A new beginning

And so it came to pass that I moved from the comfy confines of home and a fat paycheck to the academic rigours of student life. The new campus is beautiful, only wish they had constructed their toilets with the assuidity reserved for their marketing brochures. But I complain too much.

It's great getting back to being a student. (Classes haven't started yet, as you may have gathered).

Sound advice

On the eve of his 18th birthday, Ramaseshan's parents finally revealed to him the secret behind his inability to laugh.

"Amma, listen to this. A Sardarji has five sons. Their names are: Kanwaljeet, Manjeet, Harpreet, Manmeet and Jiang Zemin. Why?", rattled Ramaseshan, as he walked into his house in Triplicane.

His mother gave him a blank look of incomprehension.

"Because every fifth child born in this world is a Chinese.", he finished rather flatly, when he realized that an answer was not forthcoming.

His mother smiled politely, not to hurt his feelings. (But she needn't have bothered.)

"I really don't understand the joke. Nandhini told me this when she saw me chasing the cows away from our vegetable garden.", he moaned, in a rather agitated tone.

Nandhini, their beautiful (newly moved-in) neighbour, and daughter of advocate Rules-Ramanujam, fancied Ramaseshan, which probably explains her attempt at humour at their very first meeting, over the garden-fence seperating the two houses. But when she only encountered his laughless countenance, she mistook it for sarcasm, burst into tears and ran back home. Ramaseshan, consequently, was quite perplexed.

His father, looking up from his Hindu newspaper, merely raised an eyebrow.

Ramaseshan, had he read Wodehouse, would probably have remarked that his father looked like what Jeeves would have, had he (Jeeves) been an Iyengar. (You see, Ramaseshan's dad was already one). But more importantly, had he read Wodehouse, Ramaseshan would have discovered laughter much earlier.

Now, dear reader, I agree, the Sardarji joke was not particularly funny- the lack of any laughter from your end merely stands testimony to your rather sophisticated sense of humour. In Ramaseshan's case however, the reason was somewhat more sinister.

Therefore, when he posed the following question to his mother, she gave her husband a worried look, as if goading him wordlessly, to answer that immortal and long-unasked query.

"Why don't I ever laugh, Amma? It's not just this instance, you know. I have never found anything funny in my life. Ever!".

His father, as was his wont when he was disturbed from his ritual poring over the dignified pages of The Hindu, polished his glasses in a rather agitated fashion, before replying. "Son, this is a long story. We have been hiding this from you till you reached an age where you could understand what actually happened. 17 years ago, to this very day, you fell ill to a disease that was unknown then to the world of medicine. Probably still is. We knocked on all doors- allopathy, ayurveda, magicians from the local mosque, old ladies who had routinely visitations from the Malayala Bhagavathi, but all to no avail. The fever kept escalating. Finally, a kind old lady from this neighbourhood mentioned that there was a Maha Yogi in town who could banish our woes . He had a great track record for curing the sick, but she warned us, he usually extracted a terrible price from his patients. We were ready to pay any price, so we wrapped you in a bundle and went to the Yogi's ashram in Mylapore. He took one look at you and said, "We shall cure the little one. But you must promise us one thing. We will take from this child, all his laughter. Do you agree?" We were at our wits' end then, so we had no option but to accept. Lots of people didn't laugh. Why, your very own thatha, your mother's dear father, his face has never seen a smile light it once. So we thought that it wasn't such a bad deal after all. You were cured, but, but.. This my dear fellow, is the reason why you can never laugh!"

The room was quiet for a second. Not many people are ready to hear that their lives' were straight out of a Rumpelstiltskin story, but Ramaseshan was different. Blessed with a cool intellect, his only consideration then was, "Is this Yogi still alive? Where can I meet him? I will remonstrate with him and get my laughter back!".

His mother, who was silently cursing her husband while he was casting aspersions on her father's sense of humour, replied sharply, "Oh yes! The Yogi told us that you will come looking for him, so he left his address with us. I think it was in the old almirah. Hope those blasted termites haven't eaten that paper!". In the few minutes that his mother was gone, the room fell silent once again. His father, trying to avoid his eye, embarrassedly returned to The Hindu. Ramaseshan, as usual, stared ahead expressionlessly .

"Ahh, here it is. Number 8, Vivekananda Cave, Himalayan hamlet, The Himalayas."

Armed with such a detailed knowledge of the Yogi's location, Ramaseshan set off on his journey to rediscover his lost humour, with a renewed confidence. We'll skim over his adventures, to speed up the pace of this somewhat laggardly narrative. Suffice it to say, he soon found himself outside the cave of the Maha Yogi.

"Sir", he said reverentially, "I have come to get my laughter back. Please show me some mercy!"
To which the Yogi majestically replied "Ah little one! So you are here, finally. We trust that you were able to find our cave easily?", and without waiting for an answer, as was the practice of all great men, he continued, "What we have taken from you, we cannot return. If you are truly lucky, you may find out why. But never fear, for the moment, ask us something else."

At this point, my memory fails me, and I am not able to recollect what exactly transpired between Ramaseshan and the Yogi. But let me assure you, it was very interesting indeed.

Ramaseshan, with the new knowledge gained from his master, decided that he did not miss his laughter much after all, and began his long journey back home. On his way back, more adventures followed. He convinced an amateur mountaineer that her family honour wouldn't be tarnished if she dropped her foolhardy idea to scale Everest, thus saving one innocent life. He discovered that the seat of the Maha Yogi was also in fact the Lost Tomb of Christ, believed by many to be in Kashmir. He hit upon a solution to the long standing Kaveri water dispute between Tamil Nadu and Karnataka. He devised the perfect plan to entrap Veerappan (the sting operation later was somewhat inspired by Ramaseshan's original masterpiece). However, all these achievements are a mere trifle compared to his greatest idea, which he quite accidently discovered during a particulary severe snow blizzard, while riding piggyback on a passing-by Yeti.

He discovered a truly remarkable solution to the Kashmir issue, which I'm afraid this margin is too narrow to contain.

Enough said.

Many, many donkey years later, as the millionaire Ramaseshan was lying in his deathbed in a swank, upmarket hospital in Chennai, his wife Nandhini was startled to hear a strange new sound emanating from the prostrate figure on the bed. Ramaseshan was laughing hysterically.

And with his rediscovery of laughter, I find that I have redisovered my memory to recollect what happened in that fateful meeting between Ramaseshan and the Maha Yogi:

Ramaseshan asked, "Swami, what is the sureshot way to success?", to which the Yogi, in his infinite wisdom replied,

"Little one, that is a very intelligent question. There are two, very simple ways to success. One, never reveal everything you know to anyone."

And thus, Ramaseshan, following his life credo till his death, died before he could tell Nandhini why he was laughing. But let me assure you, he died a happy man.

Kalki

Just stumbled across a blog by Pavithra translating Amarar Kalki's Sivagamiyin Sabadham into English.

If you want to understand what being a Tamilian means, then Kalki is the beginning, the middle and the end of your quest.

Sensational is probably a word that comes close in describing the quality of the translation. I've read the original, and this comes very, very close to it in terms of capturing the flavour and essence of the masterpiece. Truly a magnificent effort. Hats off!

Filmmaking 101

A hilarious review of Anniyan in Raman's blog. Check it out here. Absolutely spot on, especially the analogy to Onion.

There was a time, when I used to like such movies. I wonder why I ever grew up hence. Life was so simple with poor taste.

It confirms my longheld belief that all Shankar knows is two genres of filmmaking- Love and the supposed "Socially-Relevant" cinema- which he happily alternates between. And hopes that we being the brainless twits that we are, don't notice that it is the same story again and again. And again.

I wouldn't blame him for thinking that though, given our track record with the kind of movies that we help become Super/Mega/Ultra Hits.

Coming to think of it, there is a specific formula that we all readily fall for.

1) ALL socially relevant Shankar films will have a flashback. No questions asked. The flashback will involve one relative of the protagonist dying due to some government servant/politician's neglect. Usually this will be followed by some scenes of extraordinary hamming.

2) There will also be a "makkal" scene- where various sections of society will voice support for the hero- for example, college gals will drool, "Hey paar ya! Indian thatha style! Kewl!!", or old ladies will scream, "Pugalendhi dhaanungo!"

3) There will definitely be a Matrix style stunt scene. People will scale buildings with the ease of a Zhang Ziyi in Crouching Tiger. Motorcycles will jump 20 feet up and then decide to explode. Sometimes cars will jump over trains, and coconut trees will uproot automatically and soar into the heavens. Sometimes, when the hero breaks the villain's hand, there will be a zoom-in to an X-ray shot where we get visual confirmation of the fracture, in case we had feared that it was a mere sprain.
(Although, to be really fair, this technique has been borrowed from Sarath Kumar's follow-up to Lion King, Deewan.)

4) All songs will have graphics which will be stupid, kitschy, or both. Hero and heroine will jump into the air, the frame will freeze and the screen colour will suddenly become dull, the world will revolve around them, and then after a few seconds of suspended animation where we are supposed to hold our breath, the lovers will resume normal movement and fall gleefully into each others' arms. There will also be a man-to-animal transformation. Like Kamal Hassan will morph into an Iguana, lion, etc. or Manivannan and Vadivelu will reveal a snaky aspect to their character hitherto unknown to mankind.

5) Shankar's films will depict "cool" people by having them spout Thanglish in ludicrous westernized accents. Funnily enough, many people seem to share his opinon.

Thalaivar Rajnikanth has a few formulae as well. Will probably dedicate a post for that on one of those long, rainy afternoons.

And yes, in Sun TV Lion Dates Top 10 Movies fashion: Anniyan, Saniyan.

Irrelevant Film Fact of the Day: Did you know that there is a Telugu actor who actually goes by the sobriquet, "Challenging Star"? I wonder what they intended.

The fourth hand of Vishnu.

Tharangambadi, a few miles from Pondicherry.

We were childhood friends, Raghupathi and I. We first met in the fifth standard, when I moved from Madras to Pondi. Frankly, I hated the place - but he was the reason why I learned to live there, and probably, later love it.

He was the son of the priest of the temple by the seashore at Tharangambadi. For generations, his family had tended to Lord Janardhana, the presiding deity. Their lives, from their lowest desires to their greatest ambitions, were defined by that temple. Not many people knew its existence now, and those who did, did not bother to visit it anymore, but that was immaterial to them.

Raghupathi, however, was different.

We parted ways after high school. A childhood love for history gave him the courage to pay little heed to family tradition, and he joined an undergraduate course in it at the local college. I moved to Singapore to study Economics. Soon, I was working in a multi-national bank. I heard that he was continuing his torrid love affair with History, with the Archaeological Survey of India. Life was hectic. We hardly wrote to each other. We scarcely thought about each other even. At least, I know I didn't.

Then, nearly a decade later, about seven months back, I received an air-mail from him. He was inviting me to Lakshmi's wedding- his sister. It was in December, in Tharangambadi. I missed India, so even though I was a little hesitant, I called him up and told him I would come. I was diffident, because I really did not know what we could talk about any more.

--------------------

He was still living in the same two-room house that he used to as a kid. Memories came flooding back.

"How is Appa?", I ventured.

"Don't ask. My refusal to carry on with priesthood broke him. He died soon after I joined college."

"Ohh....".

Not a good start.

--------------------

The dawn before the wedding, Raghupathi and I were walking by the calm sea.

"I want to ask you something....", he began. I looked at him, half expecting what he was going to say.

"I need some...The groom's side is demanding some money. I didn't know who to ask...".

"And so, you thought of me...", I smiled. I stopped, realizing that it sounded a little cruel. I knew how difficult it was for him to bring this up. "I'm sorry. Sure, you can have it."

The smile on his face was something that I would remember for a long time. "Thanks! Its..Its just that I have a cash crunch now. I'll definitely transfer the money to you by..."

"Sure, sure. Don't worry about it!"

Damn! I shouldn't have embarassed him. I wanted to change the conversation quickly....

"Wow, the beach sure seems to have grown in the last ten years. I remember, we used to race from the steps of the temple to the water's edge. It always seemed such a small distance- so small, that you always won before I could catch up! Now look at it! The sea seems so distant now!"

He looked up from his troubled thoughts. "Yeah! You know what?! You are absolutely right. Strange..".

I smiled. "How about a race now? The last one to the water is a loser!!". And before he could say anything, I was off. Running into the wind. Into the sea.

A ray from the rising sun momentarily blinded me. My leg caught something and I fell headlong into the salty sand.

Age was not too kind to Raghu. He was lumbering some distance behind me. "Are you all right?!!", he managed to whisper, between great gasps of breath.

------------------------

"Hello, what is this?". He was staring intently at a small, triangular piece of green rock jutting out of the sand. Scowling with pain, I got up and peered over his shoulder.

"Looks like a small, triangular piece of green rock!", I said irritatedly, stating the obvious.

"No, No! wait a minute..."...He was frantically digging, clawing at the sand. I looked at him transfixed. Had he suddenly gone bonkers?

After watching him amazedly for a couple of minutes, some strange realization dawned on me. "What IS that piece of rock?".

"This, my good friend", said he between excited gasps, "is no piece of rock. Possibly 14th century bronze."

That's all it took. I joined him, digging like a crazed bounty-hunter.

The bronze statue was 3 feet tall. Mahavishnu. Majestic. Classic features. A mysterious little smile. Four hands. The right hand held the chakra- the discus. The left held the shankh- the conch. Another held the mace. The final hand was the strangest- palm outstretched and brought near the mouth. Now that was something that one wouldn't normally see.

"As if sipping water from the palm of one's hand"... Those words from distant childhood echoed within me.

Carved with an eye for exquisite detail- even an untrained novice such as I could see that we had in front of us the work of a true master. A rare antique of inestimable value made deeply mysterious and infinitely unique by that strange hand gesture.

Raghu was breathing heavily. "I think this is the Utsava-Murthy, the processional deity of our temple, believed to have been lost for ages!

Sometime in the 14th century, the Delhi Sultanate advanced to South India, and they began unleashing a terrible campaign to destroy the Hindu faith by defacing our temples. Malik Kafur completely pillaged the Hoysala temple at the place that we know today as Halebidu. He almost reached Srirangam. The idols there were secretly transported to Tirupati for protection.

Seeing the imminent threat to our temple by the invaders, my forefathers decided that they had to take urgent steps to save these idols, at least for the sake of posterity. The plan was to bury the idols somewhere in the seashore here at Tharangambadi. In the middle of the night, the main idol was secreted away and hidden beneath the sands just outside the temple. The Utsava-Murthy was buried further down the beach. They placed flags to mark the spots where they had buried the statues. But for all their care, they made one crucial mistake. It was low tide and the dead of the night- the place where they buried the Utsava-Murthy was too far into the sea. When the day broke and the tide came in, the flag marking this spot was swept away by the rough sea.

The danger soon passed and the invaders retreated back to the North, and my family was easily able to find the main idol outside the temple, but the Utsava-Murthy was assumed to be lost forever, until..... until today. I think what you have discovered today could be that same, ancient statue.

But one thing still puzzles me- there's something not right with the fourth hand of Vishnu.

Why is Vishnu doing an Achamanam?

In the main idol reinstated back into the temple, the hand is not near the mouth....Even the paintings of Vishnu from that period don't show this mudra. So either this must be a different statue, which appears highly unlikely, or...or.. I dont know. There's surely some significance to it.

My father must have mentioned it, for I have a vague feeling that he did, but I was never too interested in mythology to pay attention...".

His eyes were glazed, lost in deep thought. "Ahh! I give up!", he grunted good-humoredly after a while.

" Raghu....How much will this be worth today?" I asked in a low tone, bringing him straight down to earth.

Sensing the sudden intensity in my tone, he looked scandalized. "Look, just what exactly are you suggesting?? This is a national treasure for heavens' sake!!! Stop thinking what you are thinking...." He was clearly faltering.

I decided to take my chance. "Raghu, how much do you earn?"

"That has nothing to do with this! My family has been worshipping Lord Janardhana for the last 700 years. How can you even suggest..."

"All right, if I refuse to lend you the money, how do you intend to pay Lakshmi's prospective in-laws, huh? And hello, even if I do pay, it doesn't stop at the wedding expenses...Oh No...You'll have to give them gifts at every bloody function, right?! How do you suppose you are going to afford all this?? And, and.." I drove home relentlessly. "What about you? How are you going to support your wife when you marry? Don't tell me the Archaeological Survey of India is going to declare you a national monument and protect you. Because that's what you are- A bleeding antique!!".

I could see that he was hurt. But he could see the bitter truth behind my cruel words. "All right. All right...We'll hide the statue at the house during the wedding. But please, I need your help to sell this statue abroad. If this is seen in India, I'll be destroyed."

And so it was agreed. I would go to his house and get my car. We'd hide it in his house. And I would find a buyer for it in Singapore. Our lives would change forever.

"Stay right here and guard the statue. Don't move!", I ordered and started jogging back to his house.

"Janardhana!" he called out. I turned around.

The beach was absolutely deserted. The morning sun was just rising over the solitary figure of Raghupathi, throwing his outline in sharp relief. I knew it was a trick of light- The statue's long shadow seemed to dwarf him.

"We are not doing something evil, right?", he asked tremulously. Clearly, I was not the only one disturbed.

I pretended not to to have heard him at first. A pause later,"Don't worry! Everything will turn out OK!".

The first wave of the killer tsunami hit Tharangambadi that morning. Janardhana was ready, sipping the waters of the great Pralayam.

The big game.

During one particularly long, rainy, drive in Wayanad, Kerala, my uncle narrated a story that happened once. A childhood incident.

Uncle, a city dweller for most of his life, lived in Madurai. During his summer holidays, he used to visit his ancestral home in a village somewhere in the Tanjore District of Tamil Nadu. To escape the drowsy monotony of the long afternoons, he attended a local village school, ostensibly to brush up on his arithmetic.

The teacher in the village school does not receive a regular salary like teachers in the big city schools do. For his efforts, he's paid in kind - Some pay him with rice, some with paruppu (pulses), some barter vegetables, some milk. And the parents who could afford to send their kids to school, were usually the rich landlords of the village.

Probably out of a sense of injustice of things around him, or an inferiority complex arising out of his poor station, (we don't know the exact reason, I only speculate), the teacher at my uncle's village was a very strict man, some may even say, a man, who was downright abusive to his pupils. And being the grandson of the richest family in the village, my uncle was the prime candidate for punishment at the teacher's hands.

Once, after a particularly severe beating (Either for not solving a tricky maths problem, or for solving it before the teacher could. I cannot remember which.), uncle came home crying. When his grandparents found out the actual reason, the angered family stopped the payment of rice that year.

Every summer evening, the village children played in the dried riverbank. A particular favorite was wrestling on the sandy bed. My uncle's arch enemy in these riverside games was Mahesh, the teacher's son. Whether as a result of a hereditary dislike for my uncle, or a village-dweller's (completely natural) hostile response to an outsider, Mahesh hated the sight of my uncle. I'm told the feeling was mutual. My uncle, a mute victim at the hands of the father, naturally tried to vent his frustrations on the son. Constantly at loggerheads, they vied for superiority in the gang.

But Mahesh had one major advantage over uncle in their battle for village supremacy. The deadly, the insurmountable. Kidikki-Pidi.

A wrestling move made with such breathtaking speed that it hits you when you least expect it. The pain involved is terrible. No not just terrible, the kind of pain where you wonder why you were ever born. The kind of pain where your life flashes before your eyes and you wonder whether you should have been kinder to your little sister more often. And there is no human way for you to escape the grip. The only way out of Kidikki-Pidi was if you begged your way out. Beg for forgiveness for your miserable existence and offer undying slavery to Mahesh. If you did not, you might end up dead. Enough said.

"Please daai Mahesh, leave me!!"

The grip got tighter, " 'Daai'? Did you say 'Daai' ?", said the cruel tyrant,

"Mahesh..anna...please. You are the greatest! Stop it!! I am sorry, I beg you!"

If he was in a particularly good mood, Mahesh would let you go after five minutes of such remonstrations. Armed with the Kidikki Pidi, he ruled supreme. Many was a time when uncle was reduced to a teary state of humiliation and pain.

As he looked out of the window in the bus taking him back to to Madurai, uncle prayed for deadly revenge. Through his angry tears, he resolved, "I will beat this Mahesh at his own game. I will learn how to escape from the Kidikki Pidi. I will practise new moves and teach this rascal a proper lesson. We'll see who is who's slave then".

And he lived up to his resolution. Evenings after school were spent wrestling with his friends. Though initially, none of them matched Mahesh for the ferocity of their fights, they quickly learned that if they did not scrap harder, they would get pummelled by uncle. And so the sessions increased in intensity and with each coming day he grew stronger. And ready for the day when he would meet Mahesh face to face. There was a way out of Kidikki Pidi, out of humiliation. Mahesh would be taught a lesson that he would not forget too quickly.

Summer holidays. One April afternoon, my uncle landed in the village. The day of the big game finally arrived. Puffing angrily, he stood in the quiet street outside the teacher's house.

"Mahesh!!", he shouted, "come out. I want to talk to you!!".

But no one answered. "Of course, it was afternoon. They must all be at the riverbed."

As he neared the river, he could hear the distant sounds of play. He could still hear someone yowl with pain "Im sorry Im sorry..you are the greatest..forgive me..".

Just a few more minutes now. There they were, at it, as usual.

Smiling at the prospect of the long awaited match, he approached the brawling group.

But wait a minute.

"Where's Mahesh?", he ask the exhausted youth, who were lying down after their labours, gasping for breath in the river sands.

No one replied for a moment. And then someone said, "Oh, he died last year, after you left. Didn't your grandmother tell you?"

The rhythmic sounds of the windscreen-wiper in our Ambassador car broke our reverie.

The curious incident of the missing blog entry

Started this delightful book called The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon. Which explains why I will not be able to regale you with the usual brilliant blog entry. [Ed: Dream on.]

There's an interesting snippet from an Observer review in the back cover.
"Gave me the rare, greedy feeling of: this is so good I want to read it all at once but I mustn't or it will be over too soon".
Funnily enough, this is the exact feeling I had while reading Midnight's Children.

My thoughts on this later.

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16 Jun
As promised, my thoughts on The Curious Incident.
First a plot summary.
This is a story about 15 year-old Christopher John Francis Boone, an autistic savant. A mathematician and logician extraordinaire, he has trouble comprehending human emotions and finds it easier to relate to animals, rather than human beings.
Confronted with a murdered dog in his neighbour's garden, he decides to do a Sherlock Holmes (that other great reasoning machine) and get to the bottom of the mystery. But what he ends up discovering is something more than just the identity of the killer.

The book is described from the point of view its narrator, Christopher, and that is its strength. We understand the workings of his mind, and why he behaves the way he does. From an external observer's viewpoint, his actions may seem bizarre, but there is a deeply logical explanation to it all. His fear of lying, of new places, of being lost in time are beautifully rationalized and that, more than its plot makes for interesting reading.

Definitely worth a read. (although I feel that the Observer's review was little more than promotional hyperbole.)

Taking the mickey out of

First things first. Michael Jackson is out, acquitted by the jury for lack of evidence in any of the charges against him.

In other gratifying news, Bangalore's Page-3 poster boy Prasad Bidapa is temporarily detained in Dubai for allegedly carrying marijuana. In a case of such extreme irony that it is almost a cliche, he's apparently an "Image Consultant" as well. His wife makes a strong case for his release with the statement "Everybody smokes grass occasionally."

Was justice served in the Jackson case? Will it in Bidapa's? Are the accused victims of their own fame, or are they criminals encashing on their fame to evade punishment?

Can our legal systems provide justice? Or will they be merely content with finding Louis Friend instead? (as Dr.Lecter would probably say). I know, its a really arbit reference.

Parineeta, Communism

"History repeats itself, the first time as tragedy, the second as farce."

Bertie to Devdas
From Wodehousian lotus-eaters at the Drones in pre-war Victorian England, to a hedonist aristocracy in 60's Calcutta, the order of history repeating itself seems to have reversed. The first, Wodehousian instance, as farce, and the second, 60's Calcutta, as a quasi tragedy.

Sarat Chandra's Parineeta plot seems remarkably similar to his Devdas - Childhood sweethearts, breakups, and a crumbling Zamindari set in timeless Calcutta.

However, this movie spares us the blatant, sickening sentimentality of Sanjay Bhansali's farcical Devdas, and that's something. If not for the ludicrous climax, this movie could have been good. And therein, I suppose, lies the tragedy (A second instance of history's inverted repetition). The brilliant cinematography and sets recreate the illusion of a lost Calcutta, a vision that probably exists in reality only in the minds of Calcuttans today.

What remains of the City to an outsider, however, is something of a tragedy. When I visited Calcutta a few months back, I only saw the dank stagnation of failed Communist policy. The moss covered buildings, the dilapidated buses, the broken down trams, the blinding power-cuts, all speak of the stranglehold of an outdated and infeasible ideology.

The buses of Parineeta still parade the streets of Calcutta.

What is it that holds Bengalis in the thrall of Communism? Is it a fallout of an aristocratic past?

Ironically, that was Karl Marx's quote.

Boldly going nowhere?

Tom Friedman of the New York Times writes of the pothole-ridden information superhighway that is Bangalore. And he's of the opinion that there is some hope for all of us, after all. Read here.(needs free registration).

And in other, insanely exciting news, the Times of India reports that the Maharashtra state government has dropped its long-standing case against Tuff - for its infamous ad featuring Madhu Sapre, Milind Soman and the Python (and little else). Is a more liberal state round the corner? Apparently not.

License to kill.

Have you been to a Government Office recently? The experience is unforgettable, nay, the hyperbolic in me goads me to say that it is a life-changing one.

My recent brush with the law led me to the RTO to get a simple, straightforward, little learners' license. I went in, the cheerful, happy creature that I knew myself to once be. I staggered out a dried, shrivelled-up shell of a human being, contemplating the futility of my very existence.

The first fifteen minutes were a breeze. There was a queue of around 40 people lounging about outside the RTO office. Armed with an extensive knowledge of queuing theory, I confidently joined in at the end, as is the universal practice. Half an hour of waiting later, I realised that all the knowledge in the world couldn't get me to move the distance covered by a heavily pregnant ant loaded with a truckload of confectionery. Apparently some highly enterprising buggers ahead of me were selling their spots in the queue for a cool profit.

Still smiling through all this, I harbored the hope that I could meet His Highness, The Officer, before the end of civilization as we know it. Very shorly, my frenzied ruminations were interrupted by a bunch of wannabe-youth (you know, the bandana-ed kind) , some of them apparently suffering from a serious bout of halitosis. When they joined the queue behind me, my faith in the humanity of it all was restored, albeit with some reservations on the TV habits of the folks in question. (Don't they watch all those Pepsodent, "you-are-served-by-a-team-of-12-dentists" ads flashed with mind-numbing regularity on TV??)

But this was shortlived too, you see, for our foulmouthed friends had "ministerial back-up" in their favour. Soon, one bureaucratic lackey escorted them in, their victorious, cavity-ridden smiles reflected only in a collective sigh of angst on our part.

Time, the great healer, came to my rescue after an hour, or two. I can't remember which. It was approaching lunch-hour and the Great Saab sent a peon out to see what the clamourous multitude outside his Office was upto.

This must be it, I thought. Surely Fate would lead me unto deliverance. Well it did. Kinda.

The peon took our files in. A mere half an hour later, a booming voice bellowed, "Venkateshwara Rao!".

Now, now, gentle reader, this is no mere exaggeration, for why wouldn't it be a booming voice? After just 16 rounds of idlis topped up with musambi juice for breakfast, and shortly followed by 16 varieties of bisi-bele bath and bagala bath for lunch, the human vocal chord is very well-equipped to shatter ear-drums at a distance of 16 feet, at the very least. I only wished some people around me had had a bath instead.

Looking around, no one seemed to respond to the call of the wild. On the offchance that the Saab in his divine mercy, was in fact referring to "Venkatraghavan" , I stepped timidly into the hallowed portals of The Office. Hoping against hope I looked up, to find the Officer signing my form.

"That's it! I can officially drive now!", I feverishly wondered.

"Venkatesh Rao, please take this form now, and go to Room 6 where you will take a written test". His words seemed to be uttered in a language I once understood, but my mind refused to process the gravity of their import. I had waited for two hours outside the great man's office for a mere signature, then.

Room 6 seemed a floating mirage in the distant horizon. But being made of sterner stuff and paying little heed to the piteous wails issuing from my stomach, I bravely marched into Room 6. A strict looking traffic policeman led me to my desk, partly occupied by a gentleman from the armed forces. After casting a few disapproving looks at my un-uniformed appearance, the policeman tossed the question paper at me and went back. I dived into my test, unmindful of the world around me.

My grappling with strange symbols that looked like hapless-stickmen-repeatedly-being-hit-by-red-lightning, boulders-raining-down-on-lorries and smiling Jolly-Rogers, was interrupted by a rapping noise. The military officer was staring at me pointedly. Dismissing it as a mere figment of my recently afflicted imagination, I returned to the test with an increasingly beleaguering resolve.

The rapping returned. This time there was no mistake. The officer was making complex facial gestures, all seemingly aimed at me allowing him a peek at my answer paper. After all that I went through, an officer of the Great Indian Armed Forces trying to pilfer answers from an ignorant civilian such as myself was the proverbial last straw that forced me to end the misery of it all. Giving him the kind of cold shoulder that would normally make him consider defecting to the other side, I decided that I'd had enough. I returned the question paper and walked out, battered and bruised.

Two days later, after much rest and recuperation, a life affirming moment happened. The mail arrived, with my license in it.

And of yeah, I did pass the test after all, deeming me worthy enough to learn to drive in beautiful Bangalore. I can't wait to see how my attempt at a drivers' license is going to turn out.

The evolution of intelligence.

Borrowing the title of my post from an extremely intriguing article from the Economist, available here.

The article unveils a historically sensitive theory- proposed by three researchers working at the University of Utah- that some ethnic groups may actually be more intelligent than the rest of us. Taking the case of a Jewish sub-sect - the Ashkenazi, (of which Albert Einstein, Gustav Mahler and Sigmund Freud are but three glittering protagonists) they go on to argue that historical legal discrimination of Jews may have been contributory to the genetic evolution of the subsect's intellect. But there is a flip side. Their research finds that this sect appears to be more susceptible to certain neurological disorders.

The really interesting aspect of their work is that they seem to hint that there exists a correlation between increased intelligence and a marked increase in susceptibility to neurological disorder.

Apparently there is a biological precedent- the gene that causes sickle cell anaemia, an affliction common in West Africa, is also responsible for immunity to malaria, which is highly prevalent in, you guessed it, West Africa! In other words, in evolution's cost-benefit analysis, the benefits of immunity to malaria seem to outweigh the costs of sickle-cell anaemia. Or for that matter, the benefits of intelligence outweigh a marked affliction to neurological disorder.

Or, in the gamble that is life, the marginal utility of a dollar gained is greater than the marginal utility of a dollar lost.
Nature is a great risk taker. Interesting concept.

Literature as a substitute to dynamite.

I was reading a recent article in Kalki, a Tamil magazine, about Gabriel Garcia Marquez and the experiences that led to his first book- the classic, One Hundred Years of Solitude.

The opening line of that novel still haunts me.
"Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice."

There are some sentences in literature that are like epiphanies- they transcend the moment, and dimly part the veil to reveal, albeit only fleetingly, the truly wonderful.

And, so here's a list from my limited experience, of sentences that exploded into my world.

Satyajit Ray's Fritz, in one chilling twist, confirms all our worst fears: "There lay at our feet, covered in dust, lying flat on its back, a twelve-inch-long, pure white, perfect little skeleton."

In Joseph Heller's war satire Catch-22, probably the funniest, insanely-infuriating lines (and in a way probably the saddest) in the book:
"There was only one catch and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's safety in the face of dangers that were real and immedeate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane he had to fly them. If he flew them he was crazy and didn't have to; but if he didn't want to he was sane and had to. Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of this clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle."

And the mind warping Douglas Adams' sensational paragraph in a foreword to the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy:
"...And then, one Thursday, nearly two thousand years after one man had been nailed to a tree for saying how great it would be to be nice to people for a change, a girl sitting on her own in a small cafe in Rickmansworth suddenly realized what it was that had been going wrong all this time, and she finally knew how the world could be made a good and happy place. This time it was right, it would work, and no one would have to get nailed to anything.
Sadly, however, before she could get to a phone to tell anyone about it, a terrible, stupid catastrophe occurred, and the idea was lost forever."

I couldn't help but include this bizarre gem of sophistry from the same classic:
"Now it is such a bizarrely improbable coincidence that anything so mind-bogglingly useful [as the Babel fish] could have evolved purely by chance that some thinkers have chosen to see it as a final and clinching proof of the nonexistence of God.
The argument goes like this: “I refuse to prove that I exist,” says God, “for proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing.”
“But,” says Man, “The Babel fish is a dead giveaway, isn’t it? It could not have evolved by chance. It proves you exist, and so therefore, by your own arguments, you don’t. QED.”
“Oh dear,” says God, “I hadn’t thought of that,” and promptly disappears in a puff of logic.
“Oh, that was easy,” says Man, and for an encore goes on to prove that black is white and gets himself killed on the next zebra crossing."

And to wind off this post, Louis de Berniere (remember Captain Corelli's Mandolin?- it's by the same guy). His style lies somewhere between Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Douglas Adams. I was lucky enough to get my hands to his South American trilogy- The War of Don Emmanuel's nether parts; Senor Vivo and the Coca Lord; and The Troubled Offspring of Cardinal Guzman. Some of the funniest, surreal and cruellest books I've read. Take a look at the opening line of Senor Vivo and judge for yourself.
"Ever since his young wife had give birth to a cat as an unexpected consequence of his experiments in sexual alchemy, and ever since his accidental invention of a novel explosive that confounded Newtonian physics by losing its force at the precise distance of two metres from the source of its blast, President Veracruz had thought of himself not only as an adept but also as an intellectual."

Letting sleeping dogs lie.

I have often wondered if some truths are better left unsaid.

Case in point, the huge media furore over Koran abuses by US guards at Guantanamo Bay. Before I go into the merits and demerits of the media glare on this story, lets clarify the rather murky waters with some caveats.

I for one, find the detention camps in Guantanamo to be morally reprehensible. I found Abu Ghraib disgusting. And I'm really not swayed by the neo-conservative rhetoric coming from the current American political establishment: that it is justified to trample over fundamental human rights in the name of national security.

Consequently, I condemn the acts of abuse against the Koran.

However, the crux of this post is not to condemn America for these terrible attacks. I do not want these acts perpetrated by a few sadistic individuals, to take on any larger significance than just that - a classic bully's reaction in a position of power over his weaker victim. I do not want these to be viewed as attacks of a Conserative Christian America against the Islamic faith.

And that is why I am disturbed by the glee with which the media is reporting instances of abuse. Not a day passes without a new story coming in. There definitely seems to be a hidden agenda behind this sort of reporting- it definitely smacks of opportunism.

In the name of a good story, the western media is pushing on with a rather over-the-board reporting of abuses by the American military establishment. If these stories disturb me so much, I wonder what the repurcussions will be in a highly destabilized Mid-East region.

Moreover, these stories really play into the hands of the hardliners in the Mid-East establishment, who are only too gleeful to paint America as the Great Satan. Dictatorial regimes in the Mid-East political establishment are not representative of and responsible to the fundamental needs of their citizenry. They desperately need good reasons for their raison d'etre- to explain away the poverty, the everyday violence, the lack of infrastructure, and the surreal detatchment from normality in the lives of common folk in their countries. And America is a convenient escape route. For if you can fan hatred for America, to blame the Great Satan for normal, everyday problems, that saves the political leaders there from answering some highly inconvenient questions of why they are there in the first place.

As said earlier, America is not really blame-free, in its paranoid fear of the Great Other, it has sacrificed the very ideals which are the foundations of its existence. It should acknowledge the huge moral and practical failure that is Guantanamo Bay, and dismantle it with immedeate effect.

However, a sense of perspective needs to be maintained in news reporting. Especially, since it is opportunism that drives today's media and not really any great faith in the reporting of the Truth.

Page 3

The first few things that you notice after returning from a long trip away from home, are not the big, life-changing ones. They are little things, like how the curtains seem a little mildewed after their once brilliantine splendour, and the thin layer of dust on the old Compaq Presario (possibly out of sheer neglect in your absence), and how the venerable Times of India has changed.

From the stately black and white pages of yore, TOI has coloured somewhat - both literally and metaphorically. On a literal sense, the colours do jump at you from the pages. I don't have much to complain about that, that's progress, or so they say. But in an other sense, the pages are littered with journalism of a dirty yellow hue.

And an illuminating example of this is the Page 3 section.

I find that my filter-coffee-and-newspaper morning- my personal space - is invaded by arbitrary characters from a seemingly upper-class menagerie- by the Manoviraj Khoslas, the "Sweety and Friend"s, the Prasad Bidappas. All seem to share the same slightly dazed expression - a drunken stupor laced with a dash of self importance and contempt.

What are these characters doing occupying a good 3-4 pages of the colour supplement that I pay good money for?

Is it a change of the times that people like me are willing to pay to read about the personal drunken orgies of these upper class twits?

------------
On another note, I was watching Amol Palekar's interview on TV. The interviewer asked a question that I have often wondered about.

"You were the champion of the light hearted, middle-class comedies of the 80's. Where has that genre gone?"

His reply was somewhat startling. "That's a difficult question. But where has that middle class gone?"

Where indeed.

Bye Bye, Singapore

Hi all,
By this time, many of you would be aware of the fact that I got placed into the Indian Institute of Management, Bangalore. If you haven't, then I have seriously underestimated the connectivity of the Great Indian Grapevine. So for those who didn't know, well, refer above.

Now that I'm leaving Singapore, it really struck me that there are quite a few things left unsaid, some of which I hurriedly (and insufficiently) want to remedy now. To compress six years of companionship in a few lines is impossible, and quite embarrassing, to be honest. But some things are better said, at least for the sake of posterity, so here goes nothing.

Six years ago, I came to Singapore as a wide-eyed teenager, stepping outside Indian shores for the very first time, fearing for my future, and terribly homesick. During the course of the next few years, I have shaped into a human being that I can quite immodestly claim to be proud of. A large portion of this metamorphosis, rests largely on your shoulders. You have been a home away from home, and formed an integral part of an important chapter in my life. I have been inspired, entertained, educated and moved by our friendship, so, a big Thank You!

(I could go on, but I'll stop here, fearing for my greatly battered machismo.)

If you drop by Bangalore during your travels in the next coupla years, never fear, for there's a 'single tea' and a kindered soul waiting at the IIM Bangalore canteen.

Till then, goodbye and god bless!

Cheers,
Venkat

PS:
A couple of my earlier posts had people actually commenting on them! *clap clap*. Thanks folks. For those who need the mp3 of the title music of the Discovery of India, do drop me a line at agnimileATgmailDOTcom.

And yes, please do leave your comments, they make my day. And do remember to leave your name, especially if you don't have a blogger id and show up as Anon.