plight of a non kannaidga in that RTO?
I look around and immediatley spot numerous (at least 15 of them ) non-kannidagas holding the same Form, with confused looks on their faces. Not to mention, the agents were milling around them offering their service to interpret the form. Of course you can fill it up in English only if you know what the form demands in the first place.

I decided to fill up the form in Kannada to the last "Camma" and "Full Staap" including the Insurance Policy Number which incidentally was a 15 digit number!!. After a job well done, i submit my form to the officer in charge. He glances through the form, muttering under his breath, doodling something on the form with a red ink pen,lowers his glasses down the ridge of his nose, frowns and hissed at me: "YAAKRI, NUMBER KANNADA DALLI BARDIDEERA??" (Why have you written the number in kannada, i say?). The poor soul probably didnt have a clue about kannada numerals!

Ah! Bliss, i was waiting for this moment. I calmly replied :"Form Kannada Dalli idey Saar!" ( The Form is in kannada). I think he lost it, more so because i was wearing a Che Guevara Tee and hadnt taken my shades off!. He made me write the whole form in English and resubmit. I didnt have a problem with that.

Tax paid. Sav khush. Me too Khush ( having gotten back at them - quite"literally")

What is the point in having the form in Kannada? Is it to help the agents make a quick buck? Is it the "Namma Kannada" cam"pain"? Is it an apathy towards Non kannadigas? ...i dont get the drift.

i promise to write soon again .....Until then...Cheers!

The network follows

There is this new ad by Airtel. You must've seen it. Three girls sitting in a tent and arguing over what they want to see on the phone -- news, songs or movie clips. And then one of the girls walks out before the phone starts ringing. We see that the tent is perched on a hill top, overlooking a river and a green bank, with a blue sky above.

I suppose they are trying to say that wherever you are the network is there, blah blah. But the message I got was that even in such a beautiful setting, on what seemed a bright, sunny and beautiful day, the tech savvy young generation would rather stay indoors and watch film songs on their phones.

Now my problem is, is that only the warped imagination of the advertisers or is that how things are? Why, why, why in the world would you take the trouble of going on a trek, or on a vacation, only to watch TV (Or in this case, film clippings on the phone)?

Railway station

There is this railway station I keep visiting in my dreams. It is a strange station, and I have never really seen one like that. A road runs through its centre. So if you need to get from Platform No.3 to Platform No.4, you have to cross a road, a narrow but busy one.

The contexts have always been different, but the station is always the same. Sometimes it's me missing the train. Sometimes it is me trying to catch a connecting train at that station. Once it was me running after a goods train. Once I was looking for my family in different trains. Once I was getting out of the train to buy tea. But it is always the same station, with the cacophony of blaring horns replacing the usual sounds of a railway station. And almost always, I would have to tackle the road traffic too.

I don't want any interpretations on this one, just let me know if you come across a station like that. :)

Being a journalist

What is this thing about being a journalist that makes you want to remain one? Four years into the profession and I can think of a hundred reasons why one shouldn't follow this path. Indefinite working hours, no fixed weekly day-off, daily deadlines, and poor pay for starters. (All this of course, assuming we are talking about a daily general newspaper. So stop pointing out that I have Sundays off. And by the way, TV is worse)

There are so many other jobs around if you are into the business of words. You could be a content developer or a technical writer for an IT firm and get paid a bomb. You could be into public relations. You could get into corporate communications. What do these bring? Definitely more pay. Five-day weeks. And your evenings are free! Err... Or rather I like to believe that evenings will be free. Even in the worst case, you would get at least a couple of evening free, won't you? You know, there have been times when I've felt lost in my neighbourhood simply because it had been ages since I saw the area in the golden light of evening. Oh to not have to take special permission so I can attend an evening wedding, or a concert...

But yet, journalism has so grown on me. My eyes twinkle when I hear about a job opening as a content developer. And I toy with the idea, I think of the many things I could do if I had a two-day weekend. But all that will last till the next press conference, where I sit and contemplate if I really want to give this up, and the twinkle dies. I sigh and say, oh darn, I love my profession too much to give it up. I wouldn't have a press card anymore. I wouldn't be able talk possessively about the press club anymore. I would have to rip off the "press" sticker that's on my scooter. I wouldn't be able to save San from policemen who nag him for double parking simply by waving my ID card. I wouldn't be able to watch with amusement the different ways in which people react when they ask me what I do and I say "I am a journalist" (Especially the kind who think they are important enough to be quoted and say "Hey, all that I said to you was off the record").

Oh darn. I am never going to have a five-day week, am I?

An open letter

Abhipraya has written an open letter to mothers who have sons. You too may have points to add.