Let me start by accepting what is “axiomatically true”- I am “highly spirited!” (Don’t cock up your eyebrows at this. If I am not spirited and if I don’t write, very soon you guys would be standing at my funeral. So, in order to deny all of you guys the pleasure of such a mishap, I slowly attempt to walk into “the end” with a few notes here and there without anybody even coming to know of it. )
The whole incident starts with a piece of paper that was lying on my desk. I am generally a very tidy fellow and prefer my desk to be free of all kinds of papers. Even if there is work pending which is a general phenomenon with me, the papers should be at a place which is away from the gaze of the customers as well my boss alike. Now this is an art which can be perfected by employees of a public sector undertaking over a period of time. I won’t say I have quite perfected it, but I am on the “road to perfection”. During the day your table should be full of papers strewn here and there. In between these derivatives of cellulose, one should bury his/her face and constantly bring out a bored and victimized look. This look should continue till your boss walks past you with a certain degree of appreciation. Now interchanging roles- If you are a boss, and your subordinate is presenting such a picture, please don’t be fooled. Even if he is genuinely working, give him a casual glance with a complex mix of appreciation, confusion, contempt and rebuke in varying degrees. This will demoralize the worker. I know you are shocked, but this is what you are expected to do. Oops! I forgot about the piece of paper.
On the paper were instructions to report to the training college of the organization. The words were “divine instructions”- I would be away from my desk, irate clients, a sadistic boss and above all a ‘dry state” for a fortnight. What a respite from the daily dose of office work, cribbing and earthly worries. I jumped in happiness when I saw my pass to “freedom”.
Since time was short, there was no option but to use the “stratospheric” mode of travel. The “Top Boss” was kind enough to sign the small piece of paper which put me on the lap of the “Maharaja” for transhipment to the National Capital and from there to a suburb where the training college was located. It was not the first time that I had arrived into this “recreation resort”. Approximately 500 days back to I had come here, but there was a catch in it. My stay last time was as a “cub” to the organization. This time it was a Tiger who was walking in.
The cab driver who picked me up at the airport felt that it was his prime responsibility to act as a tour guide while he drove me. It was only after I started giving him tit bits about the place that he understood that his action towards me should have been more of a “directive principle” than a “fundamental duty”.
At the gate of this “magnanimously imposing” structure, I was accosted by a group of twenty security guards. They probably had suspicions that I could be remotely related to a certain “Al Qaeda” or “Shri Ram Sene” and hence a stringent search was made of the car as well as me. Although I had nothing in my possession which could be remotely called a part of an arsenal but I was apprehensive about surrendering the bottle of “Bacardi” if they found it in my person. Fortunately, or unfortunately, they did not find the bottle and I merrily strode into the institution with considerable ease.
At my arrival on the reception, I was welcomed with a smile by a chap who was no more than twenty years old. He made me fill up a register (at this point let me tell you that my organization is an extremely register-centric outfit. From stamps to leased vehicles, and from entry into a room to exit from the organization, everything has a register.) A column in the register read, “Vegetarian or Non-vegetarian.” I so much wanted to write “Dinosauratarian” in it. And how much I failed to do so.
He also made me log into a computer and fill up the same details. I failed to understand which one- the register or the computer-made more sense. Also, recently the “top Management” had enumerated a policy which said that all “controllable expenses” should be curtailed and brought down by 25 per cent in the present fiscal. I did not know curtailing which one can be called “controllable”- the register or the computer. Not spraining my brains further, I walked towards my allotted room.
The room given to me was a beautiful one. Did the hospitality department fellows realize that I needed “space” and hence a spacious room with an exclusive balcony was given to me? I could keep an eye on any side from this balcony and this proved to be very fruitful in the coming days. The moment I stepped into the balcony I saw a gang of “cute faces” beneath my balcony.“Should we go for a movie or should we go shopping?” The point of contention was no contention. Do both, I wanted to instruct them. But again I failed to do so.
I seriously like the serene atmosphere of the “School of learning”. It is built like a “resort” with small buildings spread over a vast area of landscaped earth. Exactly in front of my room stood the huge water reservoir that resembled a “Tangri Kebab” (A mughlai version of Chicken Drumsticks). Classes were built in an aesthetic manner with the architecture probably borrowed from a management school. I know you would be thinking that we are such “apes” but let me tell you that there is no law which can penalize you for plagiarizing an architectural idea. Hope you got it. No? Then go, sue yourself. Classes are named after seats of learning in the ancient and medieval history of India. This is surely classy. With all modern gizmos and ergonomic furniture in it, they can closely compete with the boardroom of any “Fortune 500 company”.
Every week one amazing or the other group joins this “School of learning” for short courses that assist us in carrying out our duties in the organization. I could see porters carrying luggage of entrants coming in. Most were fresh “recruits” and arrived to this place in groups. (Makes me nostalgic about my arrival some years back when I too arrived in a similar manner) I could see the young faces merrily striding into the place with excitement. Their chirpy faces, enthusiastic demeanor and their gaiety to meet their peers were very clearly visible in their expressions. Youth these days was the buzzword in my organization. It was a pleasure to see and hear the buzzword constantly.
At this point let me mention that we are the biggest bunch of hypocrites to have ever stepped on this earth. We have a “different’ standard and a “different” set of rules for us at different places. One gentleman was complaining to the housekeeping staff that his cup of morning tea did not the requisite quantity of sugar in it. I wonder if the same person could make a similar statement to his wife at home (I assume he is married because he looked all hen-pecked). If he did, maybe, he would never get a cup of tea again in his life. There came constant complaints from people about the quality of food, the taste of it and the trivial, “why doesn’t my room have a phone”. As if what was expected that a hotline be installed in his room with direct access to a certain Obama fellow. There are umpteen examples some of which I will quote during the course of progress of this creation.
The best place in this place of learning was the dining hall. Different species of human beings could be observed there. The youngsters were a vociferous lot whose tolerance and patience level was really low. There is a certain fella who can be called “surfer”. His primary vocation was to conquer the remote to the television and keep changing the channels. Whenever I saw him, his affection towards the food would be less and he was more engrossed in “channel surfing”. The action was irritating but nobody ever raised an objection. Nobody after all was here to watch television. Another group of people had descended from the fishermen of some coastal area. Their primary job was to “fish” out the slightly more edible pieces of fish or fowl served. Using the ladle in a manner with surgeon-like precision these “masters’ would “artistically glide” the ladle inside the serving bowl. Then making sure that nobody was watching them (Kiddos! Don’t be an Ostrich, the whole place is watching you) they would in the fraction of a second “fish out” the good pieces and scoot. Some went even further. They carried a separate plate to carry out this action. Guys, do it openly. Your “attempt” to do it on the sly and then being caught makes the whole issue very funny.
Another “experienced” fellow also made me laugh to my heart’s content. Approaching the serving dish he asked the steward suspiciously, “This is sheep? Or is it Goat?” The perplexed steward called his superior who enlightened all of us by saying, “Sir, this is mutton”. Wow! The answer did not satisfy the questioner. He moved on to help himself to some curd leaving a few of us to a round of hilarious laughter. I wanted to walk up to the fellow and tell him, “Sir, this is Elephant in brine mixed with chimpanzee nails. Try it. It is delicious”. I am sure his appetite would have died for the period he would be here had I said that.
Another Gentleman had the habit of collecting cutlery. I cannot for the sake of being polite called him a kleptomaniac, but his collection bordered on this disorder. Next time you want cutlery (not fresh, mind you) or if you find cutlery missing from your home, contact him.
As the evening set in, I sat on the balcony and observed these freshmen. Couples walked hand in hand (one couple after another), groups lazed around on the soft grass while the sporty ones played badminton on the court. Keep them here for a year and I am sure, a male version of Saina Nehwal would come out.
At last, it was “Alas in wonderland” for me. It was celebration time. The “Bacardi” bat was let out of the bag!
After about 100 milliliters of Bacardi shifted its position from the bottle to my stomach, I was nostalgic. I missed all my peers who were here with me the last time to “get some sense” into us. When I saw the gangs of juniors laughing and bantering among themselves, I missed my peers all the more. I immediately called up the “pocket sized dynamite” friend of mine who had been my constant companion through my 730 days of probation. Although he tried to console me (He exactly knows how emotional I become when “Batman” gets into me.), I was inconsolable. Fifteen minutes into the fundas on “Darwin”, “Freud” and “Dickens”, I told him, “okay go to hell” and I banged down the phone on him. Poor fellow always puts up with all my tantrums. Thank you, mate!
Walking into the classrooms on the first day wasn’t easy. I missed my friends. But this time I had come to take the sessions seriously. Even the instructors knew that the “seriousness quotient” was high. A few “wise men” whom I had come to know during my interactions with them the last time smiled and nodded to my greetings as we passed each other. A few faces I looked for were missing and a few I did not recognize formed a part of the school. But then the “serious” part started. I did not have the time to think of anything else. The courses really made more sense as I attentively got into the “study mode”. Time flew and knowledge accumulated.
Trainees did everything here which they would never do at home. Early morning the “experienced” people would be found in morning walks or the yoga class. I wonder what made them get up so early in the morning to tie themselves into such a “Gordian knot”. Phew! People like me like dozing away to glory till it was minutes for the class to start. A cross section also believed in using the gym to glory. The best part came to light when I was walking down to the breakfast table. One of my fellow trainees was playing football with the exercising ball inside the gym. What a messed up effort to become Messi. God save us and every lover of soccer the torture of watching such a sacrilege.
One of the evenings we were subjected to a talk on “Gender Justice”. It was after I entered the amphitheatre that I found that the talk was actually about “sexual harassment at workplace”. The organizers had decided to “sugar coat” the lecture fearing that the mere mention of the word “sex” as a noun or verb or adjective or whatever might thin out the crowd. The speaker tested our patience with wrong quotations from the Indian penal code, illogically minute details of committees formed to address the issue and unrelated anecdotes. What was scarier was that the mere mention of qualifications like “sweetheart” or “darling” could land you behind bars. The talk was unnecessary elongated to such levels that at the end the head of the institution had to ask the speaker to conclude (in fact he wanted to say, “shut up”). When I could not take it any further, I got up and told the speaker, “Instead of enumerating punishments and making every male feel like a sexual deviant, it would be appreciable if you sensitize them”. I also added a few legal jargons and quoted a few sections from the penal code to draw a round of applause. How happy I felt.
The two best things about the trainings at this institution is the visits to malls (we Indians still start running the moment a shopping mall is mentioned. I know, we are compulsive shoppers) and the group photograph. As soon as the classes ended, people ran to get a seat on the bus going to the shopping malls. Like a group of “Scouts and Guides” people sat patiently for the bus to start. Once it reached the malls, quite a few gave such a awed expression as if they had found “The Statue of liberty” in front of them. After two hours when the crowd came out everybody had packets of sizes bigger than them. One gentleman had bought a carton of aerated colas because it was cheaper in “The National Capital”. Please don’t be shocked. The carton did not go back. Every boozer inside the campus knew of this acquisition and whenever the sources to dilute alcohol went dry, this gentleman would be woken up. He went home empty-handed and even lost the money. Do drunks ever pay up?
Oh yes, the group photograph. The cameraman who clicks the “Nikon automatic” is probably dumb. He can’t speak. Well, it is not that he is dumb buy birth. It is just that his vocal chords get temporarily challenged whenever he shoves a sachet of “Guthkha” (An Indian innovation made of a hundred unmentionable inedible substances) into his mouth. He kept on adjusting people by the stroke of his hand or shaking his head in disgust till the Principal arrived. Some chairs were vacant to adjust certain dignitaries who could not make it to the photo session. (Please introduce me to the fellow who invented “Photoshop”. He is a genius who made it possible to circumvent time and be able to be present in the 'present' in 'future') Days later when I saw the photograph I was shocked. A lady who was “fitted” into the photograph was seen sitting at above the “ground level” and a gentleman who in reality was capable of giving close contribution to Clive Lloyd was instead giving Prince Charles a run for his money. Technology, I salute you!
On my last day on campus, I again sat on the balcony with a glass of Bacardi in my hand. The thought came to my mind that this same routine takes place every week. But we never get bored of it. The drama is repeatedly telecast every seven days. It is just that the actors keep on changing. It had happened one and a half years back too when I had come to this place, and it was happening now too. Was it real? Or was it virtual? Was it déjà vu? I know Bacardi and nostalgia make a really potent combination.
As I put my luggage into the trunk of the cab, I saw freshmen bidding adieu to each other. Some eyes were moist. People frantically hugged each other. One couple even stole a moment to be passionate. Cabs moved out one after the other. I too started the drive to the airport. But then that was not the end. At the gate, new cabs were coming in- asking for directions, filling up forms, smiling at each other, showing excitement and full of enthusiasm.
Life indeed moves a full circle.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
An Ode to the “Nose Diving” Maharaja
Holmes and Watson recently hitched a ride on “The Maharaja’. The whole experience was horrendous. Standing at the counter to get our boarding passes felt as if we were entering a crèche. From the desk attendant to the luggage porter, everybody had celebrated their “Golden Jubilee” (The statement proved true later when we saw the Captain and the crew. The only respite was the fact that the aircraft was the only exception to this general observation). A Stern looking lady (She looked more like a school headmistress than an airline ground staff) behind the counter rebuked Watson for carrying more luggage than his prescribed limit. It was only after Watson represented that he was a medico and the extra weight was due to his medical kit that she allowed him the excess baggage. Along with the boarding passes came the curt instructions, “The flight is late by 90 minutes. Please bear with us”. Did we have an option? No! ( At that point of time Holmes did not know that the overzealous, salt and pepper haired lady had given both of us window seats resulting in different rows for both of us. I failed to understand that from which angle did we both look like vagabonds who were capable of violating public tranquility).
Commercial aviation was brought to India was the visionary entrepreneur- Jehangir Ratanji Dadabhoy Tata, affably known as JRD. Known as TATA Airlines, the service was restricted to the elite of this sub-continent. When India attained independence, the new policy of “mixed economy” coupled with the concept of “Nehruvian-Socialism” led to the nationalization of the service. Ably led my luminaries including a chap called Bobby Kooka (Who also happened to be JRD’s brother-in-law), the smiling “Maharaja” became a symbol of India’s rich cultural heritage fused with modern technology. It gave its flyers an opportunity to be proud of flying. Monopoly could be clearly seen in highly priced tickets, total ignorance of service standards and no efforts put in to improve technology or service standards. Travelling by air was planned by the rich while the comparatively less rich used it in extreme exigencies like weddings and deaths of close relatives, exams, and employment interviews. Politicos and Senior Government functionaries formulated important policy decision at airports. Flying was almost ‘regalia’. The “Maharaja” was flying high.
In 1991, a certain turbaned gentleman economist opened the doors of India Inc to the world. Aviation Industry was opened to the private sector and foreign investment. Overnight, new players entered the skies. Upgraded aircraft, services of world standards and the commitment to improve on these parameters everyday made the new players snatch away the market share from “The Maharaja”. But the permit to scale the Indian skies and enter foreign airspace still remained with the national carrier. Then arrived a certain avitator who started a commercial airline which took Indians to the sky at a pittance. Fares were as low as Rupee Ninety Nine. Called “No Frill Airlines”, initially, they were like “General compartments” in air. Holmes remembers his first journey in such an airline where he ran faster than Jesse Owens to grab a seat. A tired Holmes rejoiced when he managed to get a seat in the airliner. But the happiness of travelling for a pittance soon turned into a journey of tense moments. The airliner vibrated like a pendulum as soon as it entered the stratosphere. But more should not be expected for a pittance. Soon, every Tom, dick and Harry in India was travelling on an airline.
Anyways, soon “The Maharaja” arrived. Both of us sighed in relief. As we queued up to board the flight, a pan-chewing not so gentleman arrived to help out the passengers. He was nearly six feet tall and could cause displacement equivalent to two people. He constantly murmured into his walkie-talkie but like a seasoned politician refused to answer the irate passengers. After a delay of nearly two hours we boarded the plane. At the gate we were welcomed by stewardess who was so shabby and disheveled in her looks that irritated us more. She was indifferent to the passengers and tore a part of the boarding cards as if it was a punishment thrust on her. When we found our seats, it came to light that both of us had to sit in different rows. Holmes threw a fir but to no avail. Huffing and puffing Watson sat away from Holmes while I made myself comfortable between two middle-aged gentleman who talked about “losing money in the stock market, gall bladder removal surgery and prices of chilies in the wholesale market”.
As opposite to this Holmes remembers his visit to Bombay on an airline service owned by a liquor baron. From the moment Holmes stepped into the airport, the airline staff took over. The luggage was checked in by hospitable porters who seemed really eager to serve the customers. The attendant who issued the boarding card smiled at you as if you travelled with them every day. The stewardesses on the flight welcomed you with such affection that you feel like coming back again and again. There was another apprehension in our mind. Recently “The Maharaja” had caught the habit of ditching its passengers and scooting off to ferry the exponents of the “Gentleman’s game” (Not so gentlemanly anymore, I must say). So, if it did the same to us, my appointment with Ms. Adler would be in utter trouble. And given her ability of burst like a volcano, I feared I could not take such a risk. I somehow managed to keep calm.
Soon, Holmes drove the headphone jack into the allocated slot and turned on the in-flight television service. His co-passenger tried the same but when he failed to find the slot, he shoved the jack into his ear. Holmes thought that he might be trying to hear his own personal TV station, but it was case of mistaken identity. The fellow was cleaning his ear with the headphone jack!!!!!!!!! Ewwwwwwwwww! After has found what he was looking for inside his ear, he shifted to the conversation of “losing money in the stock market, gall bladder removal surgery and prices of chilies in the wholesale market”.
Any piece of writing on airline travel would be incomplete without a reference to the air hostesses. “The Maharaja’s attendants” were a real lousy lot. They were at such a juncture of age where needed to be rather than serving others. Once when Watson smiled at one of them, the smile was returned with such a stare that the poor chap did not smile for the rest of the flight. The scorned look looked as if saying, “What are you wretched people doing here. Why don’t you jump down?”
The lady who served us food must have been on the verge of retirement and was more interested in her social security pension than our culinary needs. Holmes also strongly suspects that she was wearing a wig. She was armed with the latest weapon of “cosmetic poison” and constantly intimidated passengers with her “drop dead or I will kill you” looks. After she served us, she just disappeared never to come back again. The bell to summon attendants it seems was “for cosmetic use only. Do not ring because no one will come”. This was in stark opposition to the other flight I just mentioned above. The prim and properly dressed young ladies showed utter eagerness to assist the passengers. Food was customized to suit our taste-buds. Service was prompt and the smile never disappeared from their faces. And here, they never smiled even once. Not that we paid to watch clowns in the stratosphere, but we were expecting that at least would they would make us feel wanted. Why give us “parachutes mentally” with the constant non verbal cue to “jump down”? How un-elementary.
The food here was less than edible. But no one in the vicinity seemed to be wasting a morsel. The “Headphone jack ear cleaner” gobbled his plate and then cleaned up his neighbours’. Holmes was scared that he might eat up the cutlery too. Phew! Holmes was to his happiness proved wrong. Had he done so, the next morning headlines in the tabloids would have read, “Maharaja robbed of cutlery”.
What a stark difference in the service between the two competitors when the fare charged was almost same. No wonder “The Maharaja” had lost majority of its market share. Instead of prim and properly dressed attendants (as expected in the service industry) we were subjected to shabbily dressed out-of-shape people sporting all kinds of religious insignias. “Punctuality” was confused with punctuation marks and disorder seemed to be the order of the day.
When we got down and waited to collect our luggage, there was utter confusion again. An airline staff arrived at the scene again, not to help but to create more confusion. He killed some time by chewing on some inedible substance and threw the wrapper around as if his littering would turn the plastic wrapper into gold. How disgusting? Collecting our luggage, we walked out to hail a cab. As we settled inside, I looked at Watson and said, “Doctor, we are never traveling on it again. We can become common Indigo coloured kingfishers who can spice jet around and go air but we shall never take an opportunity to be hosted by the Maharaja”. Watson nodded in approval but by habit asked, Why My dear Holmes? Why?” I replied, Elementary my dear Watson, elementary!”
It would be utter foolishness to break one’s nose with the “nose diving Maharaja”. Indeed his nose is too long and needs a snip.
P.S. Dedicated to all those customers who are making “The Maharaja” understand that “privy purses” don’t last forever.
Commercial aviation was brought to India was the visionary entrepreneur- Jehangir Ratanji Dadabhoy Tata, affably known as JRD. Known as TATA Airlines, the service was restricted to the elite of this sub-continent. When India attained independence, the new policy of “mixed economy” coupled with the concept of “Nehruvian-Socialism” led to the nationalization of the service. Ably led my luminaries including a chap called Bobby Kooka (Who also happened to be JRD’s brother-in-law), the smiling “Maharaja” became a symbol of India’s rich cultural heritage fused with modern technology. It gave its flyers an opportunity to be proud of flying. Monopoly could be clearly seen in highly priced tickets, total ignorance of service standards and no efforts put in to improve technology or service standards. Travelling by air was planned by the rich while the comparatively less rich used it in extreme exigencies like weddings and deaths of close relatives, exams, and employment interviews. Politicos and Senior Government functionaries formulated important policy decision at airports. Flying was almost ‘regalia’. The “Maharaja” was flying high.
In 1991, a certain turbaned gentleman economist opened the doors of India Inc to the world. Aviation Industry was opened to the private sector and foreign investment. Overnight, new players entered the skies. Upgraded aircraft, services of world standards and the commitment to improve on these parameters everyday made the new players snatch away the market share from “The Maharaja”. But the permit to scale the Indian skies and enter foreign airspace still remained with the national carrier. Then arrived a certain avitator who started a commercial airline which took Indians to the sky at a pittance. Fares were as low as Rupee Ninety Nine. Called “No Frill Airlines”, initially, they were like “General compartments” in air. Holmes remembers his first journey in such an airline where he ran faster than Jesse Owens to grab a seat. A tired Holmes rejoiced when he managed to get a seat in the airliner. But the happiness of travelling for a pittance soon turned into a journey of tense moments. The airliner vibrated like a pendulum as soon as it entered the stratosphere. But more should not be expected for a pittance. Soon, every Tom, dick and Harry in India was travelling on an airline.
Anyways, soon “The Maharaja” arrived. Both of us sighed in relief. As we queued up to board the flight, a pan-chewing not so gentleman arrived to help out the passengers. He was nearly six feet tall and could cause displacement equivalent to two people. He constantly murmured into his walkie-talkie but like a seasoned politician refused to answer the irate passengers. After a delay of nearly two hours we boarded the plane. At the gate we were welcomed by stewardess who was so shabby and disheveled in her looks that irritated us more. She was indifferent to the passengers and tore a part of the boarding cards as if it was a punishment thrust on her. When we found our seats, it came to light that both of us had to sit in different rows. Holmes threw a fir but to no avail. Huffing and puffing Watson sat away from Holmes while I made myself comfortable between two middle-aged gentleman who talked about “losing money in the stock market, gall bladder removal surgery and prices of chilies in the wholesale market”.
As opposite to this Holmes remembers his visit to Bombay on an airline service owned by a liquor baron. From the moment Holmes stepped into the airport, the airline staff took over. The luggage was checked in by hospitable porters who seemed really eager to serve the customers. The attendant who issued the boarding card smiled at you as if you travelled with them every day. The stewardesses on the flight welcomed you with such affection that you feel like coming back again and again. There was another apprehension in our mind. Recently “The Maharaja” had caught the habit of ditching its passengers and scooting off to ferry the exponents of the “Gentleman’s game” (Not so gentlemanly anymore, I must say). So, if it did the same to us, my appointment with Ms. Adler would be in utter trouble. And given her ability of burst like a volcano, I feared I could not take such a risk. I somehow managed to keep calm.
Soon, Holmes drove the headphone jack into the allocated slot and turned on the in-flight television service. His co-passenger tried the same but when he failed to find the slot, he shoved the jack into his ear. Holmes thought that he might be trying to hear his own personal TV station, but it was case of mistaken identity. The fellow was cleaning his ear with the headphone jack!!!!!!!!! Ewwwwwwwwww! After has found what he was looking for inside his ear, he shifted to the conversation of “losing money in the stock market, gall bladder removal surgery and prices of chilies in the wholesale market”.
Any piece of writing on airline travel would be incomplete without a reference to the air hostesses. “The Maharaja’s attendants” were a real lousy lot. They were at such a juncture of age where needed to be rather than serving others. Once when Watson smiled at one of them, the smile was returned with such a stare that the poor chap did not smile for the rest of the flight. The scorned look looked as if saying, “What are you wretched people doing here. Why don’t you jump down?”
The lady who served us food must have been on the verge of retirement and was more interested in her social security pension than our culinary needs. Holmes also strongly suspects that she was wearing a wig. She was armed with the latest weapon of “cosmetic poison” and constantly intimidated passengers with her “drop dead or I will kill you” looks. After she served us, she just disappeared never to come back again. The bell to summon attendants it seems was “for cosmetic use only. Do not ring because no one will come”. This was in stark opposition to the other flight I just mentioned above. The prim and properly dressed young ladies showed utter eagerness to assist the passengers. Food was customized to suit our taste-buds. Service was prompt and the smile never disappeared from their faces. And here, they never smiled even once. Not that we paid to watch clowns in the stratosphere, but we were expecting that at least would they would make us feel wanted. Why give us “parachutes mentally” with the constant non verbal cue to “jump down”? How un-elementary.
The food here was less than edible. But no one in the vicinity seemed to be wasting a morsel. The “Headphone jack ear cleaner” gobbled his plate and then cleaned up his neighbours’. Holmes was scared that he might eat up the cutlery too. Phew! Holmes was to his happiness proved wrong. Had he done so, the next morning headlines in the tabloids would have read, “Maharaja robbed of cutlery”.
What a stark difference in the service between the two competitors when the fare charged was almost same. No wonder “The Maharaja” had lost majority of its market share. Instead of prim and properly dressed attendants (as expected in the service industry) we were subjected to shabbily dressed out-of-shape people sporting all kinds of religious insignias. “Punctuality” was confused with punctuation marks and disorder seemed to be the order of the day.
When we got down and waited to collect our luggage, there was utter confusion again. An airline staff arrived at the scene again, not to help but to create more confusion. He killed some time by chewing on some inedible substance and threw the wrapper around as if his littering would turn the plastic wrapper into gold. How disgusting? Collecting our luggage, we walked out to hail a cab. As we settled inside, I looked at Watson and said, “Doctor, we are never traveling on it again. We can become common Indigo coloured kingfishers who can spice jet around and go air but we shall never take an opportunity to be hosted by the Maharaja”. Watson nodded in approval but by habit asked, Why My dear Holmes? Why?” I replied, Elementary my dear Watson, elementary!”
It would be utter foolishness to break one’s nose with the “nose diving Maharaja”. Indeed his nose is too long and needs a snip.
P.S. Dedicated to all those customers who are making “The Maharaja” understand that “privy purses” don’t last forever.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Playing Cricket with a Tennis Ball or Tennis with a Cricket Ball?
Opening the newspaper these days can be extremely “juicy” but the flavor was indeed different on that day. The headline read, “Shoaib bowled over, Sania hits an ace” and this was followed by a detailed account of Indian tennis –Star (Can’t call her a player because she hardly plays) Sania Mirza’s proposed wedding with Pakistani Cricketer Shoaib Malik. The column went deep into the careers of both the sportspersons followed by the “family connection” but did not forget to add, “Sania has been single since her engagement with Sohrab Mirza was called off”. Damn it. Poor Sohrab who is already nursing an injury in his heart because of the “media coverage” of his engagement and then the break-up was hit again on his stomach. The “watchdog” press did not even spare him.
Returning back from office, I switched on the television to find every news channel wishing the couple a very best in life. “Analysts” (only the Almighty know what these out-of-work and totally unrelated to the issue souls analyze?) did a in-depth analysis of how Sania and Shoaib met and all that blah blah! The same clippings were reproduced on the screen again and again to the point that one had a headache. I switched it off.
Next day’s newspaper had inputs from an anti-Pakistani “right-winged fundamentalist” organization that said that it would not let Sania represent India if she married a Pakistani citizen. Pakistan Tennis Federation (PTF) were jubiliant that she would play for Pakistan after she is married, but Sania came up with a statement that she would always play for India. I know, you would ask as to why BCCI did not make such an offer to Mr. Malik. He was banned from international cricket for a year and I suppose BCCI is not into “rejects”. The Pakistani High Commission played a smart move by giving Ms. Mirza a visa but denied her entry into Sialkot (Shoaib traces his origins from Sialkot). Then the couple declared that the wedding would be held in Hyderabad on April 15th followed by a reception in Pakistan and then they would proceed to Dubai. (everybody these days is going to Dubai. Even the bearded psychotic fellow who claims to be a painter has landed up in Dubai.I wonder why?) Dubai is where the couple would keep their “nuptial home”. I really found interest in Sania’s comment to the press, “These days a lot of cricket is being played in Dubai, so we decided to set-up house there”. Wow Ms. Mirza, how interesting? I think Mr. Malik should be invited to lead the UAE national team (if it exists!) and you would play tennis in a “Burkha” there.
Then came the “big boy and little man” (they are the two bombs dropped on Japan in WWII) which gave media their new “flavor”. Some woman by the name of Ayesha Siddiqui (or Maha Siddiqui- who cares what her name is?) came up with a “nikahnama” which bore Shoaib’s signature. She claimed that they were married two years earlier (On Internet or telephone as both the parties have apparently never met each other). God! It remined me of the wedding of a fellow whose sword was placed at the altar because he could not present there and later on created a furore that a different girl was married off to him. What a scene he created. Anyways, every major news channel in the Indian Diaspora pounced on Ms. Siddiqui (Holmes has never been good with first-names). Overnight she was being googled more than Carla Bruni-Sarkozy and Victoria Beckham. Although her looks can’t be called “drop dead gorgeous”, but the press soon labeled as her as a “victim” who had been “”cheated of her marital bliss”. A new breed- lawyers (God! How much I hate them) jumped into the scene. Every possible law book was opened and these “black-coats” gave their expert opinion on the case. Some said it was valid (implying that Mr. Malik was married) while some called it of no value. Devoid of any conclusion and being hit like a “tennis ball” with allegations and counter-allegations, the matter was going nowhere.
Suddenly Shoaib flew down to India and the paparazzi found him in Sania’s house (Holmes envies his luck!!) He was seen barking something into the phone while Ms. Mirza was being cajoled and coochie-cooed by her mother. The last shot was of the “couple” practicing a “wedding waltz” (probably) before the doors were closed for the media. But the channels did not stop. Elaborate details of the wedding trousseau (Umpteen designers claimed to be the designer. Some even had dresses ready for them), the rituals and the wedding menu was given. Best part was the cuisine which was truly mouth-watering. Please pardon me but in weddings, Holmes doesn’t care who weds who! He always guns for the food!
Mind you ladies and gentlemen, the spice of news did not stop here. More fodder was collected and fed to us. First came Sarfaraz Nawaz. Introductions? He is a former Pakistani cricket player who even led them before he became a cricket administrator. The veteran called Shoaib names (I can’t reproduce them here as Holmes also has a female audience) which translated goes, “Agent of the bookies” (I have made a subjective translation as a literal one could land holmes in prison for using abusive language). He also alleged that there was an ulterior motive behind the wedding as Mr. Malik was planning to “fix” his wife’s tennis matches. Great going Sir! But let me mention here that Ms. Mirza is a tennis player of the same genre as a cricketer who has played a lone one-day match leave aside a test match. Her best shot was at the 2005 US Open where she went to the fourth round (That’ is far away from the Grand slam if you are ignorant-Ignorance cannot be bliss everytime, you know!). The only Grand slam she has won is a mixed doubles title with Mahesh Bhupathi. Even in Asia where there are very few women players and even fewer participants in Asian Games, our (I use our due to her Indian citizenship. She is still not a Pakistani Citizen) girl won a silver medal. Will that be called “fixing”? Or is there any chance of “fixing”? Holmes thinks the only such chance is the “match-fixing” of both these players which has already happened. Mr. Nawaz, you remind me of a deranged Parveen Babi who in her last days claimed to be aware of a CIA plot in India. Poor woman! The same “bombshell” who made India sway to her eyes died a lonely broken woman. May the almighty give you some wisdom.
Jumping next into the phone (not camera thankfully) was a jerk by the name of Imran Hassan. Should introductions be given again? Okay, he is the brother-in-law of Mr. Malik. Is it enough? Or does the audience expect Holmes to get the size of his left-shoe? Initially Mr. Hassan made some very interesting remarks. (When the anchor said that Ms. Siddiqui has refused to face the camera, Mr. Hasan said, “If you fellows can peep into the Mirza household, why did you spare the Siddiquis”) But soon the “stung” anchor put him into a “soup”. His new theory that the “nikahnama” was a draft was torn to pieces by the line, “If it was a draft, then why did Shoaib sign on it?” He sounded dumb when asked, “Why are you guys not showing the picture of the girl Shoaib was made to believe he was marrying, when the real bride was Ayesha”. Or when asked, “Why is Shoaib getting his trousseau in India. Are there no tailors in Pakistan?” The poor fellow was ragged like a college fresher before being shooed off with a smile. You would be surprised how disgusting he was. And the anchor too.
Holmes feels that the whole event could have been ignored. But, we the citizens of a new “voyeuristic” world need a constant feed of “tabloid gossip”. Imagine the angle the story would take if some bloke came up with an allegation like “Sania was dating and ……..me”? He would become an overnight hero. Somebody wants to try this out? (Please remember to do it on your own risk. Holmes will not take any responsibility for your actions). News channels make revenue out of these “juicy” topics while we ignorant junta label it as “journalism of course”. Our receptive faculties need a serious and a sincere overhaul.
My first answer is to the anti-Pakistani “right-winged fundamentalist” organization. Dear Sirs, When Reena Roy married Mohsin Khan, there were no protests, although she was a big-time actress? When Clive Lloyd and Vivian Richards dated Indian starlets where were you? Imran Khan went gaga over Zeenat Aman, but we felt no tremors? Plus, Sania doesn’t even stay in the city or the state which you guys want for yourselves. So, what is the protest about? You guys need a “focused agenda” first. Be clear about what you want or very soon you guys will of the same genre as the “IPL-Party hila denge” advertisement.
Media! Guys, Holmes can’t even write a word against you. Or else you would gag him. A widow from Haryana fought a long –drawn judicial battle to get justice for her dead son and daughter-in-law who were killed as a part of a “honour-killing”. India subsidizes food grains for 6.8 million people. The Chief Justice of a High Court is asked to proceed on leave because there are allegations of corruption against him. These all find coverage in obscure pages while the wedding menu and the “nikahnama” are the burning issues. What a prudent use of the fundamental right to freedom of speech and expression.
Both Shoaib and Sania are “losers” as far their professional life is concerned. Pakistanis are more interested in his “off-field” exploits while Indians are keener on the length of her skirt. Compared to International couples like “Agassi and Graf” or Indians like “Jwala Gutta and Chetan Anand”, these two love birds have hardly achieved anything but infamy. Shoaib was banned for “underperformance” whereas Sania was more known for her link-ups than tennis (I have no plans of mentioning the fake MMS on her).
But at the end of the day these two are human beings who look for a certain amount of happiness in their lives. Is it too much for a girl to expect a “fairy tale” wedding? Or is it criminal for a man to expect a “almost perfect” bride? Then why don’t we give them their due. Mr. Malik’s past is of no consequence to Sania, then why are we analyzing it? Now the matter is between the Maliks and the Siddiquis, so why not let them solve it? Why are we glued to TV sets waiting for new feeds on it? What difference would it make if A designs her trousseau and B designs his instead of C and D respectively? Will “Murgh Mussallam” taste different at their wedding but mine or yours? Their “marital home” or for that anything around them is of no consequence to us. Why not let the love birds live in peace.
On the other hand we should feel happy for them. Shoaib may be the worst guy for Sania in our opinion but in her world he might be the charming Prince. Adolf Hitler was a despot for us, but if one reads his love story with Eva Braunn, one would hate him a bit less if not start to like him.
Okay, enough of all this. I want all of this on my wedding with Ms. Adler (If at all she decides to walk down the aisle with me). After all I too can yield the tennis racquet and the Cricket Bat alike. If I haven’t won any trophies, then these two fellows also have not. Plus I am a “voyeuristic Indian” whose receptive faculties haven’t been overhauled till yet. And till it is done, I have every right to ask for such privileges (although I know well-in-advance that I would be denied it).But let me mention it- I have no “nikahnaama drafts” or “MMS-es” in store. You won’t get much of “spice” but I still want the coverage. Do I expect too much?
Till then please leave Mr. Malik and Ms. Mirza alone. I wish them all the best in their future life as man and wife.
And my last line for Sohrab Mirza. Sir, please don’t feel bad. Nice guys always finish second. This includes Jawaharlal Nehru, Dev Anand, Salman Khan and of course you.
P.S. The views aired are the personal opinion of the author and are not meant to hurt the emotions of any person living or dead.
Returning back from office, I switched on the television to find every news channel wishing the couple a very best in life. “Analysts” (only the Almighty know what these out-of-work and totally unrelated to the issue souls analyze?) did a in-depth analysis of how Sania and Shoaib met and all that blah blah! The same clippings were reproduced on the screen again and again to the point that one had a headache. I switched it off.
Next day’s newspaper had inputs from an anti-Pakistani “right-winged fundamentalist” organization that said that it would not let Sania represent India if she married a Pakistani citizen. Pakistan Tennis Federation (PTF) were jubiliant that she would play for Pakistan after she is married, but Sania came up with a statement that she would always play for India. I know, you would ask as to why BCCI did not make such an offer to Mr. Malik. He was banned from international cricket for a year and I suppose BCCI is not into “rejects”. The Pakistani High Commission played a smart move by giving Ms. Mirza a visa but denied her entry into Sialkot (Shoaib traces his origins from Sialkot). Then the couple declared that the wedding would be held in Hyderabad on April 15th followed by a reception in Pakistan and then they would proceed to Dubai. (everybody these days is going to Dubai. Even the bearded psychotic fellow who claims to be a painter has landed up in Dubai.I wonder why?) Dubai is where the couple would keep their “nuptial home”. I really found interest in Sania’s comment to the press, “These days a lot of cricket is being played in Dubai, so we decided to set-up house there”. Wow Ms. Mirza, how interesting? I think Mr. Malik should be invited to lead the UAE national team (if it exists!) and you would play tennis in a “Burkha” there.
Then came the “big boy and little man” (they are the two bombs dropped on Japan in WWII) which gave media their new “flavor”. Some woman by the name of Ayesha Siddiqui (or Maha Siddiqui- who cares what her name is?) came up with a “nikahnama” which bore Shoaib’s signature. She claimed that they were married two years earlier (On Internet or telephone as both the parties have apparently never met each other). God! It remined me of the wedding of a fellow whose sword was placed at the altar because he could not present there and later on created a furore that a different girl was married off to him. What a scene he created. Anyways, every major news channel in the Indian Diaspora pounced on Ms. Siddiqui (Holmes has never been good with first-names). Overnight she was being googled more than Carla Bruni-Sarkozy and Victoria Beckham. Although her looks can’t be called “drop dead gorgeous”, but the press soon labeled as her as a “victim” who had been “”cheated of her marital bliss”. A new breed- lawyers (God! How much I hate them) jumped into the scene. Every possible law book was opened and these “black-coats” gave their expert opinion on the case. Some said it was valid (implying that Mr. Malik was married) while some called it of no value. Devoid of any conclusion and being hit like a “tennis ball” with allegations and counter-allegations, the matter was going nowhere.
Suddenly Shoaib flew down to India and the paparazzi found him in Sania’s house (Holmes envies his luck!!) He was seen barking something into the phone while Ms. Mirza was being cajoled and coochie-cooed by her mother. The last shot was of the “couple” practicing a “wedding waltz” (probably) before the doors were closed for the media. But the channels did not stop. Elaborate details of the wedding trousseau (Umpteen designers claimed to be the designer. Some even had dresses ready for them), the rituals and the wedding menu was given. Best part was the cuisine which was truly mouth-watering. Please pardon me but in weddings, Holmes doesn’t care who weds who! He always guns for the food!
Mind you ladies and gentlemen, the spice of news did not stop here. More fodder was collected and fed to us. First came Sarfaraz Nawaz. Introductions? He is a former Pakistani cricket player who even led them before he became a cricket administrator. The veteran called Shoaib names (I can’t reproduce them here as Holmes also has a female audience) which translated goes, “Agent of the bookies” (I have made a subjective translation as a literal one could land holmes in prison for using abusive language). He also alleged that there was an ulterior motive behind the wedding as Mr. Malik was planning to “fix” his wife’s tennis matches. Great going Sir! But let me mention here that Ms. Mirza is a tennis player of the same genre as a cricketer who has played a lone one-day match leave aside a test match. Her best shot was at the 2005 US Open where she went to the fourth round (That’ is far away from the Grand slam if you are ignorant-Ignorance cannot be bliss everytime, you know!). The only Grand slam she has won is a mixed doubles title with Mahesh Bhupathi. Even in Asia where there are very few women players and even fewer participants in Asian Games, our (I use our due to her Indian citizenship. She is still not a Pakistani Citizen) girl won a silver medal. Will that be called “fixing”? Or is there any chance of “fixing”? Holmes thinks the only such chance is the “match-fixing” of both these players which has already happened. Mr. Nawaz, you remind me of a deranged Parveen Babi who in her last days claimed to be aware of a CIA plot in India. Poor woman! The same “bombshell” who made India sway to her eyes died a lonely broken woman. May the almighty give you some wisdom.
Jumping next into the phone (not camera thankfully) was a jerk by the name of Imran Hassan. Should introductions be given again? Okay, he is the brother-in-law of Mr. Malik. Is it enough? Or does the audience expect Holmes to get the size of his left-shoe? Initially Mr. Hassan made some very interesting remarks. (When the anchor said that Ms. Siddiqui has refused to face the camera, Mr. Hasan said, “If you fellows can peep into the Mirza household, why did you spare the Siddiquis”) But soon the “stung” anchor put him into a “soup”. His new theory that the “nikahnama” was a draft was torn to pieces by the line, “If it was a draft, then why did Shoaib sign on it?” He sounded dumb when asked, “Why are you guys not showing the picture of the girl Shoaib was made to believe he was marrying, when the real bride was Ayesha”. Or when asked, “Why is Shoaib getting his trousseau in India. Are there no tailors in Pakistan?” The poor fellow was ragged like a college fresher before being shooed off with a smile. You would be surprised how disgusting he was. And the anchor too.
Holmes feels that the whole event could have been ignored. But, we the citizens of a new “voyeuristic” world need a constant feed of “tabloid gossip”. Imagine the angle the story would take if some bloke came up with an allegation like “Sania was dating and ……..me”? He would become an overnight hero. Somebody wants to try this out? (Please remember to do it on your own risk. Holmes will not take any responsibility for your actions). News channels make revenue out of these “juicy” topics while we ignorant junta label it as “journalism of course”. Our receptive faculties need a serious and a sincere overhaul.
My first answer is to the anti-Pakistani “right-winged fundamentalist” organization. Dear Sirs, When Reena Roy married Mohsin Khan, there were no protests, although she was a big-time actress? When Clive Lloyd and Vivian Richards dated Indian starlets where were you? Imran Khan went gaga over Zeenat Aman, but we felt no tremors? Plus, Sania doesn’t even stay in the city or the state which you guys want for yourselves. So, what is the protest about? You guys need a “focused agenda” first. Be clear about what you want or very soon you guys will of the same genre as the “IPL-Party hila denge” advertisement.
Media! Guys, Holmes can’t even write a word against you. Or else you would gag him. A widow from Haryana fought a long –drawn judicial battle to get justice for her dead son and daughter-in-law who were killed as a part of a “honour-killing”. India subsidizes food grains for 6.8 million people. The Chief Justice of a High Court is asked to proceed on leave because there are allegations of corruption against him. These all find coverage in obscure pages while the wedding menu and the “nikahnama” are the burning issues. What a prudent use of the fundamental right to freedom of speech and expression.
Both Shoaib and Sania are “losers” as far their professional life is concerned. Pakistanis are more interested in his “off-field” exploits while Indians are keener on the length of her skirt. Compared to International couples like “Agassi and Graf” or Indians like “Jwala Gutta and Chetan Anand”, these two love birds have hardly achieved anything but infamy. Shoaib was banned for “underperformance” whereas Sania was more known for her link-ups than tennis (I have no plans of mentioning the fake MMS on her).
But at the end of the day these two are human beings who look for a certain amount of happiness in their lives. Is it too much for a girl to expect a “fairy tale” wedding? Or is it criminal for a man to expect a “almost perfect” bride? Then why don’t we give them their due. Mr. Malik’s past is of no consequence to Sania, then why are we analyzing it? Now the matter is between the Maliks and the Siddiquis, so why not let them solve it? Why are we glued to TV sets waiting for new feeds on it? What difference would it make if A designs her trousseau and B designs his instead of C and D respectively? Will “Murgh Mussallam” taste different at their wedding but mine or yours? Their “marital home” or for that anything around them is of no consequence to us. Why not let the love birds live in peace.
On the other hand we should feel happy for them. Shoaib may be the worst guy for Sania in our opinion but in her world he might be the charming Prince. Adolf Hitler was a despot for us, but if one reads his love story with Eva Braunn, one would hate him a bit less if not start to like him.
Okay, enough of all this. I want all of this on my wedding with Ms. Adler (If at all she decides to walk down the aisle with me). After all I too can yield the tennis racquet and the Cricket Bat alike. If I haven’t won any trophies, then these two fellows also have not. Plus I am a “voyeuristic Indian” whose receptive faculties haven’t been overhauled till yet. And till it is done, I have every right to ask for such privileges (although I know well-in-advance that I would be denied it).But let me mention it- I have no “nikahnaama drafts” or “MMS-es” in store. You won’t get much of “spice” but I still want the coverage. Do I expect too much?
Till then please leave Mr. Malik and Ms. Mirza alone. I wish them all the best in their future life as man and wife.
And my last line for Sohrab Mirza. Sir, please don’t feel bad. Nice guys always finish second. This includes Jawaharlal Nehru, Dev Anand, Salman Khan and of course you.
P.S. The views aired are the personal opinion of the author and are not meant to hurt the emotions of any person living or dead.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Casablanca- Rick and Ilsa live on
When Michael Curitz directed “Casablanca” and released it in 1942, he expected nothing extraordinary out of the movie. Nothing in the film was A-list- Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman were struggling stars, the writers weren't creative demi-Gods and the war’s (the plot was based in the backdrop of WWII where Nazi Germany had an edge then)direction was unpredictable. But then out of everybody’s expectations, the film did exceptionally well. It won three Academy awards including the award for “best film”. With passing time the film became “cult fiction”. The rugged, stoic but subtly lovelorn Rick Blaine (played by the evergreen Humphrey Bogart) became a role model for a lot of young men around. Young women modeled themselves on Ilsa Lund (played by the eternally beautiful Ingrid Bergman). By 1977, “Casablanca” was the most broadcast movie on American television beating every other major film around.
“Casablanca” became a sudden hit with its plot which a large audience could relate to. Nazi rule in Europe and Vichy controlled France and its colonies led to mass exodus from Europe to the Americas. The rich fled to the new “heaven” to escape the “blitzkrieg” unleashed by Adolf Hitler. French ruled Morocco was a place from which refugees went to Lisbon (Portugal) and from there to the Americas. “Casablanca” spoke the language of all these countless men and women who had survived this ordeal to reach the Americas. They could see themselves in those refugees who gave away everything to escape the uncertain future. There is a scene in which Captain Louis Renault, the French Police chief of Casablanca makes an “indecent proposal” to Annina Brendel, a Bulgarian Refugee in exchange for papers to travel out of Casablanca. It was indeed very touching and raises the “homicidal impulses” in the audience. The eyes of the actress express her helplessness and move the audience to tears.
Rick Blaine and Ilsa Lund’s love story is the pivot of the plot. It has become such a common part of each love story that it has influenced many. Tapes and discs of it have been presented over and over to people in love. The part of the story in Paris personifies the concept of romance very well. The eyes were dreamy, the smiles were heartwarming and the kisses were passionate. Tears drop by kilolitres when Rick and Sam wait at the railway station in Paris and Ilsa fails to turn up and how Sam pushes Rick to leave Paris. And how the eyes light up when both of them reconcile at Casablanca. And how moved Rick is when he sees Ilsa in Casablanca. His initial portrayal of a stoic club owner just melts away as he is unable to control his mind and body. Dialogues that are remembered to this day follow. The best is when Ilsa asks Sam (The club Pianist) to play. “As time goes by”, the same tune that he used to play for them while in Paris. Her voice has so much innocence when she says “Play it again, Sam”. For the record, Sam was played by American actor Dooley Wilson, who in real life was a drummer and could not play the piano (Now can you beat that?). Viewers secretly pray for the lovers to get back into each other lives when Ilsa secretly comes to meet Rick in the abandoned café.
Victor Laszlo (Played by Austrian Paul Henreid) plays the part of a sensitive husband who is in knowledge of his wife’s love for another man but is more concerned about saving her in the time of distress than blame her for an “affair” while he was away. He keeps his calm while resisting the German invasion and intricately plans his escape to Lisbon and then USA along with his wife using the “papers” which were dropped in Rick’s possession by a petty thief.
“Casablanca” was also a voice of dissent towards the Nazi rule. When Major Stresser and his friends sing the Nazi anthem in Rick’s club, Laszlo replies with “La Marseilles” in a higher pitch. Things turn ugly when Rick orders the club band to play the tune and other French citizens join Laszlo and the Germans are beaten by sheer numbers. Major Stresser orders Renault to close the café on a flimsy charge.
Ilsa Lund portrays the role of a woman torn between her love for two men. When Victor Laszlo was in a concentration camp and she believed news that he was dead, Rick comes into her life. The love story seems immortal till her failure to arrive at the railway station makes the audience think that she “diched” Rick. But that was the time when her husband Victor turns up into her love and she decides to go back into her “marriage”. Fate brings her back to Rick at Casablanca. She tries every trick in the book to get the papers from Rick including pointing a pistol at him (But then she is not able to shoot him as she is still in love with him). Bergman plays the love-torn woman so well that in the audience can’t help but forgive her. For what? For everything.
The biggest loss in the whole film is borne by Rick Blaine. He is portrayed as the epitome of sacrifices in the plot. He first sacrifices Ilsa’s love in order to save his people (during the escape from Paris to Casablanca). Then he sacrifices the “papers” which he could have sold in the market at a premium- for Ilsa’s love again. He believed that giving the papers to Laszlo would mean his departure for Lisbon and then the USA and Ilsa coming back to his life. But then he also realizes that Ilsa’s love for Laszlo is a permanent phenomenon which will never wear off (It was very painful to see Ilsa telling Rick about her love for Victor. The audience was all for Rick). In the end, Victor and Ilsa leave. Rick loses Ilsa, Rick loses his club and Rick comes out as “Sacrificing Rick”. The best is in the end when he forcibly puts Ilsa on the plane saying that if she didn’t go she would regret it. “Not today, not tomorrow, but very soon and for the rest of your life”. I am yet to see somebody who is so stoic after losing so much. Bogart’s career took an upward dive after “Casablanca”. His portrayal as Rick Blaine has made the phrase “nice guys finish second” sound like an axiom. You just can’t help but hope to be like him. He is smart, suave, polished and above all- he is stoic.
The real winners in the fim are Victor Laszlo and Captain Louis Renault. Laszlo escapes to Lisbon, gets his adorable wife and we hope lived happily ever after. Renault is shown as the “expectedly” corrupt Police Officer who enthralls the public with the famous line, “I am where the wind blows, and presently the wind blows towards the Vichy”. He shows money to be his true master when he cleverly covers up Major Stresser’s murder by Rick. As the two men walk into the night in the end, Rick pulls down the curtain for the audience saying, “Louis, I think it is the starting to a beautiful friendship”.
It’s been almost 7 decades but “Casablanca” still is fresh in the minds of all its viewers. It still continues to be sold as a DVD and to be presented as a token of “love”. Imagine, this fim was made for a budget of $1 million. Considering the maount of people who must have appreciated it and seen it time and again, this cost seems like a pittance.
Rick Blaine and Ilsa Lund live on in our hearts.
P.S. The views expressed are personal opinion of the author and does not mean to hurt the feelings of any person- living or dead.
“Casablanca” became a sudden hit with its plot which a large audience could relate to. Nazi rule in Europe and Vichy controlled France and its colonies led to mass exodus from Europe to the Americas. The rich fled to the new “heaven” to escape the “blitzkrieg” unleashed by Adolf Hitler. French ruled Morocco was a place from which refugees went to Lisbon (Portugal) and from there to the Americas. “Casablanca” spoke the language of all these countless men and women who had survived this ordeal to reach the Americas. They could see themselves in those refugees who gave away everything to escape the uncertain future. There is a scene in which Captain Louis Renault, the French Police chief of Casablanca makes an “indecent proposal” to Annina Brendel, a Bulgarian Refugee in exchange for papers to travel out of Casablanca. It was indeed very touching and raises the “homicidal impulses” in the audience. The eyes of the actress express her helplessness and move the audience to tears.
Rick Blaine and Ilsa Lund’s love story is the pivot of the plot. It has become such a common part of each love story that it has influenced many. Tapes and discs of it have been presented over and over to people in love. The part of the story in Paris personifies the concept of romance very well. The eyes were dreamy, the smiles were heartwarming and the kisses were passionate. Tears drop by kilolitres when Rick and Sam wait at the railway station in Paris and Ilsa fails to turn up and how Sam pushes Rick to leave Paris. And how the eyes light up when both of them reconcile at Casablanca. And how moved Rick is when he sees Ilsa in Casablanca. His initial portrayal of a stoic club owner just melts away as he is unable to control his mind and body. Dialogues that are remembered to this day follow. The best is when Ilsa asks Sam (The club Pianist) to play. “As time goes by”, the same tune that he used to play for them while in Paris. Her voice has so much innocence when she says “Play it again, Sam”. For the record, Sam was played by American actor Dooley Wilson, who in real life was a drummer and could not play the piano (Now can you beat that?). Viewers secretly pray for the lovers to get back into each other lives when Ilsa secretly comes to meet Rick in the abandoned café.
Victor Laszlo (Played by Austrian Paul Henreid) plays the part of a sensitive husband who is in knowledge of his wife’s love for another man but is more concerned about saving her in the time of distress than blame her for an “affair” while he was away. He keeps his calm while resisting the German invasion and intricately plans his escape to Lisbon and then USA along with his wife using the “papers” which were dropped in Rick’s possession by a petty thief.
“Casablanca” was also a voice of dissent towards the Nazi rule. When Major Stresser and his friends sing the Nazi anthem in Rick’s club, Laszlo replies with “La Marseilles” in a higher pitch. Things turn ugly when Rick orders the club band to play the tune and other French citizens join Laszlo and the Germans are beaten by sheer numbers. Major Stresser orders Renault to close the café on a flimsy charge.
Ilsa Lund portrays the role of a woman torn between her love for two men. When Victor Laszlo was in a concentration camp and she believed news that he was dead, Rick comes into her life. The love story seems immortal till her failure to arrive at the railway station makes the audience think that she “diched” Rick. But that was the time when her husband Victor turns up into her love and she decides to go back into her “marriage”. Fate brings her back to Rick at Casablanca. She tries every trick in the book to get the papers from Rick including pointing a pistol at him (But then she is not able to shoot him as she is still in love with him). Bergman plays the love-torn woman so well that in the audience can’t help but forgive her. For what? For everything.
The biggest loss in the whole film is borne by Rick Blaine. He is portrayed as the epitome of sacrifices in the plot. He first sacrifices Ilsa’s love in order to save his people (during the escape from Paris to Casablanca). Then he sacrifices the “papers” which he could have sold in the market at a premium- for Ilsa’s love again. He believed that giving the papers to Laszlo would mean his departure for Lisbon and then the USA and Ilsa coming back to his life. But then he also realizes that Ilsa’s love for Laszlo is a permanent phenomenon which will never wear off (It was very painful to see Ilsa telling Rick about her love for Victor. The audience was all for Rick). In the end, Victor and Ilsa leave. Rick loses Ilsa, Rick loses his club and Rick comes out as “Sacrificing Rick”. The best is in the end when he forcibly puts Ilsa on the plane saying that if she didn’t go she would regret it. “Not today, not tomorrow, but very soon and for the rest of your life”. I am yet to see somebody who is so stoic after losing so much. Bogart’s career took an upward dive after “Casablanca”. His portrayal as Rick Blaine has made the phrase “nice guys finish second” sound like an axiom. You just can’t help but hope to be like him. He is smart, suave, polished and above all- he is stoic.
The real winners in the fim are Victor Laszlo and Captain Louis Renault. Laszlo escapes to Lisbon, gets his adorable wife and we hope lived happily ever after. Renault is shown as the “expectedly” corrupt Police Officer who enthralls the public with the famous line, “I am where the wind blows, and presently the wind blows towards the Vichy”. He shows money to be his true master when he cleverly covers up Major Stresser’s murder by Rick. As the two men walk into the night in the end, Rick pulls down the curtain for the audience saying, “Louis, I think it is the starting to a beautiful friendship”.
It’s been almost 7 decades but “Casablanca” still is fresh in the minds of all its viewers. It still continues to be sold as a DVD and to be presented as a token of “love”. Imagine, this fim was made for a budget of $1 million. Considering the maount of people who must have appreciated it and seen it time and again, this cost seems like a pittance.
Rick Blaine and Ilsa Lund live on in our hearts.
P.S. The views expressed are personal opinion of the author and does not mean to hurt the feelings of any person- living or dead.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Has the monk grown old?
Vidhu Vinod Chopra and Rajkumar Hirani gave the cinema audience of this country and the Indian diaspora a cinematic treat that will be remembered for a lifetime. Each and every character of the film was carefully chosen and had a contribution to make to the script. Such eloquence was earlier probably seen only in “Sholay” where the myriad of characters put the screen on fire.
Rancho, Farhan, Raju and not to forget the “screwed-up yet affable” Chatur put a lot of us back into the “campus mode”. We went back to the days when life revolved around an institution called “college”. People who were residents of college hostels could relate more to the plot as the happenings passed by like a montage of clips. Faces of people who were defined as “friends” at one point of time were recollected. Every single, small, uneventful happening became a part of this pleasant nostalgia. Those were the days.
Chatur put the film into the drive with his “TamBram” accented Hindi which was devoid of any grammatical accuracy. But the fella was a pleasure to watch. As he offers a bottle of “Madeira” (the man had a gadget- it was too advanced to be called a cell phone- which contained a dictionary software) to 2 Idiots (Rancho decided not to turn up), my eyes fell on the label of the small bottle. It said, “Old Monk – 7 years old blended XXX Rum”. By the time my nervous system reacted to this picture, the whole audience started screaming. Chatur had brought out another piece of nostalgia- Old Monk rum.
From soldiers to civilians, from the rich to the poor, politicos, bureaucrats, students, wanderers and even teetotalers- this spirit has given “moments of pride” to a lot of people. The brand is owned by the Indian distillers Mohan Meakin & Co. and manufactured at their Mohannagar (Ghaziabad) factory. Established in 1855 by Edward Dyer, the company was later acquired by N N Mohan after Independence. The distillers have since then made quite a few improvements to this flagship brand of theirs. But the original shape of the bottle and the label has always remained the same. An old monk from one of the catholic monasteries has always featured on it making it easily recognizable by its patrons. With 42.20% alcohol content, it is a bit more “spirited” but ask any of the “old monk loyalists”, the taste is unbeatable. The loyalty of the brand can be estimated from the fact that it is the world’s third largest selling brand of rum with sales of 9 million cases in a year. “Bacardi” is the largest selling brand with about 14.00 million cases followed by “Tundray” which sells 12.90 million cases a year.
“Break the seal and with the first drop the fragrance of caned sugar from lush green fields will fill your nostrils”- is what a tagline for this great brand says. Trust me, they are right. The 750 ml (They call it “Khamba” in common parlance) of liquid has supported people through various emotions through more than a century. It has been a catalyst to celebrations and victory, it has been a friend to people during moments of sorrow and loss, it has bought people by it sheer power to dislodge people from rationality and it has even “put to sleep” a lot of people who thought they could win over it!
There are umpteen college stories that have revolved around this “distilled drop of cane sugar”. Abhijit Bhaduri gave a very vivid description of it in his book “Mediocre but Arrogant”- a book that brought out the life in an management school very well. “Rum and Coke” became a potent combination for the youth in the early 90s and thereafter. College hostels celebrated or supported “bad times” with this combination. The “bitter-sweet” taste is not just a “cocktail”. It is the way of living up that moment.
There are two kinds of people who drink “old monk”- one who are ‘loyalists’ (people who would not drink anything else until they don’t have a choice) and the second are the people who drink it because it is one of the most “affordable” spirits around (It still sells for under 300 bucks a bottle). Actually, it’s the “affordable” brass which moves on with time to becoming a “loyalist”. Or perhaps it’s the habit of watching another “loyalist” that makes you a “loyalist”. I fall in this category. Collegians start drinking it because of its sheer “affordability” which translates into its volumes (In college you drink for no rhyme and reason. Whatever be the reason, you just drink)
The club culture gave a big boost to the use of alcohol in India. “Bars” were generally frequented by people who were perceived as people who weren’t capable of “holding their glasses”. They drank cheap liquor (mostly Whisky) on a daily basis for a myriad of reasosn and were expected to create a “scene after getting drunk”. But “pubbers” were apparently a group of smart, suave, polished, up market guys who used the “spirits to raise their spirits”. Well Exceptions were always there (Poor Jessica Lall got shot by a “high” and “high powered” Manu Sharma) but as a whole, they were a “safe lot”.
Coming back to “old monk”, it very soon became a brand of the classes and the masses. Army and Police officers would not end their days without a sip of it. Winters turned it into a life-saving drug with the folks in hill stations making a beeline for it. On a visit to Nathu La, I was shocked to find it being sold in households in Sikkim. The monk had managed to conquer even the remotest households of the country. Fathers and sons had it alike. Soldiers kept themselves warm in blizzards and snow by a sip of it. Folklore goes in the Indian army that subordinates have to be “tipped” with it. People were “bribed” with it and people were “saved” (42.20 % alcohol can kill any kind of infection) with it. It has gone into cakes, pastries and innumerable other bakery products. It has been used as a cooking medium or to garnish a recipe. It is also used to wash one’s hair and to give it a shiny feel before a social appearance (the sugar in it sticks to the strands and gives hair a shiny look).
There is a certain gentleman who I know to be fond of the monk like anything. He was a “top cop” and kept a flask of the spirit always with him. When asked about it he always replied, “I can’t ask God to come with me but I can ask the monk. Can’t I?” Can there be a higher loyalty quotient. Another anecdote is about a train journey from Durgapur to Delhi. Aborad Howrah Rajdhani we opened a bottle of it along with some “Hilsa” fish for company. The public couldn’t appreciate the combination that their nostrils were treated to. Before somebody called the coach attendant, the fish was gobbled and the monk was safely tucked inside a blanket. Then we started screaming. The monks taught us that “offence was the best form of defence”. Long live the monk.
Old monk has not survived alone but has given a new lease of life to a lot of other people too. When Coca-Cola entered the Indian market, it started buying it competitors in India to gain market share. This included “Campa Cola” and “Thums Up”. The acquisition killed the former but the latter survived. “Thums Up” made a potent combination with it and this could not be replicated by Coke in any other form. Thus it survived and got a new lease of life.
The best part about it is the fact that its brand has become synonymous with “Rum”. You talk of rum and you mean “Old monk”. It is equally popular and sold and is available in all parts throughout India giving it a national character. It would not be wrong to say it has united India in the same mode as “lux” soap or “parachute” hair oil.It has been nearly two decades since the monk was born and been an integral part of its connoisseurs’ life. Its patrons swear by it and its competitors fear its reach. Even “Bacardi” and “Tundray” with its international market are barely ahead of it while “Old Monk” is served only in the Indian diaspora.
Dearest monk, all we wish to tell you is that your presence in our lives gives us a wider spectrum to look out to. In regulated quantities you have added a lot of colours to our lives and given us moments of joy and gaiety. So, whenever this question is posed to us about your age asking, “has the monk grown old?” all we answer is, “The monk is ageless”.
P.S. The words are the personal opinion of the author and are not meant to harm or offend any person living or dead. Consumption of alcohol is dangerous to the health.
Rancho, Farhan, Raju and not to forget the “screwed-up yet affable” Chatur put a lot of us back into the “campus mode”. We went back to the days when life revolved around an institution called “college”. People who were residents of college hostels could relate more to the plot as the happenings passed by like a montage of clips. Faces of people who were defined as “friends” at one point of time were recollected. Every single, small, uneventful happening became a part of this pleasant nostalgia. Those were the days.
Chatur put the film into the drive with his “TamBram” accented Hindi which was devoid of any grammatical accuracy. But the fella was a pleasure to watch. As he offers a bottle of “Madeira” (the man had a gadget- it was too advanced to be called a cell phone- which contained a dictionary software) to 2 Idiots (Rancho decided not to turn up), my eyes fell on the label of the small bottle. It said, “Old Monk – 7 years old blended XXX Rum”. By the time my nervous system reacted to this picture, the whole audience started screaming. Chatur had brought out another piece of nostalgia- Old Monk rum.
From soldiers to civilians, from the rich to the poor, politicos, bureaucrats, students, wanderers and even teetotalers- this spirit has given “moments of pride” to a lot of people. The brand is owned by the Indian distillers Mohan Meakin & Co. and manufactured at their Mohannagar (Ghaziabad) factory. Established in 1855 by Edward Dyer, the company was later acquired by N N Mohan after Independence. The distillers have since then made quite a few improvements to this flagship brand of theirs. But the original shape of the bottle and the label has always remained the same. An old monk from one of the catholic monasteries has always featured on it making it easily recognizable by its patrons. With 42.20% alcohol content, it is a bit more “spirited” but ask any of the “old monk loyalists”, the taste is unbeatable. The loyalty of the brand can be estimated from the fact that it is the world’s third largest selling brand of rum with sales of 9 million cases in a year. “Bacardi” is the largest selling brand with about 14.00 million cases followed by “Tundray” which sells 12.90 million cases a year.
“Break the seal and with the first drop the fragrance of caned sugar from lush green fields will fill your nostrils”- is what a tagline for this great brand says. Trust me, they are right. The 750 ml (They call it “Khamba” in common parlance) of liquid has supported people through various emotions through more than a century. It has been a catalyst to celebrations and victory, it has been a friend to people during moments of sorrow and loss, it has bought people by it sheer power to dislodge people from rationality and it has even “put to sleep” a lot of people who thought they could win over it!
There are umpteen college stories that have revolved around this “distilled drop of cane sugar”. Abhijit Bhaduri gave a very vivid description of it in his book “Mediocre but Arrogant”- a book that brought out the life in an management school very well. “Rum and Coke” became a potent combination for the youth in the early 90s and thereafter. College hostels celebrated or supported “bad times” with this combination. The “bitter-sweet” taste is not just a “cocktail”. It is the way of living up that moment.
There are two kinds of people who drink “old monk”- one who are ‘loyalists’ (people who would not drink anything else until they don’t have a choice) and the second are the people who drink it because it is one of the most “affordable” spirits around (It still sells for under 300 bucks a bottle). Actually, it’s the “affordable” brass which moves on with time to becoming a “loyalist”. Or perhaps it’s the habit of watching another “loyalist” that makes you a “loyalist”. I fall in this category. Collegians start drinking it because of its sheer “affordability” which translates into its volumes (In college you drink for no rhyme and reason. Whatever be the reason, you just drink)
The club culture gave a big boost to the use of alcohol in India. “Bars” were generally frequented by people who were perceived as people who weren’t capable of “holding their glasses”. They drank cheap liquor (mostly Whisky) on a daily basis for a myriad of reasosn and were expected to create a “scene after getting drunk”. But “pubbers” were apparently a group of smart, suave, polished, up market guys who used the “spirits to raise their spirits”. Well Exceptions were always there (Poor Jessica Lall got shot by a “high” and “high powered” Manu Sharma) but as a whole, they were a “safe lot”.
Coming back to “old monk”, it very soon became a brand of the classes and the masses. Army and Police officers would not end their days without a sip of it. Winters turned it into a life-saving drug with the folks in hill stations making a beeline for it. On a visit to Nathu La, I was shocked to find it being sold in households in Sikkim. The monk had managed to conquer even the remotest households of the country. Fathers and sons had it alike. Soldiers kept themselves warm in blizzards and snow by a sip of it. Folklore goes in the Indian army that subordinates have to be “tipped” with it. People were “bribed” with it and people were “saved” (42.20 % alcohol can kill any kind of infection) with it. It has gone into cakes, pastries and innumerable other bakery products. It has been used as a cooking medium or to garnish a recipe. It is also used to wash one’s hair and to give it a shiny feel before a social appearance (the sugar in it sticks to the strands and gives hair a shiny look).
There is a certain gentleman who I know to be fond of the monk like anything. He was a “top cop” and kept a flask of the spirit always with him. When asked about it he always replied, “I can’t ask God to come with me but I can ask the monk. Can’t I?” Can there be a higher loyalty quotient. Another anecdote is about a train journey from Durgapur to Delhi. Aborad Howrah Rajdhani we opened a bottle of it along with some “Hilsa” fish for company. The public couldn’t appreciate the combination that their nostrils were treated to. Before somebody called the coach attendant, the fish was gobbled and the monk was safely tucked inside a blanket. Then we started screaming. The monks taught us that “offence was the best form of defence”. Long live the monk.
Old monk has not survived alone but has given a new lease of life to a lot of other people too. When Coca-Cola entered the Indian market, it started buying it competitors in India to gain market share. This included “Campa Cola” and “Thums Up”. The acquisition killed the former but the latter survived. “Thums Up” made a potent combination with it and this could not be replicated by Coke in any other form. Thus it survived and got a new lease of life.
The best part about it is the fact that its brand has become synonymous with “Rum”. You talk of rum and you mean “Old monk”. It is equally popular and sold and is available in all parts throughout India giving it a national character. It would not be wrong to say it has united India in the same mode as “lux” soap or “parachute” hair oil.It has been nearly two decades since the monk was born and been an integral part of its connoisseurs’ life. Its patrons swear by it and its competitors fear its reach. Even “Bacardi” and “Tundray” with its international market are barely ahead of it while “Old Monk” is served only in the Indian diaspora.
Dearest monk, all we wish to tell you is that your presence in our lives gives us a wider spectrum to look out to. In regulated quantities you have added a lot of colours to our lives and given us moments of joy and gaiety. So, whenever this question is posed to us about your age asking, “has the monk grown old?” all we answer is, “The monk is ageless”.
P.S. The words are the personal opinion of the author and are not meant to harm or offend any person living or dead. Consumption of alcohol is dangerous to the health.
How Devdas and Ghalib die a thousand deaths everyday..
There were two individuals in Indian folklore (one of them was a part of History too) who gave a new spectrum to the emotion of love (I refer to the worldly use of the “word”). Devdas and Mirza Asadullah Khan “Ghalib”.
Their similarities are phenomenal. Both hailed from rich nobility but when death came they were paupers. They both had a liking for ‘spirits’ which turned them into ‘spirits’. And both of them said words which have been repeated by generations with passage of time. But then, there was a basic difference between both these men- Devdas was a figment of imagination which was brought to life by Sarat Chandra Chatterjee in his magnum opus “Devdas” while Mirza Ghalib was indeed a part of India’s history with him gracing Gali Qasim Jaan in Ballimaran in the walled city of Delhi. Devdas lived a life of misery due to his “fatal mistake of refusing Paro” while Ghalib’s sorrow was a complex mix of a dissatisfied marriage,loss of seven children and his reputation of being a “ladies man”.
Devdas came from a legacy of landed gentry. Educated in British ruled Calcutta (Oh yes! Devdas never went adroad as distorted by the Cinematic Gods of bollywood) he presents the image of a weak man who doesn’t have the guts to accept his love for Paro, his neighbour. Paro on the other hand had taken Dev to be her husband for life before she finds that her status was a element of fun for her love’s household and was coerced to marry a widower who apparently was richer than Dev;s family. Love hits a roadblock. Paro realizes that her “husband for life” theory kind of fell on his face (most women in the 21st century would agree with me that this theory either can be termed as stupid or has to be repeated many times before finding the right ”person.”) Anyways, what is bygone is bygone. Dev lands up in the arms of the courtesan Chandramukhi who also falls in love with him. Along with her came the killer alcholhol which siphoned off everything out of Dev’s system. Death came with lots of pain. But Dev became an icon for all the future generations of lovers in the Indian Diaspora who found failure in this emotion.
Ghalib on the other hand was born in Agra (a section of people somehow call Agra the “city of love-makers). Love-making indeed generated a good result in the form of Ghalib. Anyways, he never did anything for a living. Surviving on money doled out by the state and patronized by his friends, he spent his life writing urdu ghazals and couplets. Drawing inspiration from the great Meer Tauqi Meer, his persianised Urdu became a source of oxygen for the asphyxiated intelligentsia. History speaks of his competition with Zauq- the court poet of Mughal Emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar II. Although, he was married very early, he never had any children who lived (Seven of his children died). The pain can be traced in his writings which were drenched with sorrow many a times. Poets say that Ghalib could make you cry without making your tear glands work. This 19th century literary figure gave a new dimension to Urdu writings. Not only was he a good poet, but his prose too had deep-rooted effect on the readers. His death was indeed a loss for all the lovers of his literary creations.
Are you feeling as if I am trying to write History in my own words? Okay, you are partially right because the point that I am going to make now needed a bit of introduction on these men.
People have a different way of abusing Devdas. The world did not let him Rest in peace the moment he died. Every male who refuses to shave is referred to as “Devdas”. “Arrey, I may not wish to yield the razor for umpteen reasons- for lethargy to absence of shaving cream- but does that make me a Devdas”? The answer is no. What the world refuses to acknowledge is that Devdas died with time and every time you try to equate another human being with him, you basically are killing him again and again. Not to mention the fact that the world thinks that every Paro or for that matter Chandramukhi is bound to have a Devdas. Is there a cause and effect relationship between all three of them? No! Drinking alone is being a Devdas, rebelling against one’s folks is being a Devdas, refusing Paro is also being a Devdas. Last, but not the least, visiting Chandramukhi after losing Paro is also being a Devdas. If that be the reason, movies like “Mumbai Matinee” and “The 40-year old…..” would never be made. Shocking was the day when my 80-year old grandmother remarked at somebody who went beserk after a foreigner, “He has lost his brains; bloody sex crazy Devdas”. God! We cannot imagine how many times both Devdas and Sarat Chandra must have turned in their graves.
But why is the world killing Devdas like this everyday? Do we have a right to crucify him in this grotesque manner every single moment in our lives? The answer is no! We all accept that his love for Paro was totally unadulterated. It was not like the “emotion” most of us have these days which is laced more with hormones and material benefits than with emotions which had no rhyme and reason and was mostly selfless. His “confusion” and his being “pulled apart” between family honour and love can be given the benefit of doubt. As the modern version of Paro reminds him ofhis confusion by saying, “Dev, log pyar karte hai, yeh pyar karma chahna kya hota hai (People fall in love. What implies when you say that you wish to fall in love)”? His loyalty quotient was so high that till the last day he kept screaming Paro at the top of his alcohol filled lungs which ultimately led to his death. This is unbelievable, isn’t it? Chandramukhi was a courtesan who fell in love with Dev (at least the women in Sarat Chandra’s words were sure of what they wanted) and tried to nurse him back to health. But to no avail. The Devdas saga had ended for Sarat Chandra.
Contrary to the world ridiculing him, Devdas was a man of courage. Let me tell you, it took a lot of courage for a Indian nobleman (even if it be a fictional one) to fall in love with somebody who was not of his family status. In today’s world where eco-socio-geo-political factors affect the equation between a man and a woman, such courage is hardly to be seen. Rebellion is not always courage. Perhaps people have understood the real meaning of the words, “If your father is poor, it’s your destiny, but if your father-in-law is poor, it’s your stupidity”. Applies equally to both genders.
Coming to Mirza Asadullah Khan “Ghalib”, his story is a complex mix. “Miyan Ghalib” became more famous after he died and created a following which a become a sort of religion. Followed equally in India, Pakistan and the Indian diaspora, his words touch the deepest corners of the heart. From the deeply motivating, “Khudi ko kar buland itna” to the sorrowful “Hazaron Khwahishen aisi”- Ghalib made a place in the heart of all his followers. A failed marriage, loss of seven children and his tendency to “stray” led him write prose and poetry which became immortal with time. His penchant for foreign liquor and his spendthrift ways made him a pauper towards the end of his life. He died a broken man. If you visit his grave, you can feel his spirit reciting couplets to you even today.
The world makes it a point to kill Ghalib every day. Any person who drinks and recites poetry is referrd to as “Ghalib”. Even if he is sloshed and recites the most pathetic lines ever heard, he will still be called Ghalib. What a bunch of losers we are? A drunk is a drunk, and a poet is a poet. A combination of both is a drunk pet but not Ghalib. Another way of murdering him is the host of collections that claim to be “Ghalib ke Gajalen”- my my, what a way of mudering a Ghazal and the poet. Lines which are capable of starting genocide are passed off as creations from the pen of this literary giant. What a waste!
Ghalib is the mascot of urdu poetry in India. During his lifetime, the man hardly got any recognition but after that there is hardly anybody who doesn’t know of him. He has been the inspiration of poets and pathetic poets equally. I once saw a man who tried to play down his heart break by sipping a bottle of fruit beer on the terrace with Ghalib playing in the background. The whole set-up was hilarious but between us there was once man who was ably supporting the heartbroken man. That was Ghalib with his words. Atleast the dead think unlike the living.
Both Devdas and Ghalib are dead but the memories are still alive. The memories are so alive that we kill them everyday with our actions. Their plight can be best described in a famous joke about a man who was cursed that he would turn in his grave every time his wife cheated on him. Very soon the man was hung as a ceiling fan in St. Peter’s office.
Needless to say, the man remains a ceiling fan and Devdas and Ghalib die a thousand deaths everyday.
P.S. The words are the personal opinion of the author and are not meant to harm or offend any person living or dead.
Their similarities are phenomenal. Both hailed from rich nobility but when death came they were paupers. They both had a liking for ‘spirits’ which turned them into ‘spirits’. And both of them said words which have been repeated by generations with passage of time. But then, there was a basic difference between both these men- Devdas was a figment of imagination which was brought to life by Sarat Chandra Chatterjee in his magnum opus “Devdas” while Mirza Ghalib was indeed a part of India’s history with him gracing Gali Qasim Jaan in Ballimaran in the walled city of Delhi. Devdas lived a life of misery due to his “fatal mistake of refusing Paro” while Ghalib’s sorrow was a complex mix of a dissatisfied marriage,loss of seven children and his reputation of being a “ladies man”.
Devdas came from a legacy of landed gentry. Educated in British ruled Calcutta (Oh yes! Devdas never went adroad as distorted by the Cinematic Gods of bollywood) he presents the image of a weak man who doesn’t have the guts to accept his love for Paro, his neighbour. Paro on the other hand had taken Dev to be her husband for life before she finds that her status was a element of fun for her love’s household and was coerced to marry a widower who apparently was richer than Dev;s family. Love hits a roadblock. Paro realizes that her “husband for life” theory kind of fell on his face (most women in the 21st century would agree with me that this theory either can be termed as stupid or has to be repeated many times before finding the right ”person.”) Anyways, what is bygone is bygone. Dev lands up in the arms of the courtesan Chandramukhi who also falls in love with him. Along with her came the killer alcholhol which siphoned off everything out of Dev’s system. Death came with lots of pain. But Dev became an icon for all the future generations of lovers in the Indian Diaspora who found failure in this emotion.
Ghalib on the other hand was born in Agra (a section of people somehow call Agra the “city of love-makers). Love-making indeed generated a good result in the form of Ghalib. Anyways, he never did anything for a living. Surviving on money doled out by the state and patronized by his friends, he spent his life writing urdu ghazals and couplets. Drawing inspiration from the great Meer Tauqi Meer, his persianised Urdu became a source of oxygen for the asphyxiated intelligentsia. History speaks of his competition with Zauq- the court poet of Mughal Emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar II. Although, he was married very early, he never had any children who lived (Seven of his children died). The pain can be traced in his writings which were drenched with sorrow many a times. Poets say that Ghalib could make you cry without making your tear glands work. This 19th century literary figure gave a new dimension to Urdu writings. Not only was he a good poet, but his prose too had deep-rooted effect on the readers. His death was indeed a loss for all the lovers of his literary creations.
Are you feeling as if I am trying to write History in my own words? Okay, you are partially right because the point that I am going to make now needed a bit of introduction on these men.
People have a different way of abusing Devdas. The world did not let him Rest in peace the moment he died. Every male who refuses to shave is referred to as “Devdas”. “Arrey, I may not wish to yield the razor for umpteen reasons- for lethargy to absence of shaving cream- but does that make me a Devdas”? The answer is no. What the world refuses to acknowledge is that Devdas died with time and every time you try to equate another human being with him, you basically are killing him again and again. Not to mention the fact that the world thinks that every Paro or for that matter Chandramukhi is bound to have a Devdas. Is there a cause and effect relationship between all three of them? No! Drinking alone is being a Devdas, rebelling against one’s folks is being a Devdas, refusing Paro is also being a Devdas. Last, but not the least, visiting Chandramukhi after losing Paro is also being a Devdas. If that be the reason, movies like “Mumbai Matinee” and “The 40-year old…..” would never be made. Shocking was the day when my 80-year old grandmother remarked at somebody who went beserk after a foreigner, “He has lost his brains; bloody sex crazy Devdas”. God! We cannot imagine how many times both Devdas and Sarat Chandra must have turned in their graves.
But why is the world killing Devdas like this everyday? Do we have a right to crucify him in this grotesque manner every single moment in our lives? The answer is no! We all accept that his love for Paro was totally unadulterated. It was not like the “emotion” most of us have these days which is laced more with hormones and material benefits than with emotions which had no rhyme and reason and was mostly selfless. His “confusion” and his being “pulled apart” between family honour and love can be given the benefit of doubt. As the modern version of Paro reminds him ofhis confusion by saying, “Dev, log pyar karte hai, yeh pyar karma chahna kya hota hai (People fall in love. What implies when you say that you wish to fall in love)”? His loyalty quotient was so high that till the last day he kept screaming Paro at the top of his alcohol filled lungs which ultimately led to his death. This is unbelievable, isn’t it? Chandramukhi was a courtesan who fell in love with Dev (at least the women in Sarat Chandra’s words were sure of what they wanted) and tried to nurse him back to health. But to no avail. The Devdas saga had ended for Sarat Chandra.
Contrary to the world ridiculing him, Devdas was a man of courage. Let me tell you, it took a lot of courage for a Indian nobleman (even if it be a fictional one) to fall in love with somebody who was not of his family status. In today’s world where eco-socio-geo-political factors affect the equation between a man and a woman, such courage is hardly to be seen. Rebellion is not always courage. Perhaps people have understood the real meaning of the words, “If your father is poor, it’s your destiny, but if your father-in-law is poor, it’s your stupidity”. Applies equally to both genders.
Coming to Mirza Asadullah Khan “Ghalib”, his story is a complex mix. “Miyan Ghalib” became more famous after he died and created a following which a become a sort of religion. Followed equally in India, Pakistan and the Indian diaspora, his words touch the deepest corners of the heart. From the deeply motivating, “Khudi ko kar buland itna” to the sorrowful “Hazaron Khwahishen aisi”- Ghalib made a place in the heart of all his followers. A failed marriage, loss of seven children and his tendency to “stray” led him write prose and poetry which became immortal with time. His penchant for foreign liquor and his spendthrift ways made him a pauper towards the end of his life. He died a broken man. If you visit his grave, you can feel his spirit reciting couplets to you even today.
The world makes it a point to kill Ghalib every day. Any person who drinks and recites poetry is referrd to as “Ghalib”. Even if he is sloshed and recites the most pathetic lines ever heard, he will still be called Ghalib. What a bunch of losers we are? A drunk is a drunk, and a poet is a poet. A combination of both is a drunk pet but not Ghalib. Another way of murdering him is the host of collections that claim to be “Ghalib ke Gajalen”- my my, what a way of mudering a Ghazal and the poet. Lines which are capable of starting genocide are passed off as creations from the pen of this literary giant. What a waste!
Ghalib is the mascot of urdu poetry in India. During his lifetime, the man hardly got any recognition but after that there is hardly anybody who doesn’t know of him. He has been the inspiration of poets and pathetic poets equally. I once saw a man who tried to play down his heart break by sipping a bottle of fruit beer on the terrace with Ghalib playing in the background. The whole set-up was hilarious but between us there was once man who was ably supporting the heartbroken man. That was Ghalib with his words. Atleast the dead think unlike the living.
Both Devdas and Ghalib are dead but the memories are still alive. The memories are so alive that we kill them everyday with our actions. Their plight can be best described in a famous joke about a man who was cursed that he would turn in his grave every time his wife cheated on him. Very soon the man was hung as a ceiling fan in St. Peter’s office.
Needless to say, the man remains a ceiling fan and Devdas and Ghalib die a thousand deaths everyday.
P.S. The words are the personal opinion of the author and are not meant to harm or offend any person living or dead.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Yoga and the politics of “Gourd”!!!!
I was appalled when I heard that one of India’s esteemed practitioners of Yoga had declared his plans of jumping into the fray of the 2013 general elections. His rise from being a “humble” yoga instructor to civil servants to an ideologue in India (The days the media airs his views on everything from price rise to H1N1 virus) has been phenomenal. In the initial years we had him speaking on the benefits of yoga but with time this man has started walking on the “road to sainthood”. Roads were built after him, a fully dedicated television channel showing him live throughout the day gave strong competition to the TRPs of other entertainment channels and the “Who’s Who” of India would queue up for an appointment with him. The greatest shock came to me when 16 Governors and 20 Chief Ministers were present at the inauguration of a “Yoga University” started by him.
Popularity charts rated him as the “icon in the making”. “Pranayam” and “kapal bhati” started the day of millions of Indians. His gatherings attracted rich and poor alike. Entry could be bought (proximity to the dias was decided by how many zeroes one could add) or could be sought (The last rows were always crowded with poor people). I still remember that my sometimes “not so nice” father bought tickets to one of these gatherings. Two grands poorer, he forced me to wake up at 4 am in the morning. After walking for almost 2 miles through roads where there were no traces of human civilization we reached the venue. It resembled ‘Noah’s Ark”- the whole human, primate, canine and feline population of the city semed to be present there. Following queues depending upon how much one had paid for the tickets one reached the huge field in which the instructors were supposed to teach yoga. It reminded me of visits to Lord Balaji at Tirupati. Rich or poor, you can have a glimpse of God, but the waiting period was inversely proportional to the amount of money you paid for the darshan. Holy smoke!
The convention started with the lead speaker talking about the benefits of health. This was followed by instructions in exercises, and a combined lecture on the benefits of these exercises, patriotism and MNC bashing. “The whole war around the world is all about marketing of western products”- these words were capable of rendering quite a few people jobless and making “globalization” dead meat. The harmful effects of coke and pepsi were enumerated (Baba, whatever you say , I haven’t been able to give up my addiction to the colas till now) and equated to a bathroom cleaner (some right-wing organization , I later learnt had proved that the lavatory could be cleaned sparkling clean using a cola. Wow! Harpic finally has a competitor.)
Some exercises were equally tough as the words of the Baba. Trying them out could mean either a fracture or tying yourself into a “Gordian knot”. I had a tough time convincing my over-excited father to desist from trying them out. Had Baba come to know that his appetizer last night were three pegs of scotch, the invitation would have immediately stood cancelled. Meanwhile Baba was asking his disciples not to eat anything except “Gourd- bootle,green, or snake”. Phew! Dad looked at me and said, “Oye puttar, wouldn’t roti lose its taste without aloo gobhi or baingan ka bharta?” I smiled at him and replied, “Who asked you to buy these passes for two grand when you knew that he is going to ask you to stop eating all this”. Dad made a face. He looks cute whenever he does that.
Suddenly, there was movement on the dias. The Governor had arrived. The burly old statesman entered folding his hands and straightaway made a dash into the feet of Baba. I was shocked. If not for he, the head of state should have not knelt in order to keep the honour of the state. Anyways, Baba blessed him. Then started the “I praise you, you praise me” session. Governor spoke on the revolution Baba had brought in the lives of Indians while Baba talked about the contribution of the Governor in the progress of the state. A few others were also praised for seconds- Mr. X, who had donated Rs. 5 Crores to Baba’s fund and Mr. Y, who hosted Baba. Yak yak and blah blah later, Baba continued with his recitals.
When the day’s programme ended, I breathed a sigh of relief. I would rather die at 50 holding a glass of scotch rather than be stretching my limbs at 75. As we walked out, what I saw was something that made me shocked in disbelief. A temporary bazaar had come up with all kinds of health food and supplements being sold- lemon grass, organic juice and of course, derivatives of the Gourd-juice, pulp, boiled – in every form possible. There were counters selling medicines, natural cosmetics (I wonder when bollywood divas would be modeling for Baba) and organic food. People scrambled to buy all these products. Maybe Baba’s words confused them. He never asked one to buy these things. He talked about a way of life to be followed. But then the “rich” of the city had one thing in shortage- logic. They bought everything possible. This reminded me of an old ad put up by an IAS coaching institute- “Please post your application form to UPSC and not to us”. Attending Baba’s camp assured quite a few people that they were beyond the clutches of morality. Baba was a superman. You could buy “time” by bribing the superman- directly or indirectly.
Needless to say, we never returned for the remaining days of the camp. Dad recited the benefits of Baba with a glass of scotch in his hands and kebabs by his side while I enumerated the benefits of the exercises watching Sharon Stone send Michael Douglas into frenzy. Mom was probably the only Baba loyalist who cursed us and snatched the passes saying, “I will religiously go tomorrow”. Let me clarify- next morning the whole household woke up at 7. It was probably afternoon for Baba by then.
Baba was constantly in news after that. One day he would be instructing Americans while cursing Uncle Sam (American were dumb! Baba proved it) and on the other day he would be making Japanese perpetually bow to him in Tokyo (Don’t these Orientals get bored of bowing). His Yoga University was going on in full swing while his aurvedic medicine factory was feeding the whole of the country. Baba featured on all kinds of merchandise. I somehow felt that very soon he would beat Ernesto Che Guevara as the most featured individual on merchandise. Maybe someday Baba would be tattooed on “strategic places”.
One politico who tried to challenge Baba’s might by dragging him into a controversy featuring some labour problems and mixing of caracass in his ayurvedic medicine factory found no support from any quarters. Even, the print and the electronic media which is expected to be the guardian of the interest of the democracy chose to show a “kissing controversy” between a small time starlet and a obscure singer rather than “analyse” the allegation. Baba’s brand equity was at a all time high.
Baba had struck the heart of every Indian. Combining emotion, fear and good old marketing, he managed to successfully project himself into the messiah of the common Indian who lived an indiscipline life. There were many others who tried to do this before but the lack of a marketing effort took all of them down with time. Baba had learnt from his peers. He was not going to repeat such a mistake. Patriotic songs, public service institutions with nominal charges for the populace and strategic use of technology helped Baba conquer the heart of millions. From baldness to infertility to jaundice and cancer- Baba was the doctor for all these ills. Every convention would feature patients who hd recovered. Teary-eyes, they would thank Baba for it. TVC, Asian Sky shop and others, please pick up a few cues from him.
The funniest part came with the market dynamics changing with regard to a few products. The “Gourd” family gained the most. At my hometown eating a bottle-gourd was considered to be a sign of poverty. But with Baba’s onslaught even the rich found gourds unaffordable. It became omnipresent. Juice, pulp, picked and sweetened gourd began to feature on the racks of up market shops. Oh my god! Non-vegetarians who were earlier ignored were now treated as outcastes. A gentleman once told me, “Watch Baba’s programme every morning. You will get over your addiction for non-vegetarian food”. I said, “Baba said something about celibacy too. I hope you are following it”. Baba had an opinion on everything. When H1N1 invaded India, Baba appeared on Television with some herb which was found in wilderness. Overnight, the herb became a bestseller. One company even launched an IPO for selling the herb and its derivatives.
Baba was lying low for a while practicing yoga when he suddenly reappeared. This time he talked of politics and his vision for the General elections of 2013. The whole statement was beyond my comparison. Baba you are great. The only difference between you and a certain “behenji” is that she made her statues after she entered politics, and you are entering politics with you being omnipresent in millions of hearts. I have no opinion on your decision on entering politics but at the same time I feel that over exposure might hurt your “brand equity”.
In years to come Baba will leave an empire which could put to shame the management policies of many of the India Inc corporations. I have no understanding of yoga or ayurveda. I live an indisciplined life. But I have certain understanding of business and brand-building. Baba, you give marketing and PR professionals a new field to study. You give management gurus a new turf to understand, but at the same time confuse even the politicians.
Whether Yoga and politics can co-exist and whether the “politics of gourd” will survive or perish; only time will tell. But there is a part of me which will always say that you will be more successful in assuring people of hair growth at right place than economic growth at wrong places.
P.S. The views aired are personal opinion of the author and are not meant to hurt the emotions of any person living or dead.
Popularity charts rated him as the “icon in the making”. “Pranayam” and “kapal bhati” started the day of millions of Indians. His gatherings attracted rich and poor alike. Entry could be bought (proximity to the dias was decided by how many zeroes one could add) or could be sought (The last rows were always crowded with poor people). I still remember that my sometimes “not so nice” father bought tickets to one of these gatherings. Two grands poorer, he forced me to wake up at 4 am in the morning. After walking for almost 2 miles through roads where there were no traces of human civilization we reached the venue. It resembled ‘Noah’s Ark”- the whole human, primate, canine and feline population of the city semed to be present there. Following queues depending upon how much one had paid for the tickets one reached the huge field in which the instructors were supposed to teach yoga. It reminded me of visits to Lord Balaji at Tirupati. Rich or poor, you can have a glimpse of God, but the waiting period was inversely proportional to the amount of money you paid for the darshan. Holy smoke!
The convention started with the lead speaker talking about the benefits of health. This was followed by instructions in exercises, and a combined lecture on the benefits of these exercises, patriotism and MNC bashing. “The whole war around the world is all about marketing of western products”- these words were capable of rendering quite a few people jobless and making “globalization” dead meat. The harmful effects of coke and pepsi were enumerated (Baba, whatever you say , I haven’t been able to give up my addiction to the colas till now) and equated to a bathroom cleaner (some right-wing organization , I later learnt had proved that the lavatory could be cleaned sparkling clean using a cola. Wow! Harpic finally has a competitor.)
Some exercises were equally tough as the words of the Baba. Trying them out could mean either a fracture or tying yourself into a “Gordian knot”. I had a tough time convincing my over-excited father to desist from trying them out. Had Baba come to know that his appetizer last night were three pegs of scotch, the invitation would have immediately stood cancelled. Meanwhile Baba was asking his disciples not to eat anything except “Gourd- bootle,green, or snake”. Phew! Dad looked at me and said, “Oye puttar, wouldn’t roti lose its taste without aloo gobhi or baingan ka bharta?” I smiled at him and replied, “Who asked you to buy these passes for two grand when you knew that he is going to ask you to stop eating all this”. Dad made a face. He looks cute whenever he does that.
Suddenly, there was movement on the dias. The Governor had arrived. The burly old statesman entered folding his hands and straightaway made a dash into the feet of Baba. I was shocked. If not for he, the head of state should have not knelt in order to keep the honour of the state. Anyways, Baba blessed him. Then started the “I praise you, you praise me” session. Governor spoke on the revolution Baba had brought in the lives of Indians while Baba talked about the contribution of the Governor in the progress of the state. A few others were also praised for seconds- Mr. X, who had donated Rs. 5 Crores to Baba’s fund and Mr. Y, who hosted Baba. Yak yak and blah blah later, Baba continued with his recitals.
When the day’s programme ended, I breathed a sigh of relief. I would rather die at 50 holding a glass of scotch rather than be stretching my limbs at 75. As we walked out, what I saw was something that made me shocked in disbelief. A temporary bazaar had come up with all kinds of health food and supplements being sold- lemon grass, organic juice and of course, derivatives of the Gourd-juice, pulp, boiled – in every form possible. There were counters selling medicines, natural cosmetics (I wonder when bollywood divas would be modeling for Baba) and organic food. People scrambled to buy all these products. Maybe Baba’s words confused them. He never asked one to buy these things. He talked about a way of life to be followed. But then the “rich” of the city had one thing in shortage- logic. They bought everything possible. This reminded me of an old ad put up by an IAS coaching institute- “Please post your application form to UPSC and not to us”. Attending Baba’s camp assured quite a few people that they were beyond the clutches of morality. Baba was a superman. You could buy “time” by bribing the superman- directly or indirectly.
Needless to say, we never returned for the remaining days of the camp. Dad recited the benefits of Baba with a glass of scotch in his hands and kebabs by his side while I enumerated the benefits of the exercises watching Sharon Stone send Michael Douglas into frenzy. Mom was probably the only Baba loyalist who cursed us and snatched the passes saying, “I will religiously go tomorrow”. Let me clarify- next morning the whole household woke up at 7. It was probably afternoon for Baba by then.
Baba was constantly in news after that. One day he would be instructing Americans while cursing Uncle Sam (American were dumb! Baba proved it) and on the other day he would be making Japanese perpetually bow to him in Tokyo (Don’t these Orientals get bored of bowing). His Yoga University was going on in full swing while his aurvedic medicine factory was feeding the whole of the country. Baba featured on all kinds of merchandise. I somehow felt that very soon he would beat Ernesto Che Guevara as the most featured individual on merchandise. Maybe someday Baba would be tattooed on “strategic places”.
One politico who tried to challenge Baba’s might by dragging him into a controversy featuring some labour problems and mixing of caracass in his ayurvedic medicine factory found no support from any quarters. Even, the print and the electronic media which is expected to be the guardian of the interest of the democracy chose to show a “kissing controversy” between a small time starlet and a obscure singer rather than “analyse” the allegation. Baba’s brand equity was at a all time high.
Baba had struck the heart of every Indian. Combining emotion, fear and good old marketing, he managed to successfully project himself into the messiah of the common Indian who lived an indiscipline life. There were many others who tried to do this before but the lack of a marketing effort took all of them down with time. Baba had learnt from his peers. He was not going to repeat such a mistake. Patriotic songs, public service institutions with nominal charges for the populace and strategic use of technology helped Baba conquer the heart of millions. From baldness to infertility to jaundice and cancer- Baba was the doctor for all these ills. Every convention would feature patients who hd recovered. Teary-eyes, they would thank Baba for it. TVC, Asian Sky shop and others, please pick up a few cues from him.
The funniest part came with the market dynamics changing with regard to a few products. The “Gourd” family gained the most. At my hometown eating a bottle-gourd was considered to be a sign of poverty. But with Baba’s onslaught even the rich found gourds unaffordable. It became omnipresent. Juice, pulp, picked and sweetened gourd began to feature on the racks of up market shops. Oh my god! Non-vegetarians who were earlier ignored were now treated as outcastes. A gentleman once told me, “Watch Baba’s programme every morning. You will get over your addiction for non-vegetarian food”. I said, “Baba said something about celibacy too. I hope you are following it”. Baba had an opinion on everything. When H1N1 invaded India, Baba appeared on Television with some herb which was found in wilderness. Overnight, the herb became a bestseller. One company even launched an IPO for selling the herb and its derivatives.
Baba was lying low for a while practicing yoga when he suddenly reappeared. This time he talked of politics and his vision for the General elections of 2013. The whole statement was beyond my comparison. Baba you are great. The only difference between you and a certain “behenji” is that she made her statues after she entered politics, and you are entering politics with you being omnipresent in millions of hearts. I have no opinion on your decision on entering politics but at the same time I feel that over exposure might hurt your “brand equity”.
In years to come Baba will leave an empire which could put to shame the management policies of many of the India Inc corporations. I have no understanding of yoga or ayurveda. I live an indisciplined life. But I have certain understanding of business and brand-building. Baba, you give marketing and PR professionals a new field to study. You give management gurus a new turf to understand, but at the same time confuse even the politicians.
Whether Yoga and politics can co-exist and whether the “politics of gourd” will survive or perish; only time will tell. But there is a part of me which will always say that you will be more successful in assuring people of hair growth at right place than economic growth at wrong places.
P.S. The views aired are personal opinion of the author and are not meant to hurt the emotions of any person living or dead.
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