Tempers are frayed in the board-room of the Australian Cricket Selection Board. An unnamed source told us that the entire team was summoned today and given a dressing down by the Chairman of the Selectors. Captain Ricky Ponting took the brunt of the assault and later tearfully admitted to the unnamed source that he was powerless to do anything about it. The Chairman of the Selectors later played down the incident and promised that his team would be turning around soon and that they would learn from the mistakes of the past.
At the heart of the trouble is the crushing defeat that the Aussies inflicted on the Indian cricket team, visiting and currently playing a test series. As is well known, the immense popularity of the game in the Indian subcontinent is what is paying everybody's salary. Worried that frequent defeats of the Indian team might lower viewer interest and thereby hurt the board's advertising revenues, the Australian Cricket Board had specifically instructed their team to lose to the Indians or, if for some reason they can't, as often happens to teams playing chronic losers like India, at least win by extremely slender margins.
This, the board felt, was completely ignored by Ponting and his men. First, they pounded the Indian bowling attack all around the field on the flimsy grounds that it was ineffectual. Ponting's sarcastic remark, that if the board wanted batsmen who could lose their wickets to the Indian attack, they had better recruit blind players, did not go well with the selectors. Ponting later apologized for it, though he privately told our source that he was not sure that even blind batsmen could manage this.
The meeting broke for lunch, in an attempt to cool tempers, but when it re-convened, the bowlers came in for a bit of stick, as they say in cricketing terms. It has been decided to enrol them for the crash course on bowling half volleys, a regular course being conducted by the advanced training program of the Indian Cricket Board. The Indian cricket board have been informally sounded out about this and have graciously agreed to impart the necessary skills to the Australian bowlers. A sports psychologist's services have been sought, to "de-competitise" the Australians. India has some of the best in this field.
When this reporter contacted the Chairman of the Selectors for his comment, the official reply was that there was no problem and the situation was under control. Privately, an unnamed source assured this reporter that the team has been instructed to lose by an innings. The idea is that even if they goof up, they could still lose by a narrower margin.
What will happen is something that only time will tell, but there is no doubt that the Australians are serious this time. The national coach of Australia is reported to have told the Indian batsmen Dravid and Jaffer that the rules of the game permitted a player to actually hit the ball with the bat, something which they reportedly found shocking and heretical, but being the fine players that they are, are actually considering it.
The situation, in short, is hopeful.
Narendra Shenoy
Special Reporter on Global Cricketing Matters
Melbourne.
Showing posts with label Reportage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Reportage. Show all posts
Monday, December 31, 2007
Saturday, October 20, 2007
A cultural weekend in Mumbai
I often explain to Sheela that if I'm spending hours in front of the computer that is because I am carefully compiling the story of my life in the form of e-mails and blog posts. I think she has figured out by now that while it is not exactly a lie, it is substantially the opposite of the truth.
Most of my time seems to be spent reading extremely important e-mails from African gentlemen on miraculous bequeaths of millions of dollars which can be all mine if I could only fund the expenses required for their release. And of course, mail from concerned people offering pharmaceutical products of a very personal nature.
Let me therefore assuage my conscience by writing about the weekend just gone by. The Times of India sponsored a Sufi music program at the Bandra Fort in Mumbai. Yes, 'where the hell is that?' is what I thought too, when Shrinath told me to lug my musical ass to the venue. It's at Band Stand, next to the Taj Lands End Hotel. Opposite Sea Rock, for old timers. My mom wanted to come along too. She has recently taken a liking to Sufi Qawwalis after hearing Abida Parveen on World Space Radio.(The said Parveen is built on the lines of a battleship but sings most mellifluously and hypnotically. She was not performing, though). Sheela and the kids decided they would have more fun at Akhil's house.
As usual, I landed up late, thanks to the beautiful evening traffic which was moving at a speed that made glaciers look fast paced. True to form, everyone was honking, some to express their dissatisfaction and some just because they had a horn. I thought of writing a ballad to the brave honkaneros of Mumbai. ("Oh! Young Popatlal is come out of the west, Through all of Andheri his horn was the loudest" that sort of thing). Thanks to my mom's pacifist views and strong objections to anything in the nature of interpersonal conflict, I was more honked against than honking.
I thus reached the venue in a ruffled state of mind. If I was President of the United States and the generals had asked me for permission to obliterate Moscow, I believe I would have given in right away. Angry, or as they say in scientific terminology, seriously pissed.
Luckily for me, Shrinath had his chauffeur on standby and I was spared the ordeal of hunting for a parking spot. Shrinath of course looked fresh as a daisy owing to living almost next door. The three of us, Shrinath, mom and I entered the concert to find, alas, that all the best seats were taken and there was standing room only in the nose-bleed section, high up on the hill.
By the time we settled down on a rough concrete wall, the singer who was performing had finished and the stage was taken over by two Wadali brothers. These guys are Hindus from Punjab, but are considered doyens of the Sufi tradition. They sang of Allah and Eid being the season of love and things like that, with such feeling and sincerity that all of us were spellbound.
I thought it spoke tremendously for the spirit of Indianness that binds our often silly but entirely lovable people across religious divides. The ordinary people on the street, that is. There are of course the psychos and the bigots and the downright corrupt but by and large, we are a nation of one billion docile (except in bed - look at those population numbers) people.
After the concert, we repaired to Akhil's house for a sumptuous dinner of pasta in some really yummy cream sauce and I ate away as if I was a pig who had just been released from a starvation diet. Which I pretty much am, actually. In a desperate bid to get rid of my pot belly I have given up rice entirely and cut back on food in general. The pot belly is showing signs of going away but so is my mind. Every now and then I lose it completely and indulge in binge eating which gets the pot belly right back in to championship contention.n Alas!
On the morrow was part II of the concert. This time I went alone as mom had some social visiting to do. Sheela and the kids were busy with mid-term exams. I slunk off as soon as possible, lest I be drafted for teacher duty. This happens from time to time when Sheela suffers a nervous breakdown and the baton is handed over to yours truly. As is well known, I command as much authority as a Buddhist monk in Myanmar, resulting in the kids thumbing their noses at me and playing cricket. Sheela returns after her unwinding or whatever and holds her head in despair. Then she throws me out of the room and gets to work. And I'm back on the computer, catching up on the latest from the African gentlemen.
Oops, digressed. As I was saying, part II of the concert was patriotic songs by Shubha Mudgal. This is one fine singer, let me tell you, the finest I've heard in a long time. Her voice is sort of contralto and her singing is extremely vivacious. She had dug out poems from India's independence struggle and set them to music. Very moving.
Shrinath and I were a bit speechless. After all that patriotism, getting sloshed didn't quite seem right. We decided to stroll down to a nearby eatery (being the lazy devils that we are, we did the strolling in Shrinath's car) and decided to tank up on some carbohydrates. This time, I am happy to report, instead of eating like a greedy pig, I ate like a polite and well brought up pig. We parted after a few satisfied burps and decided to get on with the business of life, Shrinath with his banking, I with my African gentlemen.
Most of my time seems to be spent reading extremely important e-mails from African gentlemen on miraculous bequeaths of millions of dollars which can be all mine if I could only fund the expenses required for their release. And of course, mail from concerned people offering pharmaceutical products of a very personal nature.
Let me therefore assuage my conscience by writing about the weekend just gone by. The Times of India sponsored a Sufi music program at the Bandra Fort in Mumbai. Yes, 'where the hell is that?' is what I thought too, when Shrinath told me to lug my musical ass to the venue. It's at Band Stand, next to the Taj Lands End Hotel. Opposite Sea Rock, for old timers. My mom wanted to come along too. She has recently taken a liking to Sufi Qawwalis after hearing Abida Parveen on World Space Radio.(The said Parveen is built on the lines of a battleship but sings most mellifluously and hypnotically. She was not performing, though). Sheela and the kids decided they would have more fun at Akhil's house.
As usual, I landed up late, thanks to the beautiful evening traffic which was moving at a speed that made glaciers look fast paced. True to form, everyone was honking, some to express their dissatisfaction and some just because they had a horn. I thought of writing a ballad to the brave honkaneros of Mumbai. ("Oh! Young Popatlal is come out of the west, Through all of Andheri his horn was the loudest" that sort of thing). Thanks to my mom's pacifist views and strong objections to anything in the nature of interpersonal conflict, I was more honked against than honking.
I thus reached the venue in a ruffled state of mind. If I was President of the United States and the generals had asked me for permission to obliterate Moscow, I believe I would have given in right away. Angry, or as they say in scientific terminology, seriously pissed.
Luckily for me, Shrinath had his chauffeur on standby and I was spared the ordeal of hunting for a parking spot. Shrinath of course looked fresh as a daisy owing to living almost next door. The three of us, Shrinath, mom and I entered the concert to find, alas, that all the best seats were taken and there was standing room only in the nose-bleed section, high up on the hill.
By the time we settled down on a rough concrete wall, the singer who was performing had finished and the stage was taken over by two Wadali brothers. These guys are Hindus from Punjab, but are considered doyens of the Sufi tradition. They sang of Allah and Eid being the season of love and things like that, with such feeling and sincerity that all of us were spellbound.
I thought it spoke tremendously for the spirit of Indianness that binds our often silly but entirely lovable people across religious divides. The ordinary people on the street, that is. There are of course the psychos and the bigots and the downright corrupt but by and large, we are a nation of one billion docile (except in bed - look at those population numbers) people.
After the concert, we repaired to Akhil's house for a sumptuous dinner of pasta in some really yummy cream sauce and I ate away as if I was a pig who had just been released from a starvation diet. Which I pretty much am, actually. In a desperate bid to get rid of my pot belly I have given up rice entirely and cut back on food in general. The pot belly is showing signs of going away but so is my mind. Every now and then I lose it completely and indulge in binge eating which gets the pot belly right back in to championship contention.n Alas!
On the morrow was part II of the concert. This time I went alone as mom had some social visiting to do. Sheela and the kids were busy with mid-term exams. I slunk off as soon as possible, lest I be drafted for teacher duty. This happens from time to time when Sheela suffers a nervous breakdown and the baton is handed over to yours truly. As is well known, I command as much authority as a Buddhist monk in Myanmar, resulting in the kids thumbing their noses at me and playing cricket. Sheela returns after her unwinding or whatever and holds her head in despair. Then she throws me out of the room and gets to work. And I'm back on the computer, catching up on the latest from the African gentlemen.
Oops, digressed. As I was saying, part II of the concert was patriotic songs by Shubha Mudgal. This is one fine singer, let me tell you, the finest I've heard in a long time. Her voice is sort of contralto and her singing is extremely vivacious. She had dug out poems from India's independence struggle and set them to music. Very moving.
Shrinath and I were a bit speechless. After all that patriotism, getting sloshed didn't quite seem right. We decided to stroll down to a nearby eatery (being the lazy devils that we are, we did the strolling in Shrinath's car) and decided to tank up on some carbohydrates. This time, I am happy to report, instead of eating like a greedy pig, I ate like a polite and well brought up pig. We parted after a few satisfied burps and decided to get on with the business of life, Shrinath with his banking, I with my African gentlemen.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
India wins some cricket
On September 24th, 2007, the Indian cricket team achieved immortality by winning the 20-20 cricket world cup, or so the sportscasters would have you believe. Personally, I think, yeah, sure, these guys are immortal. Others may have to make path breaking scientific discoveries, develop life saving medicines or devote a lifetime to the service of the downtrodden in order to make it to the immortal list. These chaps just have to slam a ball around. I happened to witness these celebrations at a local watering hole.......
I was a reveler at last evening's madness when India beat Pakistan at the final of the 20-20 cricket world cup. We watched it at a pub named On Toes where some 100 people had congregated. The decibel level was huge. I personally lost a significant quantity of earwax on account of a portly gentleman seated directly behind me shrieking like a banshee. If his saliva has therapeutic value for hair growth, I'm going to be the next Rapunzel because every time he shrieked, he delivered a thimbleful on my thinning tresses. By the end of the match I must have collected a good bottle full. My hair feels soapy even at the moment of going to press.
The lubricant for the evening was Kingfisher beer. To put things precisely, as a mathematician would, If "n" be the number of beers an adult male can consume without losing control of his legs, then I had n+1 beers. Luckily for me, the place was so tightly packed that it was impossible to fall down. Otherwise I should surely have been trampled to death. In the event, I found myself miraculously conveyed out of the place after the revelry had ceased. May be God does exist and maybe he does graciously save the likes of me from impromptu physical restructuring. Glory be.
The revelry was consistently high on wattage. Every vocal chord in the room was being subjected to the most intense testing through the game. Since India won, everyone was strutting around like they were Sylvester Stallone. A cost effective way to commit suicide would have been to shout "Pakistan Zindabad". The lingering feeling was "We are the best! We are the best!"
I personally thought it a little far fetched to take this victory as proof of India's overall superiority over the rest of the world in all things, as the crowd seemed to feel. We might have the capacity to hit balls further than people from neighboring countries but as far as government is concerned, India sucks big time. Any way, since this is not about that, we shall discuss matters more germane to the issue.
The game itself was a slug fest where the batsmen heaved at everything that came their way. Occasionally, one of these heaves would connect satisfactorily which would bring our erudite little gathering to hysterics.
One guy had brought a bus horn with which he would make bus-honk noises every time India score runs or got wickets. One or two of the company, on realizing that their Men Friday had omitted to pack such an instrument amongst their personal effects, managed to produce similar sounds with their armpits.
There were many whistlers, of whom I was a distinguished member. I may not be in line for Nobel Prize or even the chairmanship of our PTA group, but even my harshest critics will admit that I can whistle."He was an insignificant person", my obituary might read "and consistently charmless, but he could whistle louder than 97 percent of the population".Say that much and my soul will rest in peace.
I woke up this morning to the usual Broken Compass hangover where one loses one's sense of orientation and decided to quickly put my feelings down on paper - e-paper, if you will - before the moment vanished. Congratulations, all my fellow Indians out there. Way to go!
I was a reveler at last evening's madness when India beat Pakistan at the final of the 20-20 cricket world cup. We watched it at a pub named On Toes where some 100 people had congregated. The decibel level was huge. I personally lost a significant quantity of earwax on account of a portly gentleman seated directly behind me shrieking like a banshee. If his saliva has therapeutic value for hair growth, I'm going to be the next Rapunzel because every time he shrieked, he delivered a thimbleful on my thinning tresses. By the end of the match I must have collected a good bottle full. My hair feels soapy even at the moment of going to press.
The lubricant for the evening was Kingfisher beer. To put things precisely, as a mathematician would, If "n" be the number of beers an adult male can consume without losing control of his legs, then I had n+1 beers. Luckily for me, the place was so tightly packed that it was impossible to fall down. Otherwise I should surely have been trampled to death. In the event, I found myself miraculously conveyed out of the place after the revelry had ceased. May be God does exist and maybe he does graciously save the likes of me from impromptu physical restructuring. Glory be.
The revelry was consistently high on wattage. Every vocal chord in the room was being subjected to the most intense testing through the game. Since India won, everyone was strutting around like they were Sylvester Stallone. A cost effective way to commit suicide would have been to shout "Pakistan Zindabad". The lingering feeling was "We are the best! We are the best!"
I personally thought it a little far fetched to take this victory as proof of India's overall superiority over the rest of the world in all things, as the crowd seemed to feel. We might have the capacity to hit balls further than people from neighboring countries but as far as government is concerned, India sucks big time. Any way, since this is not about that, we shall discuss matters more germane to the issue.
The game itself was a slug fest where the batsmen heaved at everything that came their way. Occasionally, one of these heaves would connect satisfactorily which would bring our erudite little gathering to hysterics.
One guy had brought a bus horn with which he would make bus-honk noises every time India score runs or got wickets. One or two of the company, on realizing that their Men Friday had omitted to pack such an instrument amongst their personal effects, managed to produce similar sounds with their armpits.
There were many whistlers, of whom I was a distinguished member. I may not be in line for Nobel Prize or even the chairmanship of our PTA group, but even my harshest critics will admit that I can whistle."He was an insignificant person", my obituary might read "and consistently charmless, but he could whistle louder than 97 percent of the population".Say that much and my soul will rest in peace.
I woke up this morning to the usual Broken Compass hangover where one loses one's sense of orientation and decided to quickly put my feelings down on paper - e-paper, if you will - before the moment vanished. Congratulations, all my fellow Indians out there. Way to go!
Monday, September 17, 2007
Traffic Jam Rant
(Note: I wrote this piece last New Year, that is Jan 1st 2007. It was said by knowledgeable sources (namely me) that there were more trenches in Mumbai in 2007 that in all of Europe during World War II. Since that time, most of the trenches have been filled up and levelled. But the traffic is still snarling. Behind my house runs an arterial road where they play what I call "The Horn Concerto" in various keys. This is in several movements and features about 5 hours of virtuoso honking every evening. It is often supported by improptu poets who disembark from their vehicles and narrate instantly composed odes to the parentage of other people).
They are at it again, the jokers at the Municipal Corporation of Greater Mumbai. They have opened up the road at the main junction to our house, this being the third time in as many years. And its not one of those small, lets-plant-a-bonsai-tree-in-it kind of hole. Its a holy-smoke-did-an-asteroid-land-here kind and at the moment of going to press, is the scene of a world record traffic jam that a woefully inadequate police force of one is trying to disentangle. We will wish him all the best and with the reflective smugness of one who went walking instead of taking his car, we shall analyze and introspect.
I am forever fascinated by the trouble and expense to which our honorable civic body is willing to go for no discernible reason other than seeing what color it is in there. I've seen it in all these excavations. The place is dug up real fast, all the mud piled up in large mounds along the road. Then everyone disappears for a while as if to allow their masterpiece to mature.
Meanwhile, the doofuses* that populate Mumbai go nuts trying to race everyone else around the crater and end up jamming the traffic something bad. That's a specialty of Mumbai's citizens. Just as nature abhors a vacuum, the Mumbai driver abhors a vacant space in the traffic, regardless of how small it is in relation to the vehicle he is driving. He has to occupy that gap. Now everyone else wedges in and the resultant impasse can be quite depressing. If you've GOT to go to the loo, for example, you're in trouble.
My grouse is, regardless of this scene being repeated everyday - and my description is no exaggeration, any Mumbaikar will bear me out - the Municipal Corporation just shrugs its shoulders, twiddles its thumbs and sits on its fat gluteus maximus**. And the public just grins and bears it. Everytime. Everyone can see the callous lack of planning and coordination. They will invariably dig up all parallel streets at the same time, for example, allowing no scope for charting out an alternative route. They will dig up the place and then wait for months before the pipes or cables that they wish to place in arrive. Sometimes, they get existential doubts and fill up the pit without doing anything till they get their supply of Prozac and dig it up again. I don't think anyone has every lost his job for dereliction of duty in the Municipality.*** In fact, George Mallory's famous quote (Why do you want to climb Everest? Because it is there) is actually inspired by Assistant Engineer Kamble's famous quote (Why do you want to dig that road? Because it is there)
Thus, life goes on as usual. Today is the 31st of December, and later at night, St. Vitus' patients will usher in the new year as defined by Pope Gregory XIII. A meaningless ritual given that it is not our New Year. To complicate things, there are three or four alternative calendars seriously followed in India, positing the existence of three or four New Years. What sets this one apart is the fact that this particular meaningless ritual is accompanied by the consumption of large quantities of the true, the blushful Hippocrene. Hmmm. Sounds like fun, actually. I think I'd like to take part in a meaningless ritual or two myself.
Footnotes
* - A doofus is the scientific name for a person with inadequate intellectual equipment. Currently, with the exception of you and me, includes everyone in the world.
** - A large muscle situate at the lower posterior of the human body. Sometimes erroneously referred to as the "ass", which is wrong. Every one knows that "ass"means "Member of Parliament"
***-Or, for that matter, any public enterprise or Government body in India
They are at it again, the jokers at the Municipal Corporation of Greater Mumbai. They have opened up the road at the main junction to our house, this being the third time in as many years. And its not one of those small, lets-plant-a-bonsai-tree-in-it kind of hole. Its a holy-smoke-did-an-asteroid-land-here kind and at the moment of going to press, is the scene of a world record traffic jam that a woefully inadequate police force of one is trying to disentangle. We will wish him all the best and with the reflective smugness of one who went walking instead of taking his car, we shall analyze and introspect.
I am forever fascinated by the trouble and expense to which our honorable civic body is willing to go for no discernible reason other than seeing what color it is in there. I've seen it in all these excavations. The place is dug up real fast, all the mud piled up in large mounds along the road. Then everyone disappears for a while as if to allow their masterpiece to mature.
Meanwhile, the doofuses* that populate Mumbai go nuts trying to race everyone else around the crater and end up jamming the traffic something bad. That's a specialty of Mumbai's citizens. Just as nature abhors a vacuum, the Mumbai driver abhors a vacant space in the traffic, regardless of how small it is in relation to the vehicle he is driving. He has to occupy that gap. Now everyone else wedges in and the resultant impasse can be quite depressing. If you've GOT to go to the loo, for example, you're in trouble.
My grouse is, regardless of this scene being repeated everyday - and my description is no exaggeration, any Mumbaikar will bear me out - the Municipal Corporation just shrugs its shoulders, twiddles its thumbs and sits on its fat gluteus maximus**. And the public just grins and bears it. Everytime. Everyone can see the callous lack of planning and coordination. They will invariably dig up all parallel streets at the same time, for example, allowing no scope for charting out an alternative route. They will dig up the place and then wait for months before the pipes or cables that they wish to place in arrive. Sometimes, they get existential doubts and fill up the pit without doing anything till they get their supply of Prozac and dig it up again. I don't think anyone has every lost his job for dereliction of duty in the Municipality.*** In fact, George Mallory's famous quote (Why do you want to climb Everest? Because it is there) is actually inspired by Assistant Engineer Kamble's famous quote (Why do you want to dig that road? Because it is there)
Thus, life goes on as usual. Today is the 31st of December, and later at night, St. Vitus' patients will usher in the new year as defined by Pope Gregory XIII. A meaningless ritual given that it is not our New Year. To complicate things, there are three or four alternative calendars seriously followed in India, positing the existence of three or four New Years. What sets this one apart is the fact that this particular meaningless ritual is accompanied by the consumption of large quantities of the true, the blushful Hippocrene. Hmmm. Sounds like fun, actually. I think I'd like to take part in a meaningless ritual or two myself.
Footnotes
* - A doofus is the scientific name for a person with inadequate intellectual equipment. Currently, with the exception of you and me, includes everyone in the world.
** - A large muscle situate at the lower posterior of the human body. Sometimes erroneously referred to as the "ass", which is wrong. Every one knows that "ass"means "Member of Parliament"
***-Or, for that matter, any public enterprise or Government body in India
Sunday, June 3, 2007
A tryst with Mr. Destiny
Mr. Destiny is what I call my friend's astrologer. He can fix it for you.
Want to start a new business? Throw out those business plans and cashflow projections. Mr. Destiny will look at your horoscope and tell you how you will fare.
Usually, he finds that you will fare badly and that you will be cheated by partners and business associates. Your face falls. You've worked a great deal putting together that plan and mobilizing support for it. Now what do you do? Abandon it? Or go ahead and risk Mr. Destiny telling you "I told you so" as you try to piece together your shattered life?
Mr. Destiny reads your thoughts. A tranquil smile flits across his face and he tells you to have faith in him.
Do three things, he says.
First, there are an odd number of letters in your name. This is very bad for Venus, which is the dominant planet for you. So add a letter. Now, this can be fun. If you name is, say, Ashok, an ordinary, everyday kind of name, no one is going to notice it unless you do something seriously big like winning a Nobel prize or making it to the Oval Office. But add an 's' in the right place and you become "Asshok" leading people to believe you are someone of prominence in the pornography industry and consequently, inviting you for dinner. See? Its working already.
Second, wear a moonstone ring on the little finger of your left hand. Amazing coincidence, Mr. Destiny has one in stock, which he will let you have for less than market price. Lucky you. He probably knew that you were coming to meet him, he can see the future, you know. I for one find it most impressive that Mr. Destiny has lunar rocks with him. I tell my wife so. "I thought NASA would have them under lock and key", I mention, in a conspiratorial whisper because Mr. Destiny seems to be in some kind of trance. "You're such a doofus", she whispers back. That statement is true, of course, but why is she mentioning it now? "Because the 'moonstone' is not a lunar rock, it is a gemstone", she says. This does not seem like sufficient grounds to declare me mentally unsound. How am I supposed to know stuff like that? What am I, a contestant on Kaun Banega Crorepati? Bournvita Quiz Contest? Huh? I prepare to present these strong arguments in my defense but my wife fixes me with a stare. I find that the temperature of my lower limbs has gone down considerably. "Want to make it in the evolution race?", the stare seems to be saying, "keep that trap shut". I decide to follow a policy of compliance.
Third, Mr. Destiny gives you a mantra which you have to repeat one million and eight times. Each repetition is to be accompanied with pouring a spoonful of water on a tulsi leaf and put on an idol of Krishna. You are desperately doing some large-number math. Lets see, two seconds for each mantra, thirty in a minute, one thousand eight hundred an hour, let me see.. one million would take..... a really long time. Fortunately, this activity can be outsourced. There is a team of pundits who will do this in such a way as to ensure that the benefit accrues to you, for the extremely reasonable price of ten thousand rupees, payable in advance please.
Now your destiny is fixed. It dare not have the temerity to traverse paths not charted for it by Mr. Destiny.
Till you meet Mr. Good Fortune, who gives you a commiserating look and tells you that Mr. Destiny did not know someone called Jack Shit, implying that his advice is therefore misleading and actually, harmful. You need to have seven syllables in your name, plus it should begin with the letter K, plus you should wear a sapphire ring on the middle finger of your right hand because otherwise Mars in the seventh house will team up with Mercury in the third floor flat and both will kick your sorry ass big time. You might have to get married to a Banyan tree and think of what kind of sex life you will have then, ha, ha, ha.
Some times I really wonder if life is worth living. Now where did I put that bottle of sleeping pills?
Want to start a new business? Throw out those business plans and cashflow projections. Mr. Destiny will look at your horoscope and tell you how you will fare.
Usually, he finds that you will fare badly and that you will be cheated by partners and business associates. Your face falls. You've worked a great deal putting together that plan and mobilizing support for it. Now what do you do? Abandon it? Or go ahead and risk Mr. Destiny telling you "I told you so" as you try to piece together your shattered life?
Mr. Destiny reads your thoughts. A tranquil smile flits across his face and he tells you to have faith in him.
Do three things, he says.
First, there are an odd number of letters in your name. This is very bad for Venus, which is the dominant planet for you. So add a letter. Now, this can be fun. If you name is, say, Ashok, an ordinary, everyday kind of name, no one is going to notice it unless you do something seriously big like winning a Nobel prize or making it to the Oval Office. But add an 's' in the right place and you become "Asshok" leading people to believe you are someone of prominence in the pornography industry and consequently, inviting you for dinner. See? Its working already.
Second, wear a moonstone ring on the little finger of your left hand. Amazing coincidence, Mr. Destiny has one in stock, which he will let you have for less than market price. Lucky you. He probably knew that you were coming to meet him, he can see the future, you know. I for one find it most impressive that Mr. Destiny has lunar rocks with him. I tell my wife so. "I thought NASA would have them under lock and key", I mention, in a conspiratorial whisper because Mr. Destiny seems to be in some kind of trance. "You're such a doofus", she whispers back. That statement is true, of course, but why is she mentioning it now? "Because the 'moonstone' is not a lunar rock, it is a gemstone", she says. This does not seem like sufficient grounds to declare me mentally unsound. How am I supposed to know stuff like that? What am I, a contestant on Kaun Banega Crorepati? Bournvita Quiz Contest? Huh? I prepare to present these strong arguments in my defense but my wife fixes me with a stare. I find that the temperature of my lower limbs has gone down considerably. "Want to make it in the evolution race?", the stare seems to be saying, "keep that trap shut". I decide to follow a policy of compliance.
Third, Mr. Destiny gives you a mantra which you have to repeat one million and eight times. Each repetition is to be accompanied with pouring a spoonful of water on a tulsi leaf and put on an idol of Krishna. You are desperately doing some large-number math. Lets see, two seconds for each mantra, thirty in a minute, one thousand eight hundred an hour, let me see.. one million would take..... a really long time. Fortunately, this activity can be outsourced. There is a team of pundits who will do this in such a way as to ensure that the benefit accrues to you, for the extremely reasonable price of ten thousand rupees, payable in advance please.
Now your destiny is fixed. It dare not have the temerity to traverse paths not charted for it by Mr. Destiny.
Till you meet Mr. Good Fortune, who gives you a commiserating look and tells you that Mr. Destiny did not know someone called Jack Shit, implying that his advice is therefore misleading and actually, harmful. You need to have seven syllables in your name, plus it should begin with the letter K, plus you should wear a sapphire ring on the middle finger of your right hand because otherwise Mars in the seventh house will team up with Mercury in the third floor flat and both will kick your sorry ass big time. You might have to get married to a Banyan tree and think of what kind of sex life you will have then, ha, ha, ha.
Some times I really wonder if life is worth living. Now where did I put that bottle of sleeping pills?
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Exclusive! Interview with Vijay Mallya!
Yesterday, Vijay Mallya bought a company called Whyte and Mackay for a billion dollars US. Good for him. Its a scotch whiskey company and Vijay Mallya who is in the liquor business, does not own a scotch whiskey company. And of course, whiskey accounts for 85% of alcohol sales in India. So he borrowed the money from here and there and paid a billion cash, apparently. By the way, 155 million liters of whiskey comes with the company.
What I can't understand, for the life of me, is why the business journalist in the Economic Times thinks it is such a diabolically clever move. Why, indeed, are simple, no-brainer business decisions invested with deep strategical significance. Like he had a choice! Moreover, at even 6 dollars a liter, the price of the cheapest Indian whiskey, he breaks even on the 155 million liters Whyte and Mackay have in their cellars. But our journalists are going to be writing columns and columns about how shrewd Vijay Mallya is.
Well, if you cant beat them, join them. Here an interview I took of Vijay Mallya's....
What I can't understand, for the life of me, is why the business journalist in the Economic Times thinks it is such a diabolically clever move. Why, indeed, are simple, no-brainer business decisions invested with deep strategical significance. Like he had a choice! Moreover, at even 6 dollars a liter, the price of the cheapest Indian whiskey, he breaks even on the 155 million liters Whyte and Mackay have in their cellars. But our journalists are going to be writing columns and columns about how shrewd Vijay Mallya is.
Well, if you cant beat them, join them. Here an interview I took of Vijay Mallya's....
Me: Hello, Mr. Mallya, sir, may I have the honour of asking you a few questions for my blog
Vijay Mallya: First of all its Doctor Mallya, do not forget that. Yes you may. Proceed
Me: Doctor? Wow, I didn't know that! I have this funny pain in my left side.....
VM: I'm not that kind of doctor, you fool. I just bought a Phd degree from some place.
Me: Phd? That's cool! Phd in what?
VM: Get on with it, boy, before I lose my patience and throw you out.
Me: Sorry. Tell me, first of all, doc, how did you locate and identify Whyte and Mackay?
VM: It was quite tricky. I personally looked through all the yellow pages in Scotland for "Distilleries and Whiskey manufacturers"
Me: How did you approach Whyte and Mackay?
VM: Well, in deals of this size, delicacy and discretion are crucial. After months of preparation, we called their board number and asked to speak with the boss man. The operator was reluctant to put us through. It was then that I got my inspiration. I identified myself, I am famous even in Scotland you know, and offered the operator a spot on the kingfisher calendar.
Me: Are you going to put her on the calendar?
VM: Who?
Me: The operator, of course
VM: Oh, no. He's a guy.
Me: Coming back to the subject, how was the offer negotiated
VM: We do not disclose details of the negotiation process or the finer points of the agreement, of course.
Me: Just a synopsis, please? Pretty please? Only a bunch of half wits read my blog anyway
VM: Oh, alright. You seem like a nice guy. Well, I spoke to the boss man and asked him if he wanted to sell. He said how much will you pay? I said 950 million US, take it or leave it. He said he had just got an offer from a American company for one billion fifty cash plus dinner with Halle Berry. I knew he was lying. Americans have no use for whiskey. They drink a processed form of horse urine called bourbon. But I had to let him save face. Very important, face, in these high level business transactions. So I told him to kiss my ass.
Me: I'm breathless! Then?
VM: He said ok, billion and dinner with Halle Berry. I told him I would give him a billion, ok, but not dinner with Halle Berry. We settled for a Subway Sandwich with Shilpa Shetty. Doesnt it sound cool? Subway Sandwich with Shilpa Shetty.
Me: Thank you sir for elucidating these delicate points of power negotiation. So what is the strategic market and business plan in the near and medium term?
VM: I'm going to sell the 155 million liters in Delhi for 20 dollars a liter. That will get me 3 billion give or take. I will repay the billion dollar loan I took from a few channel island companies with names like "Vijay Investments ltd", "Mallya Investments ltd", "Vijay Mallya Investments ltd". and so on. With the remaining cash, I'll buy another yacht.
Me: Do you get tired of the ceaseless globe trotting and partying?
VM: This is a trick question, right?
Monday, April 23, 2007
I love my government
I just love my government. I've spent all of today on a pavement outside the regional passport office in Bombay trying to get a ECNR* stamp on my passport. "The how much??" said my friend 'Jack' who is culturally disadvantaged where it comes to comprehending the finer points of Indian Laws. He was brought up in America. We will keep one minute's silence to mourn his disabilities and move on to an erudite analysis of how the bureaucracy works hard to make your life fuller and more meaningful.
First, the facts. It so happened, dear reader, that we landed up at 6.00 am, application form and all documents under the sun in hand, on the pavement outside the Regional Passport Office. That early because we were advised that the queues could get really long. Some 50 people had already beaten us to it.
Just ahead of us was a distinguished looking gentleman dressed in formal office wear, shoes shined to a finish that slobs like me can only dream of. He had the air of someone who was turning the wheels of the economy. Which he was, because we later discovered that he was a very senior officer of the Reserve Bank of India. I, for one, found it surprising that someone of so exalted a station in life could not manage to find a lackey to stand in for him, like so many other prosperous people who sauntered in languorously at 9.30 and occupied positions that seedy looking gentlemen had been occupying since earlier than six.
Some of the poor saps who had been standing there since 6 in the morning took umbrage at this and protested loudly. There was a brief altercation where the contestants discussed intimate details of relationships between them and their close female relatives in extremely crass and graphic terms. Then one of the worthies bitch-slapped the other, raising the volume of the argument by several hundred decibels. Soon, the cops turned up and sadly, for the bunch of us who were enjoying this immensely, restored law and order.
Meanwhile, my friend the Reserve Bank Governor was getting increasingly concerned that in his absence, the wheels of the economy might just stop turning and vociferated this concern several times in various grammatical structures. The beads of sweat appearing on his broad forehead, for some reason, struck Sheela and me as droll.
Presently, I decided to forage for some coffee and went walkabout. Presently, I came across a Cafe Coffee Day outlet whose employees were stretching, yawning and rubbing their eyes. They firmly told me that the shop had not yet opened for business, but I'm not a Bombayite for nothing. Ten minutes later, they were pouring out three Cafe Lattes, one thoughtfully ordered for Mr. Indian Alan Greenspan. When I gave him the coffee, he was really overcome with emotion. If he had had a daughter of marriageable age, I am sure he would have wedded her to me. Sheela of course did not agree with this analysis, citing some lame reason like he's not blind. Be that as it may, we spent the rest of the morning being fawned upon by him.
Eventually, our turn came and we were ushered in to a hall which mercifully had air conditioning. At the stroke of ten, a lady possessing the eyes and dental features of a medieval dragon appeared behind the desk. The place came alive and the chaps in front of us were summoned.
They went in the manner of aztecs going to the head priest to have their hearts cut out. With trepidation, if you know what I mean. The dragon lady spoke sharply and flames shot out from her eyes, but she did not actually bite them, which livened me up considerably.
I was next. The dragon eyes went over the documents. They looked up and started frying me on a low flame. "Where's your address proof?" they asked. I opened my mouth to speak but no words would come out of my parched throat. With a croaking sound, I proffered my ration card. The eyes raised the temperature to "medium". "Ration card is not proof enough" they said and told me to prove that I existed in some way acceptable to the God Baal, or prepare to be sacrificed. "What about my passport? Isn't that proof of residence?" I asked, throwing all caution to the winds. The flame went to "high" and with a muted scream I hightailed out of there faster than a ninety pound weakling at a bodybuilders' convention.
Such then is my tale. On the morrow, better prepared and wearing holy charms, I managed to satisfy the lady (document wise, that is) and won for myself an ECNR stamp on my passport. I am now in the exclusive club of distinguished people who can visit the Middle East, Japan, Korea, China, Africa and South America without having to ask anyone. I bet you
can't do that. So bow, underling. Accept your inferiority
*Foot Note: ECNR stands for Emigration Clearance Not Required. If you need to know more than that, I suggest you meditate under the Bodhi Tree. Its either that or read the Government Rule Book. Whichever is easier for you.
First, the facts. It so happened, dear reader, that we landed up at 6.00 am, application form and all documents under the sun in hand, on the pavement outside the Regional Passport Office. That early because we were advised that the queues could get really long. Some 50 people had already beaten us to it.
Just ahead of us was a distinguished looking gentleman dressed in formal office wear, shoes shined to a finish that slobs like me can only dream of. He had the air of someone who was turning the wheels of the economy. Which he was, because we later discovered that he was a very senior officer of the Reserve Bank of India. I, for one, found it surprising that someone of so exalted a station in life could not manage to find a lackey to stand in for him, like so many other prosperous people who sauntered in languorously at 9.30 and occupied positions that seedy looking gentlemen had been occupying since earlier than six.
Some of the poor saps who had been standing there since 6 in the morning took umbrage at this and protested loudly. There was a brief altercation where the contestants discussed intimate details of relationships between them and their close female relatives in extremely crass and graphic terms. Then one of the worthies bitch-slapped the other, raising the volume of the argument by several hundred decibels. Soon, the cops turned up and sadly, for the bunch of us who were enjoying this immensely, restored law and order.
Meanwhile, my friend the Reserve Bank Governor was getting increasingly concerned that in his absence, the wheels of the economy might just stop turning and vociferated this concern several times in various grammatical structures. The beads of sweat appearing on his broad forehead, for some reason, struck Sheela and me as droll.
Presently, I decided to forage for some coffee and went walkabout. Presently, I came across a Cafe Coffee Day outlet whose employees were stretching, yawning and rubbing their eyes. They firmly told me that the shop had not yet opened for business, but I'm not a Bombayite for nothing. Ten minutes later, they were pouring out three Cafe Lattes, one thoughtfully ordered for Mr. Indian Alan Greenspan. When I gave him the coffee, he was really overcome with emotion. If he had had a daughter of marriageable age, I am sure he would have wedded her to me. Sheela of course did not agree with this analysis, citing some lame reason like he's not blind. Be that as it may, we spent the rest of the morning being fawned upon by him.
Eventually, our turn came and we were ushered in to a hall which mercifully had air conditioning. At the stroke of ten, a lady possessing the eyes and dental features of a medieval dragon appeared behind the desk. The place came alive and the chaps in front of us were summoned.
They went in the manner of aztecs going to the head priest to have their hearts cut out. With trepidation, if you know what I mean. The dragon lady spoke sharply and flames shot out from her eyes, but she did not actually bite them, which livened me up considerably.
I was next. The dragon eyes went over the documents. They looked up and started frying me on a low flame. "Where's your address proof?" they asked. I opened my mouth to speak but no words would come out of my parched throat. With a croaking sound, I proffered my ration card. The eyes raised the temperature to "medium". "Ration card is not proof enough" they said and told me to prove that I existed in some way acceptable to the God Baal, or prepare to be sacrificed. "What about my passport? Isn't that proof of residence?" I asked, throwing all caution to the winds. The flame went to "high" and with a muted scream I hightailed out of there faster than a ninety pound weakling at a bodybuilders' convention.
Such then is my tale. On the morrow, better prepared and wearing holy charms, I managed to satisfy the lady (document wise, that is) and won for myself an ECNR stamp on my passport. I am now in the exclusive club of distinguished people who can visit the Middle East, Japan, Korea, China, Africa and South America without having to ask anyone. I bet you
can't do that. So bow, underling. Accept your inferiority
*Foot Note: ECNR stands for Emigration Clearance Not Required. If you need to know more than that, I suggest you meditate under the Bodhi Tree. Its either that or read the Government Rule Book. Whichever is easier for you.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Carbohydrates in Mysore
I'm back from yet another impromptu little vacation in Mysore. A rejuvenating couple of days. The place never ceases to fascinate me. It has wonderful weather all year round. The food is amazingly cheap and delicious (more about this) and the landscape abundantly green. Every one calls every one else "Sir", (pronounced "Saar"), regardless of their respective stations in life. In Mumbai, everyone calls everyone else "Boss", which to my delicate, Mysore-conditioned, saar ear, sounds crass and insolent. Another thing I love about Mysore is the tendency of people to add a "oo" sound to just about every word ending in a consonant. Thus right becomes "rightoo" as in "go straightoo and then turn rightoo". Isnt it remarkable, then, that Mysore does not have even a fiftieth of Mumbai's population, which of course is known for its surliness, smog, exorbitant prices and a concrete landscape of profound hideousness. And a climate so humid that you, with your pure and blameless heart will never suspect exists outside hell. One of life's conundrums. Why the devil would anyone want to live in Mumbai when there exist, on the face of this earth, places like Mysore? Am I not Mr. Pertinent Question Person today?
Well, the mystery that I really wanted to write about in this post concerns an eatery. There is an establishment known as the Sri Chamundeshwari Hindu Military Hotel in a small town called Bannur about 14 km from Mysore which has just one item on its menu - mutton pulao. And it is said to be the best mutton pulao in the district.
Well, the mystery that I really wanted to write about in this post concerns an eatery. There is an establishment known as the Sri Chamundeshwari Hindu Military Hotel in a small town called Bannur about 14 km from Mysore which has just one item on its menu - mutton pulao. And it is said to be the best mutton pulao in the district.
This eatery is all of 200 square feet under a precariously propped roof. The roof, tables, floor, walls and the utensils have one thing in common - they're all completely smoke blackened, as are the cook and the waiters. Bannur itself is, how shall I put it, no threat, as a holiday destination, to Monte Carlo. It is Anywhere, Karnataka with small unassuming mud and brick houses. The people are equally unassuming. Most of them are thin and grizzled, with the ageless look of rural folk all over the country. However, it is the meat capital of the area. Almost all the meat sold in Mysore comes from here. As we walked towards our target eatery, we walked past a long row of butcher's shops. A grisly sight for an occasional meat eater like me. I avoided the difficult philosophical questions that were sort of bustling through my mind by the simple expedient of not looking at the shops. This is actually the Indian Government's patented way of problem solving. If you don't see the problem, it doesn't exist. This is an interesting line of thinking, but beside the point and entirely outside the scope of this blog, written as it is by a doofus and generally unimportant person. So we shall buttonhole it for the moment and move on to earthier things.
Coming back to this restaurant. The fare is simple, as I said, comprising of just one item, the pulao. This is made out of rice flavored with green chillies and mutton cooked in green chillies, mixed and cooked again. With a few green chillies stirred in while all this happens, I shouldn't wonder. The resultant is a spicy pulao (I knew you'd never guess) eaten with an optional spicy gravy. Made mostly from green chillies, I might add. Its really yummy.
Coming back to this restaurant. The fare is simple, as I said, comprising of just one item, the pulao. This is made out of rice flavored with green chillies and mutton cooked in green chillies, mixed and cooked again. With a few green chillies stirred in while all this happens, I shouldn't wonder. The resultant is a spicy pulao (I knew you'd never guess) eaten with an optional spicy gravy. Made mostly from green chillies, I might add. Its really yummy.
I now come to the mystery part. The operating hours are 5 am to 7 am, when the shop winds up for the day and what was buzzing with activity quietly dons the garb of a sleepy rural street. Who would want to eat mutton pulao at 5 am in the morning? Search me. Even the locals haven't a clue as to how these hours evolved. They all assemble there because, well, you wouldn't get any pulao otherwise. The place has some classy custom, mind you. The day I went there, there was a Mercedes parked outside. Some rich real estate type person, I would guess. He was too ugly to be a movie star. Had that extra chin or two which sort of disqualifies a chap from matinee idol status. The point is, the rich and famous are on the regular customer list. Yet the place is extremely cheap. The three of us ate like hyenas after a bread and water diet and ran up a bill of 250 rupees. Roughly 5 dollars 75. In other words, 27 cents a burp.
As I was saying, I couldn't hold back from the carbohydrates. The fragrance had already made my gastric juices slosh about and when the stuff was served, people were irresistibly reminded of Sus Scrofa Domesticus (Google it!)
PS. Errata: There are several more items on the menu, or would have been had there existed a menu, which there doesn't but then, merely the lack of a printed menu does not mean that the menu does not exist, of course, and I've been drinking beer, I confess. What I mean is that you can have stuff like idlis with korma and khaima (which means kheema or minced meat) balls. Mutton Pulao is not the only dish available. But the 5 am to 7 am thing is true.
Friday, April 6, 2007
You might want this guy to twist your arm
There are many things in Mysore that I find amazing. (The one thing that Mysoreans seem to find amazing is "How did someone like Sheela end up marrying that ugghhh?" but thats another story).
There is the huge and ornate Mysore palace (in which lives the huge and ornate king of Mysore), the 6.00 am mutton pulao, the addressing of all and sundry as "saar", breakfast for less than Rs. 10, tiny workshops where craftsmen produce the most intricate of wooden carvings, a restaurant named "RRR" which serves such spicy chilli chicken that it is rumoured to be fed to suspects by the police in order to make them "talk". Many, many more
The most amazing of them all is this guy named Dr. K. R. I. Jagdish. He is famous for curing severe cases of slipped disc, cervical spondylitis and allied ailments, but is much more than that. I am told that he cures stuff like diabetes and asthma too.
Any way, I landed up there because young Sheela (my sweet and long suffering wife) had spondylitis trouble. Caused, no doubt, by continuously having to crane her neck to see if I'm hitting the Malpuris or the rabdi in the fridge. She was in considerable pain and we eventually landed up at our orthopaedic surgeon's clinic.
He made us click a few X-rays and promptly diagnosed it as spondylitis. He chattily carried on an interesting conversation about El five and El six or something like that which would have been really entertaining if I could understand a word of it. They could be Mexican cities for all I knew, or weather conditions (I've heard of El nino). An airline, perhaps, like El Al.
But I digress. Well, he recommended physiotherapy, and Sheela soon felt better. But the pain never really went away. To make matters worse for me, the words "pain" and "neck" used in the same sentence would usually end up in someone cracking a silly juvenile joke about me. With a dignified "Ha", I would take that as a cue to disappear, the better to preserve my self respect.
Eventually, to cut a long story short ("too late", I hear you say) we landed up in a distant suburb of Mysore. Dr. Jagdish, ( who endearingly calls himself "Jag" and his treatment "Jag Therapy") started work at 8.00 am. We had been warned that there would be a long wait, so we landed up at 7.45. There were 12 people ahead of us. It was a good hour before our turn came and I marched in with Sheela to find a 70 year old guy wearing shorts and chatting with two assistants, one American and one Japanese. Talk about incongruous. He had a disarming smile and a gently sarcastic tone of voice. He holds daal as the root of all evil because when we answered in the affirmative to his question whether we consumed it, he gave us the kind of look
your cardiologist would give you if you told him you ate 12-egg omelettes and half a pound of bacon for breakfast each morning. Horrified! After a little tirade against the poisonous nature of daal, he asked Sheela to lie down and felt her neck. He promptly said the same Spanish things (El this and that) that our orthopaedic surgeon had said. Amazing! Without any X-rays too! He said it was a very mild case and would cease to bother her, provided of course she stopped eating the poison (daal).
He held her arm and gently moved it around. Then he said he was going to manipulate
her joints and it might hurt a bit. Before she could say "daal", he had twisted her arm and
neck and sent a lot of joints in there going "snap". Sheela hasn't felt the pain since. He gave
her some exercises to do and strict instructions to have nothing to do with daal, and we left.
Know the most amazing thing? This whole treatment is free. He does not charge a penny other
than a one time Rs. 50 registration fee which entitles you to see him as often as you like, for
ever. Even that is waived if you tell them you cant afford it, as some poor people do. There is a charity box kept near the reception where you can contribute but it is voluntary and unsupervised. In my entire life I have not seen anything like this anywhere. You're not even asked or urged for a donation.
I was moved. This Jag, I learnt later, practises for half a year in Brunei. The other half is in
Mysore. As far as I can see, he lives entirely on voluntary contribution and invites people to
live with him and learn his science, free of charge. Even the cynic in me could not see any ulterior motive or hidden agenda. And he really does work miracles with slipped disc cases.
Many people who considered themselves crippled for life are today completely cured.
Sheela met a family she knew, a wealthy businessman'
eternally grateful to him for making someone in the family walk again.
Really amazing, Mysore.
Sri K. R. I. Jagadish Charitable Trust
9/1P 13th E Main J Block Kanadasa Nagar
Dattagalli 3rd stage
Mysore
Ph: 3294855/2901813
Mail kadabajagadish@hotmail.com
Thursday, February 8, 2007
On concerts in this wicked city
When it rains, it pours. I've been going to concerts by the dozen these days, mostly by the invitation of kind friends who, their usually sharp vision misted over with the cloud of affection, don't realize that ol' Narendra is a doofus and should be given passes to the circus, not concerts.
Any way, the other day we went to a Zakir Hussain concert "A tribute to Abbaji". This tribute to the memory of his father, the late Ustad Allarakha, is an annual feature at Shanmukhananda Hall in Matunga, Mumbai. Zakir Hussain evidently organizes it with a great deal of personal involvement, which I find touching.
This year too, the show was simply amazing. It opened with a gaggle of elderly ladies of whose performance I missed the beginning owing to having parked several light years away. The drive to Shanmukhananda hall was no picnic either. For some reason the traffic was more maniacal than usual. Sheela continuously peppered the journey with little screams of panic whenever I went too close to another vehicle, either unwittingly or, as is usually the case, out of a sense of outrage that the other guy had the temerity to cross my path. I don't know what it is about Bombay that brings out the tiger in me. Normally the most docile and baa-lamb kind of guy, a small drive through Bombay traffic leaves me foaming at the mouth with canines bared and vocabulary showing a marked departure from my pacifist leanings. The non availability of parking space did not help in assuaging my temper. Muttering dark curses against Bombay, Matunga, the police, automobile companies and the general tendency of the Indian public to keep procreating, I reached the venue in the middle of a vigourous song and dance routine by five elderly ladies.
The gaggle of ladies turned out to be a a group called B'net Marakkech, which means"Daughters of Morocco". They were 50 plus size-wise and age-wise but the music was so rustic and vigorous that the entire audience was actively involved in what is called " call and response" music. An enthralling performance. John Mclaughlin who was scheduled to perform later was moved enough to drag them back for an encore. I read a blurb on a web page that their music "draws from the deepest bottom of the human memory" Its so true! Must visit Morocco.
Another interesting perfromance was from a Rajasthani Manganiar group comprising of three people, one playing a sarangi type instrument, one playing the desert version of the castanets and one with the dholak. They played an instrumental number first, focusing on the percussion and on the castanet. Upon my Sam! The castanets player wowed the audience, clicking faster than a Geiger counter sitting on a plutonium bomb. The dholak player would probably have held his own against Zakir Husain himself. This country never ceases to amaze me. A bunch of rustic blokes, straight from the desert, playing such amazingly sophisticated music! Most of the other musicians on stage were overwhelmed by the virtuosity on display.
They followed this up with a traditional version of "Nimbuda" made famous by Aishwarya Rai (in a movie called Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam) who, and I say this in the kindliest sense possible, has the dancing skills of a bronc which a cowpoke is trying to tame. Besides the point of course, and I'm already running the risk of being assassinated by a member of the Aishwarya Rai Fan Club. Better move on to the next item on the agenda. A quick digression on this immortal movie. I didn't watch it, one of the many things for which I have to thank God when I eventually meet him, but when some one who did was asked why he had sat through it if it was all that bad, he replied "Hum Paisa De Chuke Sanam"
The rest of the music was of course, most satisfying. Anyway, a philistine like me commenting on the performance of the likes of John McLaughlin and Zakir Hussein is a bit like a Trappist monk commenting on stand-up comedy. Or Kim Jong Il commenting on human rights. Or Osama bin laden on turning the other cheek. Or... sorry, I do get carried away.
After this veritable orgy of notes, we decided to repair to a convenient watering hole. Shatranj, where we went, is a nice but stodgy place. Unpretentious, good food, even a few celebrities hanging around but as "happening" as a cowshed. Luckily for us, a high volume suburban family had taken a dislike to the place and we were entertained to a good old fashioned "raada" which in Bombay means street fight. My normally large ears had become even larger in the hope of catching some good epithets for my next discussion with the traffic constable who saw sin in the way I cut lanes, but I was disappointed. No littérateurs, this suburban family, and consequently, the battle fizzled out into a skirmish.
Tomorrow, I go to another concert, this one by one Carl Clements. Ain't my cup running over?
Any way, the other day we went to a Zakir Hussain concert "A tribute to Abbaji". This tribute to the memory of his father, the late Ustad Allarakha, is an annual feature at Shanmukhananda Hall in Matunga, Mumbai. Zakir Hussain evidently organizes it with a great deal of personal involvement, which I find touching.
This year too, the show was simply amazing. It opened with a gaggle of elderly ladies of whose performance I missed the beginning owing to having parked several light years away. The drive to Shanmukhananda hall was no picnic either. For some reason the traffic was more maniacal than usual. Sheela continuously peppered the journey with little screams of panic whenever I went too close to another vehicle, either unwittingly or, as is usually the case, out of a sense of outrage that the other guy had the temerity to cross my path. I don't know what it is about Bombay that brings out the tiger in me. Normally the most docile and baa-lamb kind of guy, a small drive through Bombay traffic leaves me foaming at the mouth with canines bared and vocabulary showing a marked departure from my pacifist leanings. The non availability of parking space did not help in assuaging my temper. Muttering dark curses against Bombay, Matunga, the police, automobile companies and the general tendency of the Indian public to keep procreating, I reached the venue in the middle of a vigourous song and dance routine by five elderly ladies.
The gaggle of ladies turned out to be a a group called B'net Marakkech, which means"Daughters of Morocco". They were 50 plus size-wise and age-wise but the music was so rustic and vigorous that the entire audience was actively involved in what is called " call and response" music. An enthralling performance. John Mclaughlin who was scheduled to perform later was moved enough to drag them back for an encore. I read a blurb on a web page that their music "draws from the deepest bottom of the human memory" Its so true! Must visit Morocco.
Another interesting perfromance was from a Rajasthani Manganiar group comprising of three people, one playing a sarangi type instrument, one playing the desert version of the castanets and one with the dholak. They played an instrumental number first, focusing on the percussion and on the castanet. Upon my Sam! The castanets player wowed the audience, clicking faster than a Geiger counter sitting on a plutonium bomb. The dholak player would probably have held his own against Zakir Husain himself. This country never ceases to amaze me. A bunch of rustic blokes, straight from the desert, playing such amazingly sophisticated music! Most of the other musicians on stage were overwhelmed by the virtuosity on display.
They followed this up with a traditional version of "Nimbuda" made famous by Aishwarya Rai (in a movie called Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam) who, and I say this in the kindliest sense possible, has the dancing skills of a bronc which a cowpoke is trying to tame. Besides the point of course, and I'm already running the risk of being assassinated by a member of the Aishwarya Rai Fan Club. Better move on to the next item on the agenda. A quick digression on this immortal movie. I didn't watch it, one of the many things for which I have to thank God when I eventually meet him, but when some one who did was asked why he had sat through it if it was all that bad, he replied "Hum Paisa De Chuke Sanam"
The rest of the music was of course, most satisfying. Anyway, a philistine like me commenting on the performance of the likes of John McLaughlin and Zakir Hussein is a bit like a Trappist monk commenting on stand-up comedy. Or Kim Jong Il commenting on human rights. Or Osama bin laden on turning the other cheek. Or... sorry, I do get carried away.
After this veritable orgy of notes, we decided to repair to a convenient watering hole. Shatranj, where we went, is a nice but stodgy place. Unpretentious, good food, even a few celebrities hanging around but as "happening" as a cowshed. Luckily for us, a high volume suburban family had taken a dislike to the place and we were entertained to a good old fashioned "raada" which in Bombay means street fight. My normally large ears had become even larger in the hope of catching some good epithets for my next discussion with the traffic constable who saw sin in the way I cut lanes, but I was disappointed. No littérateurs, this suburban family, and consequently, the battle fizzled out into a skirmish.
Tomorrow, I go to another concert, this one by one Carl Clements. Ain't my cup running over?
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