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My new blog:[http://www.memorylane2956.blogspot.in/[title:Memory Lane]

Those long-neglected tastebuds....

I must confess to being blessed in that I have experienced 2 extremes of culinary transport in the modest duration of my life: an ineffable euphoria at one end, and complete apathy at the other. AS usual, the former has become the stuff of my dreams; never mind that opportunities to relive it all(bowdlerized perhaps) do present themselves occasionally.

I love good food. I love eating it, getting my hands into it, cooking it, smelling it, looking at it, commenting on it, thinking about it, you name it. And I enjoy every delectable morsel of a tempting platter with utmost abandon. No dish is irredeemable in my opinion, with a discerning eye and a loving touch, even the basest of tastes can acquire respectability. Why, even the staid idli can inspire spontaneous poetry if the proportions are right, if its warm succulence permeates uniformly throughout its body, if it yields shyly to the parting touch, (and not disintegrate promptly) and importantly, if it is accompanied by an appropriate concoction that tingles, no, skewers the tastebuds. As far as chutneys and sambars go, the hotter the better.

And how am I qualified to hold at (some) length on the merits of Indian cuisines? For starters, I must have traversed a fair portion of the wide spread that represents such an integral part of an Indian, fast-foods and takeaways notwithstanding. I have had Gujarati, Punjabi, Tamil(duh!), Telugu, Malayalam, Marawadi, Bengali and some other obscure and swoon-inducing preparations during my travels (read:transfers), spanning the entire spectrum from the smug, rich ghatia to the kara kuzhambu, the classic jalfrezi to the shahi tukdas of the imams, the beach-side milagai-bajjis to a mind-boggling crackerjacker of a vegetable hodgepodge I once had near Indore that set off a million bells ringing in my ears(sigh!). My discerning and highly exacting tongue has given my mother nightmares, deconstructing a carelessly put together dish to pinpoint its deficiencies, so much so that my official title of official family taster is well-deserved, if somewhat snide. I do get to polish off substantial helpings of veggies(yum! dig 'em) in the process, though.

Not to say that the perfectionist critic is an utter turkey in the kitchen himself. On the contrary, I make myself very useful at home indeed, and the success of many a get-together(food!) is directly attributable to my indispensable presence at the flameside. I can make a mean au gratin, a delectable chocolate cake, stuffed capsicum that would make you cry, and the basics of course. Say what you will, it is quite something else to savour the fruits of your exploits, even if some of those meet a rather unsavoury end, whereupon they are ingloriously consigned to be partaken by the self, for want of delirious admirers.

So where does my obssession with the palate stand vis-a-vis hostel life? Nowhere, sadly, except that once in a while, an insufferable yearning shatters the veneer of cruelly-imposed temperance in all matters gastral, and I inveigh bitterly against the (admittedly)adequate but completely uninspired and bland-enough-to-be-incapable-of-irritating-the-eye-if-poured-onto-it mess food. Even the occasional foray into a nearby restaurant leaves one underwhelmed. How does one remonstrate with the chef over an over-indulgence with green pepper or a niggardliness with fat? Some things just aren't the same. So when I survey a well-stocked kitchen, with a couple of beaming, helpful hands at my side to do the menial, I rub my hands in glee.

Let the imagination run amok...

'Banker to the poor'

Mohammad Yunus's felicitation by the Nobel Committee with this year's Nobel Peace Prize is a reminder of so many things at once. That there still is an ember of selflessness glowing somewhere out there, so things cannot be all bad. And a solid educational background needn't necessarily mean being closetted with thugs of books and mumbling incoherent nothings that one would be hard-pressed to seek the practical relevance of.

This Bangladesh national comes with impressive academic baggage: an Economics Ph.D under a scholarship, a tenure as faculty at Colorado University, and a stint at Chittagong University later. Following the debilitating war against Pakistan in 1971, he set to action during the famine that consumed the land, starting off by granting small loans from his own pocket to small-scale cottage industry workers who could boast little or no collateral to support normal loans from big-name banks. Of course, it was a risk, as such endeavours usually are, but it succeeded, built solely on faith and solidarity. All the borrowers made the payment back, he discovered.

His pioneering movement of microcredit has become world-renowned now(starting with his Grameen bank, the majority of the beneficiaries being women), pulling millions from destitution to self-sufficiency.

Humbling indeed..... This is the sort of stuff you would think had gone out of fashion: an individual with a solid social conscience and the brains to work on it, to carry it to fruition, sans the smug and fatalistic pontification most of us so gleefully indulge in. I cannot think of anything more richly rewarding than an effort drawing from basic human trust turning so productive.

Laud on the cliches, for once wholly deserved. Here is something to cheer about while corruption, terrorism, rampant social inequities and the like continue to darken the horizon....

Heat, jasmine and billingsgate

I had almost forgotten what it felt like to take a ride on a Chennai local bus during peak hours(typically late evening). In fact, it is possible that by sheer chance, my last few such excursions had danced around the critical combination for the complete experience: muggy skies, spots of rain(intermittent, mind you), a festival on the morrow, end of especially hot day, a route liberally sprinkled with potholes and streets with slim waistlines, a suitably reckless character in the driver's seat and a rickety bus held precariously together by adroit manoeuvres, periodic load cycles and several lifetimes on Chennai roads, in short, magic.

You will find everyone in Chennai on a bus. The humble road-layer, the dreamy student, the sassy tots, the stiff-upper-lipped, heavily perfumed glamdolls, the heavily starched-sari-clad mamis, the no-nonsense, betel-chewing fishmongers, with humungous baskets laden with leftover wares, cellphones of all shapes and tones, vermillion, vibudhi, lipgloss, shoeshine.....

You gaze anxiously at the skies, which have opened up again, the road, which bears with it a fresh crowd of festive shoppers from the nearby vegetable market, all headed, what do you know, for the bus-stand and the bus you await in a state of stasis interrupted by moments of observation. They make a beeline for the tiny shelter as the rain comes down, hard. You jostle vigorously for legroom, aiming a few kicks at exposed shins, infusing just so much venom as to prompt a hurried parting of bodies, but not to irk unduly. You overhear gossip disseminated across several strange heads, and from all directions, talk animated and undeterred by the elements or the atmosphere.

The bus arrives finally, after many a false alarm, when squinted eyes, aided by impatience would herald its coming, only to behold a temptingly empty bus going, well, why on earth would one want a route from Kelambakkam to Kalaignar Nagar, or some such thing? Immediately, the rabble awakes to spirited action, shoving like there is no tomorrow, spicing up the situation with some choice expletives and exhortations. "Edam udu, paa. Konjam ulla pogalaam, edam irukkambodhu." etc. Apparently, a leg-space of anything close to a quarter foot squared indicates that another half a dozen commuters may be comfortably accomodated.

You are cursed, poked and bandied around till the conductor blows the whistle, after what seems like an eternity. Some desperate attempts at clinging on to the nearest window and the merest hint of naked footboard are made, mostly successful. The bus tilts dangerously low towards the left , but miraculously, takes off. Meanwhile, loose change is passed, dropped, lost amid a sea of legs, the conductor barks at an outstretched hand with a 100 rupee-note, and somehow everyone has a ticket.

Tightly wedged between a loop of once-fragrant but now decaying jasmine, perched atop a massive nest of luxuriant tresses, which is all I can see of its owner, not that I care much, since I eye it, fascinated, and a sleepy old dodger with a wild eye, lurching in tandem with the bus and the driver's whim, I discover I cannot even shift my hand without disturbing the temporary equilibrium and courting wrathful glances. Furthermore, an itch starts to build up somewhere, cannot even determine where, but it must be attended to. This urgent summon to immediate action cannot be ignored, so I manage to dislodge a hand to attend to the needful.

Another bump and lurch, an inadvertent jostle with the petite lady alongside, and she chastises you bitterly. "Boor! Lack of manners, handling a lady thus. What were you thinking?" I try to appease her, mumbling broken apologies, when what I want to say is "If it is space you crave, and an absence of offensive presences such as mine, you might take an auto. When you get into a crowded bus, you are buying into all this, so shut your face..." in an irate tone. Of course, that never happens, for the average female tongue in Chennai bears a close resemblance to a whiplash, or something more dramatic. Wandering hands in search of a rail deliver a blow to the top of my head, nearly knocking me senseless. I finger the spot to make sure I haven't lost a handful of hair, and feign a smile when the apology arrives.

The weird crush has an almost phantasmagoric quality to it. The aromas and stenches mingle in varying proportions to produce a stomach-turner one instant, a dizzying spell another, a putrid miasma the next. Dried fish can drown out roses only so long, and Dior must prevail sometime, only to give way to liquor-flavoured breaths. All the while, the noise has gone to assume the aura of a symphony, well, nearly. The blaring horn, the buzzing phones, the whistle, the nasal essays of the insouciant flower-seller, the more subdued tones of 2 management consultants, the false-accented squeals of those accessory-laden mannequins, struggling gamely with English, beside other things, the heavy breathing of the man behind me... all come together to massage the senses into an agreeable stupor...

When my stop arrives, I am conveyed by a stream of hands, legs and other legs down onto the street. The immediate sensation is of relief, the purse is intact, and I am still in one piece. To my chagrin, the bus empties to the point of disbelief. Its future passengers won't know of the other-worldly experience I just had. And yes, the roads have cleared and the stars are showing through!

Not quite....

But if the conditions are ripe, you might want to try out the humble Chennai Managarapperunthu system. Who knows, it could make your day, if you live to tell the tale.

Who cares???

or, as an extension, what will come of it? Why should I, when no one else is bound to notice, or reciprocate? Big deal! It is too far gone out, anyway....

We are a fickle, caviling, inert lot of reprobates with egos that pander to the bloated self alone. We'd like to believe we are model citizens, with a sound social conscience, meaning that we think, talk and feel like model citizens. Action is beside the point, of course.

We bemoan the sight of an overflowing dump, and curse the offenders to the vilest depths and beyond, and suppose that a periodic increase in volume exonerates oneself of any culpability whatsoever. "What a world," we pontificate, and grimace. Corrective measures are doomed to fail, we muse, sigh and grumble. What's the use? When the neighbour shovels mud into the hole I am digging? When I perennially turn out the salesman with the slammed door to behold? What am I selling? A vision of Utopia, of course....

Colas have dangerous levels of spurious additives contained in them? You know when the problem has worsened in the years since it was first brought to light (despite mass outrage and obligatory declamations at the time), that there is precious little being done in the way of remedy. "Drinking water is bound to present a grimmer picture. Will someone analyse mother's milk and prove that it is just as polluted these dark days, so as not to compromise my lucrative contract?"(or some such thing..), reasons the Big Ham who made the macho weepie a well-represented genre, Shahrukh Khan. Fair enough. He must have some inkling of the fact, ringing box-office registers notwithstanding, of his inability to act his way out of a convention of door-posts, let alone a film; poor guy, what better balm for the soul than the green stuff?

In other words, we are headed for oblivion anyway, so why not expedite the inevitable? That implies no time for traffic rules, basic civic sense, acknowledgement of etiquette, rational conversation as a means of headway, and of course, none at all for attempting to reverse the ominous flow. Perhaps what we need most are unflinching punitive measures such as the ever-dependable fine(the heavier the better) - believe me, implementing this in the smallest of ways can yield results - or something more drastic, if it can survive the political stumbling blocks. After all, a rosy prospect is a poor deterrent. We all crave the perfect system, but that hasn't exactly cut us into shape.

What is worrying is that public memory grows shorter by the day. In fact, it is quite possible that most of us think we've always been this way: dirty, unruly, dispassionate, corrupt etc etc. We have learnt to live with lax rules and insanitary conditions, service delays and mercenary industrial practices, exploitation and lies.... and rarely remark it any more. We go abroad, admire the well-oiled wheels of the system as though it were something far removed from our experience, like something incompatible with our Indian consciousness. (Of course, the frustration that comes with it fuels caustic remarks galore about how impersonal and artificial it all is, home is where the heart is and so on...). The efficacy of collective efforts cannot be emphasised enough, beaten to death though it may be. But then our shallow and pointless cynicism abhors 'simplistic' predictions and solutions, even if they are, for better or worse, the only ones.

One step at a time.

Amadeus... the conundrum of mediocrity

Peter Shaffer's Amadeus is a very smart play. Not particularly distinguished in its style, rhetoric or organisation, it might have been a spectacular debacle when it was released. After all, presenting the legendary composer as a wilful, vulgar buffoon with scant regard for royalty or decorum and an equal lack of perspective in the matter of his talents, was a choice that flirted dangerously with instant rejection. To be sure, the device is not entirely successful, at least within the framework of the play, which demands that Mozart go from crass to genius without missing a beat, be thoroughly earthy and yet emotionally suspect, naive and yet possess fleeting moments of unbridled hubris (deserved?), and forge routine connections with the divine in his compositions.

The veracity of the facts in the play has been declared inconsequential in the larger scheme of things, which is as it should be. Authenticity would drain the production of all drama. Would a Mozart who is industrious, mannered(in public, as he actually was) and modest, and not, famously, the 'voice of God', be as dynamic a leading man? Shaffer recognises the vast divide between an average man and his conception of genius, and astutely fords the gap by, quite simply, infusing the mundane, the repugnant, even, into the character of the Master. He goes from an icon or a proud bust to a living, breathing person with exaggerated, every-day failings that allow us to condone his creative brilliance (can you imagine that?!).

When Salieri moans that God unjustly patronises the cad, while shunning the saint, we pity both. Mozart may be disproportionately endowed, but then, he is an uncouth, arrogant, weak, childish wastrel, with a free-ranging concupiscence for women and spirits. Surely it cannot get any worse! But then, Salieri is seen to be glaringly dispossessed of his rightful dues. He is chaste, pious, charitable, has no fun whatsoever, and to rub salt into the wound, deplorably untalented, while his profligate contemporary evinces that touch of inspiration he covets so.

Shaffer gives the brooding Salieri several impassioned and acerbic monologues, ranting against God, declaring war, vowing vengeance, and so on, while softening considerably in the musical segments. His mediocrity as a composer doesn't undermine his appreciation of his deficiencies, something everyone perceives with a warm glow of satisfaction and empathy. When he wheezes, ridden with desperation and self-pity, "He planted the desire, like a lust in my body, and then made me mute..", one feels a frisson of recognition traverse one's spine, far from involuntarily, mind you. To that end, his denunciation of God's motivations appears to justify his character arc, only illustrating how deep-seated the theme underlying the identification of the audience with Salieri is meant to be.

The play crafts a handful of characters orbiting Salieri, and each one, without exception, is a broad and unapologetic caricature. Shaffer makes almost everyone but the feuding duo 'musical idiots', thus keeping the spotlight firmly on them. Added to isolate the action, the framing sequences are clumsy and unnecessary, and constitute mid-grade soap, really, punctuated by Salieri's assorted grimaces and declamations. It possesses, besides, a pronounced ribald tone whenever Salieri is(briefly) not speechifying, which swings to unremittingly gloomy when he is. To spice up things a bit, German-Italian politics is unsubtly woven into the exchanges: the principal language is obviously German, with the 'foreign' Italian dialogues popping up now and then.

This is the kind of play that would make for a fine film. And has. The 1984 award-winner makes several changes in the script(Shaffer tinkered with it himself), and adds some much needed humour, mostly self-decrying, but F.Murray Abraham, as Salieri, is simply magnificient. His opening scenes show him revelling in even his obscurity, and his avowed love for music rings genuine. The production is lavish, garish, sumptuous and entertaining. And the scenes of Salieri virtually 'driving the man to the grave' are more persuasive and less abrupt than in the play.

Does 'Amadeus' work? Is it heartfelt or merely manipulative? The answer to that stems from primarily, one's appreciation for Mozart's work, and the fact that we all feel, rather selfishly, that we have in some sense been shortchanged in life, that perhaps the balance tips over, more often than not, on the greener end. That, in a nutshell, is the play's rather tenuous raison d'etre. And the fear of being forgotten, 'extinct', and being championed by a Salieri.......

The horror...the horror...

These words, spoken by a somnolent Marlon Brando in the landmark war movie Apocalypse Now, (based on Joseph Conrad's short novel Heart of Darkness) could very well serve as the anthem of our times. Acts of random(but, purportedly, premeditated and meticulously constructed) and vicious violence in the name of some personal cause come splattered in all their sickening, gory glory(!) on the front pages of dailies, and so inured have we become to the existence of the monster amongst us that we shudder, mostly involuntarily, bemoan the chaos at the heart of this modern disease, and turn the page.

I confess I can hardly begin to skim the surface in this matter, and that prospect alone is the stuff of several nightmares, but what struck me is how impersonal a tone the modern-day cry for attention is acquiring. It is more than simply scary or puzzling to observe that today, in order to have your way, you simply blow up your neighbours or, for the heck of the arbitrariness, blow up Timbuktu's Central Square, for after all, we, as a world people, still abhor homicide as the most grievous of crimes. Someone is bound to sit up and protest!

Meanwhile, Israel and Hezbollah continue to challenge each other to bring on their latest toys and do whatever it takes to save face. How ironical it is that Israel issues an obligatory warning to inhabitants of its latest target town to evacuate or else!!.... and promptly blast it off the surface of the earth. The lackadaisical response of the superpowers to the gruesome face-off in Lebanon has been berated, ridiculed and scrutinised just about everywhere, but combine a 'once-bitten' lesson with the prospect of measly returns from intervention in these minor skirmishes, and is it any wonder why? Even so, one must acquire the distinctly American trait of exuding an air of self-possession and self-worth even when you are making a prize ass of yourself , if only to gauge the 'depths' of the mind of Uncle Sam's head-cop.

And in a time when dialogue or negotiations are synonymous with a blind-alley or a political plateau, the only exchanges are those that maim, impale and kill. Pity, therefore that all efforts at human communication have taught us that they are dispensable. Brevity sets in, conversations of the rat-a-tat-tat proceed with ruthless efficiency. If anything, the scale of destruction we witness by the day can only galvanize as yet undecided forces into action, convincing them of the infallibility of the weakest principles and demands. Indeed, the power one can command today simply by virtue of an evil(selfish) impulse is all-encompassing.

The intolerance exhibited by man today is quite astonishing. His choler, a weird and unfathomable beast. Was it ever so facile to exterminate life as it is today? And the atmosphere as conducive? We breed fanatics who single-mindedly seek their own brand of justice while ignoring all others. It is a wonder that the intense focus and solidarity with their cause these anarchists must necessarily possess to make any impact whatsoever, are born of weak, dastardly and deranged minds. What this cesspool of ill-directed energy could beget if properly channelised!

It is often said that it is the idea that endures, not the man. Justification enough for genocide as a means to a noble end? Clearly, the deeply impersonal connotations of this statement have suppressed the point. It is as if, in order to prove the adage right, an idea must consume the man. Does that make sense? Does the modern insurrectionary regard himself as merely a concept, an idea born of fever and passion, and nothing more? Has the fire shrivelled the heart? Can one behold one's standard fluttering proudly in the wind that bears the report of a gun, the thud of bullet against bone, the dying gasps of a fellow human, the stench of rotting flesh, and the vestiges of humanity, and yet hold one's head aloft? Can a victory more fittingly Pyrhhic be imaginable? Call me naive, but I'd like to believe, with all the fervour I can muster, that we haven't sunk that low yet. Maybe some misguided souls just overreached a little...

People learn exactly what they choose to, from history. And heaven knows we have spilled enough blood down the ages. Our heritage of wars-as-a-solution-to-incompatibility speaks volumes about our innate penchant for violence as a means of expression. But then, the last century did feature 2 of the greatest war generals of our time, and they were contemporaries: one who went from patriot to demented bigot and war-criminal in the space of 2 decades, and another who went from strength to strength in advocating the efficacy of sane, rational, well-informed dialogue and non-violence as the nemesis of violence. Hitler had more up his sleeve than just the prosperity of his motherland(or should I say fatherland?), and he made it abundantly clear. Another brilliant mind that festered even as it shone, a minefield of creativity-gone-haywire, prejudice and hate. History dealt him his just fate, but may not be able to keep up with the spate of clones who emerge every day.

Surely, the cruellest irony was that, in the context of the Mahatma, the Beast killed Beauty(to use a metaphor)... and all we do now is recall him fondly and extol his beliefs.

But I digress. Are we to blame for believing that it is only the drastic that merits attention? That only wilful chaos can bear a constructive outcome? Personally, that seems too irresponsible an excuse to me, but it is obviously the general impression, if what is happening in the world is to be believed. The value of human life has depreciated sufficiently to make terror a viable and vastly versatile weapon. The shock value of such a tactic must be irresistible to its proponents. And fatal to its targets.

Horace's immortal lines : "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" (It is sweet and appropriate to die for one's country, or in general, for one's beliefs, really) were hardly meant to be imbibed as such, thus glorifying the spirit of war and dissent.

Things look bleak...unremittingly bleak. There is no solution, it appears, to weeding out anti-social elements from within us. Will people learn to be wise, humane, well-meaning, moral, intelligent citizens of the world? Phew! What a staggering proposition it sounds like! The future generations sure have a hell of a lot of cleaning up to do....

The Odd Couple....revamped

Azure blue skies.... itinerant wisps... ugly black letting loose with flippant fury.... dripping off the rails in viscous slow-motion... pockmarked surface, swaying reeds... soaked to the bones, gotta make it fast...damn! late again, flaccid muscles loath to budge....sweet slumber, wash over... gentle, persuasive oblivion... too silent, who's there? just that cantankerous fool... perennial pest... pungent zing, that concoction... impenetrable reds... that impossibly lovely curve of the calf....

Bang! Key turning in lock, ceremonious feet-wiping session, followed by an assortment of sounds, a hearty sneeze, noisy clearing of throat, logging on to Windows, that officious peal.... The light that then floods the room, insinuates itself into the system, banishing the last vestiges of sleep, and the supine self twists into an uncomfortable position.

Effectively, it is farewell to elusive sleep, second night in a row. I curse passionately under my breath; it is incredible how vile the incensed senses permit themselves to be on occasion. The guilty party meanwhile settles himself cosily in his chair and proceeds to immerse himself in the magellah of mediocrity, the latest hit from the homeland cinema stables. (Restraint compels me not to divulge details of the above, for fear of alienating certain close friends of mine, by seeming biased). This is the kind of product that defies the constraints of devices such as headphones, pronouncing the cacophony in syllables just as clear as though they were spelled out.

In short, I am at the end of my tether, awakened rudely from beckoning sleep by a boorish roommate, whose finer traits vanish in the light of his recent crimes. I cannot sleep, and there are few things quite as infuriating, as well qualified to drive one to distraction, as sleep lost. I lay awake, practising various patterns of obloquy, all muttered of course, for decency forbids, after all.

To add insult to injury, he commences a voice chat. Now I am a very light-sleeper, even a warble suffices to stir the senses into unwelcome activity. This is far from the last straw, this is dropping down the ravine of wakefulness at a furious pace, the last straw glimmering in the far distance. I affect discomfort, toss about, mumbling a bit and sundry other such signals. Promptly filtered out by the headphones, of course. Now becomes all the more apparent the phenomenon of how someone under headphones tends to jack up the speech volume almost inadvertently, although at this moment all I can think of is how all this is a devious and wretched ploy to get back at me for..... wait, he cannot have a grievance against me surely? The epitome of cleanliness and order, the very soul of consideration(:))..........

So I am forced to eavesdrop on a conversation in that most comical of Indian tongues, with its uncouth drawls and vowel endings. Predictable to the letter, it touches upon food, acquaintance and work in that order, with an attendant lack of mirth that is almost somnolent....almost. It has me fairly worked up, and in a murderous state. Oh! Why did I sneak that afternoon nap? Woe betide me if I ever do so again... False, blatantly false ring those claims that the body demands a daily aggregate of sleeping hours, as opposed to a continuum.

So while I am wide awake in bed, for the 5th hour nearly, the clock hands outlining 3 am at the moment, I try desperately to clear the mind of the million thoughts that plague it. Focusing on a blank screen has produced some results in the past.... But the mind's eye wanders, the screen lends itself to chimerical flights, absurd connections and persisting insomnia.

Unfortunately, books in bed only stimulate these senses, rather than lull them to sleep. So that's that. Counting sheep assumes interesting dimensions of its own. The sheep morph into Quixote's adversaries, starting me on another trail, no less compelling than its predecessors.

I try under the bedspread, then over it, sideways, on the belly, full stretch, curled up, and other postures I seem incapable of during exercise sessions. But to no avail. Of course, how long can this last? But vengeance will be mine.

The mornings are my domain, when I may return the shenanigans of the night with interest. I awake noisily, push the bed around, croon discordantly, adjust the chair, shut the door a couple of times and jog on the spot, all the while observing the effects out of the corner of my eye. i draw the curtains, one of his pet peeves(he hates dust and sunlight), and adjust the blinds so the first shafts of sun illuminate his corner with the joyous intimation of dawn.

Ah, bliss.... He turns, tosses, I see the lips move, do I perceive a curse? I redouble my exertations, filled with the satisfaction of the frog who strangles the stork on his way into the gullet. I tell you, there is nothing as pleasurable as sweet, sweet revenge, especially when apparently nonchalant.

To cap it all off, while he slips off to the toilet for a minute, I exit, lock the door and remove myself from the scene for an hour, aware that his keys lie within. Later, on my return, I am greeted with an inscrutable glance, typical of him, which I interpret as constipation. I smile sunnily, and let him in. Maybe I should have stayed away longer.....

Needless to say, this is the first time I have shared a room this long. Pathological dislike of his species aside, the sneaky politics is fun, and to be sure, I am sleeping well again.

Adaptation... a role model

I just watched Akira Kurosawa's Throne of Blood, starring the legendary Mifune. It was simply breathtaking, with an overpowering visual sense and such stark, cool cinematography that it needs no dialogue, the images propel the narrative admirably.

Importantly, the film is a direct adaptation of Shakespeare's Macbeth. And a mighty fine one, too. Of course, Lady Macbeth is not portrayed as the domineering, unhinged original, but as restrained and coldly calculating, erupting in a moment's decision, her placidity only heightening the sense of disquiet created by every vile insinuation. Also, the indoor scenes are purposely underplayed, with a static camera and long-shots, but this again adds to the claustrophobic atmosphere that eventually stifles Macbeth, sorry, Washizu.

An interesting observation about the film is how 'what goes around, comes around'. Indeed, in his superior's murder, Washizu is merely emulating him, and such an act of betrayal is apparently not uncommon in medieval Japan. Contrary to Shakespeare, where the serpent of Lady Macbeth taunts him over his indecision and his virility, to carry out the awful deed.

The eerie witch scenes in the forest are shot in high-contrast, giving them a surreal, otherwordly feel, which only blurs the line between reality and the subconscious: was a prophecy ever made, or did Macbeth take fate into his hands to chart his destiny as he saw fit?

I must mention the plot device of the 'moving forest', which is rather effective here, perhaps more so than the 'none of woman born can harm him' angle in the play. Check out the film, it is one of Kurosawa's best. And a model of intelligent adaptation, as well.

Adaptation....lessons in shameless bowdlerization, courtesy Hollywood

What a lovely movie... knowing, sly, crazy, ill-paced and offbeat.

Sorry, folks. This isn't meant to be a eulogy to the odd little film, which itself I deem too oddball for its own good. Indeed, it even has the screenwriter for the protagonist, with an antipode for a brother, or is it the other way? Never mind. On to the subject of this post.

I have never really been the biggest fan of Hollywood adaptations of well-established literary works. It is a blessing that the most successful and appealing films freely and quite adeptly adapt popular fiction and, on the weight of starpower and cinematic wizardry, create more out of nothing. Which is why John Grisham ought to be a screenwriter(really, who even remembers The Firm or The Client on paper?), Stephen King is better remembered for Spacek's telekinetic vengeance in Carrie and the atrocious The Shining( not too many are aware of Shawshank Redemption's King-connection) than for his monstrously weak body of work, and the mediocre nostalgia-piece To Kill a Mockingbird made for an effective and evocative film, even with its racial stridency.

Not all adaptations tread the treacherous path, though. Some worthy adaptations actually achieve the rare feat of eclipsing their inspirations. The oft-quoted example of The Godfather must necessarily be brought up here. More on that presently.

Other notables include The Remains of the Day(the political undertones of the Ishiguro novel, a model of internalisation, are clumsily circumvented, but it is a lovely film, with great performances), Apocalypse Now(the despairing, chaotic tone of Conrad's short story is powerfully captured), The Wizard of Oz(the subtle device of a dream with the familiar standing in for the fantastical, is particularly good), The Age of Innocence(easily Scorsese's masterpiece), Minority Report(a short story, but the film is deeply provoking and original) and some others. I must mention the fantastic adaptation of Albee's play Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, starring Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. A gloriously lurid drama, with the largest consignment of vitriol this side of Husbands and Wives. Course, plays are likelier to play better on the big screen, for obvious reasons.

But the fact remains that for every triumph there are a dozen debacles deserving of being relegated to the Hall of Gall.

For starters, the most heralded: Wuthering Heights, A Passage to India, Dracula(never mind Lugosi , where is the mood?), L.A.Confidential(yes, it sucks!, Ellroy's hard-edged prose is replaced by reels and reels of gloss), Great Expectations, Oliver!(Dickens plus sex-and minus Dickens- and saccharine respectively), A Room With a View(snooze...) ..... Perhaps the reason for lacklustre adaptations is the inability to reinterpret material to suit the sentiments and mores of the times. I am reminded of the recent disaster The Scarlet Letter, whose infidelity to the text Demi Moore defended by gushing,"How many have read the book anyway?"

That is about as pitiful as it gets.

Of course, it is a given that books that lend themselves most easily to cinematic interpretation are those with vivid imagery and mundane prose, melodrama and double entendres in place of glorious metaphors and social commentary. The Lord of the Rings translates well from sword-and-sandal page-turner to multi-million dollar franchise. Harry Potter proves that even insanely talentless writing is box-ofice salvation. Sorry Blyton. Looks like two generations make all the difference in pop cultural-hysteria over juvenile trash.

The Godfather is a rare beast indeed. The book is frequently turgid and uninvolving, with sketchy characters and zero charisma. On the other hand, what do I say about the magnetism Brando and Pacino bring to the screen? How do I explain the travesty that is the second book of The Godfather, after the quite taut first? Somehow, all things do gel in the film, and its operatic sweep is undeniable. One for the ages, definitely, despite the dated settings.

Coming to the meat of the post...

The Disney studio has had several monster hits to its credit, all family-friendly Sunday-school tales with cutting edge animation and cunning merchandise-promotion drives. And it is no secret the primary audience is 'the young' and 'young at heart', meaning they are guilty pleasures for just about any adult. The faithfulness of a Disney cartoon to its source is questionable at best, so what is the fuss all about?

The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

Hugo's fierce and passionate allegory is a devastating read. Even as those wild and sweeping emotions come rushing back to me, I am at a loss for superlatives....

It is far from subtle. Hugo's vicious denunciation of the Church, and, in reality, all noble(why, all human) impulses, fashions 3, no 4 monumental characters:

• The eponymous hunchback, a brooding, deformed and demented figure, reviled, ostracized and unloved, malevolent, brutish and bitter, who 'merely acquired the weapon that had been used against him', namely public loathing...
• The free spirit Esmeralda, pure, lovely and naive to the degree of an unshakeable belief in the power of love, even before the vagaries of men. Truly the moral centre of the book, she moves through it like the moon through an inky, starless sky, purifying the firmament with a breath, unheedful of her charms, gay, flighty and irresistible.
• Notre Dame herself, possessed of as many secrets as can the soul harbour, and many more, with its impenetrable sepulchres, piercing angles and forbidding demeanour, an edifice to chastity, and yet pregnant with thoughts evil and dark.
• Claude Frollo, the archdeacon of Josas, deeply conflicted, a model of virtue in quest for knowledge, torn apart by a lust so overwhelming as to render reason void, religion naught, and restraint petty. Equal parts rage, frustration, covetousness, treachery, unexpected tenderness and helplessness, Frollo is truly one of the most tragic of literary figures.

Set in a corrupt and seditious Paris, populated by kings, priests, cutthroats and whores alike, the book pits beauty against apathy, deformity against censure, desire against abstinence and the Church against the people. In its inexorable spiral towards the supremely tragic denouement, it achieves a staggering intensity, and strangely, an almost poetic justice in the destinies of the protagonists. From the heavens of passion does Frollo descend to the depths of depravity, of abject cruelty. From the heavens of joy does Esmeralda plunge to the dregs of despair, even so clinging to her childlike faith. From the heavens of self-absorption does Quasimodo perceive a bliss infinitely rewarding, married to it in the glare of hatred and divorced in the twilight of intolerance. And from the heights of splendour and virginity does Notre Dame get reduced to a spectre, conceived in glory and raped and pillaged in the space of a single night witness to the darkest, basest aspects of man.

There is much more, Hugo's bitter censure of modern architecture and classical teachings, of ignorance and superstition. Ruthless to the very end, the book spares none: the Beast, vanquishing Beauty, finds his moral ground untenable, and falls to his beckoning doom, even as true Love gets kicked in the shin, fear begets animosity and vindictiveness, and vice versa.

Along the journey, we encounter characters such as the dreamy philosopher Pierre Gringoire, whose utility extends to more than just the ornamental, believe me, and the Sachette of Place-Greve, whose tale will break your heart, even at the centre of the whirlwind Hugo kicks up around Frollo and Esmeralda. We behold perversity, sin, carnage, destitution and celebration, sometimes all in the same scene, and ironies abound, stunning, cruel, pitiless ironies(what more so than the Sachette's final stand?).

Comes the proposal of rapine. Disney wishes to adapt the book to make the 'darkest, most adult cartoon yet'. The wordless beast Quasimodo becomes a tragic, misunderstood, garrulous figure, and cuddly as a bear. Frollo becomes the archetypal villain, with no rhyme or reason for his villainy. Esmeralda swings from revolutionary to feminist, utterly bereft of the singular pulchritude Hugo ascribes to her, and with the grossly under-read Demi Moore voicing her(not her again!). The weak and fickle Phoebus becomes the hunk of the day, and the stage is set for the love story of 1482.

Believe it or not, the story, with its muddled view of Parisian politics of the 1400's, has Frollo hunting down gypsies and schooling Quasimodo in the ways of the world: 'A' for 'abomination', 'B' for 'blasphemy', 'C' for 'contrition', 'D' for 'damnation' and such atrocities. Soon he lays siege to the cathedral because Esmeralda claims sanctuary within, and Quasimodo saves the day, whereupon he is accepted into the public fold. Pshaw!

I cannot believe I actually fell for this hogwash when I watched it. What a profound pity I hadn't read the book then. This is no mere adaptation. It flogs and decries character complexity, reducing motivations to well-known stereotypes: love, hate, envy. Even despite the excellent animation, and the so-called 'adult' undertones of 'sexuality', 'discrimination' and 'prejudice', this is an irresponsible and sloppy undertaking passing for wholesome entertainment.

Finally, the point isn't even this one trifling transgression of the strictures of intelligent adaptation. Heaven knows there have been worse instances of the same.

I am deeply perplexed. What exactly is the responsibility of a modern artist, especially operating in a medium as conducive to popular consumption as cinema? Is it that of the martinet, to unleash personal opinion and make a didactic statement that brooks no interference? Is this enriching the art form? Is anything permissible in the name of populist appeal? Gainsaying true genius? Banking on the notoriously short memory span and credulity of modern audiences to feed them a skewed, at times banal, and at others grotesquely fantastic view of humanity? Of art? It is bewildering to realise how much we put up with in the name of art, that vague, hazy term interchangeably used with 'pop culture', to imply instant gratification.

Who is to blame? Is it too short-sighted to chastise the modern youth, sleepwalking his way through a soulless, meandering existence with few cultural touchstones and fewer instances of genuine creativity? It is no coincidence that the Classics are dying a comprehensive and all-encompassing death, so much so that they seem like relics from a long-forgotten past. That is not to say nothing of any significance emerges today.

But who is looking? ....

Singapore tales : The big-city 'experience'

Ok, so all excited and pumped-up, I ventured out on my city-explorations. I armed myself with a road map, since the "heritage" spots(read: Little India and Chinatown) are comprised of several crisscrossing little lanes and I wasn't going to spend half the day acquiring lost bearings.

Also, I had chanced upon a very useful little site created by the manager of a backpackers hotel, which detailed the prospects of cheap self-guided tours around Singapore. A series of walking-tours, it advised, would give a casual tourist a better exposure to the unique sights and sounds. Fair enough. This is something I believe in, too, and besides, the pocket signalled its hearty approbation too, with the legs raring to go on a day-long ramble.

'Unique sights and sounds'..... these essentially reduced to, at the end of the day, 'skyhigh steel-and-concrete structures' and 'the Mandarin of economics'. Permit me to elaborate.

I began the walk from Little India. In fact, this may be the high point of the 'cultural odyssey' in terms of evoking any specific culture. True, rates are high anyway, and the shops lack the rustic charm of the pushcart and rushed shanties, but the odd snatch of "Uppu karavaadu", "Aathadi Aathadi" and such instant classics from the Kollywood stable kept me enlivened through the stretch. The much-hyped "Mustafa's departmental store" proved to be as much a Singapore foetus as anything else. Just a run-of-the-mill mall(excuse me, the malls here are super-glitzy and chic)

Nothing like the "elai-saappaadu", at any rate. Since the traditional "--Vilas" restaurants in this area are probably the only bankable vegetarian outlets in the city, I couldn't pass up the opportunity to operate my fingers through a hill of rice, sambar, rasam and curd, with the half-dozen or so assorted curries to taste. It was only as late as then that I realised how well even the most mundane and tasteless of vegetables complement the elai-saappaadu tradition. It is a stroke-of-genius on the part of the forefathers. That was, and will necessarily be, the tastiest meal I had in Singapore.

Something that I find astounding, or better, bewildering, out here, is the manner of promoting the primary tourist destinations. There is very little of historical moment here, and after all, the country can be said to have come into its own only at the beginning of the 19th century, but there were all those Malay rulers before then.....lazy buggers must have been devoid of all desire to leave their imprints in the sand. No monuments from that era. Must see Malacca to gauge the worthiness of the exaggerated hype.

So then, the mosques and temples. I didn't bother to suppress my amusement upon beholding them. Each is a tiny dollhouse, looking as though a not-very-discriminating kid had been allowed to go wild with a paintbrush on a day's worth of plaster. In fact, the only way I could make out "the beautifully restored Abdul Gafoor Mosque along this street, with its unique Arab and Victorian architecture. Built in 1907"(to quote the site), was by the gaudy greens splashed over the facade. To think that something as utterly insignificant could be trumpeted so was mind-boggling. I resolved to bypass all other such"heritage-spots", including the tacky temples, Indian and Chinese.

Interestingly, a certain Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus, abbreviated as Chijmes, and formerly an orphanage and convent, now houses bars, discos and restaurants! It says so very prominently at the gate. I pondered the morality of the situation awhile and decided I wasn't upto it. The place is a crowd-puller, as is everything else I mentioned above. Yes, all those stinkingly rich globetrotters are fascinated by anything Indian, even the gaudiest of carvings and pagodas. More the shame that we have done so little to market ourselves attractively to the world. Not that we ought to swamp every historical edifice with ravenous eyes and swanky hotels, but better transport services would go a very long way.

The area proclaimed to teem with acivity, "Bugis street" was around 200 m long, and failed to make an impression. Baubles when sold from a pedestal lose their perfunctory allure. Similarly, I wasn't enticed enough to try out the indigenous fruits, the durian and mangosteen when they were being sold off spick-and-span counters with that disconcerintg metallic gleam. I searched in vain for the tiny, fussy little shacks, with loquacious Chinamen with toothy grins and mysterious caverns filled with Oriental excess. I was expecting a Hong Kong or a Shanghai, perhaps. How wrong I was!

Even the eateries rob the occasional adventure with foreign cuisines of the requisite bravado. Everything is dished across counters by gloved attendants. I fairly lost my appetite, not that I had much of one to start with, given the cornucopia of seafood on display and alien miasmas insinuating themselves into my system.

The Fort Canning botanical garden was a much-needed respite. I realised that of all these manmade attractions, the parks and gardens were the best bet. I was bored of endless sights of tall, proud buildings, looming over the city squares and dwarfing everything else. The parks, obviously a desperate afterthought, even with the usual perfectionist touches of an automated culture, were a soothing diversion. They are well-maintained and clean, and walkways are plentiful. The tropical flora are a nice plus, too. Even at the fort, the short and uneventful history of the island is recounted. The bloody battles, jealous monarchies, devious uprisings, all these are a distant concept. The history of the island seems trite, and dull as ditchwater. And yet, they are proud of it. I am at a loss as to whether I ought to feel sorrow for a culturally bankrupt generation which effortlessly dazzles with its consumerist leanings, or deplore the status of a nation such as ours, for not imbibing what is rightfully ours, and is complex, ancient, glorious, influential and eminently desirable.

Maybe it needs such an experience, that of stark contrasts to awaken us to reality.

Chinatown proved to be much the same. Even the traditional Chinese shops lacked the old-world glamour. And everything was colourful and empty, like cotton candy, except for the price tag. But I was pleasantly surprised to stumble upon a video shop which stocked the best rare-film DVD collection I have EVER seen. They were obviously illegal, but they were cheap, and the films were there for the taking! I mean, which place in the world sells(on the street) Ivan the Terrible and Clair's Le Million side by side? And no, these aren't, naturally, the Criterion releases.

I got to window-shop a lot though at several of the high-profile malls, by definition unapproachable for purchases. Suntec City was vast and in essence, captured the spirit of the city perfectly. This was where the city was, not on the street, not on the harbourfront, not among the people. It was here, amidst the bright stalls and stylishly-dressed womenfolk with indistinguishable features, the million scents of branded perfume, the rustle of dollar bills, the dimly lit restaurants charging $7 for a drink and structures shooting vertically for want of space.

I headed towards the Singapore river, hoping against hope that the waterfront would house some of the commotion and noise I missed. Instead, I get restaurant after restaurant, each competitively priced (meaning highly pricey), and nothing reminiscent of the 'nightlife' I was expecting. That term is synonymous, here, with high-class pubs and diners. Again, I was to blame, entirely. How could I look for something the city could not boast, a life of its own? It was essentially an amalgamation of cultures fusing haphazardly, and all the time, suffocated by a burgeoning economy, sustained and inspired by the West. Then there was the offensive Merlion, which carries the most insipid of legends with it. It is the symbol of Singapore, and something more ludicrous never existed, believe me.

So after an hour of quayside rambling, when I recalled the markets of India fondly, the hustle and bustle, the confusion, the heat, the incessant haggling, the sheer exuberance, the singular charge such a sight imparts to the senses, I wished someone would do something crazy for a change...

Well-behaved people are no fun. I almost decided to strip and dive into the river with a reckless holler. It was disquieting. Everyone was prim and powdered, sipping wine elegantly and using forks expertly, like on a string instrument. Clearly, this was no place for the casual tourist. You needed to be loaded, and fat and dull and prepared to be enchanted by the most banal of sights. Yes, the sight of huge, imposing structures on all four sides was quite something, but I am not sure I'll carry it to my grave. It bespeaks more ill than good for us, I might venture to conclude.

So Singapore is just another city... the manmade wonders enthrall briefly and are forgotten. People awake to their negligence occasionally, and build a park, a zoo, a nature reserve, all laudable, no doubt(try comparing a well-tended golf course to a jungle), but the fact remains that this is a curiously soulless city, despite its efforts to borrow liberally from the best of all worlds, India, Malaysia, China, the West, you name it.

I look forward to the parks and zoos, though. And some long treks, 'undogged' by the big city experiences. Call me old-fashioned.

"I wanna be loved by you, just you, and nobody else but you....."

The scene: a nightclub in Florida. The focus: a bandstand, regaling a noisy crowd of revellers and thugs. The spotlight: a shimmering vision with a sultry voice to turn one's knees weak, into putty. The viewer: a hopelessly lovesick 20-year old whose heart is doing dangerous and unprecedented calisthenics, whose eyes glaze every other second, whose breath escapes in short bursts, punctuated by long, pathos-ridden sighs, whose mind is fixated on that beauteous form, crooning away to glorious heights, unmindful of the impact she is having.

Ten seconds later, a sudden noise interrupts the scene, that of a body falling heavily to the ground, when the senses have been arrested by a sight too overwhelming to permit consciousness in a state of delirium.

The reel scene: "Some Like it Hot".

The real scene: myself, falling hook, line and sinker for the most gorgeous woman who ever walked the face of the earth....

the incomparable Monroe, Marilyn Monroe. Today being the 80th anniversary of the goddess' birth, read on....

The time: a hot Sunday afternoon at the end of an uneventful, and therefore, tedious week. The overpowering sense of ennui that has set in renders even the least demanding intellectual activity impossible. What then? Turn to the perfunctory charms of cinema to prop sagging spirits and drooping eyebrows. What shall it be? Nothing ponderous and windy, please. High time Bergman and the rest of that specially anointed bunch of 'serious'(read: dull, drab and stuffy) filmmakers were shown their place.... the museum of ostentation. It had to be Wilder...

Billy Wilder has long been a favourite of mine. His films are knowing, satirical and very entertaining, and his capacity for sly bon mots , peerless. The Apartment juggles comedy and drama so adroitly that you can only stare at the screen, breathless. Sunset Boulevard ruthlessly skewers the studio sytem of Golden Age Hollywood, while painting a portrait of the impermanence of fame, and how dangerous one's pathetic cravings for it may turn out. But he did make one film that is unanimous in the reaction it provokes:

It is utterly hilarious... from beginning to end.



Some Like it Hot, the cross-dressing classic that catapulted Jack Lemmon to instant super-stardom and solidified the status of the diva(the subject of this post) as a sex symbol with a disarming sweetness to her, besides other things. Before I rave about her, a few quickies on the film itself.

What can I say? I adored it. It is silly, light and preposterous, sweet-hearted, cunning and bawdy, swift-paced, irreverent and a true gem. It is brilliantly written, and brilliant comedic writing is, as we all know, the toughest thing in the cinema business. Add to all this, 2 gifted comic actors, the irrepressible Lemmon as the bull-fiddle-player who gets a proposal from a multimillionaire.....but don't let me spoil it for you, if you haven't seen it already. ...and...

Monroe. Ah! Monroe....the most photogenic, and easily the most photographed celebrity of the century, maybe also the most troubled, who projected that effortlessly devastating mixture of simmering sensuality and vulnerability that endeared her to millions worldwide. That pout, that still makes any man, me included, wish the ground would open up under him and swallow him whole; that voice, breathy and persuasive; that smile, that radiance it exuded, the warmth it oozed, the coy allure it defined for decades to come.....

I believe Some Like it Hot may possibly be her signature role, for her screen persona was best exemplified in it: the sweet, trusting blonde, extremely desirable and harbouring a secret sorrow... Besides, she was pregnant during filming, which imparted an unearthly glow to her complexion, and accentuated those famous curves to the point of dizziness. And the shrewd Wilder framed her just so as to target the male libido, sending men into a swoon ever after...

In fact, her entry in the film is a classic. Lemmon and Curtis, dressed in drag, spot her from afar(she is on the all-women band the men are travelling with, in drag) and the pout precedes her. When she passes the engine, a plume of steam shoots out, caressing her behind in the process. It is a delicious scene, with her bottom heaving tantalisingly with every step, leading Lemmon to remark :

"Will you look at that! Look how she moves! It's like Jell-O on springs. Must have some sort of built-in motor or something. I tell you, it's a whole different sex! "

There are numerous such quotables from the film, several referring to Monroe herself, who was never more adorable, even in that delightful bit of fluff "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes", where she waltzed with the scene-stealing Jane Russell to standards such as "Diamonds are a Girl's best friend", "Bye, bye Baby" and "We're just 2 little girls from Little Rock".

The film itself perfectly demonstrates the theorem that "whenever Marilyn is on screen, she is all the camera sees". Indeed, in the scene where she sings the eponymous song this post is named after, the spotlight is on her, and the peripherals fade into oblivion. This woman was something, I tell you. Even in that jaw-dropping costume(no back, and very sparing on the bust area) she is attired in, she never seems vulgar or cheap. Just lovely, and sexy.

She wasn't the quintessential screen siren, the femme fatale, like her contemporaries, the shapely Russell, the lissome Rita Hayworth, the sultry Lauren Bacall and Lana Turner, or the hugely talented Barbara Stanwyck, though she did dabble in noir once. But she didn't need to. She had crafted a personality all her own, and no one could touch it. And besides, they weren't half as enticingly curvaceous as she was.

The behind-the-screen tales accompanying the film are fun too. Check them out at IMDB. But as some samples:

• Curtis has scenes with Monroe where he pretends to be a rich oil-magnate(to win her over!--for details, watch the film!) with a problem with love. So Monroe tries a kissing cure. Of course, he can't get enough of it...... Curtis complained that she kissed like Hitler! Prompting the response from a breathless nation that Hitler must have been a wonderful kisser!(and Monroe replied: "I think that's his problem")
• Marilyn was apparently notoriously unpunctual and forgetful, especially with her lines. So every scene required dozens of takes. A simple one, where she had to say "It's me, Sugar" needed 47 takes because she always used some such combination as "Sugar, it's me" or "Me, it's Sugar" or "It's Sugar, me". Wilder actually wrote lines on a blackboard so she wouldn't flub takes. 59 takes were needed for "Where's the bourbon?", which the Sugar character said rummaging in a drawer, because she said "Where's the whiskey?" or "Where's the bonbon?". And when Wilder pasted the line in the drawer, she went and opened the wrong ones, so he had it pasted in all of them!

And so on...

Marilyn had a tumultous and eventful life, with 3 marriages and several dalliances with famous personae, even JFK, reportedly. Her overdependence on drugs and sedatives towards the latter half of her career made her unpopular with film crews and directors, and finally led to her death in August 1962. She was just 36. With her died an enduring legacy, that of true cinematic presence, of voluptuous grace and innocence, of worldwide popularity and public interest in celebrity lives. To give you an idea of the extent of her immortality: my mother recalls a foolish little ditty she was taught as a pre-schooler, along the lines of "Marilyn Monroe went to town..." She was of course, everyone's favourite pin-up girl.

Maybe the appurtenances of her unique celebrity, the pressures and demands, were ultimately too much to deal with. Even the actual circumstances of her death are mysterious. But her personal life notwithstanding, what survives is her screen persona, her glamour, her comic flair, and her special aura, that transcended her stereotypical image to create the first real star in film. Her legend is given a loving dekko in the TIME 100 article.

Thanks to her, the average male's fantasy was fulfilled, even if in a world of flickering lights and impalpable figures. And I was a babbling, incoherent mass for hours after the film ended.... and am a lifelong devotee now.

Singapore tales : Dispelling myths, or How easy it is to model the title of an article after popular cinema

"Spotless roads"

Fib, fib, fib. If anything, these people are just as untidy as we are! In fact, when I hear people rhapsodise on the cleanliness that marks public places in Singapore(or other glamorous tourist destinations, for that matter), combined with imprecations hurled at foreigners for their generally opulent lifestyles, I find it hard to believe that such instances of modern decadence could co-exist with social responsibility. I mean, where is the inevitable crack in the veneer?

It appears it is time to lift the wool off our eyes. The roads are good, hard, straight, level.... but what is that on the sidewalks? Why, the refuse of a generation bred on fast-eats and polythene. In fact, I can see why we return to India under the above quoted delusion. The roads are just too well-maintained, wide, spacious, lined with lush vegetation -- that is something I really appreciate...concrete jungle notwithstanding, empty spaces are promptly pounced upon and grass/bushes/trees soon occupy pride of place, even on large avenues --... no wonder all the trash is barely visible. Ok, the overflowing bins and trash heaps, populated by bipeds, tripeds and quadrupeds alike, are not to be seen. So they have a good disposal system. Up theirs!

And the rumours that hefty fines are imposed on public offenders in this regard, are just those...rumours. Of course, administrative buildings, monuments etc do enforce strict laws...

And the fines! Smoking on elevators carries a penalty of $1000, and within buildings(obviously air-conditioned) or stations...$5000. So, thankfully, the perennial cloud of smoke is not a pemanent fixture at public congregations. Of course, the downside is that to sneak a smoke, people ensconce themselves in toilets, for instance, so that these are thick with the noxious fumes.

"People speak excellent English"

Have I disembarked at the wrong nation, perhaps? Tourist guides proclaim that English is virtually the national language, but I see little evidence of that on display. What with the harsh and 'angular' accents, attributable to the jagged Mandarin tongue, presumably, and the weird intonations, again Mandarin, perhaps, one is frequently at a loss in simple conversations, and the latter quality means half the syllables make their way into the anterior of the speaker's system, rather than without. Hence, imagine having every other word absent, and the remaining accentuated to resemble the undulations of a Scottish landscape.... tough indeed.

Not to sound unbearably haughty, but I find Indians light years better, in this respect. Gone are the unplaceable accents(mostly), and most of the missing prepositions are reinstated too, though perhaps not in their rightful places, but then you can't have everything. Then again, this is just my opinion.

"People are courteous and helpful"

Maybe I'll agree with that by and by, when the claim is modified to read:
"People are courteous and helpful... at the sight of the $ sign".
Now, this is not very unreasonable, but as a tourist hotspot, and a nation that is super-efficient at marketing its few attractions, I would have hoped for more smiles and fewer dour glances. Anyway, taking into account the deafness quotient prevalent among people, and the language barriers, maybe it isn't all that surprising. Also, I learnt that most of those into public services(taxi drivers, shopkeepers) are financially strained as well. Don't blame them. With higher buying power come higher rates as well. But I did notice that even a car mechanic, and the institute plumbers cleaning a clogged drain are very decently dressed. Now is that to imply that we, as a people, are indifferent to our appearances, and consequently, shoddlily attired? Perhaps.

There are exceptions to the courteousness observation. For instance, a very nice old lady at the airport was so helpful as to chart out my entire journey to the institute, reel off a list of places to see and things to do, advise me on the cheapest way to travel around, and flash a warm smile in the end.

"Things are shamefully costly"

That is not true at all. In fact, a round of the supermarket taught me that prices are pretty much comparable to those back home, with minor allowances. For instance, juices and milk tetrapacks are available at 50 cents(~14 rs) which is reasonable. Shampoos are available for SGD 3-3.50(~80-90 Rs), and the usual reputed brands too. Clothes can be purchased at SGD 6-8 for a pair of jeans, which is very reassuring! And to be very honest, a decent meal costs about SGD 1.50-2, which comes to around Rs 40-60. Why, cheap eateries in Chennai work out to about that much too.

The amount of variety on hand is astounding. You could simply stroll around in department stores, ogling at products of myriad shapes, utilities and prices, much as one browses in a book-shop. I have come to enjoy that quite a bit.... :)

Of course, you could splash inordinate quantities of cash around, and not gain much in the way of quality, unlike at home, and maybe those ultra-cheap and impossibly tempting roadside joints scattered all over mana Bharat may not abound here, but I am yet to explore the place fully.

All in all, there have been some delightful discoveries I have made(call them perverse pleasures), such as

• toilets here are not clean enough to eat off, as depicted in movies
• Complexions are not uniformly flawless, clear and radiant. Pimply countenances and melanin-deposits are dime-a-dozen.
• Bus seats do have chewing gum stuck to the seat bottoms
• A dirty rivulet trickles its way through the middle of a busy city centre, right at the entrance to "Little India"
• Having no significant cultural history to trumpet, much ado is made about the daft Merlion, and "heritage spots" like Lord Raffles(a British bloke who signed treaties with Muslim rulers in early 1800s to permit the operations of the East India Company) landing spot, "Chinatown" and of course, "Little India", which might be termed "A Little pinch of India, a dollop of Singapore" for all I care.

and so on...(still discovering)

Getting high...the natural way

Hmmm....it is a wonder I took this long to get around to writing this, something I believe in with all the conviction of the modern thiest (and believe me, it is an astonishing quality) - can any religion boast a turnover anywhere close to that of the religion of the body? - minus the mind-numbing ignorance, of course.

"Physical exercise is the best way to pamper your body"... and it ranks higher on the list than a bag of double- cheese French fries or the creamiest Swiss chocolate, to boot!

So what is so relevatory about the statement? Well, nothing, but if you just popped that question reclining in the cosiest receptacle in sight, with legs propped on the desk and a cushion to relieve the pressure on the small of your back, then you have some serious revelations to make your own.

One of the few regrets of my short life is that I hadn't awakened to the massive benefits and pleasures(yes,pleasures) of exercise earlier, when I could have taken matters commandingly into my hands and sculpted the perfect body(strange words emerging from my mouth....sigh...), and not be saddled with stretch marks that adorn practically every expanse of my skin, which is taking on the semblance of a Bengal Tiger's. The cycle is now familiar to me: sudden weight gain, that desperate resolution to shed that ugly tuck, furious activity in the days to come... and a few more of the blemishes to show for it. And they begin red and angry, each like a huge leech bloated on a diet of blood, clinging stubbornly to the skin. And though they do fade in colour, the ravaged skin bears testimonial to their birth, imaginatively streaked and victim of a million elongations and compressions of varying intensity.

But the culprit in this scenario is undoubtedly the lethargic teenager. In high school, the lack of physical activity took the necessary toll, plus cruel duties, on the form, and I was unrecognisable, struggling to expand in all directions, like a weed straining for sun, given a glimmer of light. 'Rotund' didn't do me justice. I was 'round', 'roly-poly', 'stout', FAT! And dawning apprehensions had long ceased to be much good. The exercise-bike I exhorted my parents to get me lay untended in the corner, after periodic bursts of use, when the trauma of a glance into the mirror would spur me onto accomplish a miracle. Of course, the sporadic efforts punished the skin, which was in two minds: "to stretch, as this kid who overstuffs himself with abandon prompts me to, or bend to corrective measures such as this, which are clearly not here to stay?" The compromise lead to the internal ruptures that characterise 'stretch marks'. The sole bout of typhoid I ever contracted reversed the trend briefly, but caused further complications.

So I grew, in all the wrong and unhealthy ways. My conception(then) of exercise as a means for weight-loss corresponded to the numbers in the exercise manuals. 10 minutes - 300 calories; need to burn 3500 per pound = ..... I sweated a lot even back then. Just that the body couldn't keep up with the distending rate. And immediate results were not forthcoming. So defeated, I resigned myself to the effects of teenage obesity.

Of course, the diet helped in no small measure. Full cream milk, ghee, savouries, the occasional bar of chocolate....I must remark that I am so constructed as to pack on the pounds like magic, when the food's upto it. So, in short, I tipped the scales at a gross 86 kilos when I stepped into IIT.

Now the food at hostel messes is probably geared at long-suffering people such as the self. It is filling, all right, but I never mistook it for Mom's ghar ka khaana. Which is probably for the best. For the temptations effectively out of the way, I decided to avail of the shockingly cheap sporting facilities made available to us. So I joined the gym. Just for laughs. I didn't expect the heavens to open up or anything.

I don't recall pushing myself very much initially, at least till one day I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. The first shock passed, and I realized the body was straying back into the acceptable 'bounds' of shapeliness, finally. There was, as they say, no turning back after that. I never missed gym sessions, and pumped up the intensity(sometimes too drastically), watching the kilos melt away with a deep satisfaction. For the record, my weight at the end of the NCC winter camp was around the 73 kg mark.

Unreasonable?....No harm trying

And it only gets better. With lots of expert advice, backed by my personal experience at sustained jogging, gym, swimming regimes, I have pretty much figured out the optimal means of weight-control. And it feels GREAT! When I see people slogging it out once, twice a week, and then taking bedrest for a month (:)), or doing all the wrong things such as the lazy canter over a million turns at the track, or straining all parts of the frame during crunches, except the crucial one, I happily spread the wisdom to them, while feeling really special every day, post-exercise. And I weigh a trim 68 kgs now!

Now I am aware I may never look like those chiselled physiques that with one inflection set a million visible muscles into smoothly pleasing motion(and I blame that on past neglect, but don't lose my sleep over it), but it is remarkable how much of the journey is well within reach, and enjoyable, eventually. Every body is created to look well-proportioned, with very few, hopeless exceptions. It is just that it needs some upkeep, and in some cases, like mine, a lot of that. Everyone's built differently. But staying fit is fun, and so are remarks such as "You look good", "You've shed some" and "Adonis, ahoy!"...

Ok, so that last one was fabricated....

So is this intended as a morale-boost for those frustrated with weight-loss techniques? Or an enthusiastic recommendation of IITM mess food? Well, finally, we all know the drill "Balanced diet+exercise+commitment", and let me confirm that each is as important as the other, and that it takes a lot of hard work...I very nearly didn't make it, and aches and sprains will torment you like nobody's business, but hey, I feel good, and am not complaining...

A footnote: plagiarism versus originality

Just to clarify my stand, overt influences need to be rightfully acknowledged wherever referenced, which makes perfect sense. Now Kaavya's case itself is rather inconsequential, not just in the larger scheme of things, but also because she has pilfered both style and construction, and not just expanded on the themes that impressed themselves upon her.

However, the ambiguity I was seeking to plumb, and which remains intriguing, is whether the spirit of a book can inspire another, equally worthwhile one. Whether a heavily influenced work(citing the influences faithfully, even) can escape the mantle, or even brand, of "Copy", "uninspired" and the like.

To be absolutely objective, almost everything 'new' or 'original' is necessarily informed by past experience. It is an inevitable axiom of life, and one that is truly irrevocable. Man is, more or less, the sum of his experiences, his life-events, his relationships, the sights, the people, the places, the thoughts, the prejudices that constitute his past. We strive to make sense of that absurd farrago that crowds our perceptions, that vast and impenetrable fog that has moulded us, breathed life into our endeavours, and in some sense, anchors us onto what is familiar and conforms to experience . So, experience merely adds a newer dimension to that canvas, that fashioned by someone or something else, mind you... In essence, man is derivative of everything he has seen and felt.

Now this is a complex and indefinable concept. So everything is in some way or the other, 'borrowed'. What then, may be condemned as a crime, under the circumstances? Maybe Kaavya was genuinely influenced as deeply as she owned she was, by Megan McCafferty's body of work, so much so that in following her example, she unconsciously duplicated her exemplar's traits in her own writing. Who can say?

But the bottomline still is that Kaavya should have known what she was doing and made a note of it. So, budding writers, beware! It doesn't help, either, that in these times, people are better qualified to detect such singularities in art(or whatever passes for it) than display a corresponding degree of virtu in the same.

What is and isn't plagiarism?

This is primarily in response to the Kaavya Viswanathan hornet's nest stirred up recently. I remember the day the news appeared, almost unobtrusively, on the last page of the Hindu. The matter wasn't yet making waves then. So I passed it over, since the tone of the headline wasn't accusing, judgemental or defensive yet. The next day, her photo was on the first page, on the quickies strip, titled "A cloud over Kaavya" or something.


Initially, all the publicity the story was drawing appeared disproportionate to me. After all, we all have our influences, though, admittedly, Kaavya's, here, wasn't exactly Tolstoy or Conrad. In fact, as an aside, I wondered, after gathering the facts, whether it would have made any difference to me, personally(never mind the world: it is a literary wasteland), if the offensive passages had been purloined from a 'classic', or a truly significant work. True, the claim would never have seen the light of day, probably, for what do our influences mean to us anyway? Do we imbibe their true import, make their experiences our own, interpret them in a manner befitting our own perceptions and instincts? Hardly.

Anyway, what if Kaavya had channelised the spirit and beliefs of a true social messiah, with a pen for a voice? Would the crime(as it is) be any less flagrant? Again, it is not very easy to determine what constitutes originality, but I must confess the instances highlighted in magazines and newspapers covering the scandal were very telling. It was obvious Kaavya had been either very neglectful, or very naive, which amount to pretty much the same thing in the arena of the media circus.

There have been accusations in the New York Times as well, as detailed in the wikipedia article, that Kaavya borrowed liberally and indiscriminately from books ranging from Rushdie's Haroun and the Sea of Stories, The Princess Diaries, and other recent books. Now this is a very grave spot she finds herself in, since the passages have entire sentences repeated, without any tactful revisions, even adapting them to the situation(what that may be is not my concern, not having read any of the books under question).




Especially obvious are the McCafferty borrowings, which read like unapologetic clones. Kaavya has tried to make amends by stating that McCafferty's books had had a major impact on her. That I shall not comment on, since it is her own belief, though how titles like "Sloppy Firsts" and "Second Helpings" could serve as the basis for personal inspiration is quite beyond me. But the tone of the limited passages pinpointed by the press strikes me as frivolous and 'sloppy'(excuse me), so she has a lot of explaining to do.

Apparently, there has been movie interest in the book, and that should not flag, what with all the buzz, which is box-office gold. But the grapevine says the movie will be canned. Pity. But McCafferty herself has been remarkably forgiving, which is something, given the initial response to Kaavya's book.

Of course, all the feverish gossip has to lead to an all-out exposé, beginning with how the prodigy Kaavya edited V.S.Naipaul's first book, actually wrote Chapters 1 through 4 of 'God of Small Things'(yep, Roy is the next under the axe...her trial begins in August), her childhood vision of the imminent cataclysm that shall consume the world in the fall of 2006....

Just joking. No such drama here. But the over-anxious relatives chip in with confirmations of her brilliance as a student, writer and all that jazz. After the dispensable flashbacks, it is made clear that Kaavya's books have been recalled, her contract is off, and her tenure at Harvard looks threatened. Hmmm.....a rather grim picture. I can imagine how comprehensively demoralized she must be.

So to return to the topic: is she guilty of plagiarism? Is it all right to quote one's primary influences, say, and develop those themes as one sees fit, and term the effort original? Highly debatable, of course. But especially in these times, when even the most piddly of wannabe writers arms himself with publishers, lawyers, copyrights and what not, it would be artistic suicide to flaunt one's inspirations. Kaavya, unfortunately, fell prey to this temptation(I absolve her of any laziness or ignoble motives). Sounding the death knell for 'promising' writing originating in the subcontinent, in the process.

Poof! Bleak....

Reservations : the homefront perspective

There has been enough brouhaha over the reservation issue not to warrant another addition in the shape of a blog titled "Je ne sais qua". However, I would very much like to record a rather tense encounter I had with close relatives a month back, on the controversy.

Now these people aren't 'close' in the absolute sense of the word. Sure, we have a few laughs together, I land up once in a while at their doorstep, I take the monthly(or so)update on momentous events that escaped my notice, feign the appropriate modicum of interest in happenings mundane and trite, sup, crash and return none the wiser to the hostel. Unfortunately for the indifferent nephew, an aunt with a chronic case of hypochondria can be bad news indeed(believe me). Add to that the fact that she is loquacious to an extreme, and nice in most other ways, and there I am in an awkward dilemma.

To cut the story short, the only way I saw, that lazy afternoon, to channelise nervous energies into more constructive and tolerable channels, was to raise the sensitive issue of the moment....

My friends and I had heatedly scrutinised the issue from all angles worthy of scrutiny and by virtue of instantly appealing arguments, combined with noble impulses, all laid bare by a vastly informed classmate of mine, in his usual blunderbuss fashion(:)), had concluded tentatively that the move was positive. Of course, the fact that it had borne fruit in a stray situation - TamilNadu medical entrance examinations - was the straw we needed to grab at and run with. But again, I am not going to present the details of that debate.... Just that, as I picked up the thread again at home, I was convinced the proposal was a beneficial one.

The jousting began with the now-old chestnut about how we need 'higher portals' of learning to enter confidently onto the international arena. When I gently reminded them that the Government had the say in that, and that if it recognised that our ideals carried over from Independence remained just that, they could seek alternate ways towards 'social equality', in the process alienating several groups. That of course set off the series of 'revelations' : "Corruption runs deep", "The Indian political scenario is too vast for a sudden opinion reversal to make much of an impact", "The Government needs a fundamental makeover", "They must be potty. Why else would they pass an ordinance on Private sector reservations, knowing fully well a repeal would be forced?", "Well, maybe they did vote for increased reservation with overwhelming majority, but the Assembly elections are around the corner, remember, and vote-bank politics rears its ugly head", and such pithy truisms.

Then the discussion veered off on a tangent: "You slogged it out for so long. What if you had been denied your rightful seat?","My son is preparing for so and so, and due to BCs entering through the general quota, he missed out by so and so". Counter--"Isn't that the point of reservation? That eventually people shall get in on the general 'merit' basis? Of course, in TNadu, the situation has already attained saturation and reservation has somewhat served its purpose. But nothing is being done to monitor and compensate for the backlash. In other states, which eschewed the TNadu policy, as things change for the better, a few generations shall suffer, it is inevitable, but surely the end justifies the means?"

Naturally, things had to get personal at this point. I very cautiously touched on the oppressive regime of the Brahmin class over the ages, in usurping positions in education, and consequently relegating BCs to vocations they were practically born into, and saw no way out of. Immediately, I was assailed relentlessly from all sides. "What is the current position of Brahmins? We are a minority. We have no say any longer. In Triplicane, this priest's son is denied entrance into blah blah....". Recently I was sent an unbearably overbearing article that bemoaned the plight Brahmins find themselves in today.

My first reaction was, "We shall pay for our forefathers, till the balance is achieved", but I knew that was too reactionary and callous. But then, what was the explanation for the 'minority'(granted) of Brahmins(mostly well-educated and hopefully, thus, socially responsible) abstaining from casting votes? No logical answer, except the supremely, and despicably evasive "What difference will it make?".....

Onto economic reservations then. The fact that reservation needs to cater to "economic" and not "religious or class" differences has been done to death, exhumed, and done in again and again(something like the prayer "Poverty needs to be eliminated"), and cannot be designated a panacea to the problem. Obviously, the definition of the 'creamy layer' needs review, since my aunt owned that she knew of well-off people who had taken advantage of the reservation system, coupled with the "generally poor occupation of seats in the BC quotas", which was her triumphant justification(sheesh!), again, for the condemnable practice.

Then again, coming to 'innate merit', reasoned(unreasonably) everyone, "without improved primary education, nothing can be accomplished", which I had iterated approximately 63 times previously in the debate, in as many, or more words, with varying degrees of fervour. "So wait till that target is scored, then talk about violating the hallowed turf of higher institutions". I was defeated. If 50 years of identical talk and irresponsible administration had taken us nowhere, was it logical to expect things would see a dramatic turnaround in the near future? No comments, defiant looks and glances towards the blaring television set.

Then came the personal feedback that I consider most significant. "Those people (I regret to say that they used the lamentably derogatory term 'shudra gumbal', which might translate crudely, and euphemistically, to 'the worker-class crowd', but really implies more than that) do not value education. They'd rather have money and blow it away on liquor and gambling." Though this is an unforgivably gross generalisation, I find this to be the general outlook of most upper-middle class Brahmin families. Apparently, efforts to 'educate' children of maidservants, vegetable-mongers or gardeners had been spurned, or disregarded.

My feeling was that when such few opportunities were being made explicitly available to them, when the age-old caste system prevailed at least in the minds of people, defiling the social landscape, rippling the ocean surface, when even the nominal reservations are not implemented, why should these people aspire impossibly high? We, who have the luxury of a quality and wide-ranging education, complete with strong financial backing, are expected to dream big, achieve bigger, and do great things. But what about the dispossessed(in a word)? Sadly, most of the so-called efforts of my brethren were accompanied by that indefinably stuffy air of superiority--"I helped them. They turned the help down. Uruppuda maattaa(They shall not prosper)".

The discussion was losing steam. Not because I was being led to recant my beliefs(again, I do believe that mere reservations are futile: essentials -- grassroot level emancipation of the backward classes, plus a continuously revised reservation system to ensure that once admission through the general quota was representative of the general demographic, reservations should effectively cease), but because I was fighting a dying cause. Personal bias is a deadly thing, even though the parting line of another aunt of mine was admittedly on a lighter note, "I'll be selfish. I want my child to get the best education. I don't want someone less deserving to rank alongside her, and be judged thus. Let there be separate institutions for BCs. Leave the IITs alone. They are a powerful and desirable brand."

And if these self-same(necessarily) expatriates do not contribute to progress? "Do you plan to?", they rejoined. I was cornered there, and broke off for lunch, but not without confirming that it was a bracing thought that people had given all this some thought after all(and this was just after the one statement by Arjun Singh), even if it looked to be a one-way decision.



Meanwhile, petitions galore continue to be signed, and just yesterday, a call inciting students to fast(unto death?...unlikely. Students today are too lily-livered to allow their lukewarm and selfish passions to inconvenience themselves) against the proposal, did the rounds. And I rolled my eyes heavenward for the umpteenth time.

So I guess I have done what I assured you I wouldn't. But for more enlightenment, watch the headlines. This issue is not going to go down very well in history, for a variety of reasons. And we shall learn that blatant ignorance can drown, comprehensively, the voice of compulsive(?) reason, even in a supposedly right-thinking world.