What's up, Delhi?

Cheap Weekend Fun Anyone?

2011-09-15T18:23:00.000+05:30

Dark and smoky are your first impressions. No rush, take your time and once your natural night vision is on, move forward. Groups of young boys and girls smoking hookahs crowd this place and lots of young people are always an indication of cheap alcohol at hand. A hookah, 3 beers and a vegetarian starter are available for Rs 500 and ‘unlimited’ packages including alcohol, appetizers and main course starts at Rs 700. There are also prizes (read alcohol) to be won in their drinking games. The music and décor are inconspicuously harmless and there is a terrace section for the smokers. All in all a good deal, safe, cheap and fun and a good contender for a regular watering hole.

Happy Hours 1+1: 11am to 6pm
Prices: Indian Rum: Rs125; whisky:Ranging from Rs 125 to Rs175; vodka:Rs 125 to Rs 150; Indian beer pints:Rs 90; Indian beers: 650 ml Rs145; Brandy: Rs 125; breezers: Rs100

Cafe 27 Bar & Kitchen, 26, Kailash Colony Market, Greater Kailash 1, Ph: 64512727, 2923002; Nearest Metro Station: Kailash Colony, Violet Line

Now who hasn’t been to 4S?! It is ‘the’ watering hole, at least of south Delhi. The food is good, the alcohol cheap, the staff friendly and the doorman (the huge moustached man) so bloody affable! An unassuming little bar in Defence Colony Market, it is easy to miss, but seek and you shall find. It has garnered such popularity in the past few years that any night of the week it is hard to get a table. It is crunched for space but that is part of the positive experience, everyone makes do with it. Hang around the bar or wait at the waiting table. Another great part about it is the unblaring, ear drum bursting music that plays in most bars. These guys got it right with keeping it simple, overall a really positive place with tons of character.

Happy Hours: 50% off - Noon to 10 pm

Prices: Indian beer 650 ml: Rs 220; domestic whisky: Rs130; domestic rum and vodka: Rs110

4S, A 26, Defence Colony Market; Ph: 41664314, 41664316; Nearest Metro Station: Lajpat Nagar, Violet Line.

holysuspenders Batman!

Mid-week Blues? Feeling Cheap? Head to...

2011-09-14T15:24:00.002+05:30

Dive Bars. First City's scouting of the NCR, in an adventure to find a few sasta highs. Starting with Noida...

‘Here pull with no escape’, says the fine print (in case you’re Phoebe and don’t ‘get’ gravity), so you’re warned before you enter this pub-cum-lounge-cum-restaurant-cum-party-place (banquet kinds, that is). The music’s at the right volume and insipid enough to ignore completely (though an odd evening does play host to Bob Marley covers), the ambience is wait-what-ambience?, and the people around are looking exactly for what you’re looking for - a quick, cheap-ish fix. Head for the kill, if your poison’s Scotch, and if it’s beer, well, remind someone to stop you, at some point. (Someone outside the pull of Gravity, preferably). Whatever you do though, do not go with any recommendations on the ‘exquisite cocktail’ list.

Prices: Rs. 245 for a Kingfisher Mild, All IMFL, small peg, for Rs. 175

Happy hours: 11 am to 7.30 pm

GRAVITY 401-402, Jaipuria Plaza, Sector 26, Noida, Ph: 0120-2532111, 2532555

floatin'

IT’S CALLED THE LIVING ROOM. MAKE ROOM TO LIVE.

2011-09-07T16:10:00.025+05:30

Picture this - a higgledy-piggledy bunch of quixotic fantasists thrown together (as though fate were blending an unlikely Saturday smoothie), each with their own individual explanations as to why giving up several precious hours of leisure (even more so for most, squeezed as they are from the remains of a six day work-week) to voluntarily sit in a tiny little classroom and make complete asses of their middle-aged (some mentally, others not so much) selves, in Spanish no less, is totally worth it. Come February for example, Prospective Expat will leave Delhi behind for Costa Rican shores. On-a-diet is desperate to dream in another language, with the kind of hunger that would put her detoxes to shame. For DJ, who has off late been spinning ‘salsa nights’ across clubs in the city, this is yet another step in the same direction. As for me, I can finally look forward to reading Neruda’s verse the way it was always meant to be – richly endowed in the primal sounds of nascency, richer still in spirit and elegiac significance like all original manuscripts – before crossing it off my rather extensive bucket list.

Needless to say we are soon, the lot of us, fast friends. Faster than you can say ¡espléndido!

And so, on day four of what will be, at least a forty-day trek uphill of funny phrases, strange sounds and a lot of baffling grammar, we are collectively drunk on our modest accomplishments and new-found ability to rrrroll our tongues, in slowly but surely less-desi Spanish speak.

The resolution to baptise-in-beer our newly formed alliance, is put to vote in one of the cooler paradigms of democracy that I have seen, and is unanimously approved. The boys chivalrously offer us choice (or what On-a-diet insists on calling ‘the dilemma’) of watering-hole for the night, and for this I am indescribably grateful. Because around Hauz Khas Village, and Delhi-ites of old will agree with me when I say this, there is really only one place you want to be on a breezy autumnal night. Around here, all roads lead to TLR, or more specifically up four long flights of stairs to their open-air portico that boasts twinkly lights, boho cushions in a riot of colour, candles and tea-lights spotting the deck, corners spilling over with foliage (and if you get your seasons right, also happen to be bursting into bloom) and as the night progresses, an inevitable gathering of artists, poets and musicians who are happy to share tables, start conversations and make music. And so, for those of you who think that I made the decision to head to The Living Room Cafe that night, you’re wrong. The unbelievably awesome decision kind of made itself, as did the decision to order the Thai Fish Cakes and Garlic Chicken (with the phenomenal Hummus dip), for the table.

The first round of ales is followed quickly by a second, at which point I invite the solitary soul sitting across from us to come join us, at what is by now a fairly raucous table – wouldn’t he like some company? After the briefest of pauses, Lonely Boy decides to graciously accept and we pull up a chair for him. Somebody else offers him a cigarette. He appears simultaneously charmed, anxious and just the slightest bit bemused. “I’m new to Delhi,” he proffers, which suddenly seems to us, both obvious, as well as explanation enough. His major is Philosophy, he plays football in the park on weekends with the local children and on nights like this he likes to walk around exploring, occasionally stepping into a pub or café that catches his fancy. “I also love guitars,” he confesses staring wistfully at the farthest corner of the terrace where a foursome have made themselves at home against the curving balustrade, knocking back pints and strumming a vintage Fender so blue and beautiful, that it would seduce just about anyone.

“And I just love men who play guitars,” On-a-diet sighs, “especially when they look like that.” “What, that ‘man-child’ you mean?” DJ splutters, for all the good it does him… seeing how they’re all four of them invited, less than a minute later, to come sit with us! Man-child (which at this point - round three - is just a convenient nickname) as it turns out, lives in Paris, has been playing music all his life and most importantly, has cheekbones that could give Johnny Depp a run for his money. He kisses our hands greeting us and keeps a firm hold of On-a-diet as she swoons slightly, before offering back with only the slightest tremble, “enchanté,” instantly finding herself on the receiving end of an equally candid, adoring grin, that is second only to the expression of utter resignation on DJ’’s face before he promptly disappears to get himself a refill.

The Fender changes hands and Lonely Boy is evidently thrilled to bits, at the turn that his evening seems to have taken. Prospective Expat and I look on in amusement as next to us, the predestined flirting begins - smatterings of French and Hindi punctuating the curious, stilted and sexually charged conversation of broken phrases and frustrated English, that stumbles along as best as it can. DJ returns and the conversation swiftly changes tack as The Band begins to tell us more about the music they like playing, who inspires them and how much they’ve enjoyed their stint in Delhi. Some impromptu jamming and a lot of drunken laughter later we reluctantly call for the check – The Band is headed to Uzbekistan early the next day, and the rest of us have an honest living to make even earlier!

Man-child (or as we like to call him now, Prettier-than-Depp) and On-a-diet seem to have vanished. A hurried gathering of wits however, means we spot them a few yards away, holding hands under a bough of flowering frangipani, whispering what could (in this case, quite literally) only be sweet nothings.

We hover in the background, waving bashfully, nudging and hurrying them toward their goodbyes, whenPretty-Boy-Depp (that’s a lotta nicknames for one bloke…) suddenly remembers, “My friend! ’e teach me ’ow to say, I adore you, ‘Je t’adore, oui?’ in ’ow you say, Hin-dee!” His delight is doubly compounded by the rush of colour that floods his beloveds face, not to mention our palpable impatience, as we eavesdrop shamelessly, comfortably smug, and snug, in our fuzzy alcohol blankets.

This is the ‘pin-drop’ silence that my principal always hollered for in school.

He coaxes and cajoles until she is looking deep into his eyes; we see his thumb draw circles on her wrist, watch her mouth part slightly in anticipation. His lips curve into an Adonis-like smile designed to make you go weak in the knees and his voice, is a low throaty murmur, “Aah chéri,” he says, in familiar tongue, and then, with identical passion, “Maa ki choot.”

Baby Codeine =)

Songs of Heartbreak & Hipshake: The Delhi Belly Soundtrack, in the words of Ram Sampath

2011-07-05T11:56:00.002+05:30

A deconstruction of that and more, by Ram Sampath, here:

“I’ve always had a great love for organic, roots music like blues, folk, punk, gypsy music, 70’s funk. Now, when I signed this movie, it was a one song film, but I realised that Delhi Belly gave me the perfect opportunity to explore these rootsy genres, as the film itself is quite raw, so I kept composing songs based on characters from the script & I decided to tie all the disparate genres together with the theme of heartbreak, so my working title for the album was, ‘Delhi Belly - Sounds of Heartbreak & Hipshake’.

We weren’t trying to force any panga, but there is a strong sense of irreverence to the soundtrack. Sheer boredom with the current scenario was one strong motivation. Few people try to be honest and fun at the same time and that’s what we were aiming for. I think our audiences today are spoilt for choice and much more discerning. It is the industry that needs to catch up.

One big change that I can see is that we’re not afraid to get grimy and gritty. The influence of classic rock and heavy metal is also pretty evident. Outside of that, I think the points of reference are still quite superficial and narrow. We still think putting a flamenco guitar on a hip-hop beat makes it ‘flamenco hip-hop’. To put a positive spin on things, there’s a lot of room for innovation!
When you work with great lyricists, it’s great! All of them have a very sophisticated sense of humour. I just had to point them in the right direction. Aamir helped out a lot in that department as well. He helped us focus our ideas.

I have absolutely no direct connection with Delhi whatsoever, but two of my current favourite bands are from Delhi - Advaita and Them Clones.”

More in the First City July Edition. On the newsstands now.

Kill The Player, Part II

2011-07-01T15:50:00.001+05:30

One thing that not too many people take into account is that ‘men’ are still, by and large, operating on caveman mentality, especially when it comes to what the group considers ‘cool’. When it came to the hairy brawling beasts, the simplest way to prove a point was to scatter your opponent over several square yards of forest, with grisly reminders such as entrails wrapped lovingly around bushes, severed heads balanced jauntily on branches, and litres of blood soaking the forest floor, for the slower members of the clan. What alpha males got for this most excellent level of group dynamism was the unquestioning loyalty of every remaining male in the pack.

Unfortunately, this hasn’t changed much over the past few millennia.

These days, when the alpha in a group declares something to be ‘cool’, every male in his group must either agree unquestioningly, or challenge for leadership and be exiled after a thrashing, or simply keep their mouths shut. Debate and reasoned opinions are only for those rare groups that don’t need an alpha - and however far we might have come as humans, the day where that kind are the majority is still aeons away.

Since alphas command this level of almost blind obedience, it’s pretty common to see ‘personality cults’ of a sort developing, where the hangers on in the group are simply bad copies of the leader; they talk like he does, dress like he does, and try to behave with the same arrogant swagger that he does too. The reasons for someone becoming an alpha are varied; but most often, it’s directly related to a type of success that everyone wants. Like getting laid, for example.

In school, where most guys learn the ropes of male bonding and social hierarchies, the first of the semi-permanent groups develop around the first few guys to get lucky with the ladies, mostly because there’s nothing that combines the thrill of a dangerous sport, the absolutely mind blowing feeling of getting laid, and the hordes of envious admirers as well as teenage sex does. These guys might have been the first for any number of reasons; brawn, bulk, good looks, ability with casual cruelty; the point is, these gargantuan fish in thimble sized ponds become used to the unquestioning admiration of the lesser mortals. And the sex is pretty good, too.

How does one maintain this automatic kingship in face of the fact that sooner or later, most of the others will also get laid? Simple. Keep getting laid, preferably by different women, hopefully as often as possible. In a nutshell, this is why guys think it’s ‘cool’ to sleep around - because every guy , at the end of the day, wants to be the biggest dog in the pack, and what we learn as boys is that a major characteristic of big dogs is that they get laid, variedly, and often. Oversimplification, perhaps, but come over, and we’ll have a beer over the nitty-gritties.

Moving on.

This, however, doesn’t really explain why women also think it’s cool for a man to sleep around. Being a man, I only have theories on this, but since you’ve read my drivel so far, I figure I have you for another couple of paragraphs at the least.

For a woman, as far as I understand, the competition is not so much about getting laid, as much as it is about getting offers to get laid. Chris Rock (the man’s a genius), in Bigger and Blacker (what a show), put it something like this; “See, it's easy for women to turn down sex. lt ain't shit for y'all to turn down sex. You know why? 'Cause every woman in here, ever since you were fifteen, every guy you met has been trying to fuck you!” So, it would make sense to assume that women, in their groups, aren’t really competing for scores; they’re just competing on potential scores. Especially since actually sleeping with lots of guys opens up the can marked ‘whore’ (written in a largely feminine hand, I might add). And it’s not just about numbers, either. You, as a woman, could have a hundred nerds lusting and panting after you, but if that one dude doesn’t show you more attention than he did yesterday…

‘Wait; is that him, talking to her? How dare he! And she! Doesn’t she know he’s the biggest player around? He’s just looking to get laid, and she’s such a little ho. I’m the only one who can control him. He’s meant to be with me, I’m the one who’s going to change him from this uncontrolled, randy little boy who’ll shag anything that moves into a dangerous, lusty man who’ll shag only me.’

In one fell swoop, the dude’s position as alpha of his pack is cemented - ‘Dude, he’s got chicks fighting over him, and look at the chicks doing the fighting…’ - and women have decided which kind of man is worthy of their attention - the one that every other woman wants - which locks both men and women into this whore infested pit of superficial and mindless shagging and bragging - and cheapens sex, the other sex, and relationships in general.

Allright, so enough bile and bad temper. There are enough whores on either side, that both sexes can wince privately about, and this loving deconstruction is possibly one of the ways that they evolve. Is anything else possible? Sure. Loving relationships do exist. There are men who aren’t overgrown scrotums, and women who have more on their minds than what other women think of them.

So how does one kill the player? Part Three, some time this week.

Trifeck

Confessions of a Recent Monster Convert

2011-06-22T16:14:00.005+05:30

I take my words back. (Not easy, given words are not simply bread and butter, but soul and flesh).

But then, Born this Way can do that to you. Force you almost, to look at the Lady behind the Gaga. To respect the artist screaming (in brilliantly-hit notes, with a voice to match), amidst all that hype. Self-generated, at first, because if you're aiming for the Madonna effect, you gotta invent your own conical-bras-burning-crucifixes shebang, which for this era and generation, could mean meat dresses, blood-and-semen perfumes, sure. Anything that takes your eyes off the Facebook page on your iPad, man! Janis Joplin wailed like a banshee, Jim Morrison used his sex-on-legs persona to the hilt, and Madonna is as Madonna performs; if you're looking to arena-rock, you gotta play by the (rockstar-image) gimmick rule-book, on some level.

But getting back to Born this Way. Not just the song (though what-a-song! And now the hatching out of a pod makes so much sense, 'cuz she really was reborn at the Grammies that night, in a way), but the entire album calls for re-evaluation, track by track. Am leaving the actual business of that in Trifeck's able hands (who has pretty much been living in Gagaville), for the next edition of First City. But I'll say this: Edge of Glory redefined razor sharp, tight pop for me, Hair served up sense of humour with 'I am my hair' (Who else can carry off that kind of vanity, seriously?), Judas had me envisioning her as Madonna's rightful heir, and You & I gave me goosebumps on Nebraska's behalf.

I bite my tongue, Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta. Monster and Gaga forth. Please.

floatin'

Kill The Player, Part I

2011-06-14T16:48:00.001+05:30

If you’ve ever come across someone who told you to “hate the game, not the player”, there’s one thing you can conclude right there. You’ve either met a bag of scum, or someone shallow enough to be incapable of anything meaningful.

A lot (my god, a lot) has been said about women’s rights. Some of it even makes sense, once the rabid “That guy screwed me over and left” kind of rage tantrums have been accounted for (No, personal agony does not directly translate into a good reason for a perspective. You have to think it through and figure out which bits of your rage are justified and which ones were just you being foolish.) However, there is an inescapable fact - there are guys who are utterly immoral when it comes to sex - and as a man, I’d like to say, yeah, we hate his fucking guts too. And no, he ain’t a man, he’s a little boy who gets his ‘man’ status from the legions of foolish women looking for a bad boy to tame. Isn’t it obvious? You can’t tame a boy into a man. You have to grow them up - and given their mammary fascination, start with a rubber sucker. It’s what they’re used to.

No, I’m not looking for a convoluted way to blame this on women, despite what it may seem like. Men and women are connected on so many levels - not just the sexual - and so when you look at the reasons for something one group does, it’s almost certain you’ll find some answers on the other side of the fence. This is one of them.

One of the most common complaints from feminists is that a guy who gets busy five nights a week is a ‘player’, while a woman who does the same is a ‘ho’, and the first is a compliment while the second is an insult. First question - who the hell said ‘player’ is a compliment? The dude leaning by the corner with his balls in one hand and a bottle of Jack in the other? And you believed him?

Second question. Are women as a group saying that there aren’t women who sleep around, or that women who do should be given a ‘nothing you do will impact your life’ token? Life is about making decisions and dealing with the consequences of them. If you don’t want to be classified as someone with no morals, sexual or otherwise, then for god’s sake, live by some fucking morals, instead of trying to reset the bar so that decent behaviour is something extra good, instead of just normal.

And as a final bit of bile, this Slut Walk is just fucking idiotic. What are you women setting out to achieve? Some sort of shoot-yourself-in-the-foot balance by making sure the next two centuries are dominated by women behaving like Charlie Sheen?

Trifeck

The First City Shorts. Out Now.

2011-05-31T14:57:00.007+05:30

There’s a certain magic in not going all the way.

In stopping short.

But only just about.

In creating the chiselled short story.

FIRST CITY celebrates it.

And invites a few select writers to pen us one.

The Glenlivet Writers' Special 6: The Short Story.

Do You Have A Flag?

2011-05-20T16:43:00.003+05:30

Why do countries need borders? For the same reason that humans need closets - to hide away their skeletons.

The creation of a country - any country - is an incredibly divisive phenomenon. Israel is the most glaring example. India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Russia, China; every single country that has permanent borders, has had to draw and constantly redraw them in blood. Preferably the blood of whoever’s on the other side of the line. Even when the war is contained within, such as in the US civil war, there is an incredible amount of violence and divisiveness - and what is bought at this bloody price is the solemn vow to view a piece of geography as a living creature with a specific mindset - usually one that shelters and justifies the brutalities of its creators.

Much has been said about patriotism, about governance, about unity in diversity and the brotherhood of people from the same country. These reasons are usually mentioned as the intellectual justification behind arbitrary borders. Nonetheless, all of these are emotional reasons - not logical - for the creation of a country. Another oft mentioned justification is that countries and borders are formed to protect people with a particular mindset against others. This logic is fair enough when it comes to protection for pacifists against out-and-out invaders - but in today’s world, these opposing mindsets are usually ‘I want’ and ‘Me too’. There’s no reason to believe that one dude with money on his mind will be less of an ecological nightmare than another. The only reason that humans are conned time and again into supporting endless conflicts over resources is because national ‘leaders’ - and I use the term in its loosest sense - use the fear of ‘wanting-and-not-having’ to convince people that it’s a case of ‘needing-and-not-having’.

Another commonly used reason for the existence of man made borders is the proper use of resources. This ignores the unstated assumption - that everything within the arbitrary boundary is rightfully the property of the humans living within it. There is no reason to say that humans deserve to use a river more than the fish, trees, animals and birds that live around it. The fact that they can’t or don’t express their pain and rage at this rape - yes, rape - is considered proof that humans don’t need to take other living things into account before making territorial decisions.

There is no reason to believe that a ‘country’ is the only social structure that is capable of providing a certain standard of life in a fair and equitable manner. There is no proof that having the military strength to destroy any who oppose you is sufficient to create a sustainable way of life. There is no reason for a boundary - unless, of course, you want to impose your beliefs on those within it.

(There are several obvious critiques of the points made in this article. I don’t intend to address them, for two reasons; one, most of those critiques have been dealt with most excellently in the works of much wiser minds - Adam Smith, Karl Marx, John Nash, MK Gandhi, among others. The other reason is quite simply this - pre-empting ‘rational’ (read ‘limited to perfect overlap’) arguments has a way of limiting the point you’re trying to make into a very specific case; as if there is no logic to generalities themselves. The right to life, something that humans reserve for themselves, is one such bit of non-specific logic.)

The One (Cold) Coffee Book: Making May Bearable, One Book at a Time - Book 2

2011-05-19T13:19:00.000+05:30

THE STORYTELLER'S TALE

Omair Ahmad

But in the many chambers of music and dance in Delhi the word ‘love’ was spoken of in many ways, it was nothing but a currency of exchange, of looks and glances, and promises that were never truly what they pretended to be. Here, love was a thing to be done many times.

In the tradition of Arabian Nights this one, when a story well-told is the mooldhar of the experience, of higher value than the story itself. But then, can one separate the content from the form?

Located in Delhi of the 1700s, at a time when Ahmad Shah Abadali’s men have ransacked the city, a poet, in his attempt to leave the asinine traders behind, finds himself at an isolated casbah. He’s invited by the Begum of the casbah to stay and he shares a story in return for this hospitality. A fantastic, emotional tale about two brothers, Taka and Wara - one human, one wolf – the poet evokes many feelings in the Begum, provoking her into thinking about trust, relationships, fear and love. There is an-ever-so-slight exchange of glances between them, before she decides to respond. With a story of her own.

Read it for Delhi, for lost poets (and how it is their business to be lost), and for a deft treatment of the story-within-story device.

The One (Cold) Coffee Book: Making May more Bearable since 1990

2011-05-18T13:15:00.003+05:30

Yes, the mercury's @ 43+. Stay indoors, with this:

BRIGHT LIGHTS, BIG CITY

Jay McInerney

In the history of opening lines, Jane Austen be damned, this one sticks its neck out fabulously: You are not the kind of guy who would be at a place like this at this time of the morning. Hook, line and sinker reeled in, you’re then buoyed up by this first-person narrative phenomenon of a book that just happens to happen to you, one that sails you right through to page 174, and the ‘message’: You will have to learn everything all over again. The New York book of the 80s, Bright Lights, Big City is akin to spoken word theatre; it’s almost like the author (who went onto script Gia, among other things) is screaming, at times, whispering at others, and mostly narrating it all in a deadpan yet conversational monotone.

If there ever was a literary equivalent of cocaine, or how addiction plays out in a city that’s super-charged regardless of the ‘substance’ in your blood stream, this is it.

floatin'

Yellow, Yellow, Dirty Fellow

2011-05-11T17:56:00.003+05:30

The reason that every Tappan, Babblu and Tinkoo are suddenly authors and musicians and artists isn’t because there’s a whole generation of people with ideas to express and feelings to explore. It’s mostly because, like everything else in this world, art and money are now bedfellows, and are now the proud parents of a nursery full of little wailing bastards.

Sure, every piece of creativity is art in its own right. Nobody has the right to judge another human’s journey, and what they produced along the way. Still, some signposts on this oft-trodden road of opinion still stand. Art is something produced by an artist. Not the other way around. The creativity comes from inside the human being; so if there’s a work of art that inspires, and is beautiful, and hold deep meaning, it’s because all those characteristics were in a vision that the artist had. You can’t begin to write/paint/compose something just for money, or fame; even then, you’re doing it because of the feeling those things give you - and from the kind of insipid pap that commercial artists produce, it’s quite evident how inspiring money and fame actually are; sing it with me. ‘Gurllllll…’.

So. Artists. Lady Gaga, for example. The woman’s a genius. She knows how to evoke feelings in people who listen to her, even if the feeling she began with was lust. A Britney or even a Christina will never be able to touch her, because (talent notwithstanding), lesser artists like them do it for the feeling they get. Like fame, for example. Or notoriety. Or sex appeal. Or for public acclaim. Gaga goes it the other way around. She doing it to make other people feel things - and that’s what art is about. Feeling a moment, deeply, honestly, personally and truthfully, and then somehow expressing those feelings so that other people can get into the moment. Not into your pants.

what we're listening to: pentagram's bloodywood

2011-05-10T13:06:00.001+05:30

BLOODYWOOD

Pentagram

Counter Culture Records

No apologies rock. It’s what Pentagram’s always been about, through the decades. And now, well into their late thirties, they continue building that wall, uninterrupted. The evolution is unerringly evident, of course; Randolph’s production skills up the notch yet again, and each time you think Vishal couldn’t possibly outdo himself, he redefines the concept of a powerhouse performance, throwing out that massive voice into the world, translating any passive listening exercise into a live show experience. The great news on Bloodywood is that Shiraz’s drumming and Papal’s bass carve out their own fiery paths too, sounding stronger than they’ve ever done so far. Sheer, sparkling confidence can do that to you. It can also make you wanna pull off a Sholay déjà vu with cover art.

Vishal laces ‘Let me tag you’ with riveting sarcasm as guitar licks dance around him on Identify, the opener. Mental Zero reeks of the evils of reality television, while In my Head showcases dissonance in Randolph’s able hands. Tomorrow’s Decided shreds through an almost death metal, hard sound for the headbangers, and you can hear The Prodigy on this one. If Nocturne is anything to go by, then my guess is Vishal doesn’t sleep much - there’s a brilliant hi-octane tone to this track, which reminds you why rock n’ roll can never die out. This one’s also as poetic as Pentagram gets, while Technology (I Get You) swims all mellow (you know how the energy has to dip to rise again?). Must I? is my favourite off what shall form the lesser favoured tracks; it’s got this constant edge going for it.

Bloodywood takes you back to early Pentagram, to Up; best thing is they’re still rude, and proving it yet again, that age can’t put down a rockstar. Here are four of them. Homegrown.

floatin'

Osama is Dead. Long Live Obama. OR The Death of the "Boogeyman". OR Is it Just Me or Is It All Very Hotshots Part Deux?!

2011-05-05T16:18:00.003+05:30

We love Steve Martin for saying what he did. And then, apparently, it got us "reminiscent" of where we all were when 9/11 happened.

Some of us thought there was a bad Hollywood film playing, and some thought it was animation. Someone was on a plane (yikes!) between Vienna and London, and someone else was actually helping a friend pack for New York ("She can celled her tickets, of course"). Some of us are pissed that the exchange programme didn't work out that well for them that year, and someone else is just too much of a Wag the Dog fan ('I see an election coming. I predict the death of Osama Bin Laden'. Anyone?).

The winning entry, though, is this one. Thankyou, Shalinee Ghosh, for playing this round!

"In the elevator! A lady got on at the 5th floor and I blurted out - do you know the WTC has been hit by an aircraft - my brother in law is supposed to leave for the US today and he just called. Seems to be some kind of a terrorist activity. I am rushing off to watch it on TV at my In-law's since we do not own one. And she clearly shocked out of her wits - said Oh my God........ really.... you dont own a TV - how do you survive.... the rest of the conversation was a blur. I ran the two blocks and up to the 3 rd floor and as I was entering the house the second plane crashed into the building."

floatin'

now you see me, now you dont...

2011-04-24T20:19:00.033+05:30

The one suspicious thing about the God debate is that everyone’s so damned sure about what they believe – except for the agnostics, whose point of view can roughly be summed up as 'I don't know what the fuck is going on at that level, and frankly don't want to'. Personally, I’m of the school of thought that says 'Ignorance is not a point of view, especially if you choose it', but to get back to the initial point – both believers and disbelievers are entirely convinced of their points of view.

This is an odd situation. One would expect that to be entirely convinced either way, there’s got to be some bit of objective data, some experience that cannot be denied; for example, actually seeing a club-wielding man with a tail flying through the air. Or on the other hand, finding a mathematical equation that can predict exactly what happens next ten times out of ten. Neither has happened, and this is an ancient debate.

Or perhaps it’s a lot simpler than all of that; maybe people form their beliefs about God based on how their prayers are dealt with – and everybody prays, regardless of what the actual words are. It could be a devout and spiritual “Oh Lord, grant me the knowledge I require to cast off my chains,” or on the other hand, could be a much more short term and materialistic, “Dude, I really hope I get away with lying to my boss.” The point is, everybody acknowledges that for something to happen, the world needs to co-operate with what you’re doing.

That's the crux of it, really, at least for me. There's this enormous, complex, thing outside of me that I happen to be a part of, and I don't understand it sometimes, and I wish someone would just tell me what the hell is going on. Enter Doctor Frankenstein with manager Goldman Sacks-Wallstreet, a Wild Haired Chap in a Sheet and his Congregation, and somewhere off to the side, a Chap Sitting on a Picket Fence with an Uncomfortable Look on his Face. Possibly reading an economic or financial newspaper.

Science has had a really good go at finding God. They really did put in a hell of a lot of effort, and thanks to all that mental sweat, we can now travel into space, be effectively connected to millions of people at the same time, and also effectively wipe out any race of living creatures on the planet, including ourselves. Thanks to the development of money - which, curiously, was more dependent on religion – the scientific society now finds itself focused on the advancement of knowledge, practical applications of science in technology, making human lives easier, and making money, in that reverse order.

Religion claims to come from God, so no problem there; and thanks to the effort they've put into proving their position, we now have some of the most heartwrenchingly astute observations on the nature of reality, and also a set of cast iron excuses to hate other people. Thanks to religion's ability to bring people together and inspire creativity, society went from a collection of savage and scattered people looking for answers, to a unified and cohesive people, looking for answers savagely.

And somewhere in the whole thing, the question somehow changed from "What the hell is this experience I find myself in?" to "Is there a puppetmaster, or a set of rules?" The stereotypical atheist has his head so far up his ass that he doesn't even understand the question “Is there a God?” The stereotypical mystic will dodge and evade that question, or else answer it with a thunderous “Yes!” and try to lose you in a thicket of references, and the stereotypical agnostic, a hitherto unremarkable creature who has emerged mostly because of this deadlock, is so jaded that he doesn't believe anything, and is most likely to question your beliefs, in a dastardly attempt to bring you to his level of apathy.

Which brings the whole question back to where it belongs. What do you believe? Is this truly a non-alive universe, and it just so happens that on this planet, the right combination of everything happened, and life was a natural result? Or on the other hand, were we scooped out of raw firmament and created for the express purpose being made in God's image? Or is there perhaps some other explanation, more subtle yet?

Whatever the answer, one thing is for certain. It's interesting being alive.

Trifeck

Come on the Arnab!

2011-04-14T19:35:00.001+05:30

“Are you saying this is not a victory for the people?” the bespectacled and suited man bellowed at the lady sitting inside a television. “I’m sensing some sour grapes here ma’am, I really am. Could it be that you’re not happy because someone else achieved something that you’ve wanted for a while?” The other humans in the room nodded sagely, while I crawled around on the speakers’ head. “I think,” began the lady he was talking to, but she was interrupted by a bald and sharp featured man, “No ma’am, I think you should answer the question. It’s only fair.” “I think…” the lady began again, only to be pulled up short once again. “Haan, bataiye na, aapke chehre pe muskaan kyon nahi hai? After all, it’s a day to celebrate!” said another man, sitting next to the bald one.

Usually, I don’t get myself involved in this sort of thing. Excited humans tend to behave very childishly, and that’s usually deadly to my kind. Keeping an eye on the humans, (and when your eye is half the size of your head, that means a lot), I began to clean my wings, waiting for the tea and biscuits that usually followed the show.

“I think,” began the lady, again, and then glared out of the television set, as the bespectacled man took this as his cue to interrupt. Perhaps this was some sort of ritual. Humans are so odd. “Look, this is the first time in many years that this has happened! The government has capitulated, how can you disagree?” “But I’m trying not to disagree!” she wailed. “That doesn’t matter,” the man bellowed in return. “You said this is not a complete and uncontested victory. What kind of cynic do you have to be to not think we’ve won, utterly and completely?”

“I think the problem here is,” a heavily bearded man, inside another television began, “is that some people are quite rightly asking what has been achieved. If you look at…”

I don’t understand what he said, but the bespectacled man sure took offence. He swelled like a bullfrog, and I hastily leapt to the air, looking for calmer resting grounds. The youngest man in the room looked like a good bet - he hadn’t moved around much, and wasn’t going to, it seemed, and that was enough for me. Keeping an eye out for the now wildly gesticulating four eyes (I know, I’m one to talk), I buzzed toward relative safety, wings moving overtime. Spittle is deadly when you’re my size. “…I mean, sure, you might have more experience than I do, and perhaps you’re more suited to analysis than me, but who’s chairing this debate? You or me? Me, right? Good, then I’m the final arbiter on everything that’s said here, and I say that you’re an unashamed cynic, and unpatriotic also. Just because history is on your side, just because the people who have promised to do what we ask are habitual liars, is no reason to disbelieve that this is an utter and complete victory! So you can just think about that, while I ask the other people here to agree with what I just said. You, sir,” he looked toward my present perch, “what do you think, am I right, or am I right? After all,” the decibel levels mercifully dropped, and he adopted a more grandfatherly tone, “we’re doing this for you, the youth of the nation. Any false sense of superiority I get out of this is purely a bonus, regardless of how I might make it seem. What do you think, young lad?”

Had I not been so utterly blown away by the volume and saliva, I might have noticed the young man’s hand as it swept toward me. The last thing I heard before darkness took me was the bearded man in the television muttering to himself. “Bloody moron. Last time I come on this show…”

Trifeck

Dedicated Scumbags and Eternal Bitches

2011-04-01T14:52:00.003+05:30

The term ‘ladies and gentlemen’ is now officially defunct, because both ladylike women and gentlemanly men are now characters from the grave.

A ladylike woman was one who had class, style, and grace. A gentlemanly man was above all, courteous, dignified, and broadminded. What’s common to both of these descriptions is that they’re entirely dependent on people agreeing to what those adjectives mean; and that, above all, is the reason for this double homicide.

There will always be men who know and respect what it means to possess a penis. “I’m not talking about the guy that fucked you and left,” said Chris Rock in Bigger and Blacker, more than a decade ago. “Fuck him, okay?” Men of that kind know that it’s not about opening doors and carrying women across puddles. It’s about loving women, and not just the horizontal kind. By the same token, there will always be women who were born to be ladies; stylish in the absence of money, classy simply because they respect themselves, and graceful because they know that their beauty is meant for the world, and not for the mirror. On the other side, however, are the dedicated scumbags and the eternal bitches, people as certain of their self serving beliefs, although for different reasons. These sorts of people, though, will never need to be told who they are. They’re the extreme cases, people who figure out their own realities, who stick to their own moral codes regardless (or perhaps because of) what life does to them.

The vast majority of people, on the other hand, are people who are still figuring out what their life is all about, people as yet unready to claim a niche and stick to it. People who are still growing, yet required to act grown up, are more reactionary than principled - cannon fodder on the battlefield of opinion, also known as the media. Advertisers routinely take advantage of this; almost every single ad on TV these days attempts to define what it means to be a man or a woman. Men, for example, have metallic square phones (which is why they get condoms when there’s no change), value cars over their wives and newborn children (a la the SX4 Diesel), and thanks to the likes of John Abrahams and Shahid Kapoor, don’t sweat or have dark skin. Women fare only slightly better. Their concerns in life seem to be pimples, their hair, and their cell phones, with a little bit of space left over for competing to see who’s got the hotter boyfriend. While ads are a small enough part of everyday life and not to be taken too literally, they’re still very relevant to social beliefs - both a description and a projection of the kind of people we are.

At the end of the day, though, it’s not about public opinion or what the TV tells us to believe. It’s more about things that are talked about in public spaces, and values that we share as a people. Chivalry is dead, but only the kind of chivalry that treats women like beautifully fragile possessions. Ladies are history too, but only the kind of ladies that need gentlemen to survive. What we’re seeing these days is a redefinition of masculine and feminine roles - and the only thing for sure is that nobody’s sure what makes a gentleman, and what isn’t proper for a lady.

In all this uncertainty, though, a few things become rock solid. Men and women are fundamentally different - in their biology, in the kind of wiring in their brains, in the ways their bodies evolve in their lifetimes, in the roles that society will expect them to play. There are some traits that are masculine and some that are feminine - and oddly, it’s impossible to find a man with only masculine ones, or a woman with exclusively feminine ones. The ancient idea of gentility, that a man had a responsibility to protect and care for (and therefore some rights over) the weaker woman, emerged from centuries of living in a world where physical strength was the defining characteristic - and men in this respect are fundamentally stronger. These days, the threats that people and families face are more abstract; and in this, it’s more likely that on average, women are the fundamentally stronger ones - mostly because women’s brains are wired way better for dealing with lots of different kinds of information at the same time.

While the world makes up its mind on the new age lady and gentleman, there are some questions that are fairly relevant. Is mutual respect on the cards? How about accepting that men are superior in some spheres, and women in others? What about the joy a man feels when he knows he’s taking care of his wife and kids? Will something allow for that honest display of concern, or will it be gunned down in the name of women’s rights? Where will we draw the line on feminine assertiveness? Should the men of this century pay the price for the heavy handedness of long dead patriarchs, and accept as ornamental a position as women were relegated to? Is feminism really a drive for sexual equality, or should it be balanced out by a new age chauvinism?

If personal opinions count for anything, here’re this writers’ two bits. The only gentleman that’s dead, and the only chivalry that’s faded, is the one that existed to be talked about. Men who behave lovingly toward women will do so whether there’s a social advantage to it or not; and women who honestly respect themselves will always have men to love them. Which is what it was always all about.

Trifeck

and the oscar goes to...!

2011-02-18T14:42:00.005+05:30

First, let's get over the fact that's unimaginable: What? There was no Meryl Streep movie this year?!

Ok, that done with...

Here's who we think-feel-wish-hope should get it. And who probably will anyway. In red and blue, respectively.

Actor in a Leading Role

Javier Bardem in “Biutiful”
Jeff Bridges in “True Grit”. For bringing the groove back to the western.
Jesse Eisenberg in “The Social Network”
Colin Firth in “The King's Speech”. Because "they" love the royalty, Brits, and a good ol' story of winning against all odds, speech impediments, et al. And this one's got it ALL.
James Franco in “127 Hours”

Actor in a Supporting Role

Christian Bale in “The Fighter”. For being the ultimate shape-shifter. For hiring the guy he played onscreen, to beef him up for the next Batman. And because "they" didn't bother to nominate Justin Timberlake or Andrew Garfield for The Social Network. (We might agree on this one with "them".)
John Hawkes in “Winter's Bone”
Jeremy Renner in “The Town”
Mark Ruffalo in “The Kids Are All Right”
Geoffrey Rush in “The King's Speech”. Because "they" love a Brit sense of humour.

Actress in a Leading Role

Annette Bening in “The Kids Are All Right”. For out-performing Julianne Moore. For bringing to life, the bittersweet joy and trauma of keeping a marriage.
Nicole Kidman in “Rabbit Hole”
Jennifer Lawrence in “Winter's Bone”
Natalie Portman in “Black Swan”. Because "they" would like to seem dark, and because "they" love pregnant ladies.
Michelle Williams in “Blue Valentine”

Actress in a Supporting Role

Amy Adams in “The Fighter”. Because "they" would want to acknowledge her now.
Helena Bonham Carter in “The King's Speech”
Melissa Leo in “The Fighter”
Hailee Steinfeld in “True Grit”. For being such a riot!
Jacki Weaver in “Animal Kingdom”

Directing

“Black Swan” Darren Aronofsky. Because "they" would find this the right kind of arty.
“The Fighter” David O. Russell
“The King's Speech” Tom Hooper
“The Social Network” David Fincher. For making this film. For making this film... work.
“True Grit” Joel Coen and Ethan Coen

With Best Film, it's probably a toss-up between Black Swan and The King's Speech. We'd love to see The Fighter, or The Social Network.

floatin'

Big Five: The First City Interviews' Anthologies

2011-02-15T16:04:00.005+05:30

It's that best of conveniently sorted in one place kinda merchandise we all could never ever do without. (It's like we all know the real Massive Attack is in Mezzanine, but a Collected is essential). Neat packaging is key, vital.

And so it is that we give you, the The First City Interviews' Anthologies. Smartly packaged as The Still Point (Art), Wordsmiths (Writers), Mixed Tape (Music), Selections from 1990-2007 (The First City Interviews Volume I & II). Interviews that are conversations - revelatory, definitive, evocative, epic. Executed in unique First City style, all of them rendered anew, true, be it MF Husain, Shah Rukh Khan, Vikram Seth, Syed Haider Raza, Pandit Hariprasad Chaurasia, Dayanita Singh, Pandit Ravi Shankar, Prabuddha Dasgupta, Phoolan Devi, Anjolie Ela Menon, Arundhati Roy, Kishori Amonkar, MIDIval Punditz, Karsh Kale, David Bailey, Naseeruddin Shah.

So, the real thing in the First City Magazine, still. The Big Five might just be even better.

Buy a copy at the office:
A 7, Sarvodaya Enclave, 2nd floor, Ph: +91 11 46000200. Landmarks: Mother's School, Opp IIT.
All five, for 1200 bucks, and priced at 300 bucks, each.
Payment in cash.

not gaga enough

2011-02-02T15:52:00.007+05:30

Lady Gaga is always on our horizon somewhere. For better or worse. For eg: L'etranger gave the Ed Room a vital piece of information the other day, "She's coming up with her own line of perfume. It will smell of blood and semen."
Got me thinking, in almost articulate prose, what about the Lady jars with me. No, it's not just that the perfume idea is gross (Of course, it's gross, it's meant to be gross). But the thing is to move beyond that. The perfume idea, symbolises to me, the inherent conundrum that is Lady Gaga. Every shocking, perverse, gross, deranged (gaga, in short) idea that can be manipulated to public effect has been DONE. To death, even. People have crucified themselves to comprehend the burden of Christ, and reality television implodes on our screens, day after primetime TV day, so what good (harm) can a meat dress do, really? Madonna has happened, Lady, long long time ago. A nothing you've done so far comes close to the hulchul of her fetishising, am afraid.
Blood and semen and meat. Seriously? Not gaga enough for me.

floatin'

A Prodigious Night

2011-01-27T11:19:00.009+05:30

The Feb issue is done. I hope. It went for print day before. Ask any FC member how it is for us during press time. Meeting deadlines, proofing, corrections keep us on the edge till the very end. So, going out for an evening isn’t in our schedules as such. And the Prodigy concert seemed like something that would take place somewhere very far away – outside the margins of our possibilities. And yet, perhaps due to some divine intervention and my friend’s unrelenting persuasion we found ourselves at the Huda Grounds, just before the Prodigy would claim the stage.

There were drinks being served outside and although our parched throats were begging for some quenching, we couldn’t afford to stand in the endless cue. It would have been nice though to get a little tipsy for the concert. But time wouldn’t allow it. So we just flashed our passes and rushed through the gates. And as we entered, they did too.

“ALL MY PEOPLE IN DELHI,” Maxim roared into the mike, staring at the gathering, with his painted face, as if in rage. And thousands roared back in unison – I don’t know what, but seemingly, in approval. And that was it! Beginning with ‘The Omen’, an hour and a half long of trance had begun. I had always thought of myself as someone who enjoyed music and all that but from a distance. I never had completely succumbed to a moment and let myself loose and get carried away and I am not the best Prodigy fan. But that night, despite my sobriety, I just lost it like never before. I was jumping, hooting, whistling, making signs I do not understand with my fist and fingers and flailing them into the sky in high hopes of the band seeing me do it.

Every experience has its epiphany. And for me, and I am sure for most, the epiphanic moment arrived as Maxim commanded the audience, from his well deserved pedestal, to ‘go down’, beckoning us to lay low, almost squat. And everyone obeyed as if it was one of the commandments. And suddenly, the frequency plummeted into the sky and everyone instinctively rose and started jumping higher and higher to the chants of ‘Smack My Bitch Up’.

It was crazy. The music was ferociously loud, the tremors of which thundered through our skins and into our brains. It was some kind of occult experience as everyone danced and jumped weirdly, as if in some state of trance; as if in some kind of apocalyptic explosion.

What the Prodigy delivered on the night of 15^th January was a performance Delhi perhaps had never witnessed before. And it was the largest electronic concert in town, and the first of its kind here. Bright flashing lights, raging electronic noise, crazy dancing on stage and outside, and a cosmopolitan gathering going berserk, shouting ‘The writing’s on a wall/ It won’t go away’ made it all unforgettable and yet to explain that experience or even remember it, is impossible. I lost myself completely as I closed my eyes and jumped higher and higher. Higher and higher!

L'etranger

Haunted Hillside

2011-01-18T16:52:00.002+05:30

This is the extended disco remix of an article appearing in FIRST CITY's February 2011 issue, in the FCINSIDE section. (Oh, and hello again. It's been a while.)

Horror stories, one imagines, should begin with a howling wolf, ideally perched on an improbable ledge on the side of a mountain, with perhaps a bat or three gliding through the fog for verisimilitude. This one begins on a much more prosaic note, an agrument in a brightly lit office, about ghosts, whether they exist, and if so, if they have the brains to move out of the deep mountains where all good ghost stories begin, and into the city of djinns, where all good ghost stories go to grow up.

Having been thoroughly routed in the war of words, I retreat to the age old way of convincing the unbelieving. “I’ll go and find one,” I proclaim smugly. Two days later, some of that smugness has left, and in its place, a vague feeling that I’m not going to like what I find, coupled with the realisation that while it’s incredibly butch to park a couple of kilometres away from the allegedly haunted spot, it’s also not the best idea on a frigid January night. No matter, at least I’ve got solid protection with me - a burly, unimaginative product of the Punjab named Aman, lathi gripped firmly in one hand. The lathi seems like a bit of overkill; you can’t really lay the smack down on a ghost; but it seems to make him happy. Oh well.

The spot we’re heading toward is located a kilometre or two away from the intersection of the DLF main road and the road heading toward Faridabad. The road is lonesome enough at night, especially in the winter; fog rolling in from all sides, nothing but undeveloped land in every direction, and the vague rumble of trucks somewhere in the distance. As I walk past the intersection, the heavy, misty air swirling and parting before me, I cant help but feel the vague, first stirrings of unease. This road is emptier than I remember, and the night is colder than I expected; but it’s more the way that the fog deadens all sounds that makes me wish I hadn’t been so smug about things. As I turn to talk to Aman, the unease turns to full blown panic, words choking in my throat. A woman is walking toward us, white sari clad, moving silently, with one arm outstretched. A clatter of wood as the brave son of Punjab hares off into the distance, lathi abandoned where it fell, and then she’s too close for comfort. It’s the eyes that really frighten; they’re dead, no sign of life or energy, just a blank look boring into my soul, arm still outstretched. Her hair is wild and unruly, yet lush; like nothing I’ve ever seen before. There’s something… wrong about her; I can’t help looking deep into her eyes, expecting some reaction, some acknowledgement that I’m as human as she is; but there’s nothing. Just emptiness. Her arm is still outstretched, though; and as the panic slowly fades, I realise she’s asking for money, or food, or something; frightening as she is, she’s just looking for some help. I dig into my pockets, find a note and pass it over, expecting some sort of reaction; but again, there’s nothing.

“Aap kahan se ho? Aap yahan itna late kya kar rahe ho? (Where are you from? What are you doing here so late?)” I ask, fighting to keep the tremble out of my voice. No reply, and now I’m really getting creeped out. Aman is slowly making his way back, slightly shamefaced, and I try again, “Can I help you? Is there anything you need?” Still nothing. “Dude, lets go, leave her man, lets just get out of here.” Sage advice, I feel. Walking quickly away from her, I turn for one last look - she’s standing in the same spot, arm outstretched, watching us. We hurry away.

A few minutes down the road, we come to our second surprise; and having muffed the first one so badly, Aman seeks to make good. There’s an old, turbaned man crouched by the wayside, feeding a small fire, and Aman approaches him, recently retrieved lathi at the ready. “Bhaisaheb, aap kaun ho? Yahan koi bhoot voot toh nahi dekha? (Brother, who are you? Have you seen any ghosts around here?)” As I open my mouth to protest this out and out biasing of the sample - seriously, who’s going to respond properly to that one? - the old man wheezes a chuckle and says “Ji haan, yahan to bahut bhoot hain. Aap dekhenge? (Of course, there are several around here. You want to see one?)”

“Kaise bhoot? (What kind of ghost?)” I ask warily, the hair on the nape of my neck beginning to rise. I don’t want to see any more scary women. Or men. As I start to curse this bright idea in the privacy of my head, the old man floors us with a simple line.

“Arre, bakre ke bhoot. Aur kaunse yahan milenge? (Goat ghosts of course. What other kind did you think you’d find here?)” As Aman bursts into delighted laughter, and I thank whatever gods are watching us for bringing us a harmless old madman, he continues. “Strange things happen here at night. Plants inside walled compounds are eaten, except there are no animals around. This farm behind me,” he waves a gnarled and ancient hand at a small compound behind me, “this farm used to have vegetables growing inside it. Now there’s nothing, because the owner is fed up of having to fire guards for taking his crop. That’s what he thought was happening. Now there’s nothing here, no one, and nobody will buy the land either.”

Goat ghosts. I’m not convinced. Much more likely that the owner was right about the thievery. We nod, though, and proceed to leap the wall, the old man’s cackle sounding out across the barren land. The plot is empty, as he said. Some half eaten plants struggling to survive, again, like he said. Weirdly enough, some of the bite marks on the plants look fresh; but the only gate leading into the compound is shut, the heavy lock rusted firmly shut. There’s no way that animals could have leaped the wall; there’s broken glass lining it. We leap over again, and return to the old man; who refuses to talk to us anymore. “Dekh liya?” he cackles, before turning back to his fire, and ignoring us thoroughly after that. Disgusted, we decide to abandon the expedition; it’s really cold, there doesn’t seem to be anyone who can actually tell us what’s going on, and as for the reason that this place spawns ghost stories, well… it makes sense. Insane old men and silent lady beggars are enough to give anyone the creeps.

As we return to the intersection, I keep an eye open for the lady. Don’t want to get surprised again. She’s not there, though; and as I get into my car and slam the door shut, I get my last surprise for the night. An aged, wizened, broken toothed face leers at me through the window, while ancient hands beat at the glass, clawed and jagged nailed. In the receding terror, while my heart returns to it’s regular one per second, I roll down the window, offer her the last of my money, and ask “Aap woh doosre madam ke saath hain? (Are you with the other lady?”)

“Kaun? Woh lambi waali? Rajkumari? (Who? The tall one? The princess?” I nod, and she cackles louder, almost capering with delight, a grotesque parody of joy, given that’s she’s tall, ancient looking, and practically a moving skeleton; “Saab, jin log ko bhoot dikhte hain, unke saath bhoot rehte hain… (Sir, the people who see ghosts, those are the ones ghosts stay with…)”

Trifeck

Review: No One Killed Jessica

2011-01-11T16:07:00.004+05:30

Recently, my friends asked me if I like Bombay in films or Delhi. I pondered over the question and decided that I liked Bombay in the older films and Delhi in the newer ones. Come to think of it, Delhi does seem to be the muse to the new crop of filmmakers attempting to redefine the idea of neutral, non-invasive European or American cities that allow love stories to concentrate on its bubble gum. No sweat patches, no dug-up roads, no crowds that seem to be stuck together in a vacuumed plastic bag. In other words, not a city that breathes down your neck, violates your space, breaks your heart for the most mundane reasons. I often wonder if Karan Johar shoots his films in New York because he can’t bear the heat and dust in India. But recent films revel in these very things. The city is the most important character and if anyone had any doubt, this film begins thus.. D D D Dilli Dilli Dilli. And Delhi persists and stares at you from every frame, not unlike the men in it that want to be photographed.

The film was supposed to be called Who Killed Jessica. But the fact is that we all know who and when and why. So rather than the idea of who did it the title reflects the sarcasm for a faux mystery that started out as an open and shut case. There’s hostile witnesses, tampered evidence, corruption, sting operations and public opinion proving greater than the power of being ‘Somebody’. For the director then the story was, so to speak, ready-made and he mostly does a good job of staying faithful to the events relatively recent in public memory. In fact, the scene with the sting operation on Vikram Jaisingh (played by Niel Bhoopalam) reads almost identical to the transcript of the original operation on Shayan Munshi done by Tehelka.

If there is one thing we know about Rajkumar Gupta (Director) from Amir and now from NOKJ is his terrific knack for drama. He knows exactly how to accentuate and take the scene to a worthy climax. In the beginning of the film when Sabrina (Vidya Balan) is to find out about the tragedy that has befallen her sister, the screen seems black until the mobile phone starts ringing and intermittently illuminates her sleeping face. In a cinema where adaptations of actual events are rare and often dry or extremely simplistic, Gupta’s film can be seen as a success in its re-telling. However, the changes that he makes, probably for the sake of dramatic liberty, are questionable. The fact is that Jessica was 34 when she was killed, but in the film she is only 23. Does it make her death more tragic? Also, various people and parts of the media were instrumental in garnering public opinion, but the film condenses the multiplicity of voices into the single character of Meera Gaity (Rani Mukerjee). She is the bitch with the golden touch, the brash face of new-age heroism, complete with punch lines and flourishes and dramatic turns to the camera, reminding us that stories may not have heroes but Bollywood needs them to justify the star system.

The film doesn’t make complete villains of those responsible for the shooting or the witnesses that turned hostile. Especially, because it would have been easy and convenient to do so. Although, at times, it does indulge in borderline caricaturising of these characters. Besides the stars, the casting of the film is commendable. Mohammed Zeeshan Ayyub as Manu Sharma is assured in his vulnerability of having done wrong. The music (Amit Trivedi) is the true triumph of the film as it grows into the story so that it’s impossible to separate the two.

The film is worth a watch because it is undoubtedly among films that are slowly but surely articulating a new language for Bollywood, one that actually comes from the people that it is going to.

humpty dumpedme

new art ++

2011-01-04T13:48:00.002+05:30

“I remember, in my first show in New York, they asked, ‘Where is the Indian-ness in your work?’ Now, the same people, after having watched the body of my work, say, ‘There is too much of Indian philosophy in your work’… They’re looking for a superficial, skin-level Indian-ness, which I’m not about.” Bangalore-based artist Alwar Balasubramaniam, maker of false walls that challenge superficial beliefs, who’s now moving to a village in or der to “breathe out” Guggenheim and the likes, poses the conundrum that The Singh Twins, Brit-Indian expats, resolve, in a way, in their miniatures that embrace an Indian way of life, “I remember going to school before India was cool, getting very weird looks about wearing henna on my hands, but Madonna comes along with henna on her hands, and suddenly it is body art!”, and again affirming that with, “If you go to an Indian village, you’ll find a woman making a figure of mother earth out of a mound of earth. It’s outside the gallery context, but that’s conceptual art.” Subodh Gupta, our homegrown conceptual artist, tells us about the long road that reads ‘Danapur to Delhi’, but only obliquely, remarks, “It’s not about just creating yourself, or doing something that’s fantastic… Art has a much wider canvas today, to do something and say more than that”, his signature frames intact. While Ranjani Shettar, creator of wispy forms that aim to defy gravity, expounds on the “touch” that means the world to her. Bharti Kher considers “joining the crazies in Minneapolis or something”, in FIRST CITY, while Thukral and Tagra trip on the obsession that is “going abroad”. In the New Art Issue…

… But that’s just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

If you’re looking for a recipe for the Slow-Cooked Pork Belly with Onion Marmalade, Cibo style, you still got to pick up FIRST CITY. The Chef also regales you with that story about the alligator mommy and the baby, who ended up as a side-dish. But for a better aftertaste, there’re New Restaurant Reviews, What’s New, Food Festivals, Suburban Corner, Dish, Drink, Dessert, Revisiting, in FOOD & NIGHTLIFE.

There’s a lot happening to offset the low temperatures in the city this month. His Holiness the Dalai Lama plans to add some sunshine cheer with his talk on happiness, the Bharat Rang Mahotsav kicks off and plays out through January, and the Prodigy, yup, is coming to town. FC2 gives you previews and listings, so you can plan things out.

Also, we’re green and healthy in FCINSIDE this month; starting a new series, Dilli-By-Cycle, for us all to feel-breathe the city closely. Also featuring Alt Tab (the basement poster shop in Hauz Khas Village, the sketcher at Dilli Haat), the Expat Column (Jacek Ratajczak mourns about the lack of an underground in Delhi), Dinesh Khanna’s Doubletake and Nimret Handa’s Beautiful Delhi.

Whilst FCBOOKS has its own winding narrative, as always. Gerard Woodward crafts the perfect dirty letter and calls it Nourishment, while Omair Ahmad builds the story of Jamaal and how he becomes Jimmy the Terrorist. Zac O’ Yeah claims his Swedish-ness and hands out a few Nobels for crime fiction in his wishful thinking list, while Tishani Doshi pens ‘the first bastard boyfriend’ and other such life’s anomalies, in verse, exclusively, for FCBOOKS. Also, featuring Reviews, High Five, the new First City anthology on art interviews since 1990, The Still Point.

All this in January 2011. On the newsstands. 50 bucks.

rounding up an audible 2010: what we were listening to this year

2010-12-29T17:12:00.007+05:30

RATED R - Rihanna

Sure, it’s all a deliberate pose - the cover that’s meant to give us the demented boyfriend deja vu, the snap and crackleof the words that speak of lives flashing before eyes, heads smacking against car windscreens, the music that attempts to blow a short fuse. All carefully constructed, and it all works. She’s got sass and the attitude of a hustler so pre-requisite to the genre she belongs to, Rihanna.

THE FAME MONSTER - Lady Gaga

It’s a sad commentary on the musical landscape that genius has to go to such lengths to be noticed in today’s world of poseurs, pretenders and pretty faces. There's an unshakeably confident and weirdly beyond-it-all-but-so-in-it Madonna like quality to her music too. The album is old school and unconventional in the style of a Beyoncé or an Aguilera, or even a TLC; its novelty lies in the direction the drama is coming from. This isn’t a little girl trying to be soulful and deep while keeping the edgy and freaky beat going. Nor is this a talentless pseudo pornstar making it big by taking her clothes off. This is a full blown diva from the 70s, completely unafraid of where and who she is, transplanted into the morass of 21^st century Hollywood. Leather clad, lyrically astounding, musically outstanding - but so damn weird, it’s awesome.

OF THE BLUE COLOUR OF THE SKY - Ok Go

Crazy, loud and high-pitched,an echo that soon becomes a shout. Exhilarating and hard to digest. Rebellious, inspiring and reeks of freedom.

CONGRATULATIONS - MGMT

They sound like kids trying on rock music for size, searching for a voice that defines them, having way too much fun in the process. They‘re super-talented, be it in crafting chord changes, or in devising the arrangement, or in creating lyrical quality, or simply in their phenomenalk ability to surprise - all marks of solid rock bands. Where they go from hjere will now be interesting space-watch.

HOW TO DESTROY ANGELS - How to Destroy Angels

In his never-ending quest for eternal coolness, Trent married Mariqueen Maandig (ex-West Indian Girl), formed How to Destroy Angels, and probably forced her to sing on this album. And this debut release establishes Trent as the hippest, with it-est musician this side of John (Ono) Lennon and Mark David Chapman’s gun. We admit, Trent’s a conniving genius. The music could be (crudely) classified as Nine Inch Nails-lite. Reznor’s schizophrenic breakdowns and bizarre antics on the synth/laptop remain, but they are considerably toned-down. The album kicks off with The Space in Between, a groovy track with the usual Reznor histrionics wailing away in the background. The crucial difference here is vocal delivery, with Maandig providing a pleasant melody (almost trip-hoppish) and a measured approach to songwriting. In fact, Reznor seems to be holding back in the first half of the album, letting the wife take center stage. The album takes getting used to, requiring a few listens to grasp. The songs get slightly repetitive at times – mostly mid-tempo sound guzzlers designed to strike a balance between atonal industrial whatnots in the background and pretty vocals. But your feet won’t stop tapping. It’s like a nervous tick, except enjoyable. Just for that, this album is worthy of at least a couple of open-minded listens.

THE WILD TRAPEZE - Brandon Boyd

The vocal melodies wouldn’t be out of place on an Incubus record, with single Runaway Train, and Courage and Control, sounding like vocal outtakes from Light Grenades, but the melodies will gravitate you towards the songs; a guilty pleasure if you will - akin to that extra drink that leaves you throwing up on the toilet, you might end up humming (or spewing) these songs for days. The craftiness of the album lies in its quirks. I have an admission of guilt here – I love groove. And I was hooked to this album upon hearing the second song, Here Comes Everyone, which grabs you in your special place with its infectious groove and other-worldly harmonies. Unusual song structures, and aforementioned groove, make sure that the album doesn’t become monotonous – without them it’s just Boyd singing sometimes-derivative melodies over a sweet-sounding acoustic guitar, and the short length of the songs ensures that they don’t overstay their welcome at any point during the 35 minute duration of The Wild Trapeze.

COME AROUND SUNDOWN - The Kings of Leon

The End is what starts off Come around Sundown. Prophetic, that, to those who’ve been watching the Kings of Leon slowly (but surely) grow up to be U2 (and are annoyed at the prospect of another U2). For those of us who don’t find that the worst news of the decade (especially since Lady Gaga has already grown up into the new Madonna, apparently), this is a pretty good album; think Only by the Night, only slower, groovier, its biggest sin is a certain repetition. Which comes about only because Jared, Matthew and Nathan (the rest of the Followill brothers gang), are solely relying on Caleb to deliver the sound. Maybe it’s time to fight for your solos now, boys, and please make them eight-minute long. There’s epic confidence that swells on The Face, languid atmosphere that reigns supreme on The Immortals, and there’s the adrenaline rush of Radioactive, the laidback drive of Beach Side, the wicked funk of Pony Up, and the fitting end that is Pickup Truck, about “the romance of the southern man”, the brothers have said. What the album scores major points on is structure, for sure, but you must rewind back to The End for a last listen again. It is, of course, in the tradition of all time great rock bands who compose a track with that title, but The Kings are clearly in no hurry to get where they’re going… The road ahead says ‘U2’, but let’s not tell Bono!

The Social Network

2010-12-18T22:38:00.005+05:30

Somewhere in the fag half of The Social Network, Sean Parker, his already pretty jumpy personality under the influence of drugs, testily proclaims, almost to himself, oblivious to half-naked girls and cops that have arrived to bust the party, "We lived in farms, then we lived in cities, and now we're gonna live on the internet!"

For anyone who's ever got even a miniscule kick out of staring at a picture on a Facebook album, simply because the picture is of a person you know/ knew/ knew of/ know of/ slept with/ sleeping with/ knows someone else who's sleeping with/ slept with/used to be in school with you/ was your brother's ex's sister's current flame/ _______ (insert any number of 'it's complicated' equations here), what Sean Parker says (played to the electric-T by an

unbelievable Justin Timberlake) makes infinite sense. And let's face it, that's everyone. You. Me. All of us. Even those of us not on Facebook (huh?d-uh?) comprehend vicarious pleasures. Especially when they're so deliciously, conveniently, virtual. Because isn't that, after all, part of the appeal of Facebook - that it's faceless?

And so when an insanely genius computer geek thinks that up, in a semi-drunk post-break-up session on a fall night in Harvard 2003, would you wonder why he would fiercely guard it, obssess over its possession so? Years down the line in a legal courtroom, if he has to? Don't we all just have blurry memories of wasted sessions, post break-ups, as ugly stories of catharsis? It's not like any of us you know, invented Facebook. it's like what the reel-time Mark Zuckerberg (a perfect pitch performance by Jesse Eisenberg) says to the Winklevoss twins: 'If you guys were the inventors of Facebook, you'd have invented Facebook.'

I think where many have found the movie faltering, is on the big issue of whether The Social Network is pro or anti Facebook. Those who haven't liked it have either talked about how it doesn't get 'it', it's not like the real life Zuckerberg is an asshole, and of course, you have to bend the rules to get rich quick (you do know what's cooler than a million dollars, right?), and so why make an anti-Facebook film? Or people talk about how Zuckerberg seems to have employed PR machinery to execute this film; perhaps he hacked into David Fincher's Facebook account? But both sides, methinx, miss the point. Why does The Social Network have to be a film that takes sides? Why does it have to be pro or anti anything?

I liked the film precisely because the whole thing was filmed so as to make it all so complex. Grey rules in a world wherein black and white are so redundant. Stupid stuff that happens in college is suddenly called in for legal explanation, catching everyone off guard. The Winklewii twins got shafted, but can we deny them their symbolism of 'exclusivity', the definitive feature of Facebook? And isn't it also true that they were pissed off because for the first time, the world didn't turn according to them? Saverin (Andrew Garfield makes a tough role look effortless) goes through a bittersweet joyride, living out all the emotions that Zuckerberg wishes he had the opportunity to express/experience too - a jealous girlfriend, a dependable bank account, among them.

Fincher got the tight pace (a we-are-not-worthy bow to the editing team here!) and the tenuous energy that maketh a generation, bang-on. He captures not simply the arrogance and attitude (brilliant dialogue and sharp staccato - my favourite was when Eisenberg totals up the 18,000 + 1,000 $ to 'check your math'), but also the new age truth. mouthed by the ex, Erica, so well: 'The internet's not written in pencil, Mark. It's written in ink'.
For any of us who've ever deleted or added a comma on a blogpost, re-read it before posting it, wondered about un-tagging identities on Facebook (there's a software that does it automatically now, beware!), given the G chat status message, or Facebook status update any amount of seriousness, yup,Touche.

floatin'

It's (not) complicated!

2010-12-04T19:02:00.002+05:30

Many of you reading this change your status on Facebook proclaiming to love your mother, hate love and end stress. So in that sense the film The Social Network matters. Facebook crept into your life and stayed but there is more to it.There are two types of people that one has surely encountered in life or film. One is the genius computer geek, emotionally autistic and robotically amazing at his work.Then the shiny Ivy-Leage good at everything guy or girl.Mark Zuckerburg(Jesse Eisenberg) is the former. The film starts with him talking to his girlfriend at a bar. He wants to start a social network of sorts in Harvard that brings together the most exclusive clubs online. He promises to introduce her to people “she will never have a chance to meet.” She dumps him. The movie begins.

I have to admit, albeit, a bit hesitantly that I didn't know there was SO much to the Facebook story. All that I knew about Mark Zuckerberg is that he is young, very rich, has lots of chicks and (is not that hot.) So, it was interesting to know that Mark was sued by the rich, super goody Winklevoss twins,his classmates at Harvard and his best (and only) friend, Eduardo. (Since he is that quintessential nerd genius.)

Now, read this piece about the twins in the Daily Mail. "They're Oxford's star Boat Race rowers - 6ft 5in identical twin hunks who are effortlessly brilliant at everything (and also found time to invent Facebook." Whatever, so this journalist doesn't really tell me anything about them except that they are rich, hot, successful and have never failed. I already knew that right. So, same for the film in the sense that the idea that Mark is this amazing genius (emotionally stilted) and anyone who disagrees with him is simply wrong and/or too slow for this world is constantly reinforced.

The twins have all the powers in the world to sue him but they can’t deny the unimaginable success of Facebook. The English Royalty is talking about it. (And everyone else has the page open at any point in time, including the beauty parlourwali.) The film explores this power that the internet has over our lives.The soundtrack however makes it sound like the movie is about some sort of a uncontrollable disintegration of humanity’s goodness(completely jarring against the story of Harvard goodie goodies sitting in class rooms and inventing social networks.)

However, the film takes us through the history of Facebook and interspersed in the narrative is the legal battles that followed after it was founded.Of course, it is interesting, somewhat, to know the exact incident that made him get the Relationship status icon brainwave.Mark is pure business, betrays Eduardo who is projected as a naïve not in touch with reality loser. But this film is engineered for sympathy. When Mark is in the courtroom being sued by his best friend, you are itching to feel for him. But it is far too sympathetic to Mark and his flaws. He is the hero and the others are less intelligent beings who simply cannot get him, if you go by the film. (Unless all of this criticism is unjustified and this is just a “mercury reading for our society” stealing a metaphor from a journalist I read recently.)Maybe,sometimes the only way to deal with moral flaws is to romanticise them but we feel like he paid for this. The film, I mean.

Apparently,Zuckerberg didn't actually want to see the film, he saw it on a company field trip. He isn't too worried about what it will do to the Facebook image. Facebook is too big for that, apparently. “We build products that 500 million people see… If 5 million people see a movie, it doesn’t really matter that much”, he was quoted as saying.

Miss Havisham

The Tyranny of Table Manners

2010-12-03T12:13:00.034+05:30

The thing with writing about food is that it makes you hungry. (In a way that nothing in the fridge ever satiates). You begin to realise that the world is mercilessly filled with things that send your appetite into a cruel, ever-mounting frenzy. Whatever comes between you and your hunger, is truly vile, if not totally silly-superfluous. It makes you inexplicably irrational and anti-zen. So, while sunk deep in the delicious quicksand of First City's Food Issue 11, I realised that if there’s anything that makes my appetite plummet, it’s the sight of an ornate ring holding a petal-ed napkin on my dining plate, bookended by sets of forks, spoons and knives. That’s the irritating thing about table manners - as with all things civil, like rules and etiquette - it’s just so darn choreographed. Detailed. And boring, which makes it doubly hard to remember. The idiosyncrasies of these, I can never wrap my brain around. The dire need to match forks and spoons and meal courses, for instance. Despite having been in the food reviewing business for more than half a decade, I still can’t get the sequence right. If you ever catch me looking up with my eyes closed, mouth uttering gibberish inanely before I dig into my soup, it’s not because I’m indulging in esoteric food meditation. I’m secretly shedding silent thankyou tears for the writers of Pretty Woman, whose outside-to-inside rule for fork usage rescues me from an impending haute cuisine faux pass each time.

To be judged by the angle of your fork, the tilt of your spoon is one thing that pins the flavours of my food down to a table; there is also that slippery monstrous terrain called personalised service. Which is just a boring way of saying something that the stalker Sting song ‘every step you take, every move you make, I’ll be watching you’ says so well anyway. Secretly, I’m always more embarrassed than flattered by it. It’s one thing to feel a little silly every time a waiter gently thumps the chair against the back of your knees to sit you down. It’s another thing entirely when he’s fussing all over your crotch to flap and fold and fan a table napkin correctly. In the good ol’ days, we used to call it ‘invasion of private space’, and use it rather unproblematically across a variety of situations: feminist arguments, parental pressure, break-up speeches. In this case, I’m not so sure. Especially since I’ve never paid for it before.

So what happens in personalised service is that people like me, who are prone to flailing hands violently during conversation and threatening to topple a glass or two, suffer a bout of inadvertent puppeteerism. Any sudden movement tugs at said waiter’s imaginary strings and brings him darting to your table with blood-boilingly polite, ‘Yes Maam?’-s. You shoo him away with matching politeness and get back to conversation, but he’s back again. Repeat ad nauseum until you’re suitably tamed and learn to have your meal like a good Austenian heroine alter-ego, hands strapped to the sides of table, elbows off.

Perhaps the makers of personalised service failed to realise that good food takes you away from the very table that they love fussing over. Food is so much about memories, about conversation, about psychology; so wonderfully visceral and virtual all at once. It makes me remember and it makes me forget. It makes me chant ‘I want I want’ greedily and selfishly like I wouldn’t in life; it makes me so content sometimes that I begin to wonder whether the world has finally caught up with me. It makes me a relieved woman sometimes because it gives me a break from me; my thoughts are put out to the world, while I stay out of it. Tell me now, what could possibly be more irritatingly close to coitus interruptus than Faux Polite Waiter interjecting my soupy musings with ‘So how’s the food, maam?’ Must we confuse theatre and food so idiotically? Must he pretend to care so much about my likes? Must I be so polite when I shoo him away the zillionth time? Must I be Pretty Woman and swallow my impulse and prevent self from regressing into politically incorrect stage of haute lady evolution? I’m still weighing the glee of expletives against the cool nonchalance of sophistication. Until then, I’d choose the Harry Potter invisibility cloak over the Pretty Woman red evening dress any day. Just so I can enjoy my soup as if personalised service never happened to me.

punky pjs

THE SEEKER

2010-11-11T15:28:00.001+05:30

Kumar Gandharv’s bamboo sabzi fetish. A 15-year-wait for India’s Test cricket win in Australia. Singing a bhajan with heart, faith and agnosticism. The spiritual and ephemeral in music. Just some of the things that Madhup Mudgal unravels, in an unusually meandering conversation with FIRSTCITY

Madhup Mudgal’s voice is like an autumn day in Delhi. Clear and still; like monsoon lilt settling into grave winter. When he speaks, his words are sparse and polished, not because he is careful of their effect, but because he doesn’t feel the need to spill his brimful of thoughts. ‘He’s reticent’, I was warned. But when he greets me with a quiet, attentive gaze and an open smile, I know that it’s not typical artistic self-absorption that makes him a quiet person. It’s more to do with a certitude that comes with humility; there aren’t any claims of distinction he would want to impress upon any listener.

He sits across the table, in his signature starched white kurta pyjama, his intent eyes staring into the tranquil spaces of the Gandharv Mahavidyalaya behind us, a small smile playing around his lips. Talking of early learning days. Of the Connaught Place days in the sixties, when his father Pandit Vinay Chandra Maudgalya had established this small but serious school for music. “The school was in our house. There were classes all evening; we would wait outside. When they got over, we would lay our beds in the room - khaat lagti thi - then prepare for sleep. Our aangan was, in fact, the space for concerts back then. So many music maestroes would visit us. There, we would have bade-bade programmes. Ghulam Ali Khan saab, Mallikarjun ji, Bhimsen ji, Vilayat Khan sitar pe, Ali Akbar Khan saab, Pandit Ravishakar. You name them, matlab. Ek se ek. Right there in the verandah, lying in Amma’s lap, I would listen to them, and soon fall asleep to that music. So there are some of those values, which I imbibed purely by listening. Kaan mein padta rehta tha.” But it wasn’t until he was a young adult, at 17, that Madhup decided that music would be his life. “I wasn’t so serious before,” he shrugs, “I had a great interest in sports. Table tennis. I was the swimming captain of Modern School… water polo… I was in the junior cricket team too, but I quit - bowling was too fast,” he grins suddenly, followed by a sheepish laugh. So was it a choice between a career in sports and music? “Only in my dreams could I have taken up sports. Not in real life,” he laughs. “What I loved about music at that age was just how it felt when I sang. At that time, wohi tanpure ke saath swar lagana. It felt really good. It began to give me a lot of joy, swaron ka anand. And then, the enjoyment of a raag…”

That was the time of the sixties, the era of the Beatles that Madhup still loves, “That was the time of the LPs. The late sixties. I learnt a lot from them. They gave me an opportunity to listen to many, many maestros. In detail.” And that was when Madhup found a voice that spoke to him like no one else, “Somehow, only Kumarji’s (Kumar Gandharv) voice would linger in memory from among all of them. I wonder what it was... The strength of his swar, maybe... Kya kahoon, main bas khichaa chala jata tha un se (I was just drawn in his direction).” It was a strange sensation, and it fluttered and knocked him about, “You know, his student Satyasheel Deshpande would visit us. He would sing Raag Kalyan. And I used to sing Kalyan too, back then. At that time, of course, I was quite smug,” he smiles at the young Madhup, “Main toh apne aap ko bada hero samajhta tha, that I’m this great singer. But even as I was performing my own rendition, I found myself attracted to his rendition a lot more. I couldn’t understand why. Badi takleef hoti thi. I felt like I wanted to connect to those notes he was singing, with my heart.”

(Extract from interview; the complete version is in the Nov 2010 edition, on the newsstands now).

punky pjs

what we're 'almost but not quite' not listening to: Ben Folds & Nick Hornby's Lonely Avenue

2010-11-02T17:20:00.003+05:30

LONELY AVENUE

Ben Folds & Nick Hornby

Nonesuch Records

Levi Johnston’s Blues is a satire on rednecks, but it’s unfunny. Extremely tough to swallow that, given Hornby is lord and master of all things funny, as we know him. His words are cuter on Belinda, about falling for a stewardess on a flight (‘Sorry but I’ve found someone younger, she’s got big breasts and a nice smile, and she gave me free champagne’), and Password is akin to a poem (a modern day one, about hacking into your girlfriend’s inbox). So far so ho hum. Thing is, mostly Ben Folds is pretty good at turning wordiness into crafty pop tunes (try wrapping your chords around ‘Hope is a liar, a cheat and a tease/Hope comes near you/Kick its backside’), but songs, at large, sit, somewhat queasily, on that ugly, ubiquitous airport genre, titled ‘Easy Listening’. The only twists we get to appreciate are long-ish piano interludes, and hidden music at the end of the CD (like those old albums).

For those of us achingly familiar with Hornby’s style, wit and love of alt-pop, this one’s a bummer. If you don’t care, then easy listen in, I suppose…

floatin'

Househunting in Delhi

2010-11-01T14:05:00.001+05:30

This is a fictional account of a fictional character who suffers from the initial alienation and displacement of those who have just come to settle down inDelhi for numerous reasons, comprehensible and random. What you will read is a straining of my imagination but it is somewhere based on stories, read and heard, and some unquestionable sociological truths.

Dear Delhi, my stranger.

My dad thinks about the world in neat three word newspaper headlines. You, the land of the Mughals, Real Pani Puri and the house of the turbaned head of the country, your thousands of years of history and everything else that Wikipedia might mention are to my dad simply, “The Rape Capital”.

So when I was greeted with a hot blast of ruthless heat as I stepped out of the airplane and then the eccentric air conditioning of the airport, I knew that I had to leave this sense of conditioned foreboding on the luggage trolley before I got on to a cab. I was pretty determined to stay. Delhi, I won’t promise you love or marriage but let’s take it as it goes.

As is customary, I stayed in the house of a family-friend in a leafy South Delhi street where it is impossible to imagine that Chandni Chowk can be in the same universe.

They fed me at regular intervals. Cornflakes, buttered toast, and scrambled eggs at 9 am. Rajma Chawal, roti , three vegetables and a cup of dahi for lunch. Chai and four biscuits at 4 pm. These meals looked like photographs of a balanced diet in those charts we had in primary school, remember?But the point, of course, is that I could no longer shut all doors, go to the bathroom to smoke and waste my expensive perfume on erasing the smell.

So, I had to house hunt. Everyone I knew lived comfortably with his or her parents. Otherwise, they were renting expensive studios in Hauz Khas village, the place where London met Varanasi and a designer clay tea set cost four thousand rupees.‘’Say this city has fourteen million souls.’’ (With due respect to google) ‘’Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes.’’ (With due respect to the poetry of Auden WH)

I had to find a place for me, my dear Delhi.In Europe, I believe you can trust the internet. You can advertise to sell your silly pink childhood cot and expect a non serial killer to come over and buy it. Apparently, in Delhi too, you could conduct the business of real life online. It was, they said, a cosmopolitan city.

So I put up an ad: Wanted - female roommates.

Days passed. I met a few women at their places. One was too spartan. Her walls and bed were determinedly undecorated. ‘’You cannot bring friends home or cook non-veg.’’, she told me, in the form of her third sentence spoken to me.The family friend I was staying with, a kind professor in Anokhi clothes told me “Don’t trust these girls. Continue to stay home. Especially, if you have to SHARE a room with them. You don’t know what they are capable of doing.” Her dramatic eyes made soap opera moves.

My slightly smaller city heart shuddered at what they could be capable of doing.

I decided to expand my target audience and include an invitation to gay men in my ad. Most women who advertised on the Craigslist international cities section for roommates were expats who could afford to buy Humayun’s tomb.So within an hour of placing my ad, I received at least 20 calls, all the callers implied subtly that they were gay but never stated it.

Why on earth would I want a gay roommate, they wanted to know?

I am the stereotypical fag hag who stands in a corner at gay parties and waits till my friends are done grinding so we can grab midnight mutton kababs, in any case. That is why.

‘’Won't you feel bad if the men in the other room were together I mean if they are kissing or you know….?’’

Others said they were not gay but were just curious about my wish to live with gay men. Some wanted to know if I am a lesbo.

Most touchingly, some just wanted to be my friend even, that is, if I had already found a ‘room partner’.

I had.

By the miracle of the Internet, two girls I had written to a long time back wrote to me, inviting me to come and see the place.They had all the qualities I desired in roommates. They were comfortably messy. Not dirty, but they wouldn’t fuss if the sofa wasn’t at the right angle to the TV. They had stray dogs living with them. If someone can keep stray dogs in the house, they have a heart and cannot be serial killers. Besides, they were just into their first jobs and didn’t have the economic cynicism of most well meaning adults. They let me move in the next day without paying a deposit or rent.

So, on the basis of a five-minute conversation and three observations - I decided, they, complete strangers will be my roommates.

So I moved in with two girls, two dogs and I really hope to survive. Until next month, bye dear Delhi. I am around if you need anything. I hope you will be too.

Love

Miss Havisham.

Out of Context

2010-11-01T13:00:00.004+05:30

This is a fictional account of a fictional character who suffers from the initial alienation and displacement of those who have just come to settle down in Delhi for numerous reasons, comprehensible and random. What you will read is a straining of my imagination but it is somewhere based on stories, read and heard, and some unquestionable sociological truths.

“…and you know, the worst thing about them is that they’re shameless.”

Here I am, still jetlagged, at this interracial party, on the balcony, quite evocative of a Benetton ad. Of course, we are not models; far from it, we are just a congregation of outsiders – (upper) middleclass, middle-aged, women and balding men, demystifying the grand image of the foreigner. There are a handful of Delhites here but I cannot say that they are natives – they don’t behave like natives! You see, I come here (Delhi), like everyone who comes to a new place, with certain preconceived notions. I guess it is only understandable I have these ideas; after all it keeps me safe; keeps me from falling into chaos; helps me survive. And when you’re suddenly displaced from your comfort to find yourself in an alien setting, this survival instinct mutates into impregnable armour. The sky is overcast and a dense humidity makes us sweat profusely – we who are not used to the Delhi summer. And yet we laugh and indulge in small talk to make the best of what we have. From the balcony, a grand view of the Hauz Khas monument stands erect to intimidate us outsiders, telling us how timeless and grand it is, while we complain about the heat.

I arrived only a week back and you don’t have to know rocket science to say that I still feel out of place. Not that I dislike it here; it’s just that I’m out of my context. And since I can’t just pack and go back home, I suppose I’ll have to wait until I get accustomed to this place or I get used to complaining.

A man, probably in his forties wearing an ethnic shirt and pyjamas, is complaining as well. (He seems a bit too old to affect a bohemian appearance and this causes some annoyance to me.) He is complaining about the autowallas. He accuses them of being shameless and how they always cheat foreigners. I guess one has to pay a price for intruding new territories. Or perhaps, his accusation emerges from myths we weave around things that lie outside our comprehension. He is unstoppable, this white Alladin in his forties, and darts from one sympathetic ear to another. After a couple of drinks, his hostility for autos gains unsurpassed momentum. It is my ear’s turn now. He finds me seated in a corner. “I came here in an auto and you won’t believe what I did.” What could I not believe in the land of snake-charmers, where I’m confronted (while in an auto) by a child-acrobat, face painted like Hanuman; where goddesses are followed by her devotees on the roads of C.R. Park? Yet I utter a polite, “What?” “The auto-driver asked for 80 rupees but I just gave him 40 and walked away. You should have seen his face! I’m sure he shouted abuses at me; but what do I care? I don’t even understand Hindi!”

I thought I could be indifferent, you know, and I had also thought that the man to be an idiot, but I’ve begun to see some truth in what he was saying. The man is absolutely paranoid but his fears seem to be contagious. And I see I am slowly becoming him!

I have to take an auto tonight. The thought of arguing with the autowalla is paralyzing. Till now, it has never been so difficult going home! But perhaps I am over-reacting. After all, it’s just my first week in Delhi!

L'etranger

Stand up Comedy or what?

2010-09-24T18:15:00.005+05:30

There was this time at The Edinburgh festival, when I went for one of the Fringe shows in a little den underground. The audience consisted of a couple of staid, skirted , lipsticked brits, some cricket lovers and maybe seven Europeans. So comedy boy talks about this strange phenomenon of American accent epidemics. America is the only country you come back from with a guaranteed accent apparently. I myself have lost many friends to that drawl. The comedian began to wonder, in order to humour us, why people don’t ever come back fromIndia with an accent…and he did a stereotypical Indian accent. It was actually pretty funny, truth is funny.No one laughed. 30 odd brits and 7 Europeans with frozen upper lips.Comedy boy, edges them on… “Everyone is wondering whether to laugh or whether that is racist.”

Yikes. I was the only Indian in the room feeling major responsibility for killing laughter. It was awful and this man came and apologized to me after the show although I still didn’t get what the fuss was about.

According to Vidur Kapur, New York based comedian who performed a couple of weeks back at the Park told me about how one just can’t do accents inBritain. they are too “politically correct.” I guess the problem with these types is that they are constantly taking notes in their head, stealing jokes, situations. And especially because you know how everyone loves to laugh at the Indian media (quite understandably), I was slightly intimidated to meet him. Vidur talked about this expressionless woman who interviewed him and he just wanted her to LEAVE! Yeah, but it was ok although it brought back this memory of some stand up show I’d been to in Bombay where the comedian tastelessly went on and on about some Aromita Paromita from Horny 24/7.

Another thing I wonder about is how people can use their personal lives with so much ease. Vidur loves making fun of his parents and his grandmother in particular.“My grandmother mainly cares about how much money I make. I told her I want to be a prostitute.When I told her how much I would earn she thought it would be great..” Apparently, though, most times he lifts things straight out of real life.“ Oh yeah, my mother and grandmother would get really sensitive. I would tell them that I am not just picking on them. I am picking on everyone, including myself so they shouldn’t take things so literally, you know?”

So, the ability to laugh at things means you are comfortable with it right? Because if you can’t it means you think there is something wrong but you have been taught to be politically correct about it.

There was this time when Vidur asks us, the audience, if we have had phone sex. An aunty responds saying she has. “Aunty, you have had phone sex?” he asks in his special ‘for aunties’ tone. . Aunty tells him she thought she heard it as phone set!!

Hmm... so another wonder point is how much of this ‘audience spontaneity’ is rehearsed. This particular instance, I think was coincidence. But,a colleague said he knows people who were given a bottle of whisky at a Russel Peter’s event just to be bakra..

Miss Havisham.

Gathering Moss

2010-08-31T13:36:00.003+05:30

Long back, I read about this band, I can't remember if it was Mudhoney or The Vandals, who used to put up flyers of made up gigs at made up venues because, well, they were punk. Rolling Stones, the most unpunk band ever, are probably on their way to playing in some obscure country for yet another world tour; I recently saw a picture of Sir Mick Jagger with money spilling out from wrinkles on his face. Mark Arm from Mudhoney was on the floor picking up the loose change.

The question I want to ask is (aside from whether Mudhoney and The Vandals still exist, but Google will answer that for me): Would you want your favourite bands to continue playing music for as long as physically possible, well past their sell by date, or would you rather they call it a day, get married, have kids, open a vineyard, and live off past glories?

I'm no fan of Jagger or the Stones, but what about, say a Pearl Jam? Mike McCready has gone from heroin addict playing in heroin addict bands (Mad Season), to alcohol addict, to friendly old pot-bellied uncle down the road (aged gracefully in non-rock n roll parlance). Eddie Vedder will stay angry till the day he dies, but he's no longer the Pro-Choice scribbling madman jumping off 20 foot facades into angry punk crowds. And that was always part of the allure; it's never just about the music is it? He's tackled most of the issues troubling him, and he probably just harbours feelings of misanthropy now (or atleast for his sake I hope he's tackled them), and the music reflects that. Or maybe I've grown out of it, you can never really say for sure. The point is that Pearl Jam are fast approaching that dreaded stage in a band's career when it's time for them to play in India (Megadeth, Deep Purple, Jethro Tull, Mr. Big, Sepultura and so on). Of course, I'll still go.

The point that I'm trying to get at is that I would still want my favourite artists to go on writing music, for purely selfish reasons; it has nothing to do with preserving the sanctity of art or any other such nonsense. Incubus came out with a shit album (Light Grenades), and people said they had lost it completely after A Crow Left of the Murder and that they should just stop, but I still loved every song on that album. And as long as bands are coming up with albums, even if they're crap, I can still cling on to that hope, that maybe the next one...

Aside from that hope, there's also the idea of perception in music. The Joshua Bell experiment (look it up), entailed one of the world's foremost violinist playing anonymously outside a New York subway, and making a few dollars in change, for 'effort' I'm guessing. It's all about perceptions. Twisting the argument on its head, by the same logic, if Radiohead comes up with trash, I will treasure that trash as pure gold for the rest of my life, and swear by it to every unbeliever that exists. And evangelicise them. And take all their money.

Creation of music, or any art, depends on what moves the artist at that stage of his life, on how happy or satisfied he is with his life, how much money he has, how much hair on his head he has, and with that respect, there's always the chance that a Radiohead can grow out of writing Kid A like music. So they continue to experiment. But what of bands who lose that urge to experiment with new sounds in music, and just grow out of that phase of their life where they can emote effectively through music? One of my favourite bands, Isis, recently called it a day, deciding to explore other avenues, citing the reason that they had all grown up and weren't moved by their music anymore. I can respect that, but my selfish instincts make me want to hate them since I wouldn't mind four more albums that sound just like Oceanic or Panopticon. Maybe I would actually. At the end of the day, it's the artist's choices that matter, and whether they are willing to forego creative satisfaction for the monies (Rolling Stones) or whatever reasons. But as a listener, I think I wouldn't mind if Radiohead or Tool or Sonic Youth or whoever, became parodies of themselves and started to suck. Maybe I would. It's hard to answer actually.

supertramp

Fork-tongued?

2010-07-30T18:24:00.017+05:30

When I first came to Delhi, 3-4 years ago, I remember myself, so unsure and intimidated by the mere fact of being in a city. It was the first time I would be living in one, for a good 8-9 months at a stretch. Of course, I wasn't alone. I was staying with my sister then but still I felt utterly lost. I missed home. I missed the smallness of a small town. There, I had felt proportionate. Things weren't too large or too tall. I did all I could to feel at home. I did what the Delhi-ites did – visit malls, sit at fancy coffee shops with a book in hand, clumsily sipping coffee; buying Fabindia (back home, one fabindia kurta could mean 3 brand new T-shirts!) And yet something always felt amiss, if not completely wrong. When I first stepped down on one of the bustling platforms of the New Delhi Railway Station in Old Delhi, I was immediately taken far away from everything I had known by the busy currents of the city. And suddenly, a goldfish so used to the attention and petty comfort of a fishbowl was set free into the sea. To be lost.

You see, I'm the Outsider.

It’s been a long time since that awful splash. Today, I think I’m, if not completely, moderately at peace in Delhi. Delhi gives me my excitement; it gives me moments of rest. And although I’m quite settled here now, almost in a petty bourgeois fashion; meeting bourgeois aspirations and fashioning new ones to give meaning to my existence, a part of me – No, the core of me, still feels a little lost. But I almost love that sense of unease and alienation – it’s an adventure. I believe it gives me a perspective that those born and brought up in the city can never quite have an access to. The way I approach the towering red walls of Habitat Centre or the meandering streets of Old Delhi or Select City, lacking metaphorical roots, is quite unique. I approach them with a sense of curiosity mixed with intimidation mixed with a sense of accomplishment. Even an auto-ride is a thrilling experience! But this feeling always leaves me on the margins (metaphor) of Delhi.

But I can handle that! I guess it must be my predicament for as long as I am here in Delhi. And if later, I have to take my floating mass to another place, I guess I’ll have to relive those processes of adjustment. And I’ve accepted that. Even, if I have to suddenly pack up and go home now, I’ll have to suffer similar outsider-ness. You see, Delhi is my semi-home now. (Even though, here I never have a hot, steaming meal ready for me at the end of the day.) If I can quote Amir Khan’s colloquial to the hilt, AALL ISS WEALL, I think it will quite serve what I feel and have to say. But there is one thing, one unacceptable thing that I quite, rebelliously, don’t intend to accept. That, my dear Delhi-ite, is the imposition of your hindi.

A friend (actually there has always been this friend, omnipresent at all corners, in the alleys and on the streets of Delhi) said matter-of-factly, ‘…But you should know Hindi, it is our national language.’ And I have shrunk to become the tiny goldfish, lost, whenever I’ve heard such invincible logic. I tried mimicking you and speaking in your tongue and yet you derided me for my efforts. Sometimes, you thought it was adorable and cute. But then you never saw me wrenching and twisting at your benign condescension. And sometimes, you just reproached me for my ‘lack’. It was unacceptable to you and you never took the things I said seriously because I did not say them in hindi. And when I tried I was the tiny goldfish again, brought to the shore by the violent sea-waves, mumbling words in a language I cannot breathe in. My gills simply expanded and descended incoherently. And you laughed amused, cruelly.

Delhi, as an accommodating city is both a reality and a myth. Sure, it lets us be within its borders but someone from outside is always someone from outside. A Delhi-ite is from Vasant Vihar or from Chandni Chowk; from Saket or Anand Vihar. Even the Bengali can say s/he’s from CR Park! But I’m just an outsider, you see – from somewhere far away in the blurry, mist-covered North East. Details are something I don’t have. So, I’ve begun to think of myself simply as an outsider for convenience – yours and mine. But dear Delhi-ite, I’m tired of the gymnastic-efforts you expect my mouth to perform; I’m tired of your expectations to speak in a proper hindi accent. You speak in English with a hindi accent, no?

You see, I’m already balancing myself, linguistically, on two boats – one’s a fancy holiday yatch and the other’s simply a small, native log. And it’s alright – I have two feet after all! You and I were both colonised together, weren’t we? That was in the past. But now, you come forward with your neo-imperialist ways and expect me to speak in a language, that is like a tight-rope to a non-tight-rope walker (And why it is necessary to walk on a tight rope, I don’t understand) when we share equal pieces of the same coloniser’s tongue. A little unfair don’t you think? Sure, I watch some of your movies and listen to your songs at times, but you know, I don’t quite find myself there.

But then you are persistent with your nationalistic sentiments regarding hindi. I wish you could see that I have my words too.

L'etranger

the dream is real. alas! but...

2010-07-30T15:29:00.005+05:30

Emergency PS to Leonardo di Caprio before anything else: Inception got me nostalgic about The Departed, that first time you did this thing (and oh so incredibly, sexily well), that entire intense guy thing, always on the edge, achy blue eyes shimmering, left temple throbbing etc. But now, am sorry to say, it's getting to us, Leo. I mean, we did let Shutter Island go, didn't we? So, maybe, try comedy next time? Or a character with a sunny disposition? In any case, avoid scripts involving dead wives. Please!

As for the film... Let's get one thing out of the way. These are constructed dreams we're talking about. Literally. So,course they don't follow dream (il)logic, yours or mine - there's no gibberish, only proper dialogue, nobody's naked or having sex (or even thinking about it), and stuff is always being explained. Supernova-playing-out of unspoken fears, hidden desires, urges expressed that leave you confused, embarassed, turned on, altered, the morning after, do not come thrashing to the fore. Not particularly, anyway. (Yes, Leo gets a convenient elevator of preserved memories, and that kid from 3rd Rock from the Sun gets a platonic kiss). And if things are literal (oh, it rains if you've forgotten to pee before you fell asleep, and free-falling on one level turns hotel corridors upside down on another, probably along the exact angles), well, they're kind of meant to be. So, for all those of you railing about how it's weak and/or not working, plant these four words in your dream tonight: Nolan's in business now.
When 'they' shell out those millions of dollars, the best of us (better) comply. And that's what Inception is, baby. Nolan's killer sell-out to 'them' who call the shots. But if the Hollywood biggies are ka-ching happy, us (and that's us Nolan loyalists and admirers) have good reason to be too. See, if Memento won you over, The Prestige sealed the deal, and then the Batman movies, The Dark Knight especially, simply had you frozen in the we are not worthy bow, then... Inception is not a notch down. It exhibits, showcases, presents on a platter, what the filmmaker can do when the bucks are at his disposal. Lush frames (007-esque snow slopes, pretty Parisian streets, impossible Mombassa corners), an ensemble cast, and technical finesse. Check, check, check. WYSIWYG - the blockbuster-friendly, grey cell-friendly interpretation of the ultimate heist film. Children can play video games designed around the Penrose Stairs now. (And that could be a good thing,you know).
The pace is right and the joke's on all of us when Ariadne (Ellen Page shall simply always be Juno in my head, dream and real time; unfair, but life's a bitch) interrupts intricate proceedings with the naive 'Whose subsconscious are we in exactly?' question. Nolan's having fun, Inception is paisa vasool, and there's always David Lynch for the surreal stuff.
Plus, PLUS, there are clever actors and performances. Eames (Tom Hardy) is the smart cookie treat, Fischer (Cillian Murphy) makes being rich look painful, and Seito (Ken Wantanabe) threatens to hijack the movie at critical junctures until they pull a limbo on him (and maybe that's why?). And Marion Cotillard as Mol is oozing sex appeal and mystery, such that she makes poor Leo look frigid. She plays her slightly cardboard-y character to the T, jarring somewhat, but when was the last time Nolan showed us a strong woman character? (so don't complain now!). At least she haunts like a powerful nightmare. And those are dreams too.

floatin'

Us and Them - Part I

2010-07-09T15:26:00.004+05:30

I live in a land far, far away, called East Delhi- better known as Jamna Paar. It’s close to Atlantis. It’s not under-developed or anything (actually it is a little), it’s just really far. We even have fancy malls and shit. Not to forget the entire baniya community concentrated in my area. So, lots of old money. And oily businessmen.

The other day, while driving home from the First City office/ temple, I got stuck in traffic at Ashram, trudging along to Nizamuddin Bridge at the pace of a blind man on a wheelchair. Nothing new in that - they’re called ‘traffic hours’ for a reason.

But this time it was different. Something sinister was happening. (Cue dark Paganini-esque violins wailing away in the background – like in a Hitchcock film, or a bad period porno.)

The music kept building up in speed and intensity, and volume. Until it reached its crescendo, before settling down into a slow staccato rhythm again. I was waiting for something bizarre to happen. But nothing happened. The cars just stood still; they didn’t move an inch. Not even a single inch.

I was rooted to the same spot for 20 minutes; with the Yamuna floating bare below me (I couldn’t see the river, since I was surrounded by cars. But I could definitely smell the river, so I know it was there.)

There was complete silence in the air. Even the usually-obstinate honking that you encounter during a jam had stopped. It was a surreal experience, one that I had never had before- A Silent Traffic Jam.

Finally, the congestion subsided, and traffic began to move at the previously-mentioned wheelchair speeds. The honking resumed, right on cue, as did the unimaginable lane-changing and biker suicide attempts. Run-of-the-mill stuff.

In a crisis, everyone reacts differently, crises bring out that side of you you didn’t know existed. In this case though, with imminent disaster looming, we all reacted in exactly the same way. We stood still, waiting silently for whatever impending doom we were expecting. But as soon as the first ray of hope arose, normal service resumed, and we got back to our lives as if nothing had happened.

But once we reached the point of impact - the actual site causing the blockage - we noticed something quite (un)remarkable. It was a construction site in the middle of the goddamn bridge, right in front of the Commonwealth Games village. Instead of accommodating the heavy traffic to ensure my civic sanity, they had contrived to block almost the entire six-lane road, leaving one tiny corner on the side for us to pass through.

Apparently, they are constructing (yet another) flyover to ensure smooth flow of traffic (oh the irony). Apparently, they are doing this for the Commonwealth Games, since the village is neighbouring Akshardham temple, so they need to avoid the crazy congestion usually found on this route. (About fucking time you realized that?) You see, one must impress the white man scheduled to grace us with his presence in October for the Games. The suave, sophisticated, culturally-superior white man.

Not that I resent white people. I love them in fact – they look brighter than the fucking Taj Mahal. And they are so tall. And I want my city to look impressive to the outsider as much as the next guy. But to what extent?

There was nothing I could do about the construction. Look at the bigger picture, said my ying to my yang. In a few months, you’ll be flying through these polished flyovers at unmentionable speeds at night. Drunk, of course.

I drove my way through the heavy traffic grumbling to myself about my morally-corrupt ying and sensitivity and the common man and what not. I felt like a Bengali- the Commonwealth my Capitalism. All I needed was a cup of tea and round glasses.

After a (usually one-hour but turned into a) two-hour long drive, due to my limited driving skills, and the eternity spent pondering over life in the traffic jam, I finally reached home, all sweaty (car AC not working - temperature outside? 800 degrees Celsius) and back-achey. Only to find myself furious and seething with rage at what I was witnessing.

supertramp

Here we aren't.

2010-01-11T13:28:00.005+05:30

There never will be a universal religion of truth, because in itself, it would be a lie.

This world is for learning. Not for gains or losses, material or otherwise. There are all kinds of students in this school - but primarily those who accept that they are in school, and those who do not. If all were to graduate at one time, this world would end, for its purpose would have been achieved. That is not the point of a school. New minds are constantly born, and it is for those that the school must exist.

The basic lesson that is taken away from humans the minute they are born into a society is that they are living beings. Not humans, not children, not any of that. Merely living beings. It is in pursuit of this lesson that most spend their lives. Those who achieve a partial understanding with no acceptance of this lesson reinforce it with symbols and lectures and talismans. Those who achieve a complete acceptance without full understanding become yogis, who seek to make the lesson more real through a breakdown of the living being. Those who achieve a complete understanding with complete acceptance either die as martyrs, or live long enough to see their lessons perverted by those who do not have complete understanding. But such is the way of progress.

This is not the first time our world bears witness to such societal changes. The requirements for this sort of paradigm not being technological, merely mental, it only requires a clever one well trained in the art of argument to achieve this understanding; there is no such thing as genius. Only those who are more able to accept a shift in the foundations than others. All have an equal ability to see, and an equal ability to lie to the mental construct of personality about what they saw. Similarly, the illusion of time only requires a shift in perspective to understand. If one achieves the same understanding of reality as a Buddha or a Christ, then what is the sense in demarcating them according to a calendar, Gregorian or otherwise? Only to imply the changes in the background. The lesson and the truth is the same, for the truth does nothing beyond stripping a human of the illusions of humanity.

And this is where the fear lies for most of humanity. The loss of the props and supports that we construct our personal illusions within.

Trifeck

(This stone mask from the pre-ceramic neolithic period dates to 7000 BCE and is probably the oldest mask in the world (Musée de la bible et Terre Sainte ) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Musee_de_la_bible_et_Terre_Sainte_001.JPG)

(Goal) digger

2009-12-28T14:32:00.006+05:30

See, I don’t really understand the dynamics of the game all that well. (Understatement)
I played some (very amateur) football when I was in school. And up until very recently I was somewhat a Liverpool supporter ‘cuz Torres was Spanish and cute and all. But, last night… Last night was different. I was introduced to the world of Francesc ‘Cesc’ Fàbregas i Soler. Ladies and (certain gentlemen), this 22-year-old central midfielder and captain of team Arsenal is a dish! Before you call me uninitiated, superficial football lover (You’d be right, though), let me justify and explain.

Sunday night Premier League match. 60, 056 people at the Emirates Stadium in north London. I don’t know how many thousands watching on TV, the world over. Arsenal suffers the commendable defence Aston Villa puts up. One after the other, close saves keep them from scoring. Fàbregas warms up in the stands, with a hamstring injury. Just before the game clocks an hour, enter Fàbregas. Seven minutes later, a brilliant free-kick past Aston Villa’s goalkeeper, Brad Friedel. Goal! 81 minutes into the game. Runs to score off of Theo Walcott’s counter attack. And score he does, but stresses his injured hamstring due to the sprint. (He is injured AND he plays that well!!) Leaves.
27 minutes. He was on the field for all of 27 minutes.

I’m told that Aston Villa were in form (I’m not entirely sure what that means exactly). They have had an undefeated run of five wins and have beaten Chelsea, Manchester United and Liverpool this season.
A moment of magic from Fàbregas changed all of that. It doesn’t hurt his case much that he’s good looking either. For proof, view picture (courtesy-fanpop.com).Such is his enigma that he has converted me from non-football watching, random team supporting person to a full-blown Fàbregas aficionado.

He came, he scored and he converted.

agent alphabet

Hit the road, Jack!

2009-12-02T13:57:00.002+05:30

In 1957, there was a book about young boys hitchhiking their way across America. Before the Vietnam war stole America’s youth, before the hippies sang make love not war, before things got dreary and sad and politics coloured the whole nation a dark shade of grey. Before all that, were these boys, whose business was to experience life, youth and their motherland and to run amok across it’s plains. Thanks to Jack Kerouac, who recorded their story, we’ll always know them as the Beat Generation, the one that celebrated beatitude. Thanks to Kerouac’s On the Road, I know who Dean Moriarty was, who Sal Paradise was, and how to get from New York to San Francisco in the back of a truck.

And if I could ever meet him (may be in Beat heaven), I’d thank Kerouac immensely for Sal. For Sal Paradise made my life.

I left with my canvas bag in which a few fundamental things were packed and took off for the Pacific Ocean with the fifty dollars in my pocket.

When I met Sal and his friends for the first time, it was a cold December in Delhi. It’s funny I read of their journeys on the road sitting on the road myself, the road outside my college. Waiting for my daily ride back home, I’d sit under a tree surrounded by so many young boys and girls, reading about another set that lived across the globe, half a century ago. It’s hard to say if it was the setting, or just being in college, or the sheer beauty of Kerouac’s words that made me connect so deeply with the novel. But nonetheless, I did. If you asked someone who their best loved character in On the Road was, they’d probably say Dean Moriarty (especially if you’re asking Jim Morrison), after all he was so damn eccentric. What with three wives, god knows how many children, no money and that insane nonchalance about everything! He was an amazingly interesting character, but that’s what he was - a character. And so if you ask me, it has to be Sal. He was so real that he made a great entry point into the text and gave it so much personal context. To say I understood him would be close, but to say I understood myself through him, would be spot on. A simple man, ordinary really, and always accepting his ordinariness against the iridescence of others around him. And yet, in spite of all his humility, he wasn’t ordinary at all, but highly relatable.

At a time when I felt that I was wasting my life not doing anything great or adventurous, not doing enough exciting things (you’re only 21 once!), Sal came to me like a torch bearer. As a writer in New York, he longed to break free and hit the road, just to go meet his friends and spend a long summer together. That’s what the road started out as, for him, a means of getting to Dean and Co.. Earning each penny along the way, he made many journeys, first to reach his friends and then, to reach himself. He met so many people, learnt new things, got so completely baked in Mexico, got sick afterwards, listened to Jazz and danced to it all night, drove across the mainland in an expensive car he ended up destroying pretty badly later, and even fell in love and decided to never return to New York again. He did all that, never once claiming he did something grand, but always insisting he made simple journeys. And he made me see how simple it was to do something with your life, even if it meant taking a short trip to a place close by or a longer road back home, you could find adventures anywhere. But most importantly, even at home, on your typewriter, where Sal ended up recording the entire story that constitutes the novel …And nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old…

It’s a cold December again, and I think, yes, Sal Paradise did make my life. Everything in my life that followed my reading of this book, was an attempt to channel his spirit. Always choosing the road over the destination, and always doing it for myself. So thank you Kerouac, for a meeting with Sal and a glimpse of paradise.

Love,

*~Dharma Bum~*

TAKING WOODSTOCK

2009-11-09T15:34:00.004+05:30

Same week, watched it twice. First time I needed to imbibe the hippie spirit and the second time I went for Michael (Jonathan Groff). Probably one of the most beautiful hippies to grace the silver screen. And after watching the film, you wanna walk on the streets, going peace this and love that! What do these hippie films really do for you? What is it about these funnily-clad men and women, with unwashed dreadlocks and a big grin on their faces that makes us melt and slow down? And while most of us say, ‘We were born in the wrong decade’, some of the others say, ‘I was there man’. To me the hippies had (have!) a lens, an alternative view of the world; a world that needed (needs!) a lot of healing and love. The hippie era is also about the time when one brother was fighting the war in Vietnam and the other was swaying to the sound of Bob Dylan’s Blowing in the Wind and John Lennon’s Imagine.
Taking Woodstock is about Elliot, a young boy who thought he could have Woodstock (the festival) in his backyard and invite 10,000-something people, who’d attend the festival and bunk at his godforsaken, run-down inn, without realising the extent of how far he could go with that innocent thought. And before we know it, a wild bunch of hippies show up at Elliot’s doorstep and set up camp for the greatest music festival of peace and love. Everyone who was anyone thumbed their way to the venue and realised their potential in this world of anarchy and violence. They did their bit by sending out their light and powerful energies to the world (at least that’s how I’d like to romanticise and picture it). Speaking of which, weren’t the hippies the biggest crack in the system (George Orwell way), who didn’t question the society but drifted to their own way of living - a connection with the earth (flower power) and free love. Of course, no one can deny the existence of substance abuse in their lives but I’d like to put in the argument of human beings being extremists here. We usually do end up going to one or the other end of the spectrum, before planting our feet in the middle ground.
Taking Woodstock is essentially just another reminder that’ll help you take a step back and look around you. May be even pose introspective questions about where you are in life; if you belong with your current circle of influence and most importantly, if you have love and joy in your life. Love and joy, simple yet profound words, but do we really feel peace and love in our everyday existence? Are we truly celebrating our normal drifting or waiting for an outside influence that’ll give us a reason to celebrate? A yes and a no to that because there are days which feel sorted and moments which don’t. Agent Alphabet’s quote would probably explain the yes and the no better - Consistent behaviour or consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. Who needs it? I mean who needs it after watching the film.

Peace and love!
hope-a-holic

Fresh off the Oven: The FC Newbies

2009-11-07T13:24:00.003+05:30

The young 'uns are dead. Long live the young 'uns.

So, in order of joining the team, here they are - First City's all-new, hot-blooded Eddies.
Able and willing.
Ready to blog-rock.

Hope-a-holic
Tree-loving (banyan tree printed on the skin), bird-watching (minus the crazy pigeons that bang themselves against the glass door every morning), with a Calvinesque energy and love for gooey chocolate cake and cheese, all rolled into one!

Dharma Bum
When the hills come a calling, I set my feet in motion and let my heart lead the way. Sadly, sometimes I hear the call, but must let it ring till it fades out. What to do, life is such. It’s always measured in priorities and I seem to be getting them wrong a lot. An ipod with some good ol’ rock ‘n’ roll, orange pyjamas, a good book and a whole lotta conversation - that’s me, Dharma Bum (a big, huge salute to Jack Kerouac) - bumming my way through life, and loving each moment. As a side note, hippies were awesome and ‘Glory Glory Man. Utd.!’ Watch this space; I’m off for a smoke.

Agent Alphabet
The wise man who emerged as a great thinker, poet and philosopher in mid-19th century America once said, 'A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds' and I said 'Amen!'. So random thoughts and actions, as and when.

Trifeck
Hi there. My name is Trifeck, and I’ll be your occasional host for the next year or so.
You’re probably wondering what this post is doing up here. First City blog, so First City info, one would imagine? Well, kind of. Y’see, I started work with FC about a month and a half ago, and since I didn’t commit suicide after the first proofing session, they figured I was ready for the blog. Floatin’ told me to pick a name, write an intro and post the damned thing already, so here I am, posting the damned thing already. Don’t let it be said that I don’t follow orders.
I’m 25, male, a writer, a reader, a smoker, a thinker, and I have a dog.
Yup, seems to cover it. G’night, people.

So, first up, hope-a-holic. Watch this space.

October

2009-10-05T13:22:00.002+05:30

Fashion Special: Tarun Khiwal - Images + Interview

Prabuddha Dasgupta, Gurcharan Das, Sarah Hall, Mixed Tape, and High Five in FCBOOKS.

Bharat Sikka talks Salvador de Mundo. Plus, Daily Listings, Previews, Festivals, for October. In FC2.

Live is where the love is in Night Action, while Band Aid plays Circus.

Plus What's New and Restaurant Reviews in Food & Nightlife.

And when in doubt, zorb, FCInside recommends.

what we're listening to: horehound

2009-09-09T15:06:00.002+05:30

HOREHOUND
The Dead Weather
In the tradition of Black Sabbath and Marilyn Manson, comes powerful evil in the guise of Mr Jack White and his entourage (a new avatar of The White Stripes now that sister Meg White seems busy with whatever it takes to be Patti Smith’s daughter-in-law). Almost funny how the devil-possessed rock n’ roll tag still sticks (even if actual pigeon-eating has been replaced by tattoos of Osbourne eating pigeons), but what was serious sound business then, holds true even now - if it’s good music, it’s good music. So, it’s hard and dark, vampirish, Horehound, in the most delicious and seductive of ways.
Teaming up with Alison Mosshart of The Kills (an inde American rock band best known for the track Keep on Your Mean Side), she of the mesmering Goth vocals, Jack walks familiar terrain and breaks new ground with song-writing.
60 Feet Tall, album opener, is almost a tease, dangerously building drumsticks rubbing off each other that soon present, exhibit, showcase Alison’s voice (‘You’re so cruel and shameless but I cant leave you be’), even as Doors-like organ blasts and angry guitar slashes keep time with her. She’s unstoppable and track after track, unleashes terror, masterfully unfolding her devious scheme to trap ‘a nice Catholic boy’: ‘I’d like to grab you by the hair and hang you up from the heavens… sell you off to the devil’ on Hang You up from the Heavens, she threatens, and ‘I love you like a woman but cut like a buffalo’ is her matter of fact opinion on yup, I Cut Like A Buffalo. Jack blends in on vocals (besides playing fabulously dirty guitars) on So Far From Your Weapon, as the snarling continues through awesome compositions that include Treat Me Like Your Mother, New Pony, No Hassle Night, even a mad instrumental one titled Birds (creepy even if you think those feathered beings are sweet). There’s a rattling climax that doesn’t let you be, even for those of us so far far away from those religious complexities of guilt, tainted love, burning crosses, and dope stars.
This one’s a killer. A keeper.

MICHAEL JACKSON (1958-2009)

2009-07-21T21:25:00.000+05:30

Mid-eighties. Thriller came out. Causing a 2009 epiphany - He was MAGIC before we grew up and thought that word lame.
Early nineties. Black or White ‘premiered’ on MTV. And deja vu - Man, he is MAGIC.

Not much changes if you’re a Michael Jackson fan.

Because then you don’t care about any of the other stuff - pet chimpanzees and oxygen chambers and skin grafting and cheek implants and Peter Pan dreams and sexuality musings and ______ (add anything else ridiculous you must’ve heard). It’s only about what you’ve seen this man do, song after song, video after video, stage show after stage show.
When you moonwalk (attempt to, i.e.) in earnestness, with the number of years you’ve spent on the planet all encompassed within one single digit, you don’t do cynicism. You just watch, hear, respond, emulate. Reflex action. What you don’t do is analyse, discuss, hem and haw, reject, judge. Versions of which, ugly most, all appear in the papers, on the channels, day in and day out. Ever since June 25 this year. When our part of the world woke upto that piece of information - Michael Jackson is dead. And a thought bubble exploded - But he’s too much to be dead, really. Simultaneously accompanied and supported by visions from the past, some recent too, of a man holding an entire planet spellbound, captive, everyone equally mesmerised by the power of performance, so pure. Frantic calls were made, desperate e-mails sent, across the world, perhaps to lessen that feeling of devastation, of being crushed, share the sadness with others who were feeling the loss… But it didn’t help, did it? It still felt like your entire childhood flashing before your eyes, didn’t it?

He influenced Madonna as much as Prabhudeva, the world of advertising as much as live performance. And we finally lose him to, what, Propofol? Technically, perhaps, though it goes much deeper, and we all know it, don't we?

There was a time MJ would defend himself; as in the book, Moonwalk: I'd like to set the record straight right now. I have never had my cheeks altered or my eyes altered. I have not had my lips thinned, nor have I had dermabrasion or a skin peel. All of these charges are ridiculous. If they were true, I would say so, but they aren't. I have had my nose altered twice and I recently added a cleft to my chin, but that is it. Period. I don't care what anyone else says its my face and I know. And there was a time when he simply stopped, investing energies elsewhere instead. Building that Neverland ranch, and buying Beatles songs copyrights, yes. But more memorably, standing atop the Statue of Liberty and addressing the world: ‘Damn if you agree with me, when I saw you kicking dirt in my eyes… I don’t wanna spend my life being a colour’. Infusing anger and attitude and bravado into the powerful They Don’t Really Care about Us (watch that prison version again, by the way), and the brilliant Janet Jackson collaboration Scream. Giving us Dangerous (1991) and HIStory (1995). But who was listening when he echoed ‘Stop pressuring me’, or even earlier, when he was still struggling with that most tragic of dilemmas, hollering out Leave me Alone (‘Don’t stop loving me. Just leave me alone’)? Not the press, not the critics, not even the fans. ‘He wants to be the King of Pop and he wants to be left alone’, complained one journalist in the 90s, mirroring what we all wanted on different levels - a piece of Michael Jackson.

It might be uncomfortable to deal with, but we’re all in this together, I’m afraid.

Also, when you bring out Thriller, to date the best selling pop album of all time, and win eight Grammies, while you’re still 24, it’s an achievement pretty tough to beat. Even for MJ. Every album he did after that was relentlessly compared to the magnificence of Thriller, and was invariably labelled ‘not good enough’. An album that kick-starts with Jam, sexes it up with In the Closet, experiments like hell with Give in to Me (man, that supernova Slash solo!), pulls off the ultimate pop spectacle with Remember the Time, and is still not done (Who Is It, Heal the World, Will You Be There, and of course, Black Or White all lined up with those kings of B-side tracks, Why You Wanna Trip On Me, She Drives Me Wild, Can’t Let Her Get Away), cannot ever be used in the same sentence as ‘not good enough’, and that’s plain common sense. But MJ, constantly reacted to the critics, and found himself competing with well, himself. Minus Quincy Jones. And then we wonder if he maybe lost it?!

But it was a different story when he made an appearance shortly after the London 02 arena concerts were finalised and announcements were made. Funnily, it was only when we saw him then, in a wheelchair, waving to fans, looking as morbid as ever, that we realised we hadn’t seen much of him in the last, what, decade? He hadn’t surfaced for so long that we’d all become resigned to accepting (inventing the conspiracy theory?) that this is the artist formerly known as Michael Jackson, that he’s a shadow of his former self and has been so since You Rock My World, that, somehow, the MJ of our collective childhoods, our recent pasts, our lifetimes even, has ceased to exist. That he’s moonwalked into outer space. A fact of sorts we mutely accepted, some of us sadly, and some, mockingly.
And now it’s come true, hasn’t it? Michael Jackson has disappeared. Gone incognito forever. So, beat it… Is what you want to say to the This Is It! Organisers, the Jackson family, Debbie Rowe, the sick mind that decided to make the funeral a circus (a few lucky ones could attend it for free! Wow!), the tabloids, the television shows, the anchors (Larry King, especially), and yes, to YOURSELF.

When you watched him perform, you could see (and feel) the trance. One that he created, which engulfed him, and set us all free. He was the music, the music was him. One. Those of us who feel the pain and the guilt (who are we to claim a person, a human being for our childhood?) should remember to remember him as Michael Jackson the Record Maker and Breaker, the Dancer, the Singer, the Video Auteur, the Performer. And that should be enough to sail us through.

Even if all it did was leave a big hole in his life while Michael Jackson was alive.

floatin' (who had perfected the moonwalk, or so she thought, aged 7!)

Favourite is a Strong Word

2009-06-29T12:14:00.000+05:30

The great FC Ed series of blogposts on favourite authors has got me wondering. And quietly smiling. About how choosing favourite authors is always a confession; only ostensibly about the qualities of another person. Choosing a favourite author is always about choosing to see a part of yourself, to define yourself. Which is why (and my confession starts now), the sweet holiday-homework essay tone of My Favourite Author has evaded me all my life.
I've been tortured most of my adult life by this two-word 'favourite author?' question, sprang at me in polite conversation at parties, slambooks, author interviews - it sends out a flurry of question marks in my head, culminating in a pre-death-flash of scenes from novels I have loved. Truth be told, there is no single author I am faithful to (gasp), and in fact, there might not even be a single author whose entire ouevre I have read (me fake lit student). There isn't a doubt that I'm absolutely deliriously hungry for the gravitational pull of Amitav Ghosh's novels, that suck me eyes-wide, face-down into places and minds and eras at one go. But haven't I also lately been squealing out loud with excitement as I devour the maddeningly absorbing, superbly clever, articulate-to-the-point-of-heartbreaking ride that Vikram Chandra has set up in Sacred Games? Random scenes from Uzma Aslam Khan's novels flash so often in my brain as I go about the most mundane events of my life, that I can finally say I pretty much live with them now. I can't eat makhana without thinking about Tabish Khair's The Bus Stopped; I can't look at a raincloud without thinking of Andal's Natchiar Tirumozhi; I can't think about khadi without thinking about Nilita Vachani's Homespun; and I can't think of riverside havelis without thinking of Anuradha Roy's An Atlas of Impossible Longing. But are any of these people that Chosen One for me?

Erm. Not really.

I thought hard about this haunted question, and I did realise that although I'm a literary committment-phobe, there is one thing that makes me gush and blabber about the genius of authors like I just did - it's the way they choose to make sense of the world. Nowhere have I been more acutely aware of the presence of history, than in fiction, ironic as that may be. I don't mean it in the way of that awfully named genre of the Historical Novel aka You Can Believe it Coz it's True. I mean it in the way history is lived, understood, manipulated, authored - when an individual mind makes story-sense of the world. And very few people can convey that story to another - not by shoving it down people's throats, but rather, quite magically by evoking unarticulated experiences. And those are my favourite authors.

It is not just a convincing version of the world, but a story through which they reveal themselves. I don't love authors for revealing secrets of the universe to me in epiphanic wisdom, carefully encrypted in dazzlingly-constructed sentences. I love it rather, when their writing, whether show-offy clever or honestly simple, makes me revel in the magic of a book - that a sheaf of paper can reveal to me, in any place (a 3-hour queue, a cramped train compartment with wailing babies, a perfectly tucked in bed), an entire person in flesh and blood, through the visions it has chosen to create. When Amitav Ghosh dwells on the Irrawady dolphin's seasonal movements for pages in The Hungry Tide, I love the digression from the plot, cuz I know this is where he's letting me in on the almost-Brechtian moment where I rear my head from the story and take a look at him. It's where he's letting me write a little story of him - as I imagine him sitting in his writing room and reading a zoological tome on dolphins of the Indian subcontinent, thinking, 'I must write this into a novel some day. But how?' I love these meta-fiction moments in fiction, and I love authors who let themselves be revealed in this way. With honesty, and perhaps a twinkle-eyed smile. Without making a literary edifice of it, like Siddharth Dhanavant Shanghvi’s display-window tableaux of ‘see-what-I'm-trying?’ in his novels.

And so, the ‘favourite author’ question remains a perennial one for me, because maybe books are about fictional people who can let us conjure more fiction about real people; and as any author will tell ya, it’s hard to choose a favourite from among your own creations, right? So ‘my favourite author’ will be a happy torment I can live with (‘and purge my guilt periodically in the blog universe, hehe). Or y’knowhat, I’ll just surrender my twisted argument, take a bow and wriggle out of this tough decision, with the literary commitment-phobe’s classic metaphor-situation of convenience: All those lovely writers out there who still can’t make it to my Chosen One seat, all I gotta say is: I love you baby, but you’re not The One. It’s not you, it’s me.

punky pjs

WANTED

2009-06-18T19:18:00.004+05:30

professionals/graduates

for our

MARKETING TEAM

If you think you can ideate, create, work towards and market FIRST CITY and Parenting, and are interested in the branding of the magazines,
we’re looking for you.

Young, passionate, committed, with a love for the city, even better. E-mail us your detailed resume at: firstcityeditorial@gmail.com

Or send it to us at:
First City and Parenting, A 7, Sarvodaya Enclave, New Delhi-110017.

Words: They Transmogrify

2009-06-09T13:44:00.001+05:30

Because I couldn’t, not in this lifetime, dare contemplate Joseph Conrad’s genius, I’m not blessed yet. Because the memory of reading Heart of Darkness is more vivid than most of my adolescence, and because, if Coppola could ruin it so, I’ll eat humble pie.

Because The Chosen One is a pastiche of thoughts, much like that wall…was it a door? the Glass brothers wrote on (oh, a ‘beaverboard’, I just checked “decorated with four somewhat gorgeous-looking columns of quotations from a variety of the world’s literatures”), where epiphanies ring to and fro, because we’re so verbal and needlessly eloquent, such wordy people need those that can tell you what lies between

"And" was the next word I lost, probably because it was so close to her name, what a simple word to say, what a profound word to lose, I had to say "ampersand", which sounded ridiculous, but there it is, "I'd like a coffee ampersand something sweet," nobody would choose to be like that. "Want" was a word I lost early on, which is not to say I stopped wanting things – I wanted things more – I just stopped being able to express the want, so instead I said "desire", "I desire two rolls" I would tell the baker, but that wasn't quite right, the meaning of my thoughts started to float away from me, like leaves that fall from a tree into a river, I was the tree, the world was the river. I lost "come" one afternoon with the dogs in the park, I lost "fine" as the barber turned me toward the mirror, I lost "shame" – the verb and the noun in the same moment; it was a shame - Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Jonathan Safran-Foer

Everything I hope to know and remember is on that beaverboard; a beacon of light in my head’s dark, seamy, ringing hallways. Alain De Botton for love, Toni Morrison for hate, Nick Hornby for the music, JD Salinger for my childhood’s lost cause, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry' as my lucky charm, Stephen King to replace the actual silly task of living, Pico Iyer to breathe life back into the world and Milan Kundera to remind me that nothing will ever be the same again.

So that, once more, at the end of it all, I only find comfort, respite, my final resting place, with

Go(ld): “Did you know that “Philip Sandifer, who uses Calvin and Hobbes as the main example for a reading of comic strips based on the psychoanalytic theories of Jaques Lacan, draws parallel between Hobbes's status as an imaginary friend and the Lacanian concept of the Imaginary, suggesting that a given comic strip is an attempt to construct a momentary and ephemeral present that will be dismantled by the punchline (which he allies with the Lacanian Real), wiping the slate and allowing the process to begin again the next day?”
Phish: "I'll say. Hey! What time is it?? My TV show is on

go(ld)phish

Damn the chosen ONE: thoughts on the CHOSEN one

2009-06-07T15:44:00.000+05:30

Being solemnly faithful to The Chosen One is, unarguably, a near-impossible task. I’m still reeling from how the writers in our First City’s June Special obliged us so. A favourite writer changes so often. You read a book, you’re swept away, and you hunger for the writer’s next one; in the meanwhile, another book beckons, you read it, and it captures you so subtly, you only know it days after you turned the last page. And even as you wallow in the bittersweet moments of having finished a book that’ll never be the same again (because now you can only re-read it, and you almost want to lock this time in that part of your brain that never ever forgets), there’s a dazzling new, stylish writer who could be new to the world, or just to you.
A favourite writer is someone who makes you giggle at first, perhaps, someone who shocks you later on, someone who reveals secret truths about experiences you haven’t had yet, someone who makes the ludicrous absolutely profound, and vice versa, someone who holds up a mirror to you, even, someone’s who’s simply hilarious, and someone who unleashes a sense of adventure and mystery. And all this could be accomplished by a single writer. Or a series of them.

There are a few first times you never ever forget, of course.

I’ll never forget reading, for instance, about Gregor Samsa’s overnight metamorphosis for the first time. It was a particularly hungover morning (not the best way to read it at all, because then the cockroach is forever fused in the mind with the sick feeling in your bloodstream), and being so struck, fascinated, discovering the word that could end and stop all conversations I figured, pretentious or otherwise - Kafka.
Or the first time I read about Salim’s pencil and a nation’s tryst with destiny, how the fantastical can even read like a book, awed by an author’s writing that is so markedly full of style. And again, the name conjures up everything good, bad and ugly about magic realism even today - Rushdie.
Or the first time The Famous Five entered my life and took over it completely. I’d seek out mysteries where there weren’t any (where was Maa’s purse last seen? Hmm?), and wished for a Timothy (what a brilliant dog!) to my George (never Anne, ‘cuz she was such a girl! Please, so not cool!), who would sniff-and-woof out the secret passageway to a mystery I could then crack. The famous five also introduced me to that feeling that only words in the hands of smart authors can evoke - of not knowing exactly what’s being talked about, but finding it very exciting nevertheless (Them eating bacon and ham for breakfast, is something I vividly remember as very tempting, until I discovered what it was and my vegetarian sensibilities reacted!). Ah, Enid Blyton!
Or reading Needful Things on never-ending bus rides, and discovering what compulsive writing is (when you can’t tear your eyes away from it and risk missing your bus at the stop hence!). And then going onto discover other greater works from the author who gives horror new meaning - Stephen King. Just the name’s enough to recreate unpleasant, spine-chilling moments.
Or spending days enamoured and seduced by Milan Kundera and the brilliant ways in which he converted all of life into an argument, intellectualising even sex. Since then, writers have tried and failed miserably trying to imitate him.
Reading Anthony Doerr’s memoirs on a Roman holiday, and falling in love with his love of nature and French nights, a reader’s vicarious living of Anthony’s parenting experiences too. Or reading Uzma Aslam Khan’s Geometry of God, a masterpiece, after being overwhelmed by her Tresspassing, and awaiting her next with something akin to a secret trepidation.

But I digress! This is about The Chosen One. It’s going to have rephrase as two’s company, in my case, though.

Douglas Noel Adams
So, here’s a writer (a favourite writer), who had a legendary reputation for not writing. His publisher had to move in with him, holding him imprisoned almost in a hotel room, so he wouldn’t miss the printers’ deadline again (And to him, we owe the priceless quote ‘I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by’). He’d always insisted that 42 ‘has no significance in relation to any other previous uses of the number 42’. He was also known for his huge collection of electric guitars and how he once performed at Earl’s Court with his mates, Pink Floyd. Man, was he cool! (And it’s still weird to use the past tense for a writer whose writing’s so alive, how he used technology in such writer-ly ways!)
His radio series started the year I was born. A year later, the book version appeared ‘based on the radio show’, still a good 16 years before I would lay my hands on it -The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - and find ultimate religious conversion. Here was humour, wit, meaning, ridicule, making a whole lotta sense, a pattern he followed in all of his books, through Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency and The Meaning of Liff and The Long, Dark Teatime of the Soul. Who can forget The Electric Monk (a labour saving device that believed things for you, thus saving you what was becoming an increasingly onerous task, that of believing all the things the world expected you to believe), or the cow offering its different parts to a horrified set of diners at the restaurant at the end of the universe (and that’s ‘end’, in all its meanings)?
Douglas Adams was also a writer for whom existing words were never enough. How do you explain that feeling of ///, except by inventing that word, ///? And so he did, he changed the way people spoke, and gave us shortcuts - We all need a Babel Fish in the ear, some days, when the Boss speaks in one of his inscrutable meetings. We never forget to carry towels on trips, or at least, we joke about it. We all frown at the brew in cup, on some days, that’s almost but not quite unlike tea. (Club that with Babel Fish boss day, and that makes it a Monday). And after helping us understand life, the universe and everything (or just the bizarre randomness of anything and everything disconnected), he had an asteroid named after him. (Other writers on this list include Antoine St Exupery, Nabokov, Dickens, Tolkien, Milan Kundera, CS Lewis, Dostoevsky, Kurt Vonnegut, George Orwell). But Douglas Adam’s the only one, I think, who’s had the honour of having one named after one of his characters. Yup, Arthur Dent.
“I wanted to be John Cleese”, he once said, “It took me some time to realise that the job was taken.” No one can now even attempt replacing Douglas Adams. (Oh, go away, Eoin Colfer!).

Amitav Ghosh
I’m always at a place in life where I can say, ‘Well, the last time I read Shadowlines…’ Because it’s always different from that first time I read Shadowlines, when it was always about Ila and only Ila. The resonance of the journey, the ‘going away’ and the ‘coming home’, still mark impressions on the mind.
Amitav Ghosh writes books that are Melville and Conrad washed, but with such a distinct style. You can always tell it’s Amitav Ghosh, even in his travel writing, even in The Imam and the Indian, even in his essays on the Andaman and Nicobar islands. It’s difficult to describe it, but it’s careful and deliberate, each word and expression weighed such that never is a page, a letter superfluous. He’s like the curious chronicler of our times, nonchalantly charting his own path through his novels and putting it out into the universe. Creating wonderful characters, people, who end up, in Sea of Poppies, as jahaj bhai and behen, on one ship together, almost impossibly, but also inevitably. (“Because people are inexhaustible”, he’d said in a First City interview). A breaking wave in The Hungry Tide, the Sunderbans rituals, are as alive as Piyali and Kanai and Fokir and the unlikely bond that forms between them in the pages of the novel. His books echo with a sense of the place (In an Antique Land, most memorably), all the while dealing with human emotion and the drama of life.
If you think about it (and blogposts clearly urge you to!), he’s an anthropologist, a gifted, meticulous, extremely hardworking observer, really, but the best, the most superior, kinds. And this is Amitav Ghosh’s biggest achievement. (Bigger than even his tryst with language, which transforms and throbs with its own sonority in each of his novels, most brilliantly in Sea of Poppies). He’s the only writer I know who can ease all that research and knowledge into wonderful, beautiful, compelling fiction - ease being the operative word. Because he makes it so effortless, you’ll think he was born speaking Laskari. That mammoth, gargantuan, academia that has gone into it never ever weighs his work down; it only sets it free. (A great sense of humour helps of course, something Amitav Ghosh has only perfected, in the journey from Shadowlines to Sea of Poppies).
Curiously, the only Amitav Ghosh I still haven’t read is his first one. And when I met the author during his recent book tour (the brilliant opportunity that First City is; thankyou, No Moss, for keeping this curious publication afloat for so long!), I bought a copy of The Circle of Reason, so he could sign it. Which he did, of course, very (what’s-that-word) graciously. (Though he already had me at hello and crackle chocolate). But now each time I open to finally start it, I read and re-read Amitav Ghosh’s inscription, and put it back on the bookshelf. And I secretly know it’s because I want an unread Amitav Ghosh always lying around somewhere, in my reach. Life wouldn't be the same, else.

floatin'

Flawless with Flaws : JD Salinger

2009-06-04T13:45:00.000+05:30

I was introduced to the concept of light bearers by Thom Hartman and his book, The Last Hours of Ancient Sunlight. He rightly pointed to the older, tribal culture of men and women, who walked lightly upon the earth and who, in today’s world, effortlessly keep that light and innocence intact, despite the constant upsurge of an unnatural noise surrounding us. An idea, a concept, germinates a seed inside and then, you view the world from a special lens. Every time, I think of a light bearer, my heart goes out to Seymour, a fictional character created by Salinger (born in the year 1919), omnipresent in four of his books (and Salinger sadly published five, from 1951 to 1965).

What does brilliance in writing not have in common with literature that’s mediocre? It is the ability to flesh out a character or characters without the presumptuous pomposity that bends them towards fiction and little reality. In my opinion, it is a gift to introduce a character that becomes a reality for the reader. A rush, a chain of thoughts that rattle you from sleeping in the night because you’ve been communicated your own thoughts (that you couldn’t word for the longest time) through a character. It has a visual quality and as these characters and images swim in your sub-conscious mind, they make your body bubble with extreme human emotion. The illusory drama comes alive and for a while, you look around you to meet them in person as you walk the streets because these characters are presumably flawless or flawless with flaws. The reason we connect with them is because we see a part of us in them or at least we wish to.

Salinger is prominently known for creating The Catcher in the Rye, which is the first book I ever read by him and don’t get me wrong here, ‘it killed me’ and I was taken aback by the crude honestly and cynicism of a 16-year-old Holden Caulfield, ‘horsing around’ or sitting in his chair with a red hunting hat on his head with ‘very, very long peaks’ and mumbling to himself the irrelevance of having to go through conventional learning in school {which is fairly common for all the other young characters, brought to life by Salinger, as Buddy points out to Zooey - we thought it would be wonderfully constructive to say at least (that is, if our own “limitations” got in the way) tell you as much as we knew about the men – the saints, the arhats, the bodhisattvas, the jivanmuktas – who knew something or everything about this state of being. That is, we wanted you both to know who and what Jesus and Gautama and Lao-tse and Shankaracharya and Hui-neng and Sri Ramakrishna, etc., were before you knew too much or anything about Homer or Shakespeare or even Blake or Whitman, let alone George Washington and his cherry tree or the definition of a peninsula or how to parse a sentence)} but the miniscule opening to the Glass family through Franny and Zooey introduced me to a diaspora of characters, practicing profound self-inquiry about themselves, though these self-aware characters didn’t know where to go from there. In my opinion, that is the reason why Seymour committed suicide and was mostly, communicated to me through letters and other members of the Glass family. Speaking of letters, in Franny and Zooey, Zooey is introduced to its readers when he is sitting in a bathtub, reading a stained, torn in two places letter that Buddy sent him nearly four years ago. I feel that if it was a real letter and not part of the book; it would be in a similar condition, considering I go back to it so often. The deep marks of my blue, ball point pen on these books, remind me of what tremendous self-assurance these sentences gave me.

The other two books by Salinger (without counting his last book, Hapworth 16, 1924, which I surprisingly discovered in the process of putting together this blog entry and yes, I found a copy of it online and I’m yet to finish reading it), who is arguably considered a recluse and stopped publishing his work in 1980, are Nine Stories and Raise High The Roof Beam Carpenters And Seymour An Introduction. The simplistic and conversational tone in Nine Stories (a collection of short stories, including A Perfect Day for Bananafish, wherein Seymour shares a random conversation about catching a ‘bananafish’ with a four-year-old girl) and a grand read about the Glass family is Raise High The Roof Beam Carpenters and Seymour An Introduction (you’re going to have to read the book to figure out the title).

In the words of Holden Caulfield (which I’m literally paraphrasing), "What really knocks me out is a book that, when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn’t happen much, though." And as a symbol of approval to my first blog entry, please accept from me this unpretentious bouquet of very early-blooming parentheses: (((()))).

- hope-a-holic

The Chosen One: Neil Gaiman

2009-06-03T11:17:00.000+05:30

On an adequately violent monsoon afternoon, I lay on my bed, silent and choked, listening to Tori Amos sing about the Dream King, the hollow feeling in my chest sinking deeper and deeper into my stomach. My bedroom doors were bolted shut. The air was soaked in melancholy – and it was an atmosphere I had deliberately and easily constructed, because I had known what was coming and I had prepared myself for it. I was going to spend a few hours wallowing in twilight darkness and mourning.
I had just finished reading Neil Gaiman’s The Wake, after going over every panel twice, unhurriedly absorbing every word, unwilling to get to that last page but equally determined to see the story through to the end. And I did. But it was the end of an epic tale, y’know, and although the invisible voice of its creator had left me with some vestige of hope, I felt the loss of something very close to me. The grief seemed bottomless. Heartbreak is doubly acute when you’re 15.
Ah, the dangers of fiction.

My initiation into the world of adult comics had been in the form of the Sandman, by way of Dream Country to be precise, when my brother had left a copy lying around his room. It was a collection of short stories, and I read it in one sitting, cover to cover. I went on to read Doll’s House and Preludes and Nocturnes, and put simply, I was hooked. Alongside, I read Warren Ellis’s Transmetropolitan, as well as Garth Ennis’s Preacher, and although I love both on a deep and personal level, there is a kinship I feel with the Sandman that cannot be touched.
That is the talent of Neil Gaiman, and it is the power of intimacy. He has the ability to conceal his narrative voice so as to bring the story closer to you, the ability to eliminate the space between reader and text, the ability to involve. And anyway, you’ve got to love a scruffy British man who can wear a leather jacket with such panache.
I read more of his graphic fiction in the coming years, lukewarm over Black Orchid, fairly engaged by Signal to Noise. And then I found The Tragical Comedy or the Comical Tragedy of Mr. Punch, and my awe returned anew.
In a perfect world, it occurs to me now, I would write this in blood, not ink. One cannot lie, if one writes in blood. There is too much responsibility: and the ghosts of those one has killed will rise up and twist the pen down true lines, change the written word to the unwritten as the red lines fade on the page to brown. That’s why deals with the Devil must be signed in blood. If you sign your name in blood, it’s your real name. You can’t change it.
He called it his masterpiece, and I’m inclined to agree. It tells the story of a boy – a solitary type who seems more conscious of the adult world than the child, but also very conscious of the divide between himself and most adults – who’s staying with his grandparents in Southsea. It’s a delicate construction, one where the real world edges in almost imperceptibly, until the story becomes a truth.
And many of his non-graphic short stories use tools of a similar vein, no matter how mysteriously supernatural. Coraline, for instance, albeit a children’s novella, spooked me out in adulthood as if it were a Stephen King. That description of the unblinking button eyes warranted enough discomfort. But if I had to pick my all-time favourite of his novels, the prize would go swiftly to be American Gods.
Shadow had done three years in prison. He was big enough and looked don’t-fuck-with-me enough that his biggest problem was killing time. So he kept himself in shape, and taught himself coin tricks, and thought a lot about how much he loved his wife.
Now that’s one hell of an opening, and it’s a hell of a book. A dark, mesmerising adventure that leads to the most unexpected of places. It’s modern noire at its best, twisting in directions you never realised existed. And Gaiman orchestrates the con like a pro. But no matter what genre, horror or fantasy, straight fiction or myth, he brings an element of humanness to his storytelling, of universal closeness. He creates the illusion of being truly connected to something, and there’s not much else I’m looking for in the world.

- meanie b

Hemingway's spelt with a single m: June Writers' Special 2009

2009-05-28T15:57:00.000+05:30

An enlightening May this has been.

One where we learnt how Hemingway is really, truly spelt with a single m.

One where we discovered new (to us) writers. Like Dawn Powell. (Thankyou, Jennifer Vandever!).

One where we learnt that if the www (read Google) doesn’t know what a writer (especially an ancient writer) looks like, they immediately turn up a face that’s Shakespeare. (Yes, try it. You know you want to.)

We asked the impossible of our Chosen List of writers - to write on their Chosen One. And they did! As personal eccentricities were laid bare (such as the typeface they sent us the essays in, a revealing personal font of sorts. And sorry, but we had to standardise it!), we marvelled at choices, exclaimed at a few, and read them all, stunned and tickled, grateful. Especially for that main, singular feeling - So many books, so little time.

The First City June Writers' Special. Out on the stands just before June does us all in.

And then, the in-house writers on respective Chosen Ones. (Including our latesht team player, hope-a-holic).

High and Dry: Notes on Dev D

2009-02-26T12:00:00.000+05:30

Dev is riding the Metro. He's lost and unmoored, going nowhere in particular (Paharganj, yes, but that's not the point), and there's no solace in the speed with which he arrives there, even.

And before that, Paro’s fucking the hand-pump furiously, out of its living daylight, and some of us cringed, rolled our eyes, ‘cuz now we had to deal with the shock, didn’t we? We were watching India’s first film for adults.

You know how, when Daniel Craig came along in Casino Royale (exploded onto the screen, I mean), and we were all forced to rethink the legacy of James Bond (such that Pierce Brosnan turned almost comical overnight, in hindsight)? That's exactly what Anurag Kashyap and Abhay Deol have done here, in this, their rethink (and how) of the Devdas myth in Dev D. (Such that, needless to say, Bhansali and Shah Rukh Khan, are sort of faded out in comparison, almost comical, but thank you for that spectacle, Bhansali! And for Madhuri 'course.)

For a movie that knows it’s a movie (and if you don’t get that, it’s having just too much fun at your expense; half-expected Abhay/Dev to talk into the camera, or point out cigarette burns on a spool, like Brad Pitt in Fight Club, but since he was crafted from the stuff of Hamlet-like inaction, he obviously wouldn’t and didn’t. But we had that fabulous trio of dancers instead. And Anurag Kashyap making his Hitchcock-ian appearance as Chanda’s client), Dev D is such a snug fits-like-a-glove pose of a phillum, just so right, so what we needed. Despite and for the catcalls that sprinkle this movie-watching experience even in the very select Select Citywalk’s PVR. We needed it because this kind of irreverence sets us all free.

And gives us nightmares. Somnabulist, dark thoughts that stayed with us for, atleast, 48 hours after the film was over. On alternate endings, which didn’t include a wind-in-my-hair bike ride. One that petrified us such that we couldn’t press play on the OST again. Just to stop our skin from writhing, our thoughts from spiralling into despairing chaos...

... Of course we did though (and before the 48 hours were up), ‘cuz man, it makes so much sense now on the player than before. Warped emotional attyachaar self-pity-never-sounded-this-good trip is ultimately irresistible, while you’re drowned in Nayan Tarse, and then liberated with Pardesi.

And of course, there's the familiar ghost of a storyline, haunting our filmmakers for so long now (As Anurag Kashyap said to us, in the FC Interview, Feb 2009, “It’s because self-pity is genetically engrained in Indians.”) - a protagonist’s woe tale, at the crux of it. Devinder Singh Dhillon (London-returned Dev with a taste for vodka and fish, keeping his Punjabi roots at a distance, nonchalantly, 'cuz, you know, it's not cool to do bhangra to Hiknaal) turns into Dev D via the Smirnoff & dope route, spiralling into the nothingness, giving into a misery, self-constructed at best, and yet your heart bleeds. You wanna jolt him out of it, shake him into doing something, anything, or you wanna help him understand the world, the pain, or you wanna sleep with him and put him out of his misery and face the consequences of that (last option only for those of us who find junkies irresistible).

This is Anurag and Abhay’s take, style and statement on it all. (Maar daala ji!)
Take it with a pinch of salt. ‘Cuz they want you to.
Helps with the revelling.

floatin' go(ld)phish (with a punky pj's voiceover)

It's official - Feb's Delhi's best month

2009-01-30T12:52:00.001+05:30

The last days of a sunny winter. A special exclusive with inde India's next big thing, a newcomer who has Luck on his side, with a readymade Bollywood history to boot. An in-depth conversation with actor Abhay Deol. Featuring cake, chaos, and other unusual suspects.
And the rockstars keep coming, in true stadium-style glory, with the South Asian Bands Festival in FC2. While the gospels, choirs and musical wanderers of the world meet for the first time in Delhi (where else?) at the International Festival of Sacred Arts.
Also, enjoy the weather while it lasts, as FCInside takes you through the myriad streets and parks of Dilli with adventurers, history buffs, nature children and guides of all kinds, in walks through Adchini, Mehrauli, Nehru Park and Sultan Garhi.
But if it's a hot day today, stay in, with Netherland. And read what the author, Joseph O' Neill, has to say about it. In FCBOOKS. Or curl up with our high five selection.
Plus, sex, Paharganj and "Wim Wenders ka poora keeda" in a Devdas deconstruction with Anurag Kashyap on Dev D. In FC2 Film.
First City. February 2009. 40 bucks. On the newsstands now.

rockstars are back! what we're listening to here

2009-01-13T12:41:00.001+05:30

ONLY BY THE NIGHT
Kings of Leon
So okay, they sold out to stadium sound. This seems to be the biggest spanner in their ambitiously large wheel, this, that they don’t sound all indie and folksy and oh-we-discovered-them-in-our-trailer-parksy. Anymore. With their fourth album, the Followill brothers choose the popular glazed wood finish over the rough sandpaper that overwhelmingly defined this Tennessee band’s texture, lying in many a rock fiends’ subterranean hit closet (folder) in the shape of Aha Shake Heartbreak and Youth and Young Manhood. Kings of Leon a.k.a Caleb Followill (lead vocals/rhythm guitar), Nathan Followill (drums), Jared Followill (bass/synth) and first cousin Matthew Followill (lead guitar), have traded in camp for common, yes, but not at the cost of cult.
Mostly because, once you hear Only By the Night a second time (you have to give it more than one chance; for it to partially displace songs from your sing-along memory), you realise how long it’s been since your last great rock album - one where you can play track one through end and pick favourites for highs and lows, for sunny furies and cold. Caleb’s vocals, appropriately tainted by pain medication, is at his rockstar best, wringing his gut over blood, sex and loneliness, and the pride of US of A (in the definite album beacon, Crawl). Their much maligned Sex On Fire is what starts blending them into the rock history of the 2000’s, but they seem to enjoy it so, as if they’d had enough of their edgy, where-do-we-put-this-maverick-sound years, and have come on all out to embrace their rock heritage (U2, most noticeably, Alice in Chains, too). For those who feel the loss more acutely, Be Somebody, I Want You and Manhattan may provide some salve. Contrary to what its detractors have said, this album is not a cliché; it’s an experiment with one. Giving up on it will be a huge loss.

be seen: the must-watch movies of 2008

2008-12-30T19:43:00.000+05:30

Rounding up the films that enthralled, fascinated, surprised, shocked, entertained, us this oh-eight. (Some on the big screen, and some on DVD nights - why don't they release them?!).

If you haven't seen 'em, DUDE, you got 24 hours. Tick-tock...

The Dark Knight. Knightmares of the most appropriate-for-our-times kinds. Heath Ledger lost himself trying to exit through that trapdoor locked inside the Joker's head, and we all got to watch intelligent superhero cinema. Mesmerisingly dark.

In Bruges. Think Snatch, but even better. A crazily comedic tale about two hitmen and a picturesque 'shithole' in Belgium. Called Bruges. Like Snatch with postcard cinematography and an arty dream sequence involving an American midget. Sorry, dwarf.

Wall-E. Romance with iPod lookalike? Check. Besides the obvious facts (Pixar is animation, it shows us a possible future, space travel is such kooky fun), this gives us probably the most lovable character in recent movie history.

Tropic Thunder. Guerilla moviemaking pushed to its limits here, to its hilarious consequences. Not to be missed just for Robert Downey Jr. And a surreal, sidesplitting cameo by a superstar (no spoilers, for those who haven't seen this. And if you haven't seen this, I wouldn't Google this. Seriously).

Juno. Nuff said here: http://www.firstcitydelhi.blogspot.com/2008/04/junebugs.html

Changeling. Because the phenomenal Angelina Jolie rivets you into dropping everything and paying attention, with her enormous talent and sheer screen presence. (She's almost channelling the Oscar thankyou speech moment, you can tell). And because 1920's LA looks like it's out of someone's well-preserved photo-album. And so, you can overlook the melodrama (I mean, it's directed by Clint Eastwood, what did you expect?).

floatin'

'dilli ka pyara aur kameena dil': an ode to oye lucky lucky oye (thankyou, Sunny Narang, Friend of First City)

2008-12-12T11:06:00.000+05:30

My very good sardar friend
From a Karol Bagh gali
Remembered the time he bought
A beautiful chain, from a school trip to Goa
For the girl some houses away
A female Maharashtrian academician
Was reminded of her Punjabi neighbours by the Vet, so guilelessly, deny it all
Two bengalis saw no "story" How could they It was a slice of life with a "Tadka"
So many hidden sleight of camera.
The cafe with the "Modern" girls, The theory about the cotton in the nostrils of the dead boy, The little brother throwing things like his father, Eveybody wants the money, without touching it!Dibakar ki ho gayee Balle! Balle!
Dilli ka pyara aur kameena dil sab kuch want karda
Years ago some Rajput in rural Haryana told me,"These punjabis are really strange, When they need work done, they will talk the sweetest in the world, Like a dog curling up in your heart, But once their work is done, They will kick you in your arse".
I a Punjabi, born and bred Dilli, son of Partition refugees, hereby swear by Oye!Lucky!Lucky!Oye!
It has the smell of the aloo parantha, perpetual delight of the Punjabi makhan-chor,
For stealing hearts, I say Dibakar, Koi mane ya na mane, Ek Bangali ki ho gayee Wah bhai Wah!
Jhappi to all,
Sunny

change the channel. shift the planet. OR the idiot in the box

2008-12-06T18:40:00.000+05:30

Unless you're a huge fan of the hyper hyperbole, are so stone-hearted that nothing affects you, or so hooked to reality tv that it's all reality tv now (some good, and some not so good), chances are the tv channels' reporting of the recent terrorist attacks at iconic places of Mumbai, and the aftermath since, is really, seriously getting to you.

Maybe around the time when the 'live coverage' began and the countdown clock (terror clock) started ticking like a harmless icon on the lefthand bottom screen, or when the camera crew and anchorpersons were 'in the thick of things', talking into screens about it, treating the chaos like a backdrop, or when Barkha Dutt actually started discussing the locations of hostages, or when microphones were thrust into faces of rescued victims (who'll perhaps always be scarred for life because men with AK-47s strode into the restaurant, cafe, station, they happened to be in, like any other day in life, and shot down people who were not them, but they'll almost certainly be scarred because a reporter, a fellow Mumbaikar, even, asked them, seconds later, 'Tell us what happened. How do you feel?').

Maybe it was the time when Obama gave his soundbyte on 'the situation in south Asia', saying that India needs to protect itself, or the likes, and instantly, our channels played it like, on a loop. Freely interpreting it as the American approval (for...?). (It's that familiar Obama obsession that harped for so so long on 'Why isn't Obama calling Manmohan Singh after being elected?', or, more importantly, 'Why isn't Obama calling Manmohan Singh after being elected, considering he's already called Asif Zardari?'). Copy-pasting it next to Parnab Mukherjee's soundbyte (which was, in effect, 'let's see', but that doesn't make special tv time, does it?).

Or maybe it was when 'primetime,' 'max eyeball traffic time' was devoted to the criticism of Pakistani media, how it's misconstruing facts, and presenting a wrong picture of the 'tense state' of affairs. Of course, not something that applies to Indian media, right?

What do we need media and news channels for? Information, facts, details, straight on. Analysis, urging people to take a stand, moving nations to take one. Instead, we have Enough is Enough, and Whatever It Takes and Sachai Dikhaate Hai Hum or something. Right.

Since we can't them get off air (can we?), may I suggest, in the meanwhile, switching off the tv please?

floatin'

they're called the CURE for a reason

2008-12-03T12:07:00.000+05:30

4: 13 Dream is what we're listening to here.
It’s somewhere around the time when Robert Smith is screaming, well, The Scream that you realise that maybe this is not The Cure’s finest. Just maybe. But then this is before 4.13 on track 12, and by then, you’ve also realised that you love Robert Smith’s voice too much. So then, wotcha gonna do, punk?
Celebrating the wild mood swings and bloodflower delusions of his Smith-self, the yelping rage, the fury (and the fury as relief), the relish and sensuality, in a see-saw pendulous effect is 4: 13 Dream, their latest, their thirteenth studio album, which sounds eighties-enough and yet is something that they could only have done today. Fat, strangling-vine guitars crash through Robert’s wonderfully voluptuous and wail-like vocals, as he plunges into a relentless refrain of ‘you’ve got what I want’, at one point, and brings to life the perfect boy, at another. There’s the solid alt rock/dark sound we know them for (Sleep When I’m Dead), but it’s almost like an add-on effect. Like a good dream though, this Cure album will work differently for you and that other Cure-lover you know. The Real Snow White and The Hungry Ghost work as one song, in my head, and Switch, I really really get (and I’m not sure why). Freakshow and Underneath the Stars also figure strongly in my replay list.
If you’re seduced and thrilled and enamoured and arrested by The Cure (and how could you not? If you’ve heard their version of Lennon’s Love even), then there’s something in this one that’ll work for you. And if you’re one of those who think (hope) that we’ll never see a time when they’ll be irrelevant or out of the gloomy, thrashing circuit, then this one beckons.

floatin'

Good to Eat

2008-12-01T11:51:00.001+05:30

It's got What's New. What's Hot and Night Action-y. The best of it, in 2008, even as you make your New Year's Eve plans.
It's got interviews with those incredible, unbelievable, magicians of chefs, who also make good television. Anthony Bourdain, Kylie Kwong, Sanjeev Kapoor, and (some more than others) Nigella Lawson. While Ritu Dalmia pieces together the Diva story, Jiggs Kalra dons his 'tastemaker to the nation' hat with ease (today, it's green), and Bhicoo Manekshaw tells of emergency gateaus for Indira Gandhi, and the peculiar contentment inherent in peeling potatoes. Plus, a New York food critic, the Insatiable one, Gael Greene. And Charles Maclean on the single malt (how there is no perfect one, how you drink a piece of Scotland). Food Issue 9. Is good to eat.
Also featuring Tom Holt on The Better Mousetrap. Shashi Deshpande on In the Country of Deceit. And Sam Bourne. In FCBooks.
The Paranthewali gali and a flourishing farm beyond Manesar, for your nourishing. In FCInside.
On the newsstands today. 40 bucks.

The Dying Happyboo of Alstonia Scholaris

2008-11-15T12:39:00.000+05:30

Is what it’s called; the tree that sends out spoils of memory, all beginning October end. Its overwhelming hold on all things childhood, love, adolescence, longing, hide and seek, Diwali before it’s lit, endless drives and old monk, as well as full-sleeve shirts, the ‘winter smell’ needed me find it a name, this ball of small white flowers which crumbled in my hand when I plucked it off a tree in Lutyen’s because I’d tugged at it too hard, in excitement.
So one enlisted Nimret Handa, our guide for sore green thumbs, and she, as always, delightfully complied:

“The all pervading smell/fragrance in Delhi at this time of the year is that of the Alstonia scholaris tree. This is also known as the Saptparni or the Shaitan Tree (Indian Devil Tree) on account of the scent that can be so overpowering that those who sleep under it at night are apt to get knocked out, or as the stories go, they’re invited to eternal sleep! The cluster of the greeny-white flowers is about the size of a golf ball … It is supposed to be the haunt of wicked spirits and ghosts…”

There are other smells too, at this magical time. But this one is mine.

go(ld)phish

what we're listening to: the new dandy warhols album

2008-11-03T11:24:00.000+05:30

It's like if Hutchence and Iggy Pop had a love child that David Bowie then adopted, inspired by the Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie style of giving and care.

But here's more....

EARTH TO THE DANDY WARHOLS
The Dandy Warhols
Creators of songs that, over the years, have been used for many TV soundtracks and ad jingles (they seem to be in competition with Moby), are out with an album you tend to play on repeat because it’s like the music you’ve almost heard, on an erstwhile favourite tape, but re-thought and mastered to suit an unidentifiable need for edgy guitaring, one you didn’t know you had. Courtney Taylor-Taylor, Brent De Boer, Zia Mc Cabe and Peter Holmstrom are seemingly escaping popular love with their ninth studio effort, but when this album landed in our player, we don’t know what anybody is complaining about. Taking the best from the time and space The Velvet Underground inhabited (a little bit of Duran Duran of yore, spotted David Bowie, too), punking out rock, not standing by rules of ‘alternative’, creating hooks that are every bit as addictive as the ones in your favourite dance album, this plug and play doesn’t only work because of the nostalgia it creates. It’s also because it’s a great show of identity, where the tongue-in-cheek posturing The Dandy Warhols are known for becomes an unabashed excuse for celebrating themselves, in their own terms. Watch them switch from Talk Radio to Love Song and you’ll know what we mean.

Shock and Awe: Booker 2008

2008-10-18T13:22:00.001+05:30

Aravind Adiga, former Time magazine journalist, joined the likes of Keri Hulme (The Bone People), Arundhati Roy (The God of Small Things) and DBC Pierre (Vernon God Little) last Tuesday, as his popular novel, The White Tiger, became the fourth debut to win the Man Booker in the 40 year history of the award. Described as ‘compelling, angry and darkly humorous’, an ‘unadorned portrait’ of India seen ‘from the bottom of the heap’, the novel tells the story of Balram Halwai, born to a rickshaw puller in the ‘Darkness’ of rural India, only to rise through the rigid social hierarchy by his own merit, eventually to become a successful murderer and entrepreneur.
On hearing the results, I took a long, deep breath... and lost any faith I had ever had in the Booker awards. Especially after Michael Portillo, one of this year’s judges, listed the reasons as to why The White Tiger won over A Fraction of the Whole, The Clothes on Their Backs, Sea of Poppies and The Northern Clemency: “In the end, The White Tiger prevailed because the judges felt that it shocked and entertained in equal measure.”
Shocked and entertained.
So, basically, the criteria for winning a ‘prestigious’ literary award is the same as producing a good reality show these days.
Portillo went on to say that The White Tiger undertook the “extraordinarily difficult task of gaining and holding the reader’s sympathy for a thoroughgoing villain”. He applauded Adiga’s “originality” for presenting “a different aspect of India” with “astonishing humour”.
Now, the problems I have with Adiga’s novel are very basic. For one, its fundamental structure is a bad gimmick. The entire novel is an endless series of letters to the Chinese premier, describing in detail the life Balram aka Munna in the first person. Of course, one might ask why an Indian entrepreneur would want to write at length to the Chinese prime minister. The answer is in the book itself - it is “out of respect for the love of liberty shown by the Chinese people, and also in the belief that the future of the world lies with the yellow man and the brown man now that our erstwhile master, the white-skinned man, has wasted himself through buggery, mobile phone usage and drug abuse.”
But this is still a feeble excuse for our anti-hero to want to unburden himself. Yes, it’s established that China has a severe lack of domestic entrepreneurship and Balram feels the need to advise highly placed politicians about it. But the comparisons between India and China are poorly utilised, and the very premise undermines the novel.
My second major problem with The White Tiger is one that most reviewers, including Time magazine’s Adam Lively find most appealing - the humour. It is, in fact, an obstacle I can’t get beyond. The irreverence and acid wit Adiga is lauded for are usually just examples of vulgarity. “Part of me wanted to get up and apologise to him right there and say, ‘You go and be a driver in Delhi. You never did anything to hurt me. Forgive me, brother.’ I turned to the other side, farted, and went back to sleep.” I’ve noticed that the humour is particularly appreciated by the foreign press. Because, yes, it shocks them to see a native describe his homeland the way Adiga does: “I urge you not to dip in the Ganga, unless you want your mouth full of faeces, straw, soggy parts of human bodies, buffalo carrion, and seven different kinds of industrial acids.” They must think it brave for a man to risk angering a nation by referring to a sacred river in such, ahem, vivid terms.
But the novel’s timing is perfect, because the international image of India is at an all-time high. Daniel Lak, for instance, just published a book titled India Express: The Future of a New Superpower. So it would be controversial, perhaps even expositional, to publish an antithesis to the India Shining image. Don’t get me wrong - no one is denying that the India Shining rep is hypocritical at best, but is caricaturing the psyche of the working masses an answer? And, having been educated at both Columbia and Oxford, is Aravind Adiga really qualified to act as a mouthpiece for the millions living under the poverty line?
The White Tiger makes a target of the upper echelons of Indian society, striking out at their prejudices and unconscionable acts of self-interest. But considering the fact that the novel is written in English and priced at Rs. 495, exactly who did Mr. Adiga think would buy his book?
The irony, of course, is that the novel is a bestseller.
It’s easy to fall for it, isn’t it? Aravind Adiga as the self-deprecating journalist, liberating the Western world from the idea that India is a land of exotic spices, swirling saris and mystic occurrences. Instead, he confronts them with the stark truth of the 'desperate struggles of the deprived', thus creating a championing persona for himself in the foreign press and selling even more copies at the bookstands. “The Booker galvanizes retailers into supporting (the winning) book”, says Simon Prosser, publishing director of Hamish Hamilton at Penguin, who estimated that when The Inheritance of Loss won the Man Booker in 2006, his publishing house ordered an extra 50,000 hardback copies to be printed to meet demand.
But cash can’t be much of an issue for Adiga anymore. His dark horse of a debut novel has just won ₤50,000. It should be interesting to see how he spends it, even as we imagine a bewildered, perhaps amused (we hope he was amused) Amitav Ghosh melting away from that joke of a ceremony, wondering to himself, ‘Shocked and entertained. Hmm, I didn’t get that brief’.

- meanie b

what we're listening to: death cab for cutie

2008-10-16T11:40:00.000+05:30

NARROW STAIRS
Death Cab for Cutie
More death cab. Less cutie. They defy the prettiness of Plans, their breakthrough debut, and opt for this instead. Intended claustrophobia (as reflected in the title) and a firmer control on the sound. One that comes form heartbreak and misery and other un-pretty things. Cuz the foursome - Benjamin Gibbard (singer/songwriter/guitarist), Nicholas Harmer (bassist), Christopher Walla (guitarist-organist), and Michael Schorr (drummer) - are more confident, claims Narrow Stairs. Track after track. And more together as a band.
Written under the influence of Kerouac’s Big Sur, Bixby Canyon Bridge is the yearning opener, more or less setting the tone for an album driven by wanderlust in music and life, strengthened by songwriting that’s revealed in the guitars, omnipresent in the bass, and unleashed on the drums. As for the vocals, part choirboy, part balladeer, part Goldspot-reminiscent, it’s easily the weakest link in Death Cab for Cutie. But just when you decide on something, like how lyrics are not their forté (and forgive that cuz a bassline like theirs doesn’t need much else), they come up with an image of a bunch of firemen praying for the rains as they desperately try and douse the flames. Or a woman in a wedding dress posing for a snapshot, holding onto a smile, like you’d hold onto a dead child. Creepy for cutie, huh?
So, dark it is, and deliciously so. Mostly about the slowly unravelling wreckage of relationship (s). Like the music equivalent of fine extra dark chocolate with that chilli aftertaste. You Can Do Better than Me is about staying in a screwed up space for ‘the fear of dying alone’ cuz of the wonderfully depressing conviction that you can do better than me but I can’t do better than you. Cath is akin to an all-new prom floor number, but with character, and Grapevine Fires is the genius centrestage track, while Your New Twin Sized Bed tries to uptempo ‘a single pillow underneath a single head’ kinda situation. Long Division is the one that overplays-stays its time, and Talking Bird showcases a minimalism of mellowness, a vocalist left un-tethered as an experiment. Just like the set of drums warming up that, at times, work as interludes between tracks. The Ice Is Getting Thinner is a Pink Floyd closer of sorts, while Pity and Fear layers, no, stitches a voice onto the fabric of a song that’s crafted with brilliant guitars and catchy hooks. I Will Possess Your Heart is the one to obsess over, easily; the ‘potential of you and me’ menacingly played over that wicked bassline.
DCFC, they’re called already, nonchalantly, and you could call them the sound that knows their church organs, electric pianos, and the power of the bedroom studio. Or you could call them the much-needed embodiment of New Wave (The Clash) meeting Pet Shops Boys meeting backbeat. Recommended for your own good.

And It's October

2008-10-04T18:27:00.000+05:30

It’s our bi-annual Fashion Special, some part of which is set in an early Goa morning with Wendell Rodricks, in an extensive interview, Feel Flows.
And a preview of the Delhi Fashion Week (October 14 – 18, The Emporio), with clothes inspired by Robert J Lang on the one hand, and Rene Lalique on the other. Oh, and origami (anything about the cover that strikes you?)
FC Columnist Anoushka Shankar finds her father’s scrapbook while chilling in LA, and FC graphic artist-columnist Amruta Patil traces sun and moon lineage. While Ravi Agarwal’s photo- column thinks maybe, just maybe, we’ll miss the Bush-isms.
In FCINSIDE, a walk through the Sufi mothership, Nizammudin, a talk with those who make the Ravana we gladly burn, and a do-some-pottery at Anandgram.
In FCBOOKS, an interview with the author of, arguably, the best Alan Ginsberg biography we’ve read – Deborah Baker on A Blue Hand. And we’ve reviewed the Booker shortlist for you, just in time for the official countdown to October 14. Alongwith author interviews of the AIDS Sutra anthology - Siddharth Dhanvant Shanghvi, Sonia Faleiro and Nalini Jones.
In FCFOOD & NIGHTLIFE we got your guide to Delhi partying, in keeping with your haute personality – Green Day tee to little black dress. And the Band Aid interview with Emperor Minge, those that could be disco or cabaret or Korean pop, if you like. Alongwith your gig and Take Home Party guide for October.
In FC2, we review Death Cab for Cutie (and how we like the way that rolls on the tongue!) and Da Saz’s new amongst other new music releases, we tell you why you should watch Miami Ink in Couch Potato, what to expect in the much-awaited Ananya dance festival at Purana Qila and the IIC Experience 2008, and for all those who can’t wait, Daily Listings start at page 181. With our specially selected previews.
As our boss would say, Enjoy.

Missing: C in Magic, B for Bassist (but those are the least of our problems here)

2008-09-08T21:36:00.000+05:30

It became a lonely evening amongst friends. One where there was nowhere to hide, from –

“Farhan’s HOT.”

“You know, I’m so glad this film got made. It’s the first time we’re seeing something like this in mainstream Hindi cinema…”

“Arjun Rampal’s performance was phenomenal. He really looked so tortured…”

“It’s a landmark moment because the subculture of college rock is finally mainstream and that, my dear girl, calls for a celebration.”

“Ya, but Farhan’s too HOT.”

“Oh, but for Bollywood, this is damn good…”

“And you know, for all those people who're saying oh, the music is not great, well, in this film, the music is incidental. This is a film about relationships, you know, so it could be anything. A football team. Anything….”

As born again groupies in constant search of a band, all apologies for this.
For the insistence of ‘heart’, nay, worse, the association of ‘soul’ with a film that’s claiming to be our first rock star film. It’s giving me sleepless nights (Admittedly, Farhan’s beatific presence often provides me company on the aforementioned nights. Sometimes in a tee, sometimes in that shirt-sweater thingie, which, in the final restrained analysis, is an unfair stylistic device to win brownie points from any female with taste). Heart is easy, that is what we specialise in, in Bombay, pumping veins et al. But soul, soul requires contemplation, and the only thing Rock On contemplates over is the complete lack of chemistry between four non-actors armed with appalling lines. ”Hum Magik ka magic vaapis layenge…” says Rob (Luke Kenny, as far away from those glorious After Hours as possible!) from a hospital bed, in a device that comes so cheap that it’s not even a gimmick after the 80s ran its course in Bollywood. (Brain tumour? Are you kidding me? Are there worse ways to introduce profundity in a film where none exists?).
The story of the cleanest rock band in history, one that kissed their girlfriends on their foreheads and never, ever lit up (unless Arjun Rampal was pulling off the stoner rocker), in keeping with the distanced portrayal of musicians they were aiming for (if they’d asked for chai one more time we would’ve killed ourselves. Magik is now, successfully, at the exact opposite end of the spectrum from the band in Anurag Kashyap’s Paanch) is more or less the story of novelty winning over originality.
But the biggest tragedy of this film, one that put us in the dumps for a full 48 hours, was the complete lack of spunk. In a film about music, about people who are half dead without music, they never, ever really let on how much music means to them (no, slinging a guitar over your shoulder all the time does not count). And when you do the work on their behalf, remember all the rockers you’ve known and despaired and gone to work for an Anu Malik, follow their book-marked path into nostalgia, and are all ready to choke up and die at the promised re-union in the cobwebbed warehouse, it all freezes forever. The four collapse at the feet of promised emotion, poker-faced and bored. A dead-er reunion is hard to find in celluloid history.
“Tum apne aap se naaraaz ho,” notices the perfect wife; Prachi Desai is pretty much Bani reborn, shedding her K saris for smart clothes (oh those night PJs! Oh that red dress we almost get to see!) in Rock On, but pretty much trading Mr Walia for Mr Shroff else. Picture perfectly going about a lifetime’s work erasing the frown from Aditya’s mug, who was once the ‘happy’ lead singer for Magik, but is now a ‘serious’ investment banker with a Bali resort of a house in Bombay). You almost want her to throw her hands up and menacingly mouth ‘Why so serious?’, and burst into a fit of giggles. But she doesn’t. (“Strange na? Chalo so jaao,” says post-shower Farhan, and we all roll over and sleep.)
There’s redemption in Debbie (Shahana) though, who plays Joe’s wife, and should be given an award just for that (see, if you say your lines and they don’t bounce off the cardboard that stands, all six feet of him, in front of you, waddya do?), but also, because, she, too, tried to create the meat in a non-scripted role that had her freeze-framed as the controlling dragon (fire breathing, ball and chain, frightfully young to be menopausal monster. And too pretty to be the metaphorical Yoko Ono). And semi-redemption part 2 in Pichle Saat Dinon Mein (The laundry ka bill track and the other good boy things that surround the rockstar: Denim ki jacket? Kaam ka paper?! Could it be rolling paper Javed saab?). A pity it didn’t make it to the climax.
The one where all of Joe’s troubles disappeared after his hair flew in the arclights, aka Robert Plant, and his wife could finally stop selling fish, and they could all happily sip sparkling bubblies at the Leela poolside, because, my friend, in case you’d forgotten Dil Chahta Hai, there is only one kind of success in the Farhan Akhtar universe. Even for tortured musicians. And it usually comes with a Mastercard.
Even as we write this, we’ve got a call from a friend who saw the Rock On concert (With Shankar-Ehsaan-Loy) at Select Citywalk. “I’d say it was awesome, but that would be an understatement. It was phenomenal.”
As born-again groupies, in constant search of a band, all apologies for this.

- go(ld)phish floatin'

daddy vox: the face to voice syndrome with delhi's rj's put to rest! right here!

2008-09-03T16:12:00.001+05:30

Drive time. Time you spend driving. If you live in the NCR, chances are, you, like us, spend your driving time, with a few friends we might have in common.
Maybe, we'd tuned in on the same time, when Sarthak has called out for the nano tale (video killed the radio star, yes). Or when the last strains of Pappu Can't Dance were fading out. And mechanically switching channels, we'd been rewarded with The Ting Tings (They call me Stacy...), which you want to dance through, you really do, but what if Nitin is back from the commercial break? (A quick check won't hurt). But, oh dear, Anant and Saurabh have already anounced for Mausam Mausi. So, you're late to work. Again.
But there'll always be Sayema, for your drive home. There is always that to look forward to. Her and Pancham da.
First City with the radio voices. The September edition. On the newsstands. Rs. 40.

what we're listening to: seeing sounds

2008-09-01T13:08:00.000+05:30

This is what Pharrel Williams’ is supposed to do, instead of moonlighting as the pseudo-black hip-hopper in sanitised pop videos. The Neptunes’ team up with rapper Shae Haley to talk dirty and play even dirtier in this sexily slapdash, shockingly addictive dance album. It’s Missy Elliot meets Gorillaz, its Gnarls Barkely on speed, its Run DMC with The Edge playing guitars for them. It’s everything that you need (Spaz Spaz if you want to…) when you’re driving endlessly, and everything you want when you’re holed in bad, bad thoughts (Everybody Nose). How much fun the three had with Seeing Sounds (yes, of course, they know about synesthesia) is only about thrice as much as they had on Fly Or Die, and only a hundred times over than any band who doesn’t dare use a jazz pianist with a rapper can ever hope to have.

- go(ld)phish

love bites: jaane tu... ya jaane na

2008-07-24T13:15:00.000+05:30

Somewhere in the movie, a DJ in a house party looks into the camera and declares, 'This is the future, man'. Right before the dance song about that pappu saala who can't dance, the song to define non-dance songs for this millenium, plays. And that's when it hits you. Or at least SPELLS itself out for you. Jaane Tu is the Gen Next movie for this My Gen. A mirror held up, and then painted those colours only 70 mm makes possible. Literally, too.
That's the magic of the film, so so infectious, you can't pinpoint it.
For those who felt (maybe still feel for) Dil Chahta Hai (which went international as 'Do Your Thing'), sure it was My Gen while it lasted (while we went onto celebrate a coupla more birthdays). People Like Us, onscreen. Maybe? Oh, 'cept for the sharper, to-die-for haircuts, the snappy, just right-fit clothes, the whizzing-off-to-another-party-again-lifestyle, the goa beach volleyball, and that BLOODY Merc. The chemistry, the friendships, the characters, the dialogues, the feelings (from love-this-is-it to I-don't-do-pyaar-vyaar), yeah, sure, pretty damn mirror-ish. (Before it was hijacked by the Bollywood melodrama gods, i.e.) We were in the midst of being there, doing that. Then.
Circa Jaane Tu. 2 weeks ago. It gets together the bunch that's so not the college coolio gang. Simply because now it doesn't even matter.
They're not all eye candy (Like Akash, Sid & Sameer in soft focus). They don't have or know all the moves (famously). They don't even care to. 'Cuz hey, they don't need to prove anything. They are COOL 'cuz they are. Around you and everywhere. On tv . In ads. In movies.
Sitting next to you, your kid bro. And you know what? They SO know it.

And, just like that, the generation gap, got smaller. Umm, bigger, I mean?!

PS: My fellow Dil Chahta Hai genners! Doncha think we were just so glad that there we were in a movie. As in, you know! Nobody made a film about hanging out! About a slice of a Goan summer of our lives. {A go(ld)phish-sourced nugget tells me it was our first non-dubbed film.
Live sound. No wonder the dialogues felt so real}. 'Cuz have you watched the movie again, lately? Try it, especially post Jaane Tu. You'll know just how deprived we were!
PPS: GREAT music, both films. Obviously helps.

floatin'

my druggie books

2008-07-04T20:17:00.001+05:30

They gravitated towards me this June.

One about opium.

And one about the hallucinating seventies.

One is epic, magnificent, a soaring flight of fancy, back into the past. When the East India Company ruled India. Carefully crafted, with people finding themselves struggling to stay afloat, as their ship moves on the Kala Pani. And one is a serendipitous 'moment' of a book. Which could've fooled me has been sitting in the creator's drawers for all these years. Something meant to happen, inevitably, no way out, for people trapped in an era, and yet liberated. Makers of their destinies. Or so they think. Who stop caring by the time Wikipedia takes over. The poppy tale illuminates love and life and human nature and history and then stops in the middle of a storm. Literally. And so there's a bated-with-breath wait for the sequel. And the one about the seventies with the weed and the experiments transforming into the 2000's, there's something of an ending. Wry and just right. There's even a drug-busting cop.
(Read interviews with both authors, in First City, the July edition. At the newsstands. 40 bucks.)

floatin'

Conundrums with Pico Iyer

2008-07-02T11:36:00.000+05:30

FC: How did the title come about?

Pico: I was very keen to choose a title that came from a British novelist (DH Lawrence) writing about an American poet (Walt Whitman), to show that the ideas I was exploring of the Dalai Lama’s here, are not faraway or exotic, belong not just to Tibet or Buddhism or monasticism, but in fact are a part of almost every culture, there if you choose to alight on them.I liked the fact that the ‘road’ evokes the ‘path’ of which the Buddha spoke, and I liked the fact that a path is a never-ending process, a constant evolution - just as Buddhism itself seems to me less a monument than a river, something always in flux, and reminding us of how almost everything around us is subject to change. It was important to me, too, that the very term ‘the open road’, as Whitman and therefore Lawrence use it refers to democracy, the natural, everyday, human process of ‘soul meeting soul along the open road’, and I felt this described perfectly the natural democrat the Dalai Lama is, taking instruction from every traveler and backpacker and regular person he meets along the way, and assuming that he and they have almost everything in common, and are on just the same level.

FC: Did you find it difficult to be objective about the subject you were writing on, since it is a personal register that you worked from, for this book? At the outset of your enquiries, you ground yourself as ‘a skeptical journalist’ - Would you still claim that definition for yourself?

Pico: I think it was actually possible for me to be detached and objective in this book, and to write about him as a journalist would, allowed longtime and fortunate access, rather than as an acquaintance. And I thought that was what we most needed now-not another panegyric, but a look at how the Dalai Lama might be able to help us sort out the tangles in our lives and even address the new global possibilities and the abiding violent struggles that are our concern across the world right now. To gasp or gush about all that he does may not really do justice to the practical, liberating solutions he’s suggesting (a doctor’s bedside manner does make a difference, but finally a doctor is only as good as the efficacy of his diagnoses and prescriptions. And I see the Dalai Lama as a doctor of the mind).

FC: ‘Conundrum’ is the word that most stayed with me from your book (through all its arguments and its dialectics), as an apt - if unsettling - marker for our times… As a writer, do you find the fact of the world being such an uncertain proposition, exciting/ challenging/ frustrating? How do find clarity through all this? Or, do you think the position of writer, of word-weaver, is not too different from that of the riddler!?

Pico: I love these questions! And you’re right, that is a central word, and I wanted to be careful not to rush to premature or too-easy conclusions or solutions. The Dalai Lama’s vision I see to be remarkably clear-sighted, far-sighted and sane, but our world is not always any of those things, and it will take a long time before a wider transformation really takes place. We’re not going to wake up and come to our senses overnight, I feel, though the leader of the Tibetans, as well as many other wise spirits, today and in the past, are showing us a way through our confusions, if so we want to take them...

(Read the entire interview in First City, the July edition. At the newsstands. 40 bucks.)

mighty mouse

The Moving Post, or how Star is the New Eight

2008-06-24T12:30:00.000+05:30

Feels like a rebound. A fling gone serious, and we’re not too sure of our love for the present or the ex. But the old visiting cards are now in the dustbin, and the shiny new ones with the spanking new address are making their way into our wallets even as we type.
We sigh, we sigh. And sometimes revel in feeling like drama queens when we almost take the turn into the road leading to the Ex Office, or having done so, get mushy about it.
Redeeming, overarching, ego-massaging thought: Are we really in the harbingers of the FC Renaissance? Breaking free of the octogenarian tyranny that held us captive for 15 years?

Currently stretching the denial by waxing eloquent on the Unopened Brown-Cardboard-Box phobia that’ll haunt us for life.

Adjusting and readjusting to corner settings - the epiphanous discovery of room acoustics, sunlight angles, and how what sounds like a little interviewee girl screaming her head off at No Moss, is just the illusory ways of the science of Empty-Room Echo.

Recovering from jolts of unfamiliar landline rings. And spending a light year doing an extension numbers table in our heads, after a call has been transferred after much ringing chaos. And hating the reflex action for pressing 8 instead of the new * button to take a call.

Imagining a mirage-like Prince Pan emerge on the pavement as soon as I park my car, and poof, it disappears. And so does my cold-coffee.

Postponing the moment when the handmade paper goes on the softboard (we’re debating colours according to light angles, ogay?).

Ruminating on the bean bag (which is a fantasy we cultivated too often in the balcony-less Ex-Ed Room) positioning in the balcony (Facing the mango tree? Facing the tap-encrusted wall? Facing the rotten terrace backsides of plush homes? Let’s just keep it inside the room, near the AC, a proofing privilege.)

Handling inane No Moss conversations over when the chiks should come down, and at what angle, and what kind.

Postponing the walk to the nearby Places of Interest highly recommended by No Moss, and the order-in list (Hungus the Fungus) compiled by Punky PJs (which is what happens when you spend too much time on the first proof of Food & Nightlife while waiting for your lunch).

And while we’re on it, Govardhan is not Karnataka, and no Floatin’, it’s not just the heeng in the buttermilk.

Switching the fan on and off, on and off. ‘Coz with the new desk setting, the AC ain’t as democratic as it used to be.

Debating the taste of the water from the earlier filter and the current one, and how the new sunny kitchen with its barstool perch and micro potential (but too many windows looking in), can compare with the poky old one where, walled in with a window-view to the neighbours’ television, we huddled around the table and took a moment out of living and breathing FC).

Indulging in what-if-TC was still on.

The 15-minute-walk to the new office (so I am saved the scraped-bumper-to-fender-missing-bumper nightmare down the Yusuf Sarai stretch, 24/7), which is depressingly not cool enough to slip into a conversation with a friend who’s calling you as he power-walks his 15 down Piccadilly).
Or, when you’re suburban, or almost suburban, it’s a profound 3-km stretch that I haven’t decided is making a profound difference to my life or not. Yet.

For the first time, in the history of our history, the presence of The Other gender, who types away at matching speed. The male. The tragic king! :)

The view from the room with the mango tree (albeit, no mangoes), feeling dwarfed by the sky that’s the limit, when once we were the skyline on the floor up the tallest building around, gps-ing ourselves by our bird’s eye view of the JNU water tower, watching the wonderful frame of square lines, windows and a electric lines that move with a crow’s hop.

The constant fluttering of mating pigeons that drowned out No Moss almost as well as Gnarls Barkely. Which we don’t have here. But a balcony in each room to watch the storm go by, how to deal with that?

Except when it’s sunny, a beam of light straight from Oz embraces PC4 and the monitor goes dark, from 3.30 to 5 pm everyday.

The single contentious power point in the one-arm-distance - adjudged one metre - no-man’s land between gold(p)ish’s work station and punky’s workstation; and the highly sensitive plugging-in manoeuvres to share the single power-point among floatin’s snowy white slick Vaio and mighty’s sleek U-90 Samsung black beauty and the ed music system and gold(p)ish’s computer, such that punky’s legs don’t feel too cramped and go(ld)phish doesn’t feel too walked over and we all stay friendly, like. PHEW.

And a strange lack of perspective on self, since there’s no mirror to cross each time we (okay, just Punky and go(ld)phish) go to fetch water.

Dealing with the existence of the foster-child Happy Place, with a WHOLE bay window and a large balcony, which peeps in rather nicely to various greening efforts (our neigbours are real gardeners). Dreaming of wi-fi to make the Happy Place complete.

Wondering if in another country, would we be able to quadruple our medical insurance? Since what stands on our heads is a very active cell-phone tower and we’re all going to die of cancer.

Realising on Day 6 in Sarvodaya, that our dick-teaser of a general store lady in Som Vihar, was our lifeline.

PS: And, in that treacherous moment of preening vanity and suckers for our creature comforts, rejoicing over the expanse of the bathroom where the wall-to-wall mirror reflects a dreamy portrait back to you by the honeyed light filtering in through the skylights.
(So, if there’s one thing that’ll help the moving - please don’t shoot me! - it’ll be the person-to-loo ratio in the new space.)

FIRST CITY. Now at A-7, Sarvodaya Enclave, 2nd floor.

- punky pj's, go(ld)phish, mighty mouse, floatin'

de, shobhaa de

2008-06-20T13:48:00.000+05:30

What she said of her book:
FC: Superstar India, at times, reads like a clever advertising gimmick, a marketing spiel, for the idea/cause you’re discussing/promoting - how it’s more than worth your while investing in India. For the young generation, it’s their time and life. For the business investors, it's their money. Would you agree?
De: Honey, I am not on the payroll of the Tourist Board of India and therefore there is no ‘agenda’ involved. Nor am I a lobbyist for any group. This is my take on India. It is my India book. We are all equally entitled to our own versions of India. I hugely enjoyed writing it. And am delighted it has been hugely successful! To me it means I have struck the right chord. I once again emphasise what I have repeatedly stated in my book - investing in India is the best deal going. And I don’t mean that in just financial terms. And yes, if I have succeeded in ‘marketing’ and ‘selling’ India to the world, I am only too happy to be of service!

FC: Superstar India can be read as a record of changing times, a sociological treatise written by someone born in an India very different from the India your children were born in. How would you respond? Would this be a limiting reading of your book?
De: On the contrary! The contrasts are a device that tell the story of a rapidly changing nation that is waking up to its own potential. My own story parallels and reflects that change. By providing real and very human experiences culled from my growing up years in a newly-minted country, I have tried to provide a balanced perspective. For example, young Indians find it hard to believe we had to once wait fifteen long years to acquire a landline!

FC: How do you respond to Superstar India being viewed as your ‘serious’ book?
De: Very ‘seriously’ !! Just to set the record straight, every single book of mine has been a serious attempt to examine aspects of our lives. My books have inspired over 200 scholars in India and abroad to earn their doctorates based on dissertations done on my work, especially the novels. I doubt they would bother to spend so many years of their lives researching frivolous books. That said, Superstar India has obviously touched a lot of chords and many lives - that's reward enough.

FC: Was it turning 60 that urged you to articulate what you’ve been feeling/what’s been brimming over? That spark for finally writing your India book. Did you feel like you must do this and say it all, now or never, so to speak?
De: Yes!!!! Oh yes! It was the ‘India Moment’, but also, in a really, really small way, it was also my moment. The book is clearly a chronicle of two lives, a parallel story. A diamond Jubilee Year for both, the writer and the country! How could I let tis very special milestone go without acknowledgement?

FC: Do the tags of ‘chronicler’ and such, bother you? Do they feel heavy, at times? Do people always expect you to have all the answers? Do you feel like you can't escape not having an opinion on something? And what about the dangers of taking your word as the gospel truth, which many readers do?!
De: It is a privilege to be in such a position. But an even bigger responsibility. This sort of a thing doesn’t happen overnight. It is based on a track record spanning years. It is also based on credibility and trust. I don’t feel in the least self conscious about being referred to as a ‘chronicler’ – that’s exactly what I am! It’s a role I enjoy tremendously. But yes, this rather annoying expectation that I'm always a quote away, does get to me sometimes. On the other hand, I hate being rude to young journos looking for inputs… I always remind myself I was in the same shoes years ago.

What we think of the book:
SUPERSTAR INDIA: FROM INCREDIBLE TO UNSTOPPABLE
Shobhaa Dé
Penguin, Rs. 350
How many sexagenarians (and man, wouldn’t she be glad there’s ‘sex’ in that!) does it take to celebrate not Shining India, or even Incredible India, but Superstar India? A Maa Tujhe Salaam love letter of sorts (dedicated to her Aie, and to the nation) penned with strong emotions of nostalgia, as India’s sixtieth year coincides with the author’s own (a fact reiterated a tad too often), Shobhaa De takes it all up in one ambitious swoop and embrace of a serious book. Mayawati, Dhoni, the Ambanis, Rahul Gandhi, Godhra, Modi, vada pav, the sensex, the IT revolution, Blackberrys, infrastructure issues, traffic situations, Ganesh visarjan, Karva Chauth, nightclubs, beauty pageants, Rakhi Sawant, generation gaps, India vis-a-vis New York, India vis-a-vis China; it’s all examined and commented upon by the writer. In a populist, non-analytical style, of course, often resorting to Bollywood to beef up an argument (Where’s The Party Tonight? is what she wants to groove to, in the spirit of the book, we’re informed in the prologue), as we’re cleverly reminded of the author’s innate Indian-ness in subtle ways too (how she ‘kept the faith’ and stayed in India at a time when people were fleeing towards the American dream, how she fasts on Shravan, how she feels scandalised by the casual talk of her teenage children, how she drove her ‘midnight blue Mercedes’ to her ‘favourite Hanuman mandir’ the very day she bought it... ).
There’s gnawing insecurity and euphoric confidence, as Superstar India oscillates between feel good and fix it, reflective of the author’s own state of mind. The confusion, the celebration (and the attempts to sound hip) are almost endearing, as you find yourself listening hard to what someone born in 1948 (in a middle class home, with parents dating back to pre-Independence, who now has children raised in an affluent Cuffe Parade beach-facing home, toting iPods and plastic) has to say. Like I said, how many 60-year-olds do you know trying to articulate/record a story of India, as they see it? While trying to be (and look) cool about it all?
Read it as a sociological treatise, the times-they-are-a-changing, from a certain generation. And please consider previously gained preconceived notions about the writer, your own excess baggage, and hence, your problem.

Jeff & Us

2008-06-15T19:52:00.000+05:30

A goosebumpsy, incredible energy rush, that's what Floatin' and Mighty Mouse had for breakfast that Sunday, chai to school in a sense of reality, while we sat in The Mountbatten Hall, players in the Jeffrey Archer vaudeville.
We were about to meet him. Lord Archer. We could hear his booming voice throwing itself across the doors, even before we'd pushed them open. Enthralled, wondering how this theatrical voice would translate into William Kane and Abel Rosnovski, Stephen and Henry Metcalfe, Scott Bradley and Charlie Trumper. Danny Cartwright and Florentyna. People we've known, loved to hate all these years. Devouring as we did, all of them. Kane and Abel. Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less. As the Crow Flies. First Among Equals. Twelve Red Herrings. Cat O' Nine Tales. Honour Among Thieves. Shall We Tell the President? The Fourth Estate. Prodigal Daughter. And most recently, A Prisoner of Birth.
Giving us food for thought on human nature, getting even (as opposed to getting mad), telling a story, keeping the goddamn page turning. Up close, across the table from the man, as he drawled and mimicked and performed, and got serious, excited, keen over a question, often counter-questioned, teased, sipped his grape juice, sat at the edge of his chair. And, never broke eye-contact. And we didn't swoon (right pair of professionals, we were), we talked, thrust and parried, slipped in our 'PS: Think you're a great writer' notes (which he then echoed unabashedly in his answers, to a wickedly arched eyebrow). Had our moments, wherein we yelped dazedly, 'You met Peter Benchley!?', snickered as he misjudged 'Now, you, you can't be a mass murderer', rolled about as he elocuted purple prose, mock-dramatic, 'He ripped out her brassiere while hanging from the chandlier…' Inwardly grinned when Lord Archer stole time from the timekeepers, when he stood up, grandly waved away interviews and the PR decree because we were enjoying ourselves just too much. "I'm afraid you'll all just have to wait. I haven't finished with them yet." And in one shush-ed up, incredibly hushed moment out on the terrace, 13 floors up, with views to a keekar-covered Delhi, Jeffrey Archer sprinted us to a far corner and told us his a magnum opus of a secret… Which If we told you, we'd have to kill you.
It was one of those moments you can't believe until it's a heartbeat away (and even then, you're floatin' on a mighty dream!). You come away from these moments, on a bounce, a high, the kind that makes the ordinary surreal. We were about to meet him. And then, we had.

(Interview with Jeffrey Archer featured in the current First City edition, Pulp Fiction).

Pulp Fiction: The First City Version

2008-06-07T13:14:00.000+05:30

A long, long time ago, I can still remember, how we used to talk about pulp fiction.

Talk about talking about pulp fiction. And not just the movie. (Kill Bill is more our times, that-a-way). And this urge to know what happens next was almost as big the need to know how they did it, damnit.

And so, good ol' FC as medium, instrument, reason, product, lifeline, transmogrified into what we were looking for so far. To find these writers. Corner the damn lot. Ask them what the big bestselling secret was. And get behind the formula. To explore pulp fiction, as we knew/know it.
We rounded up the usual suspects, sent out our prayers heavenwards (and e-mails into cyberspace, oh many kind publishers - Harlequin, Harper Collins, Landmark, Picador), and waited for the page to turn.
With bated breath. Worried, slightly. hopeful, always.
Disregarding words of demotivation, along the lines of you've-gotta-be-kidding-me! ("Lord Archer doesn't have time? Thought as much"). (But more of FC & Jeff -that's Lord Archer to you -in the next post).
And sure enough, we got to do it. Talk about pulp fiction with those who're the inventors. Circa pre-jargon. Those who keep you up all night, scare the heebie-jeebies outta you, and leave you wanting for more. And do it long hand, no shit.
Jeffrey Archer. Jack Higgins. Ken Follett. Mills & Boon writers. Among many others, most in their first interviews to an Indian publiction, ironically, considering we've devoured them for atleast two generations. And counting. ('eat dirt', we would've smirked back to the demotivator, if we had the time!) we learnt of macguffins, and were stunned by the Higgins and Archer dejavu echoes ("A majority of the Booker award books have not made much money... Any decent Jack Higgins book makes more money."), read about when times were tough and men, scarce.

All up for grabs. At the newsstands. 30 bucks.

Pulp Fiction. The First City Version June 2008.

big apple, bigger bites

2008-06-02T17:47:00.000+05:30

As Arthur Dent adjusts (well, not really) to the new situation in his life, coming to terms with (yeah, right) the fact that Earth has been wiped out, he tries to imagine it. Helping his brain understand the gravity of the situation, trapped as he is, in a Vogon spaceship. And
though he passes out at the contemplation of the impossible ('McDonald's didn't exist anymore'), one of the things that run through his crisis-affected bheja is New York - 'New York has gone. No reaction. He'd never seriously believed it existed anyway'.
And I knew exactly what he meant. Until it was the ground beneath my feet.
New York.
The embassy queues that redefined serpentine. The insane number of documents to keep track of. The inhumanly long flight to get there (it is impossible for human beings physically. Am sure there are tests to prove it). The complete disorientation that comes with keeping track
of time (lost cause what with daylight saving! sure, what a concept, they say!), or just marvelling at the deep, non-sexual profundity of is raat ki subah nahi. The confusion encountered at immigration sense of humour (hang on, aren't they supposed to be non-friendly?).
All of that far and locked away somewhere. A thing of the past, even if it was hours, or minutes, ago. As mind, body, soul come to terms with it: I Am In New York.
And then you, as a whole, jump.
A Manhattan-sized Jump...

... to Times Square. Hard Rock Cafe, NYPD (Freeze!), Planet Hollywood surrounds the little island meant for tourists, methinx. Since tripods, clicks, much banter on how-to-pose-and-how-to-frame are all around you. Tip: There's no perfect frame, since you'll never ever trap the
live-alive-electric buzz onto anything technology's ever invented. And you'll look over your shoulder to see if it's all blipped out once you move away. Trust me.

... to Soho. So, the time crunch factor prevented people-watching-through-the-day (there's even a bench for it, am told), but can now safely put 'did-the-Soho-bar-scene' on my travel CV, so to speak. Meaning-to-say nothing special-er than drinks mixed nicer and an interesting waitress of questionable intent.

... to Empire State Building. Top of. A killing view that's equal parts pulse-pausing-and-increasing. Especially if you wait for the light to change.

... to the Met. Where they follow the 5.30 pm closing-rule strictly and run the limo-length crosstown buses even more strictly (I swear the driver said, 'Young man' before admonishing a teenager who hadn't bothered to swipe his card). And have perfected displaying everything
from Egyptian mummies to Victorian furniture to Aphrodite, the goddess of the chase.

... to Central Park. A freezing noon o' clock, and no sun. But there's a horse-chaise, no less. Followed close on heels by straight-outta-one-of-punky pj's chicklitties Mink Coat Mom Pushing Pram (baby invisible, beneath layers of warm wear). And a completely lost Afghan guy 'How do you get out of this park? I've been walking around in circles!' Yes, it is an endless walk, which I managed upto Strawberry Fields (yes, Lennon memorial), bought souvenirs (always a sucker!), listened in on some live saxophone, nibbled on an energy bar wishing I'd brought my gloves with me, and had a sudden flash of Central Park in spring. Like a dream.

... to Broadway. I saw Mamma Mia at Winter Garden, at a discounted TKTS booth (you can pay full price for box and book much in advance, or even opt for 'Partial Viewing', 'Standing Room Only'!). Awesome musical that made me dig out the phenomenal ABBA!

... to Downtown! So completely different in character from uptown and mid-town, you'd think you were somewhere else altogether. With the sea in your face, knocking you off your shoes almost, so powerful is the breeze. If uptown's an upper, this one's a yup, down-er. Addictive, they both are.

... to all the other random experiences (Side-dishes*, no additional cost) that make up being in NY, and don't make the guide's 'must-do' list. Though this is one city in the world where all the touristy things are everything they make it up to be/live upto expectations (see above). 'Cept maybe Statue of Liberty (I mean, yes, she's exactly as you've hitherto seen her), but even then, taking the ship to Liberty Island is special. And have you ever seen her, hmm, derriere? Didn't think so!

*Side-dishes
The city has a soundtrack to it. That's always playing. (And no, it's not the Hollywood-association). There's impromptu freestyle hip hop. Sax. Jazz n' blues. Drums. Chinese mandarins. Sudden kick-started performances underground, as you follow the directions to your train.
People humming, swinging to plugged-in i Pods. Frizzy haired Erykah Badu-lookalike jumping out of the subway, going 'Ella ella ella...'

There's almost always good coffee around the corner or the kerb, or half-a-block down. And you can always smell it.

Everyone's ever-ready to help out. With directions, picking up stuff, giving room, making way, etc etc. Despite never ever making eye contact. And always saying 'thankyou' 'sorry', 'you're welcome' (shocker for where we come from!). It's like you're tuned in enough, but
then not too much. Which is almost an impossible achievement. A zen art to master, really, if you think about it.

You can be swayed off your determined path to watch a film on scientology, of all things ("It's only 14.5 mins, hon. Since nobody in New York has time, I know, I know.")

Bryant Park (gets completely lost in the Central Park limelight, but but. It has this brilliant fountain which I could swear is the one the F.R.I.E.N.D.S fool around in, in the opening credits. And the shacks-sold cappuccino, when you realise why it's called 'piping hot'. Right
after you've scalded your tongue).

The Grand Central subway. It's so well, grand, you can't believe they let trains run there! What?! It has a functional purpose, this exquisite piece of architectural marvel?! Freaking awesome (and not fookin', which is English, which they're not, thankyou very much).

The New York Public Library. Never was a reading room so perfectly beautiful and quiet. With Patience and Fortitude as majestic caretakers.

The bhasha-flood. You lose track of the different languages, kinds of languages rather you get to hear on just one short stroll down the lane or bylane.

Many, many hours later, back home, have had a tiny epiphany (yes, you can have tiny epiphanies!). Have realised how I've exoticised New York (and can you ever blame them for doing that to India, a lot of which is exotic for the expat Indians that we are?!). I find
it fun when someone (someone on TV, someone in a book) says, 'Meet you on Broadway and 5th'. 'Cuz I know exactly what that means. And I still find it cute.

floatin'