World Builder

World Builder from Bruce Branit on Vimeo. (Hat tip: Yat Sat Go!)

Power to the Pink Chaddies

The city I grew up in rarely makes news, much less pleasant news. When it does, it's always about some communal violence between Muslims and Hindus. So chances were that this city was going to produce a moron to rival the Thackerays sooner rather than later. And so happened Pramod Muthalik. I'm not sure if he lives there but he's got an office in the city. This guardian of so-called Indian values mobbed a pub in Mangalore and showcased Indian values by beating up a bunch of young girls for being "loose."

The rest of the "loose" crowd (which I'd count myself as proudly part of) would have none of it. The women among them started a Consortium of Pubgoing Loose and Forward Women and began a campaign to politely ask Mr. Muthalik to sod off and let individuals choose their lifestyles. It's called the Pink Chaddi Campaign which essentially involves mailing pink chaddis (underwear/panties/unmentionables, if you will) to this gentleman's place in the hope that he'd see some common sense. In the words of India Uncut, it is a way of saying, “We will not let you terrorise us. Here, have a chaddi.”

If you happen to have an old pink chaddi, donate it. More info here.

One of those "Only in New York" things...

Only in New York City do you find the necessity and the time to read while standing in line at the grocery store. The book in question: Shantaram. The store in question: Trader Joe's.

What in the heck is...

The D-Day is looming and before you go cast your vote, you might want to ponder this all-important question. Just what in the heck's a Barack Obama? Our friend from The Onion attempts an answer to this riddle:

More'n likely, it's one of them things where you buy the Barack Obama, and then you gotta buy a bunch of other things just to make it work. That's how they get ya.

Shoot, better not tell the wife about it, or sure enough, she'll want one. And I'll bet you she'll use it once and then put it right back in the box and never use it again. Then I'll have a brand-new Barack Obama down the basement, sittin' there gathering dust right next to that fancy expresso machine she needed so bad and the kids' Furbies

Read more.

One last thing

The first of the Fab Five goes. The luminous lot will be a lot less luminous now. Sachin, Dravid, Laxman and Kumble - minus Sourav. Being from their age group, the way I identified my passion for cricket with these greats, watching them begin to hang up their boots is a very poignant reminder to me of the passage of time, a time to pass the baton and such. I think watching your favored sportsmen go is part of what sparks the midlife crisis men go through when you feel like the age of opportunity and adventure has drawn to a close and the age of sustenance and preservation dawns. I meant to ponder over this at length but the Demented Mind has already captured the essence of it:

It is strange this strong emotional connect we feel with sportsmen, a bond even stronger for those sportsmen you grew up with (for instance I do not think I will ever feel this kind of connection with Rohit Sharma or Suresh Raina simply because I evaluate them in a more “mature” way than I would do Dada or Sachin or as I used to Azhar). The ones for whom you put down your books, against your better judgment, the night before the exam. The ones for whom you stayed up all night, even knowing about the early train that needs catching. The ones whom you argued for (and against) with your friends over a cup of tea on rainy afternoons.

All these makes it that much difficult for us to let go of these childhood heroes in the same way as it is to throw in the bin an old beaten-up cockroach-eaten teddy bear or the first cricket bat you ever owned. Not so much because of Ganguly the person (after all I do not know him) or that bit of rickety wood with the picture of Sunil Gavaskar on it, but because of how much of yourself is in them. That is why we try to cling desperately to these relics from the past, by keeping the broken bat in the bottom of the trunk or by saying that surely he could have played another two years.

But one day the trunk does have to be cleaned and old players have to make that last walk into the shadows.

And all that remains are misty-eyes. And memories.

And an excellent tribute, from Sharda Ugra at India Today, to what I admired so much about Sourav Ganguly, the captain who turned a ragtag group of Indian cricketers into Team India.

Sourav Ganguly has always played cricket-and lived-on his own terms. His standards are uniquely his own, be it batting or fitness, success or failure. He could be a cricketer of sublime beauty and a competitor unafraid to look ugly, a man capable of great generosity and surprise, and an equally baffling source of frustration.

So when he said, "Just one last thing, lads..." at a conference in Bangalore, it could have been any last thing. The team is not practicing tomorrow. I'm going into politics. The Nano would have been good for Bengal. Close the door after you, please.

But instead, Ganguly surprised India yet again. He announced his retirement, left the galaxy of critics open-mouthed and off balance and before anyone had time to recover, Ganguly had left the building.

The 3:00 AM Call

It's 3:00 am on a wet October morning and the phone rings, not at the White House, but at a Morningside Heights apartment in New York City. "Congratulations, you're now a Babai," says the voice on the line, "and both mother and baby are doing well." Whom did you expect to take that call? 

Well, it was yours truly and the crackling voice on the line was that of my brother calling from Bangalore. Pardon the melodrama but I've just become an uncle all over again! My brother and his wife just had a baby -- a bonny baby girl. First time babai, a paternal uncle. I became a mama, a maternal uncle 16 long years ago when I was just 16. 

Welcome Baby Girl! Can't wait to see you, can't wait for you to grow up old enough so I can spoil you rotten! You're sharing your birthday with the Father of the Nation. And you were born on the day of Eid. So, you couldn't have chosen a better day to make your way into this world. Well done, Baby Girl! Crazy world you've come into. A lot of ugliness, plenty of stupidity. But there's beauty and there's love -- two things worth stepping into this warm lake of humanity for. Hope you like it here. Hope you enjoy the ride. Your babai loves you!

Authentic Fine Dining in Bavaria

Ever eaten at a full-blown Bavarian restaurant right out of Deutschland? The ambience, the service, the food, the service! Here's a brilliant Monty Python primer on what you can expect if you find yourself going on a date to one such restaurant...

I'm going to be a ski jumper

Someone thinks I should be a ski jumper and try my luck at the winter Olympics. I participated in a "literary olympics" (link via this) and came out with this result:

You scored 5 out of a possible 10

Unplaced. You're Eng Lit's very own Eddie the Eagle. Perhaps you'd stand a better chance as a ski jumper?

iCrazy

It's a sultry Friday morning and standing at the corner of 5th Ave and 59th St, I see a long beeline [line of applebees/maccabees?] going around the block and coming back up to the front until the tail touches the head; reminiscent of a throng of devotees around a shrine. The "shrine" in itself inspires devotion -- a sedate glass structure that will sooner or later find its Dan Brown and become the crux of a gripping story a la the gigantic glass pyramid at The Louvre. I wonder to myself what it would take for me to join the line and wait for several hours under a scorching sun just for the gratification of being among the first to get hold of it.

Quite a lot.


I come back the next evening. Lo and behold, the line is much shorter, but on enquiry I find that the average wait time is about 5 hours. I leave. Not to give up so easily, I come back the next evening and the story is much more hopeful. The line is about 3 hours long. Ah, these fanatics, I say to myself. I can't believe there are so many of them. Capitalism to feed fanaticism. Fanaticism to feed capitalism. But before I realized it, I became one of them. Them became us so effortlessly. I find myself in the line and a good 2 hours and 57 minutes into it. In my defense, the weather was gorgeous and it was a great day to be outside plugged to the ipod and catching up on reading. I'd have done that anyway sitting in Central Park. So why not do it near Central Park standing in a line? So I did it. And got much more entertainment in bargain.

The bees in the line were rather interesting. A couple with a shrieking toddler who was getting flustered by the minute and, in the process, flustering everyone else. A loquacious bloke holding a spot for his boss and giving away business cards as bookmarks. An agitated girlfriend with a bemused boyfriend. A clueless lady who had no idea of what she was in the line for, and I'm not making this up. Summers in New York City, one has got to get used to the wide-eyed wonder of the tourist brigade. Walking by with gigantic DSLRs, this particular bunch had no idea what the line was for. Curiosity getting the better of them, they mustered the courage to come up and enquire. On hearing the answer, they got wildly hopeful...

"Is it FREE?" [emphasis not mine] little knowing that there are crazy people out there who'd be so eager to lay down their wallets and sign away two years of their lives.

"No no no no no No NO NO, it's not free. But twice as fast at half the price."

And they clicked away pictures of us as if we were the Statue of Liberty. It was only polite that I flashed a smile back and held up a V-sign. 

Now the line is moving slower than a snail would on a bad day. And the wait is doing things to people. For some cathartic and for others diabolic. Friendships were being made, and from an overheard overheated argument, relationships seemed to be breaking. I find bliss in the strains of Ghulam Ali in my ears and the gripping tale of Sacred Games in my hands. Finally I see myself near to the head of the line. A guy comes over, counts ten of us and herds us down into the sanctum sanctorum.

"White or black? An 8 or 16?"

A few minutes later, I'm in possession of a white 16. Not to be mistaken with a blonde 16 year-old, my beauty is much more pretty and rather curvaceous. And needless to say, oodles smarter. Easily the coolest thing I've ever owned. And I've been mesmerized by it every single day since.

Ladies and gentlemen, I went crazy for the iPhone. A white 16-Gig iPhone 3G.

Dynamic Skyscrapers

I don't know why it took so long for anyone to come up with this idea, but better late than never -- a fascinating innovation to design skyscrapers that change shapes. Better yet, skyscrapers that don't fight the wind but harness it to generate power. Way to go, architects!

[Update: Here's a relevant poser for the architects from the infamous rediff message boards: Can it duck when a plane comes to hit it?]

The Enchantress of Florence

Well, I picked up Salman Rushdie's latest The Enchantress of Florence and I'm hooked to it. It would be unfair to review it before I've finished reading it, attending a book reading and getting my copy signed by the author at the NYPL next weekend. Until then, stay tuned and meditate on his description of the world's most beautiful language... you guessed it right, Urdu:

...at first Persian and later also the bastard mongrel speech of the army on the move, urdu, camp-language, in which half a dozen half-understood tongues jabbered and whistled and produced, to everyone's surprise, a beautiful new sound: a poet's language born out of soldiers' mouths.

[Update: The book turned out to be a let-down. Started with typical Rushdie flourish but somewhere along the way the author forgot he was Salman Rushdie, the prince of modern prose. So I shall not venture another bad review -- there are a ton of them around already!]

Sea of Poppies

Amitav Ghosh's new novel Sea of Poppies has been getting rave reviews since its been out. Set during the second half of the Raj, it seems to shed light on two major phenomena of the times -- export of opium and indentured labor out of India. I have yet to read it, but have been hearing about the book and its author in recent days. Out of all the interviews, this one stuck out to me -- highlighting how little Indians and the rest know of what actually happened in the last 300 years in that part of the world. Not that it needed Amitav Ghosh to tell us that, but the striking fact that opium trade was a major driver of the Raj economy.

Both Indian and British history appear to have glossed over this part of colonial rule.

Absolutely. Opium was the fundamental undergirding of our economy for centuries. It is strange that [even] for someone like me who studied history and knew a fair amount about Indian history, I was completely unaware of it.

Sea of Poppies appears to be a scathing critique of British colonialism. Do you think colonialism has had a pretty easy ride in India and there is not enough examination of the extent of how it affected the country adversely?

It's such an ironic thing. Before the British came, India was one of the world's great economies. For 200 years India dwindled and dwindled into almost nothing. Fifty years after they left we have finally begun to reclaim our place in the world. All the empirical facts show you that British rule was a disaster for India. Before the British came 25% of the world trade originated in India. By the time they left it was less than 1%.

Lot of Indians believe that the British built institutions, the police, bureaucracy.

I don't know what people think about when they say such things. When they talk about [the British building] modern institutions it amazes me. Was there no police force in India before the British came? Of course there was. There were darogas (policemen), there were chowkis (police stations). In fact the British took the word chowki and put it into English. So to say such things is absurd.

Here's the full thing on BBC. And another insightful tete-a-tete with the writer. 

Before the Rains - A Review

Movie: Before the Rains
Director: Santosh Sivan
Principal Cast: Linus Roache, Rahul Bose, Nandita Das, Jennifer Ehle, John Standing
Event: Tribeca Film Festival

The movie is due to begin at 7:30. After wrapping up work, I head down to the venue in East Village at 6:30 to stand in a line which out-snaked the snakes for other movies. And the line is not even for ticketed people but for rush tickets. The ticketed line is long enough already. At about 7:15, the line isn't moving forward, my backpack starts weighing me down, our legs are getting weary and we're getting jittery. Then, a festival volunteer walks around, counts 50-60 good-natured, patient New Yorkers from the very end of the line and politely advises, "There is no way in hell you are getting tickets for this movie, so you're better off leaving right now." Yours truly happened to be in that ill-fated motley crowd... So, loosen your tie, buckle your seat-belt, brace yourself: there will be no review... I know... I understand... I see your point... I hear you, but would you let me finish? I'm sorry for disappointing you but you're being unreasonable in expecting me to provide a hard-hitting, authoritative critique without actually seeing Santosh Sivan's handiwork. If you're really keen on it, you can read Tribeca Film Festival's program notes taken from here:


There's more than one storm approaching Kerala as that South Indian state is evoked in Santosh Sivan's Before the Rains. Set in 1937, in the long twilight of the Raj, the film's title refers most directly to the region's torrential monsoons. They are a yearly cataclysm against which spice baron Henry Moores (Linus Roache) must race to finish the road to his cardamom and clove plantation on the other side of the jungle. With his faithful aide T.K. (Rahul Bose) spearheading the project, Moores' road is indeed coming along nicely, but soon the friendship between the good sahib and his "man" will be sorely tested. Moores has developed a taste for a certain local spice, a beauty named Sajani (Nandita Das), Indian nationalism is taking hold all over, and the gun in the first act will go off by the third. This is British colonialism's last dry season. Adapting an episode in Israeli director Dan Verete's film Yellow Asphalt,Sivan and screenwriter Cathy Rabin move this story of lust, empire, and betrayal into E.M. Forster territory without breaking stride. Anyone who remembers the arid and utterly pukka Raj of A Passage to India will be brought up short by the lush country rendered by Sivan, however. A noted cinematographer as well as a director, Sivan shot Before the Rains himself, and his sensual visual style makes Moores' temptation to go native almost physically real. But the film's allegiance is ultimately with T.K., a good man caught between two cultures. Treated by Moores more like a partner than a servant, T.K. is a true believer in the imperial project. But loyalty to Moores shades into complicity once Sajani's husband learns she's been unfaithful and casts her out of his house. And then, the deluge.

Forty Five for Sixty

This past weekend I attended a concert at the Town Hall. Zakir Hussain's Masters of Percussion organized by World Music Institute as part of their National Heritage Masters series of concerts.

It was a miracle that we (well, I conned Jono to go with me) made it inside because we couldn't buy our tickets in advance. Three days earlier when we checked the website for tickets, a nice neon sign greeted us, "Sold Out." But we (the con artist and the conned art) decided to go there anyway hoping to see if we could get rush tickets by way of a cancellation. Well, to our dismay, we weren't the only ones on the look out for those tickets. Reminiscent of a ball game (barring the fact that they were dressed much nicer here), there were people outside looking expectantly at every person hoping they had an extra ticket to sell. Anyone that looked like he/she's been stood-up were approached to find out if they had an extra ticket or two. To a Fortunate Few, there were a matching number of Unfortunate Few who'd been stood-up. We weren't among the Fortunate Few.

Little did I know that my experience of haggling with black-marketeers outside movie theatres in India would come good (Rangeela's "dus ka tees" anyone?) At a high-profile concert of all things! Just as my hope was turning to despair, a dude appeared from nowhere asking if I was looking for tickets. I was taken aback since I didn't know this ever happened in New York. Quickly recovering, I smartened up and haggled with him. Apparently I haggled good because, from an asking price of 120 bucks, he climbed down to 60 bucks apiece for a ticket that was worth 45 bucks. It was quite a bargain because we got the best seats. One was a row from the stage and the other was about 10 rows behind. Jono and I swapped seats at interval and so got both zoom-in and zoom-out views.

The concert itself was sublime and well worth the extra dollars. Tabla legend Zakir Hussain directed a whole bunch of virtuosos from various North Indian percussion traditions into a dazzling ensemble performing to the accompaniment of the sarangi and the sitar. Masters of Percussion indeed! 

Listen to a sample here.

We rounded off the evening with a visit to Kati Rolls for some Shami Kebab wraps.

I can't believe I've seen Zakir Hussain in concert twice in less than 6 months! Last time I had seen him in accompaniment with Rahul Sharma on the Santoor. I could listen to him every single day and not get tired of the sounds he creates -- he's that magical. 

I have to admit I've been trigger-happy with concerts since I've moved to the Big Apple. Six concerts by various artistes in six months is a pretty sweet deal. I've one lined up for the coming weekend -- a qawwali concert by some Pakistani artistes. Do I look like I'm bored here in the City?

Korbo Lorbo Jitbo

The Indian Premier League has kicked off in style, what with American cheerleaders (you may want to click this link, or may be not), laser shows, Scottish soundtracks and Brendon McCullum's belligerence. Any cricket fan with an ounce of interest (and yes, love of cricket is measured in ounces and pounds) in the IPL probably has decided what team they're going to be supporting. One likes Brett Lee's raw pace and so will root for Kings XI Punjab. Another is a Sachin fan whatever team he is on, so Mumbai Indians it shall be. Or, some may hate Andrew Symonds and/or his dreadlocks so much that they can't root for the Deccan Chargers even if it's their home team. But I'm sure they've settled for some team or the other.

But I'm in a dilemma. Many pompoms have been been waved in the tournament so far, but I still haven't decided what team to root for. Some teams have players I like but have some caveat or the other -- for instance, an unimaginative team name like Mumbai Indians. Either that or they have certain Australian players I dislike more than I detest salad. Having a team to shout oneself hoarse is an important element of following cricket in India. Otherwise it'd be like watching the world cup after India's been jutted out, and that's just not cricket.

Initially I thought I'd support my home team, the Bangalore Royal Challengers, but the way they lost the first game, I had to immediately disown them. It's not a case of being a fair-weather fan. It's much deeper than that -- I'm sick of rooting for a team (read Team India) that loses more than it wins. I want a team that's winning. All the time. 

So I thought I'd go for the Kolkata Knight Riders. The team's got the verve for sure. But then it's also got Ricky Ponting, and I can't root for anything that's got to do with Ponting, thank you very much. But their brand marketing has been impeccable and I love their anthem (embedded above). So I'm still a bit iffy about them.

Hyderabad's Deccan Chargers lost some of their charm when they paid that obscene amount (obscene=$1.3 million) to get Symonds. True that they have an aura of toughness as their star cast of big-hitters indicates (and as the video below suggests). I'll have to wait and watch how they progress in this tournament.

Chennai Super Kings have been exceptionally efficient in their first game, but they have such an awful name that I can't get myself to say 'Go Super Kings'. It just doesn't sound right. They also have the dubious distinction of paying the most amount of dough for a single run (that's the single that Mr. Dhoni scored in their match against Kings XI).

With a lame name like Mumbai Indians, I don't think I can be a fan, the indomitable Sachin Tendulkar notwithstanding. One also needs to consider the fact that Sachin so far has been playing in mediocre teams. He's so consistently skippered loser teams that you can safely bet your bottom rupee for any team that his team is playing against -- yes, even the royally challenged Royal Challengers. (Geez man, Ranji Trophy records don't count because he rarely ever plays for Bombay.) So if you go by that record, you'd want to steer clear of this team.

For now, I'm gonna decide ahead of each game which team I am rooting for and take it one game at a time. By the end of the tournament I'll probably have found a winner.

[Update: turns out that a team that did not even merit a mention on this post took the title. They're the Shane Warne-skippered Rajasthan Royals. Their clinical efficiency notwithstanding, their gaudy blue outfits are in the way of my becoming their fan, so spot still empty.]