Desicritics Author: Ritu Chandra

A New 'Bond'

Ritu Chandra — Tue, 10 Feb 2009 07:55:18 EST

Note : This review was started in November when I saw the film.

So there I have finally met him!

I met Bond, James Bond. Yes, I am talking of Daniel Craig, the (not so) new James Bond. After somehow missing 'Casino Royale' I watched the latest Bond flick - Quantum of Solace over the week-end. I know talking about the 'newness' of a James Bond after he is two films old is a crime punishable by unmentionable torture by card carrying Bond club members. [The best way to achieve that would be to subject the defaulter to a sustained dose of our desi bond, Himesh Reshamaiyya. But I shall keep quiet. Self preservation after all wins over any lure of adulation for a brilliant idea!].

As is apparent, I am not a card carrying Bond club member. I do not have any childhood or adolescence memories of being in love with James Bond. Strangely, I have no childhood memories of Bond at all!. This could be attributed to the fact that we were dependent upon Doordarshan for our dose of vintage cinema and there was no way Doordarshan would show James Bond. As you would guess, he was a little too hot for the safari-suit clad, pan-chewing babus who populated the hallways of this erstwhile monument of socialism. DD had a marked preference for the Hollywood that was sanitized and censored.

Ok, let me confess, I do have a childhood memory of Mr Bond, but it is of the slightly disturbing variety. Mr Uppal, our rotund physics teacher was a terror to those who harboured a devilish streak. He was 4 feet 4 inches high, well-rounded from all angles and it was with an exaggerated air of self-importance that he would rest his pot belly on the desk to expound on the theory of relativity. Whenever he strutted down the hallowed corridors of our alma-mater the class would break into a chorus - 'ding... di ding... di ding...di ding'.. the James Bond signature tune. So profound was the effect of this Uppalomania that even today when I hear the strain of the famous tune I get visions of a 4 by 4 sardar with a wobbling belly and steely eyes striding down a narrow corridor.

Returning to the present, watching James Bond is a relatively new phenomenon in my life. The World is Not Enough was the first real James Bond film I watched and needless to say Pierce Brosnan is the next best thing after the Greek Gods. (Wait, lets strike out the 'Greek Gods' part and put Dev Anand in instead - yes, sounds better!). Following on the heels of The World is Not Enough, HBO went through a phase of Bond-o-mania and I fresh with Brosnan-o-mania updated myself with all the old Bond movies in a single marathon session that lasted about a week or ten days. It was a memorable experience and resulted in some lasting impressions. The more persistent of those impressions are reproduced below. Some of them admittedly are established notions about the genre and life as such.

1. James Bond is the male equivalent of a chick-flick. He was created to fuel the adolescent male fantasy.

2. The target audience is the 16 year old male.

3. The direct inference from #2 is that its target audience are all men since men never proceed beyond the mental age of 16.

4. Sean Connery, supposedly the most dashing of them all was nothing but a hep 'Uncleji'. We have seen many of his type in India, esp. when we were growing up. Remember the neighbourhood uncle who still wore checked trousers in the 80s?.

5. Timothy Dalton looked like Anil Kapoor without a moustache (and no that's not a compliment)

6. Roger Moore.. Yawn.

7. George Lazenby... who?

8. James Bond films became 'chick-worthy' only after Pierce Brosnan.

9. James Bond films started losing their teeth with the end of the cold war.

I know #8 and #9 somewhat contradict each other. There is the need to have Bond move with the times and cater to it's alterted audience base and yet remain faithful with what we identify as James Bond, a creature that thrived in a world fighting the cold war. This contradiction is the greatest dillema of the Bond brand in the new millennium.

As the credits of Quantum of Solace start rolling this dichotomy presents itself in bold font. The titles flash in the retro seventies format with psychedelic shapes and colours consuming the vision. They all seem to have been lifted off old covers of Fleming's books. The link with the Bond heritage is firmly established. In case you choose to be thick, then the persistent signature tune will surely hammer in the fact that this is not just any film that you are about to watch, it is THE James Bond. But it takes just ten minutes and two thrilling chases into the film and you are already debating over the significance of Bond in this new world.

Even though Ian Fleming drew his inspiration from the Second World War spy networks for creating Bond, by the time Agent 007 came of age the world was a strongly polarised place. In the bi-polar world the lines were clearly drawn. Mr Bond and his entourage were placed squarely on the western side of the Iron Curtain and strange accented Russians were the staple villains from the other side. In the cold war between communism and capitalism, the flashy capitalist gadgets were the heroes of the day. It was a simple good vs evil tale, that found it's heroes and villains within the given world order. That has been James Bond's modus operandi from time immemorial. But then came Perestroika and with it fell the greatest bastion of communism. With the disintegration of USSR and the fall of the Berlin wall the world suddenly, was not the place it used to be. KGB lost it's edge and the Russians switched to queing for their daily bread instead of procuring latest missile technology. The enemy had fallen and with it fell the teeth of the Bond Brand leaving behind a doddering geriatric whose dentures simply couldn't bite any longer.

The challenge for the new age Bond writers has been double-edged. In the new free world, they have to find a villain that is evil and dangerous enough to be worthy of being a Bond villain. And at the same time they had to upgrade James Bond from the rake of the sixties to a man of today. Both daunting tasks for they call for shaking the very foundation of the house of Bond. The writers decided to undertake the latter job first. With the dawn of the millennium we saw subtle changes in Bond films. The Bond girl no longer remained the grand and celebrated bimbette. Along with the staple dose of bust and butt she slowly started showing traces of a third 'B' factor - the brain! In the same vein Bond started softening. Pierce Brosnan falling in love with Elektra was the first indication of the change to come. In the Brosnan era, the changes were subtle and limited. It needed a complete overhaul to make Bond a man of the millennium. That overhaul happened with Daniel Craig. And how!

I shall resist from the temptation of going into the details of the 'how' part of it. Partly because realms have already written about it and partly because if I start down that path then there is the danger of my nicely academic tone changing into a gushing torrent of adulation. Needless to say the overhaul of James Bond has been an astounding success. Daniel Craig is a man of today. He has all the vintage Bond genes and with it he brings a complexity and emotional intensity that is spanking new. He falls in love, pines for a woman lost and shows a Heathcliff like intensity as he comforts a dying associate in his arms. He then shows a Heathcliff like detachment as he chucks the corpse of the same man he comforted a minute ago into a garbage dump with a crisp - 'He wouldn't have minded'. The new Bond does every thing that was an anathema to the old Bond and he does it with a panache that would put the the old Bond to shame!

If Casino Royale focused on reinventing James Bond himself, Quantum of Solace had the onus of finding him a worthy adversary. And unwittingly (I say unwittingly because I assume the film was scripted atleast a year before it was released), the writers hit jackpot. Released barely a month after the epoch-making events on Wall Street, Quantum of Solace has aligned with a new world ethos. As the giants of Wall Street fall like nine-pins, the bankers come under flak for extravagant lifestyles, global warming and resource management become a world concern, a new president has created history in USA. Here is a president who is clearly centre-left in his ideologies, so much so that he is often accused of being a socialist. Suddenly capitalism has come under siege in the very place that was the strongest bastion of the ideology. The bewildered world seeks a new order.

In this climate it is an interesting co-incidence that the Bond villain is the ruthless capitalist who monopolises the natural resources of a land for his personal gains. For long it is being said that the next world war would be fought over water. There is a sudden panic against scenarios where the world's resources would fall into the hands of exploitative capitalists. The virtues of socialism are suddenly in vogue and there is a return to the socialist bent in thinking. In a grand reversal of roles Mr Bond and Mr Villain have exchanged spots. Naked capitalism has moved to the evil side of the fence and 007 now speaks with a socialist accent. Truly phenomenal!

But wait, if you think that all the great things mentioned about Quantum of Solace end up in making a great film, please disabuse yourself of the notion right now. The film is a complete wash out and a total waste of time. It is an opportunity lost. For a film that had everything going for it - good idea , great cast, how did that happen? Well, it is simple - there is a fine line between building a brand and falling to a cliché. The makers in an over zealous attempt to build the brand strayed deep into the latter territory. The latest Bond flick proves to be grand collection of clichés. It is a true tick-mark effort. A thrilling chase - tick, interesting gadgets - tick, encounter with beautiful girl - tick, sadist villian -tick, grand locales - tick. Get the drift? There is no script to talk about or maybe there was one to begin with, but the script writer lost his way counting tick marks.

Yet, it is not these clichés that are the real failing of this film. What this Bond venture is missing is a belief in itself. The old Bond films were replete with what we call cliches today but they seemed to genuinely believe in whatever they did. It is because of this acute lack of conviction that this film, ends up being a grand, lavishly mounted caricature of the genre. Yes, Quantum of Solace is not James Bond film. It is a spoof. Let us just strike it off the list of James Bond films and wait for next one!

A Wave To The Microwave

Ritu Chandra — Tue, 14 Oct 2008 09:47:28 EDT

"Do you want to go out for lunch?" Sharon came walking briskly to my desk yesterday and stopped giving me an edgy glance.

"Sure", I said locking my screen, "I was going to pick up a salad anyway. Did not have any leftovers to get in."

"So what happened? No lunch from home today?" I asked as we strolled towards the elevator.

Sharon and I have a ritual of going out for lunch every Monday. The Japanese restaurant Tsushima(which sounds delightfully like Tushima) round the block serves it's Sashimi special on Mondays. We both love Sashimi. Since we eat out on Mondays, we usually give Tuesday a rest and get food from home. At least Sharon does. Hence the mild curiosity from my end.

She gave me a sheepish smile.

"I had leftovers but somehow I don't feel like heating it in the microwave any more"

"Aha!... Now it falls into place - The microwave and the email"

Yes the email. Nothing earth-shattering in essence. Just another forward warning against the dangers of microwave cooking. The stuff that normal folks read and forget about or put aside as a reserve topic for the times when a drawing conversation dips into awkward silences. But then our team here at work is not normal from any angle. To put it very mildly, we are a health conscious bunch.

How? Let me give you a brief idea.

We don't consume any snack until we dissect it's contents to the last molecule. How much trans fat, any partially hydrogenated oils, whole grain or refined grain, how many grams of fat, of carbs, etc., etc. Unlike any other desi/chinese/russian dominated teams, we don't discuss deals on deal2buy.com and we don't compare prices between Wal-Mart and BJs and we don't talk about trips to Niagara falls, instead we compare calories and nutrition value between various cookie brands, talk about trips to ayurvedic dieticians, Chinese health food shops and discuss natural food therapies. When we eat out we order brown-rice and whole wheat pasta and birthday ice-cream parties have slowly been replaced with organic yogurt parties at Yorganic a chain that preys on people of our ilk. The earlier emails of 'Cake at my desk, please drop by' have been taken over by 'Blueberries at my desk, please drop by' In the short we are a case of collective health related OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder).

Honestly we are not that bad, at least at an individual level. We all have enough bad eating stints. But together, we just lose it somehow.

The few stragglers who come to our team with normal eating habits are transformed eventually. Poor Santosh valiantly fought for his right to drink soda so much so that he left a collection of empty soda bottles neatly lined on his desk when he quit the company. We think it was his form of protest against the health mafia. After all we constantly dragged him to healthy Chinese eating instead of oily sambhar-dosa that he craved and it was his farewell where we first discovered the pleasures of Yorganic over Ben N Jerry.

So when a group like this receives a forward that speaks of the molecule altering effects of microwave cooking, what happens? Before we describe that here is a short synopsis of the mail

- A high school experiment conducted on a set of plants that were watered using microwaved water and normal water showed that microwaved water eventually killed the plant.

- A patient who was given blood warmed in a microwave died during the transfusion because the microwaving altered the structure of the blood.

- The nutrients in a food item get mutated and are rendered useless when you heat food in the microwave.

So that's the issue in a nutshell. You can read more about it here

The grand revelation has caused low key but visible reactions in our circuit. Sharon and I have been eating out since then. Shiv has been considering giving up heating his food and I noticed Ajay heading to the other side of the room to get hot water from the dispenser rather than heating it to prepare his tea. The low-key reaction is not surprising, even in a health-freaked group like ours. Given the ubiquitous nature of the microwave it is difficult to completely wave it off.

And therein lies the dilemma. A person is regularly is exposed to alarmist revelations about items in the everyday life. The growth hormones in dairy products, the pesticides, the radiation of the cell-phones, trace of plastics and now, the microwave. The problem is not so much with the initial information, but with the confusion it creates. For any given theory there are countless counter theories. The official health bulletins maintain that the effect of these substances is negligible (e.g in the case of organic food), but headlines scream otherwise. There is always the insinuation of the nexus between the industry and the powers that be. So where does this leave the average consumer? Completely confused!

These so called objects of harm are an intrinsic part of our daily lives. How much can one really avoid these items. For instance I can chose to not use the microwave at home and work, but how do I know the food I eat in the restaurant has not been nicked? Sharon and I are not gaining anything in eating out apart from peace of mind. The only way one can truly live a pollutant free life is to chuck it all and find a piece of land in the mountains and grow everything on a farm (let me confess I grew potted capsicum this summer in organic soil). Even there you cannot avoid pollution through the soil and air. There really is no practical solution. Yet we keep going in circles trying to find one like a dog trying to catch his tail.

We cannot really be blamed for it. With time and technology we have moved on to a way of life that is completely different from the way it was thirty years ago. While these advancements have bought physical comfort into our lives there has been a counter balance with many difficult to treat diseases becoming more common, many unanswerable ailments for which modern sciences are silent. Auto-immune diseases are a good example. We are obviously looking for answers and somewhere down the line we have connected all modern diseases to modern lifestyles. While such an approach could be partially correct, there is still a larger picture that escapes many of the doomsday soothsayers.

Let me give an example. Modern medicine is a favourite punching bag in current times. Alternate medicine is the buzz-word and people flock such practitioners (anyone who lives in India or visited it recently and witnessed the Swami Ramdev wave would agree with that). It is common to hear people talk about the healthy life-styles of their grandfather's generation. We assume that a generation before that would be even healthier since they primarily depended upon natural products and lived active lives. Yet trends show a different picture. Life expectancy is on a rise, despite the pesticides, despite the synthetic products, despite the hormones and yes, despite the microwave. So our complete health package then is definitely improving. We might have lost some, but apparently we have gained a lot more.

Yet, we have never been as paranoid about our health as we are now. The more junk we eat, the more we talk about healthy alternatives. It is like sinners making the most frequent trips to the temple. Speaking of myself, I regularly tankup on sinful desserts and unhealthy sweets, however my dairy is all organic, I eat only whole wheat bread and don't use plastics in the microwave and now..... the very existence of my microwave is in question.

Talking of microwaves, I have an interesting track record I would like to share with you. I have possessed four of them in the last couple of years. My first microwave a still-born. It passed away on on its first use in a party. I had my guests of that evening help me dispose it off. After a few blissful months of microwavelessness some friends in their infinite wisdom gifted me with another one. So there we were, a new microwave. This one had a better run. I used it a couple of times to cook rice and boil water. Everything was fine till one day I decided I wanted to boil an egg. That was the end of it! I resumed my cheerful microwaveless state till another friend passed me a tiny used one (I don't know what it is with my friends and their need to provide me with microwaves, with all the new evidence surfacing I am beginning to suspect a conspiracy theory here). That one had a dream run till I forgot it on the countertop when I moved apartments. My latest specimen is another hand-me-down and is working perfectly(helping me to conclude that I am worthy only of hand-me-downs). So as you can see the place of a stable microwave in my life has been achieved after many breakups(downs). Yet, it seems it is time to let go again.

Anyone interested in a third hand microwave oven?

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Dev Anand at 85 - Triumphant

Ritu Chandra — Sun, 28 Sep 2008 00:36:10 EDT

September 26, 2008

The day marks 85 years of an incredible life. A life filled with glory, glamour, grit and guts. The guts to take risks, the guts to follow convictions and most importantly the guts to believe in the self long after the world stopped believing in it. Today is the 85th Birthday of the irrepressible phenomena, the matinee idol of the past and the tireless maker of the turkeys our times - Dev Anand.

For those who have known me over the years have known that I have been a hyperventilating 'pankha' of the man in the past. It was undoubtedly an unusual fixation for the brat of the eighties and nineties, but then I have always enjoyed the unusual over the accepted and more than that I have enjoyed the sense of exclusivity of my choice. After all every Meeta, Geeta and Seeta or should I say Anya, Tanya and Manya (to keep it contemporary) was a fan of Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt, I stood apart with my fascination for Dev Anand, a man older than my grandfather! I have idolised Dev Anand, watched his films, gone weak in the knees and run the whole nine yards of emotions typical to 'fanship'.

I finally got over him after I had a chance to meet him two years back. It was inevitable, one because I had grown far beyond the gamut of sensibilities he had to offer and more importantly, the man is after all human and the imagination of a fan - super human, he really did not have a chance to live up to it even if I had not outgrown him.

But Dev Anand is not going away from my schema of things so soon. Now with the idol worship firmly put to rest, a new admiration for the spirit of the man is slowly finding root. I idolised the Dev Anand of the pre seventies, but it is the Dev Anand of the post seventies that I admire. Because this was when his films starting tanking and his true spirit started to manifest. And that just thrives with time.

Anyone who has been down and out or faced failure at any point in their life knows that it takes some amount of effort to get up and get on. The older a human being gets, the more difficult it is to recover. Which probably explains why people take a backseat in their autumn years. It is partially due to diminishing drive and partially due to a need to protect themselves from disappointments and downfalls. And that is what sets Dev Anand apart. Not because he has a drive to deliver at 85, but because he has the drive to deliver in the face of continuing failure. The last film which did some kind of business was 'Des Pardes'. The year was 1978. Exactly thirty years ago. Since then Dev Anand has made 15 films each a colder turkey than the previous. Yet he persists and delivers.

Film production is a business that has seen the ruin of great a many people. Filmy lore is choc-a-bloc-full with such stories. If the producer doubled as an artist the chance of doom became higher. Artists are sensitive people and are likely to take failure more personally than others. Guru Dutt is a classic example of that syndrome. The inability to cope with the uncertainties of the film business cost him his life. Dev Anand's own brother, the brilliant Vijay Anand could not get his swan song 'Jaana Na Dil se Door' released. A sure shot would-have-been classic today sadly lies in the cans. On the other hand, Dev Anand with his admittedly lesser products not only manages to get a release but sufficient publicity as well. He has not let the business rule him, his entrepreneur skills have conquered the system. That by itself calls for a round of applause.

Don't judge Dev Anand by the quality of his films or the depth of his acting talent. That was never much to begin with. His USP was a winning persona, an ability to spot and nurture talent around him and use them to his benefit. Dev Anand films are popular not only because of his persona but also because the entire package is attractive. Good music, good lyrics, thought provoking story and outstanding direction. His good run lasted from 'Baazi' in 1951 to 'Tere Mere Sapne' in 1971 about twenty years. In a career spanning sixty years Dev Anand has seen more years of failure than success. But the truth is that the day commercial success abandoned him his true success began it's journey.

The wise men and the sages over the years have spoken of the art of detachment. The technique of conquering the self by conquering the desire for the fruits of labour and the concept of single minded Karma. Whether it is through delusion or through detachment it is apparent that Dev Anand has discovered that secret of separating the effort from the fruits. His tireless journey bears testimony to that.

I end off with poetry by Shailendra from his film Guide in the voice of the great Sachin Dev Burman. This song plays around with these deep truths of life.

Kehte hain gyaani
duniya hai faani
paani pe likhi likhai
hai sabki dekhi
hai sabki jaani
haath kisike na aayi

[a very functional translation

The great sages have observed,

how this world is transient

as transient as words on water,

people have observed it,

understood it,

yet haven't been able to control it.

]

However Dev Saab it seems has found the grasp to this capricious duniya- it lies in mastering the art of letting go!. An easy to preach but difficult to acheive state of being. Congrats to Dev Anand for having done it and shown that it can be done.

Happy birthday Dev Saab. May your spirit thrive. You will continue to remain an inspiration for generations to come!

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Watch the song 'Wahan Kaun Hai Tera' by clicking on the link.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uG5t1eErbsU

Happy Independence Day - Musical Montages

Ritu Chandra — Sun, 17 Aug 2008 05:31:36 EDT

Happy Independence Day Folks!

(I know it is a little late, but here in the US we only celebrate on weekends, so no apologies)

I would like to celebrate the 61st 'Happy Birthday' of our nation by revisiting some musical memories from my growing up years. In the late eighties and early nineties DD had commissioned a series of 'Spirit of the nation' type montages. The most memorable amongst those was 'Mile Sur Mera Tumhara' that showcased the cultural diversity of the country through the prism of the folk and classical diversity of each region. This was Doordarshan and Lok Sewa Sanchar Parishad in it's last burst of glory, (before India began its journey towards globalization and DD towards fossilization).

For those of us who grew up in this era, these montages are unforgettable. Remember trying to figure out the exact line 'chain taras te nain tars te' (the Kashmiri portion of the song), or marveling the stunning locales of Kerela, or trying to keep up with the various languages in which Mile sur mera tumhara is sung, or getting goose pimples on seeing the final image of Lata Mangeshkar, the ultimate tribute to popular sur in our country fuse into the frame. My introduction to Bhimsen Joshi was through this montage. In those days I barely understood anything of what he sang, yet I loved to watch him, for the faraway look in his eyes, and the cute manner in which he would contort his face and hands as he sang.

I don't think anything has been able to capture the spirit of India's beauty, diversity and unity as imaginatively as Mile Sur Mera Tumhara did.

The other montage that ran in those days and I would specially like to showcase is the very unusual tribute to the spirit of the country through Raag Des. That was a collection of the who's who in the firament of Indian classical arts all performing on the Des raag. While Mile Sur Mera Tumhara has obvious appeal, this montage is a quiet charmer. Raag Des is a sweet and distinctive raag, easy on the ears, extremely malleable and exudes the fragrance of fresh sprinkles on parched earth. The essence of the raag finds it's way into songs of the every region in the country. The whole idea to integrate the country through the Des raag was a novel one. It is fascinating because the des raag probably existed before India was a nation, before we needed symbols and slogans to unite, yet even in those days there were binders in form of cultural roots and who would think amongst the innumerable raags that Hindustani and Carnatic classical music offer, it would be raag Des that would be the chosen binder. It is also the raag in which our national song 'Vande Mataram' is tuned.

Given the galaxy of classical luminaries that make an appearance in this piece, in another fifty years it will be worth it's microseconds in gold. Ravi Shankar's sitar piece particularly had left a lasting impression in the early days, when I heard it again after many years, it was even better than I remembered. I think it would have been appropriate to have had his appearance as the climactic piece. It is also fascinating to see Kavita Krishnamurthy's voice as the common thread in an effort that is essentially classical. It is a great way to gently coax the average listener into the world of classical music. It was only during the old DD stronghold that promoted folk and classical music with missionary zeal that something like this was possible. In today's 'bollywoodized' times it is next to impossible.

While we are on the topic of montages, it would be worthwhile to visit two contemporary efforts by AR Rahman - Vande Mataram and Jana Gana Mana , both conceived and presented by Bharatbala.

Watching the Jana Gana Mana video is like revisiting your ancestral town after twenty years. The same faces, but aged and tired. The same Bhimsen Joshi, the same Hariprasad Chaurasia, the same Lata Mangeshkar, but with many more lines creasing their faces. Some cherished old faces missing, notably Pandit Ravi Shankar, Ustad Allahrakha and Ustad Zakir Hussien and many new additions like Bhupen Hazarika, Hariharan, and the most pleasant surprise - Asha Bhosle. Interestingly Asha Bhosle was completely missing from all the videos of the earlier era, a sad reflection on how late in life this great singer actually got her due. Finally the nation sees the legendary Mangeshkar sisters singing together on the same platform in the same frame. And the biggest surprise, they even pause for a microsecond and smile, yes smile at each other! (A historic occasion given all those rumours over the decades that sibling rivalry prompted the sisters to sing all duets looking in opposite directions).

The new age montages highlight the sharp difference in the eras. These videos are shot like epics. They are marked by sweeping locales, jazzy camera angles, glossy finish and flamboyant, larger than life orchestration of all the elements. Quite typical of our times. Yet despite the grandeur, they somehow seem to be missing something somewhere. They are missing the feel of 'real' India that the old montages had to offer. In the videos of yore, the locales were lush and real. The prosperous fields of Punjab, the stunning Taj Mahal, the boatman on the Hooghly, the Calcutta metro, the Dal Lake these were the visual elements that made us intimate with the living and breathing India. The moonscape of Ladakh in the Jana Gana Mana video on the other hand is impersonal and forbidding. It has a stark beauty, without doubt, but that is not a representative of 'dravid, utkal, banga' that our national anthem alludes to. The visual montages used in Vande Mataram look more out of central Asia than they do out of India. The video just does not get 'it', in my opinion.

Ofcourse, the disclaimer is that I am an old fogey when it comes to aesthetics and I tend to automatically put myself in reverse gear. Older an effort the better it is. However, I must admit, that when Lata Mangeshkar starts to sing Jana Gana Mana my hair stand on the end. I am extremely thankful to YouTube and it's denizens for uploading these valuable videos and giving me a chance to revisit cherished childhood memories again. I leave you with the videos and I hope you will enjoy them as much as I did.

Jai Bharat!

Grappling With Cowardice

Ritu Chandra — Fri, 1 Aug 2008 01:33:47 EDT

I feel relieved. A situation that I had been dreading to face is over. Not really over but I have conquered the first and the most difficult step.

I am the youngest member of a large Hum Aapke Hain Kaun kind of family. I have lots of uncles, aunts, cousins, nieces and nephews. A 'close family only' affair in our setup usually means a minimum of fifty people. No, we don't sing 'Dhik Tana Dhik Tana in the lawns of palatial houses, or play cricket with dogs as goal-keepers and we bicker more often than not over many small and petty things, yet we stick together especially in times of crisis. Crisis such as illness, misfortune or deaths.

Death. The inevitable. The inescapable. The ultimate truth. It has to happen and happen to each of us. Everything and everyone around us is transient. Yet, coping with death is the most traumatic thing for a human being. I often wonder why nature did not make us immune to death. Why have our genes not evolved so that the emotional knowledge of death is hard-wired into us. The truth is that emotionally an average human being lives as if death does not exist. Why this delusion? It is because of this head in the sand temperament that every time death happens it causes trauma. If death is as true to existence as breathing, then why has nature not built the mechanism to not get affected by it? Is there some divine design in there?

Ever since I have been a child I have seen that deaths are times when you rally together and show support through continued physical presence. In the earlier days a death in the immediate family meant packing your bags and going and spending as much time possible with the bereaved family. It was through this extended social circle that people coped and healed. A crutch that is unfortunately disappearing in our isolated life-styles in the new world. Through family conditioning, I have learnt that this is normal and expected social behaviour under such circumstances. That is the 'right' thing to do.

However, I am also the youngest. That made me into a socially redundant kind of creature. Every time there was a call for a social duty, my presence was considered superfluous. She's a kid, she does not need to go. Or even if I did go, I was not required to offer any words of condolence. I was just to sit quietly. Rarely ever did I have to go anywhere and offer condolence as an individual. There was always someone else better equipped to do it. Thus, I grew up without having to face and deal with such situations myself.

I don't know if it is the conditioning or my basic nature that makes me into a coward. I have always been scared to face someone who has faced a tragedy. I don't know what to say, how to behave and though I feel a strong degree of continued compassion for a person in trouble, I don't know how to express it or console them. The only thing I know is to give a tight hug. But you cannot do that to everyone. Thus, there is always a conflict within me. My value system says that I need to go out of my way and be there for the person and my cowardice says run away, you are useless anyway, why face a difficult situation?

After growing up and developing a social circle of my own, away from the family I have had times where I need to face such situations. My usual escape is to take the support of common friends. I manage to get by.

But there is another more sticky side to my existence. Since I live away from the family here in the US I have become a representative of the family back in India. I need to be present at places and that too most of the times alone. This is where things get very very difficult for me. The last time a tragedy happened, I shirked and then made an extremely belated appearance. No one ever held it against me, but I still regret it. I should have picked up the courage and gone for the funeral.

This Tuesday, I was faced with the same dreaded situation again. A distant relative living here in the US suddenly passed away. Even though we were not closely related, she was a fine lady. Extremely sweet, helpful and full of life. I rarely made an effort to keep in touch, but she would call me regularly and enquire about my well-being. She carried none of the expectations and baggage that inevitably get added the moment you say 'relative'. I was genuinely fond of her. When her son called me early Tuesday morning to break the news I was shocked and distressed. My initial reaction as usual was emotional. I don't know what I said to him, but I think I said the right things.

However after that my old problems resurfaced. I went into the terrified mode again. I need to go and offer my condolences to the family... as a gesture to my bhabhi who lost her aunt, and as a gesture to the family with whom I had established an independent relationship. The truth is that unless you reach out and express your concern, no one ever knows how strongly you feel for the situation. Yet, that reaching out and expressing is what gives me nightmares. I have always been better at expressing through gestures than words. For a person who talks nineteen to the dozen and writes long articles it sounds strange. But that is true.

I have been putting off making the dreaded call since Wednesday morning. I found many excuses... they need to break the news to the father, they need to be left alone to cope, they need to be left alone to deal with the logistics... when the mind decides to conjure up excuses, it can give PC Sarkar a run for his money. The whole of yesterday I dillied and dallied.

Today morning when I woke up I knew I had to call as soon as possible. There was no way out. But the coward that I am, I put it off till afternoon, giving myself the excuse of a heavy work day. From afternoon I pushed it to early evening. Finally, in the evening something inside pulled me up harshly and said.. NOW!. I must have taken ten gulps of water, clicked on my email's 'send/recieve' button another ten times, hoping an important mail would show up to give me an escape route. But nothing happened. I finally picked up the phone and dialled, my heart thumping against my chest. The phone rang, and rang.. and deep within I hoped it would keep ringing. That would assuage my guilt complex of not having called and also relieve me of doing the talking. And that is exactly what happened. I got the voice mail. I was so relieved. I left a message and hung up.

Then in the evening, he called back- the son. My heart thumping again I picked up the phone. 'I wanted to know when the funeral is', rushing headlong to the point and fumbling stupidly. 'Oh we did the funeral yesterday', he said simply. 'um.. a.... are you going to be performing some pooja in her memory then? I really want to be there', I know I was sounding extremely fake. 'I don't know', he said, suddenly sounding very vulnerable. 'I have no idea what needs to done, I am just following whatever instructions my aunt gave to me'. My heart went out to him. Here is another person who has suddenly found himself in a situation and he has no idea how to deal with it. Suddenly he has been pushed to a position of responsibility. I felt an instant kinship with him. Death here in the US, for many families is far more difficult to cope with. The therapeutic effect of the houseful of people in India is underestimated. It is a lonely battle here.

That broke the barrier. After that we spoke easily and naturally. The last time I must have spoken to him must be three years back. I hardly know him. Yet, he spoke. He spoke of his mother's last moments, her intuition about her death, his fathers reaction, how he and his brother handled it. I offered him all the inspirational support I could, straight from the heart and without any guile of 'duniyadari'. When I put the phone down, I felt sad, but I felt good. I had done the right thing.

Just before his call, my neighbour had popped in for five minutes and I was whining about how difficult it is to deal with such situations. How much I am not looking forward to making the drive on the week-end. 'Listen, I have never bought a house before, but I am going through the process of buying it, aren't I? So, even you need to do somethings for the first time'. Strange logic. But it made sense.

So, this week-end I shall make the drive. It is not going to be easy, but winning over my cowardice is making me feel a better person. Truly, there is no better way to deal with a situation than to face it!

List : The Definitive Geeta Dutt

Ritu Chandra — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 02:57:31 EDT

20th July 2008 marked the 36th Death Anniversary of Geeta Dutt. A small tribute to the memory of this enchanting songstress.

It is difficult, almost unsettling to think of Geeta Dutt as a shriveled septuagenarian(what she would have been if she were alive). Time stopped aging her voice long before she actually passed away in 1972. Even today her voice represents a youthful joie-de-vivre that can lift anyone out of the bluest of blue moods. Her sad songs have an aching vulnerability that makes one want to weep for her and with her. And her richly-layered bhajans are strangely soothing. No other singer could traverse such a complex range of emotions with the ease and spontaneity that Geeta Dutt did. In addition to the richness in expression, her was voice was rich in tonal quality, robust and sweet quite like a juicy Dasheheri mango!

Despite all these qualities, today she is merely a memory in the history of Indian film music. Slotted early in her career as a 'club song' singer, Geeta unfortunately got stuck in the very mold that she created for herself with such blazing individuality. Couple this with her own battles with the bottle, failing marriage to film-maker Guru Dutt and a lackluster approach to her career, Geeta Dutt faded away, much before her times.

Yet, her small repertoire is dazzling to say the least. This list more than amply strengthens the belief that God sends all good things in limited editions.

Note : Click on the link to view the video of the song

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1. Tadbeer se Bigdi hui Taqdeer Banale (Film : Baazi(1951); Composer: SD Burman; Lyrics : Sahir Ludhianvi) The seductive and persuasive strains of the guitar, SD Burman's path-breaking western treatment of Sahir Ludhianvi's ghazal, Geeta Bali's energetic screen presence and Geeta Dutt's vibrant singing, the dice had no option but to roll in favour of this 'Baazi'. 'Tadbeer se Bigdi' was the greatest attraction of Baazi and the audience went to see the film in repeat mode only to witness the magic of the two Geetas.

2. Thandi Hawa Kali Ghata (Film : Mr and Mrs 55(1955); Composer: OP Nayyer; Lyrics : Majrooh Sultanpuri) Raju Bharatan, the much maligned film music critic, summed up the effect of Geeta Dutt's voice in a rare moment of clarity- "'Geeta Dutt was thandi hawa and kaali ghata rolled into one. The moment she came, you got the refreshing feeling of aa hi gayi jhoom ke. There was a rare swing in her voice. She hit you like a thunderclap"
What more can one say to recommend the freshness in this song other than to say that the effect on yours truly is without fail '....naache jiya ghoom ke' .

3. Aaj Sajan Mohe Ang Lagalo (Film : Pyaasa(1957); Composer: SD Burman; Lyrics : Sahir Ludhianvi) Guru Dutt's innovative idea of using a vaishnav bhajan to depict the purity of the romantic situation in the film, was ably supported by his wife's singing. Geeta brings a very human yearning to her rendition and yet keeps it sublime and other worldly like a true bhajan. Geeta Dutt's interpretation of bhajans was very distinctive. Whether it is 'Tora manwa kyon ghabraaye' or 'Na mein dhan chahun' or our chosen 'Aaj sajan mohe ang lagalo', she blends the sensual with the sublime seamlessly. This is true to the sufi tradition whose texts abound in erotica that couples with spiritual fervour. It can be argued that if Meerabai made a time-travel trip to the 50s and 60s she would have sung in the voice of Geeta Dutt!

4. Ankhiyan Bhool Gayi Hain Sona (Film : Goonj Uthi Shehnai(1959); Composer: Vasant Desai; Lyrics : Bharat Vyas) The classic Geeta chutzpah brims over in this duet with Lata Mangeshkar. The coy and docile heroine being teased mercilessly (or praised to the heavens) by a bunch of giggling sahelis is one the staple daal-roti situations done to death in hindi film songs. Yet, Geeta's sweet and wicked take of the situation makes this song a standout. Note the way she sings 'Sona' in the first line. This song also represents the female-female genre of songs of which Geeta has many memorable examples like Bachpan ke din, Jaanu Jaanu Ri, Thandi Thandi Hawa , under her belt.

5. Koi Chupke Se Aake (Film : Anubhav(1971); Composer: Kanu Roy; Lyrics : Kapil Kumar) The soft, romantic type of songs flowered in Geeta's melodious and expressive voice. Geeta's singing in Anubhav demonstrates how much she still had to offer even at the fag-end of her life. In the chosen song, she is soft, teasing, whimsical, romantic all at once and the ever so slight tinge of pathos in her voice highlights the enigma that was Geeta Dutt.

6. Babuji Dheere Chalna (Film : Aar Paar(1954); Composer: OP Nayyer; Lyrics : Majrooh Sultanpuri) The slow and sensual club song is Geeta's comfort zone. She could sleep-walk through those kind of songs. Yet, this one stands out for hitting all the right notes at once. The measured sensuality, a hint of vibrancy, a slight edge in the voice and a full throated bass-heavy tone all combine to make this OP Nayyer composition into a classic club song. OP Nayyer composed a slew of such songs for Geeta and later Asha Bhosle. Aayie meherban could be considered the successor to his body of work with Geeta.

7. Mera Naam Chin Chin Choo (Film : Howarah Bridge(1958); Composer: OP Nayyer; Lyrics : Qamar Jalalabadi) This irrepressible upper is arguably Geeta's signature song. The swing in her voice can get even the most languid of people out there up and jiving. It is high energy, peppy and brimming with the joie-de-vivre that is the quintessential Geeta Dutt.

8. Nanhi Kali Sone Chali (Film : Sujata(1959); Composer: SD Burman; Lyrics : Majrooh Sultanpuri) From the seductive to the soothing - the transition is as smooth as butter. The synergy of the Majrooh-SD Burman combination and the nurturing vocals of Geeta Dutt make this lullaby from Sujata as one of the most memorable loris created for Hindi films.

9. Waqt Ne Kiya (Film : Kagaz Ke Phool(1959); Composer: SD Burman; Lyrics : Kaifi Azmi)A brooding film-maker, his honey voiced wife, the beautiful actress and the inextricable mess of their liason - Life was a pre-scripted tragedy for the Dutt couple. Kagaz Ke Phool was Guru Dutt's semi-autobiographical magnum opus that immortalised his personal situation. Kaifi Azmi's lyrics are poignant, SD Burman's tune wistful, but it is Geeta's singing that stirs up the storm of emotions. The songs aches with nostalgia. The travesty of time and the indelible stain that it leaves on the soul is universal. Rare is the person who looks back at his life and does not wistfully discover.... 'hum rahe na hum' .

10. Na Jao Saiyan (Film : Sahib Bibi aur Ghulam(1962); Composer: Hemant Kumar; Lyrics : Shakeel Badayuni)
The character of Chhoti Bahu in Sahib Bibi Aur Ghulam is undoubtedly one of the greatest written for mainstream Indian cinema. Meena Kumari immortalised the tragic Chhoti Bahu with a stellar performance. Anguish, devotion, desire, self-disgust, rebellion and a repressed sexuality every little facet that constituted the complex character of Chhoti Bahu comes to life in this song. When Geeta Dutt poignantly mentioned that this song represented her own emotions rather than that of the film's character, Chhoti Bahu, Meena Kumari and she all fused into the same person. This song is a fitting finale to the list.

See Also

Upperstall Profile : Geeta Dutt

Raaga : Geeta Dutt songs

Geeta Dutt : Biography

Note: This is an edited version of a longer article. The complete article along with some pictures can be found here

Clean Your Own Crap

Ritu Chandra — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 09:13:51 EDT

I walked into a sparkling clean house today. It was the cleaning service Monday. As on all the other Mondays, when I stepped in I felt a pang of guilt. Guilt? Yes, you heard me right. Guilty pleasure.

For this to make sense I need to rewind back and play this from the beginning.

My mother suffers from OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder). She cannot tolerate untidiness or mess of any kind. Our house is dusted twice a day, all things are neatly in place and it is sparkling clean. It is not only my mom, her sister is afflicted by the same disease. It runs in the family. We refer to it as 'Safai Ka Mania'. Needless to say my mom and my aunt are very house proud. And however much they might rubbish it, I suspect cleaning is the most cherish able part of their existence.

Now, to this genetic composition add some conditioning. My mom was raised in a large, well-to-do family with Gandhian values. Along with many other things they were taught to be self-reliant. That translates to - do your own chores. Keep your room neat, make your own bed, put away the dirty dishes etc. etc. If my grandfather had not passed away before I was born, I would have surely asked him what the point was of having a battalion of servants if each member had to do his own chores. Ah well....

Everything was hunky dory for my mom until her world turned upside down. I was born(upside down of course). By some quirk of fate, I escaped the oppressive cleanliness gene that ran in the family. I am deliciously dirty and lazy. My desk was always cluttered, my room had things lying all over and my cupboard resembled a laundry bag (mom's words not mine - if you ask me, I think a laundry bag is a very respectable thing). Needless to say, I was the biggest challenge to my mom's value system.

Help came to her in form of a standard three Hindi lesson that comprised of a story called 'Apna Kaam Swayam Karo' (Clean your own Crap). While the details of the story have faded from the memory, the lesson remains as fresh. Mom made sure, that it would not fade away - Do not leave your work onto others. Even though we had help at home I was supposed to do my own chores. The same set of outdated values that she learnt from her folks. So I grew up basically cursing my fate, trying to do my chores and shirking away from them whenever possible, convinced that as soon as I would escape my mother's tyranny I would live like a pig.

However, God has a terrible sense of humour. Growing up, is basically about being a butt of this sense of humour. It was when I first escaped home to live in a hostel that the curse of my conditioning dawned upon me. I made the dreadful discovery that I had not escaped the family affliction. I too hated mess. I continued to be lazy about cleaning, however I now realised was that while it was fine for me to create a mess as long as someone else was around to pick it up, but, once there was no one to clean it, the mess got onto my nerves. For me to be completely relaxed I needed a clean place!

My perfectly normal gene had been rendered defective with constant conditioning.

My life was never the same after that. There has always been that tussle between giving in to my inherent laziness and to keep my environment the way I have been used to having it.... clean.

When I moved to US, the 'Apna kaam swayam karo' motto took on a whole new meaning. Actually, it is a very Gandhian thing... as they say 'Majboori ka naam Mahatma Gandhi' [loosely translates to 'Necessity thy name greatness]. There is no other option. In addition to the personal chores now one had to run a house. In the early days when I shared an apartment with friends everything was great fun. Even cleaning was fun. We would spend every Saturday morning scrubbing away at the bathroom floors, vacuuming the house, cleaning the kitchen and getting everything in order. After that we would venture out to Olive Garden for a good meal and then for a long drive into the countryside. Doesn't that sound too good? Now, even I wonder if we actually did enjoy the cleaning or is my memory coloured by the good food and good drive that followed it.

However, as time passed cleaning was becoming a bigger and bigger and finally a monstrous chore. Busy schedules would leave me too tired to clean and a dirty house sat on my conscience like an overweight chipmunk. Finally a couple of weeks back, while scrubbing the bathroom floor I decided I had had enough. I was not born to clean bathrooms I declared to myself. Time has come for me to relieve myself of my janitor duties and the conditioning of my upbringing... I called the cleaning services.

The first time Cleaning Unlimited came to clean my house it was a disaster. The truth is that the maternal OCD genes were just dormant not dead. When I walked into the house after the cleaning, the first thing I did was lift things off the floor and scrutinize corners to make sure they had been cleaned properly and then threw a fit to find that they hadn't (and later went faint when I realised how much I really am like my mother).

The second time, they promised me a thorough job and truly, when I walked in this time, my house was sparkling clean. And then I felt it....yes, the guilt. The guilt that someone had actually walked in and seen my mess. The mess that I zealously clear away if I am expecting someone in my house. Not only had someone seen my mess they even cleaned it for me. The guilt of having shirked from good old, hallowed hard work. It made me feel less virtuous somehow. The 'Apna Kaam Swayam Karo' motto flashed before my eyes in a manner that is remniscent of the way the weighing scale flashes before your eyes after a large bowl of decadent chocolate sundae with whipped cream.

Today was the fourth time that my house was cleaned by someone else. I must confess, the guilt is somewhat ebbing as the benefits of the exercise are showing up. I find much more time for more constructive things. I don't spend the entire week-end doing chores (or feeling guilty about not doing them) and feel far more at ease with my constantly neat and clean living space.

Those annoying words still flash before my eyes. But slowly and steadily they are altering. Let me see what I read now..

Apana Kaam Swayam ....... Kyon Karo?

P.S Sorry Gandhiji, I do think you are out of fashion now.

The God in Small Things

Ritu Chandra — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 00:13:25 EDT

I went for a walk to the waterfront today. Ever since, I moved to New Jersey, the waterfront has been a high-point of my summer life. The delightful discovery of its existence right behind my apartment complex was a moment of serendipity. The waterfront is a cosy little park, hidden behind a giant industrial storage area. The 'water' it faces is a narrow causeway that is used to ferry ships across to the various ports that dot this region of Jersey. It is a quiet place, with a small deck, some recreational facilities and a walking path alongside the reeds that mark the shores of the waterway. An evening walk at the water-front is the best way to get my spirits soaring and my friends..... smirking.

"So, did you visit your nala recently?"
"It's not a nala, it is a waterway"
"Are you considering cross-channel swimming?[smirk, smirk]"

The modest nature of its existence, its limited clientele and my exuberance over something this modest is the main cause of mirth amongst the blimps I consider as friends. My humble waterfront is no Atlantic City boardwalk after all.

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Robin Bhai is my dear 'internet' friend and fellow music lover. He and I have spent many delightful keystrokes debating over our musical proclivities. We usually arrive at a somewhat amicable agreement on most points... except one.

"Jaidev is far superior to Laxmikant Pyarelal (LP), Robin Bhai"
"

How? Jaidev has the music for barely 50 films to his credit, LP have 500."

"But the 400 of those films have pedestrian music"

"Yet they have 100 worthwhile ones. That is still more than Jaidev’s entire output"
"

Where is 'Allah Tero Naam' or 'Bansuriya Man Har le Gayi' in that count?"

"How many times can you admire a single dazzling goldfish in your little pond? The larger lake throbbing with marine life is likely to give more pleasure.

"Not if 90% those fishes are a dull grey in colour"

"One needs to appreciate the sheer effort required to build an edifice of 4000 songs"

"I can acknowledge it but I only appreciate genius"

“But there is a genius in numbers”

"Quality"

"Hits"

"Class"

“Elitist”

Thump

Alt-Ctrl-Del [That was Robin Bhai btw]

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My visit to the Valley of Flowers was my first real brush with spiritual India. The Himalayas are home to sadhus and babas of various hues. Little shrines dot the mountains and devoted men of God look after these shrines with an asceticism that seems to flow into anyone who spends time at those heights. I had a pleasant encounter with a twinkly- eyed baba who looks after a small hanuman shrine at the entrance to the valley. He invited us to his tent for a visit. I spent a rewarding hour sitting around the fire, sipping sweet hot tea and listening to fascinating tales of the mysticism of the mountains. As we left, I made a modest offering at his altar and my gesture was met with heartfelt wishes for my well-being. I came away feeling richer.

Two days later I am down in Haridwar, just in time to catch the famous aarti on the banks of the Ganga. Chaos, crowds, confusion. Someone pulls at my hand. "Pooja karni hai madam", another man jostles with him "aap log mere saath aaiye madam". A third man, a fourth, a fifth.... 'Madam!’… ‘Sir!’... 'Hello’... I want to scream.

Jostling with the crowds I find a footing on the banks of the river just as the aarti starts. A spectacular moment unfolds before my eyes. The fire in the lamps held aloft by the priests light up the dark waters of the river in a celestial glow. With the aarti over, I put my sentiments and some money into a little pooja contraption ready to offer it to the river. I reverentially hand it to the pandit who has finally won the battle to our clientele.

'Sirf itne rupaiye madam?". [Is that all mam?]

As I let my contraption with the little diya float down the river, the only thing that throbs in my mind - How will we get out of this chaos?

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The aarti on the Ganga at Haridwar is a much sought after experience. The five minutes during which it is performed are undoubtedly magical and uplifting. However, those five minutes of a higher experience come packaged with fifty five minutes of strife, chaos and frustration. The effect is all but diluted. In direct contrast, the little shrine up in the mountains does not provide any spectacle, only quiet reflection. Yet, the serenity and sense of purity surrounding the place strengthens its impact. The experience lingers till long after.

The tussle is between the established and the obscure, the grandiose and the unassuming. The established side of the line packs any well known entity(place, monument, art, idea etc.) that has built a reputation based upon the testimony of a huge section of the population. The ‘obscure’ comprises of little known entities that offer limited but potent enjoyment. The famous, is usually famous because there is some larger than life element associated with it. The reputation of the 'established' is in essence its aura. For e.g visitors to Taj Mahal are of three kinds - first that admire the Taj, second who admire the fact that they visited the Taj and the third who don't care. The famous usually attracts all these kinds of people. And that is what proves counter-productive for them.

The profusion of humanity at the doorstep of such entities dulls their aura. When so many people jostle for a share of the pie, everyone gets only a minuscule nibble. Little known places on the other hand hide only a slice of life, but to the traveler that seeks them, they generously hand over the entire slice. These places offer a sense of exclusivity, ownership and discovery. The experience is unadulterated and satiating.

I often wonder, if the sense of discovery of a modest entity is so rewarding, imagine the exhilaration of the explorer who discovers a grand edifice. How would Hiram Bingham have felt when he discovered the grand Machu Picchu or what was Neil Armstrong's state of mind when he set foot on the moon. (We all do know how Archimedes felt in his moment of Eureka in the bath tub). The first sip of the nectar that the cosmos offers to those who discover its secrets must have nirvanic potency. Yet, this effect starts ebbing with each subsequent sip and for long established wonders; it is nothing but stale wine.

For many who derive pleasure from reading, art, traveling or discussing ideas, evaluation is an enjoyable exercise. Take for instance the Desert Island concept. The process of choosing a set of artists whose work you would like to be marooned with provides an interesting insight into your own proclivities. What will sustain you for longer? A set of ten works all rated 5/10, or only one that is rated 9/10? Which artist do you rate higher? The one who creates a large body of work with more indifferent and some excellent output or the one who creates a smaller body of work mainly with excellent output?. Will you give credit to an artist for being prolific or will you take credit away for indiscriminate prolificacy?

Over the years I have discovered I belong to the tribe that gravitates towards the unassuming. I will gladly choose the one 9/10 work and devour it to it's minutest nuance. The artists I revere are the ones have a smaller but individualistic repertoire. The places I frequent are far from the maddening crowd.

At the end of the day, a rose in the garden is magnificent in its preening glory yet it has to be shared with the world , the small wild-flower that pops it’s head out from the undergrowth, is all but mine. There is a certain romance in obscurity, the romance of discovery. The world might run after the rose, but the nectar in my life comes from these tiny wild flowers.

My God - he lives in the small things.

Aarushi Talwar Murder Case: The Truth Locked In

Ritu Chandra — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 03:58:40 EDT

After months of capturing the media headlines, the Aarushi murder case has finally seen some answers. Dr Rajesh Talwar has been released and the three accused arrested. Despite the many versions of truth making its way to the media, the real truth is still at large and the motive still remains hazy, the answers provided merely serve as a launching pad for more questions.

From the day this tragic murder came to limelight it has been a whodunit that would not feel out of place in an Agatha Christie thriller. A young girl murdered in her own bedroom, parents sleep through the murder, man-servant missing only to be found dead two days later on the terrace of the same home and father arrested as a prime suspect. Unfortunately in the three month handling of the case both the Noida police and CBI have more than proved they are no Hercule Poirots. The case has seen one goof-up after the other. And even as the proceedings near a close there is no Poirot style neat tying up of the facts. Only a presentation with many dangling loose ends.

For those who grew up on a staple of Enid Blyton books, Mr Goon of Five Findouters is a memorable character. The bumbling village constable who always is beaten by the children in solving the crime. The buffoonery of Noida police in the recent past has been of Mr Goonesque proportions, only the gravity of their blunders is far from the realm of children's fiction. In their over zealous drive to crack the case, they first jumped the gun by naming Hemraj as the prime suspect, only to shamefacedly admit two days later to the discovery of his corpse on the terrace. Obviously, the terrace is too far placed from the scene of crime to need checking. Soon after they made another breakthrough by arresting Dr Talwar and coming up with a cock and bull story that would put all C-grade Bollywood pot-boilers to shame. Father has affair, daughter does not approve, daughter has affair with servant to spite father, father catches them in an "objectionable but not compromising position" and murders both of them in a fit of passion. While all this drama unfolds, mother sleeps peacefully in her bedroom. In true Bollywood tradition, Noida police's crack at the case begs you to leave your brains behind.

The lack of sensitivity and accountability in our current world is all pervading. The Noida police's pot-boiler script was lapped up instantly by the electronic media and made into a complete tear-jerker film, replete with dialogue-baazi and songs. Anyone who has caught the coverage of the case on TV would have cringed at the cheap manner in which the media 'bollywoodized' this human tragedy.

The serious aspersions that the police cast on the character of the child started another circus. The police comes up with a theory, the media adds their own colourful yarn, the blogosphere intellectualizes it and soon there are reports of Arushi being a nymphomaniac and the parents being a part of a wife-swapping cult. Where is the dignity for the dead? If it takes a procession of school-children (from Aarushi's school) to shake the adult world to its senses, it is indeed a sad situation. Freedom of press is a powerful tool, but when that power crosses the line, it is time to sit back re-consider our liberties.

The CBI, admittedly has handled the case with far more restraint. They have succeeded to a great degree in keeping the media circus at bay, yet their deconstruction of the events leaves a lot of loose ends. Did Krishna and Raj Kumar murder Arushi merely to get back to Dr Talwar for his high-handedness? Is that a motive enough? Do these individuals have a history of violent behaviour? Not all people commit murder merely because they got a dressing down from their boss. There has been no mention of the sexual assault angle before. Did Aarushi's post-mortem reveal any such assault?

The stand vis-a-vis Dr Talwar is even more intriguing. The CBI, to note, does not absolve Dr Talwar of the crime, it is merely letting him off for the lack of evidence. What does that mean? If they do not absolve him of the crime where does he fit into their reconstruction of the event? CBI is mysteriously silent on that one.

The position of the parents in this case is truly tragic. To have slept peacfully as their child was murdered in the next room is something that will haunt them for long. Yet, based on what has been made public, there are certain sub-texts that are slightly disconcerting. Going through the details of the case, a small seemingly innocuous fact suddenly pops out.

"The CBI had stated during Rajesh Talwar's bail hearing that Arushi's bedroom was locked every night....Dr Nupur had the keys"

The bed-room was locked every night? Provided that is true, doesn't it seem a little strange? Modern homes are cosy apartments where safety within the house is rarely a concern. Yet in that cosy apartment a girl is murdered as her parents in the other room have no clue. Did the Talwars fear such an eventuality that made them lock their daughter up in her room every night? Did their actions have any other motivation other than (fatefully justified) paranoia for their child's safety? If parents need to lock their children into the bedroom every night, it is a scary reflection on the level of security in our society.

With CBI coming out with the arrests, this case is on it's way out of the public domain. Quite like the earlier Nithari murder cases, the media and the world will soon move on to more exciting things. The victims however, will only get justice when the truth comes out from under the lock and key.

The Heat, the Mosquitoes and New York Times

Ritu Chandra — Wed, 2 Jul 2008 01:07:53 EDT

Ever since I started working in New York city (over a year back), my disposition in relation to this aspect of my life has been grumpy at best. Here I am, a passionate crusader for the country-living-high-thinking kind of life-style, being thrust into the rat race of the financial nerve-centre of the world is disconcerting. The Big Apple has a remote chance of tempting me to bite. After all playing a daily dodge-me with the teeming mass of people that descend upon you in a frontal attack is hardly enticing right?. Neither is chasing 'walk’ signs at pedestrian crossings, running up stalled escalators or spending an hour every morning admiring the environs of New Jersey turnpike(NJTP) as your bus crawls along the serpentine queue into the City. Contrast this to the beautiful vistas of spring flowers, fall colours and rolling fields that are the staple on any kind of commute in suburban Pennsylvania. Think I am complaining too much? Check this out

My commute now

My commute in Pennsylvania

Yet, the City(New York i.e) has a slimy way of creeping up from behind to entrap the unsuspecting outsider in it's web. Take for example, the New York subway. A subterranean ant colony of humanity. However, within it’s folds hides the wayside musician, doing his thing, completely oblivious to the indifferent pattering of feet crossing him every second. Once in a while he will play the most compelling piece you ever heard. Sometimes you discover that ‘perfectest’ linger-in-your-mouth Tiramisu in an innocuous hole-in-the-wall shop down the block. At other times it is an impromptu street show by a maverick on the pavement. Then there are the occasional newsworthy scares like a fire outside Grand Central Station and the ensuing excitement (and lots of stories to tell people later. You know the I-was-there-on-that-day kind of stories). That is fun. The only exciting thing that ever happened in PA was a convention of Jehovah’s witnesses.

So as you see, the City's guiles are numerous. The indifference, pace and godlessness of the teeming metropolis throws up a surprising counter-balance of culture, humanity, passion and sometimes a wanton display of human quirks.

So where were we? Yes, wanton human quirks. It was at Times Square a couple of days back. I was footing my way from work towards the Port Authority bus terminal (from where I catch my scenic-NJTP-route bus back home everyday). Times Square was jam-packed, a little more than usual. "These tourists", I muttered grumpily to myself. "I should have taken the subway". With summer one is tempted to take advantage of the beautiful weather and walk down to the bus terminal. However the route to Port Authority is through the quagmire of Times Square. With the recent devaluation of the dollar, life has become very tough for us poor country-bumpkins-in-a-big-city. Now tourists are everywhere. At the bus terminals, peering down from their top-tier perches on city line buses (making you feel like an animal in the zoo). You dodge them in trains, on escalators and on the roads.

Tough, as I said, for only thing we train to dodge in PA is the occasional angry goose pecking at the legs. One is not prepared for handling this deluge of the human species. It was only the other day that I had a run-in with an extremely endearing Japanese variety in the subway. She was taking a video film balanced on the narrow escalator that leads down to the platform. I am proud to have provided her with a wonderful panorama of expressions for her film. Starting with amazement (WTF, a film here!), to urgency(my train.. it’s here), frustration and impatience (get out of the way, I need to get to it) and finally urghhhh... resignation (the train has gone). I could not disappoint her, after all I still retain all my Indian ‘Mehmaan bhagwaan hai’ values.

I digress, as usual. To get back, Times square was very crowded that day. Inching forward towards the next block, I realized it wasn't the poor tourists this time. 8th Avenue was closed to traffic. A lot of flashing lights and crowds. I hope not an accident, I prayed. However, as I neared the crossing I noticed something strange. Everyone was looking heaven-wards. “Oh my God, I am sure it is another plane.. damn this stupid city”. I looked upwards duly expecting a fireball. I was relieved .The sky was clear. No signs of airplanes. Phew!. (We have to note that however, important and enthused you might feel narrating first-hand tales of disasters in comfy desi family rooms, it is never as exciting to be there at the time of action).

I steered my vision in the direction the crowd was pointing. It was the fifty two floors tall New York Times building that seemed to be the object of their attention. My eyes darted around for a bit and then suddenly settled in on a figure..... a man. Yes, a man hanging on to the building some half-way up. “What in the good world is this?” I wondered. He seemed to be stuck there. Who was he? A window cleaner who got a little unlucky? Someone escaping some problem in the building? Who? A little asking around brought to light a story that could only be staged in NYC. This is how it goes...

This is Alain Robert, a stuntman with a fetish for climbing buildings, a Frenchman to the core, he thinks buildings are like mountains, only difference between the two is that new buildings get constructed regularly (How perspicuous!).

For a while he has had the realization that the heat in the South of France is getting unbearable. And no, it’s not only because Bollywood with all the B(ee)s(and fly Amar Singh) have descended en masse in Cannes. Nopes. Even the Ms Non-Recyclable Plastic Rai and her Ms World contestants know it is the green-house gases that cause it. I must digress, (yet again) to add that ‘Global Warming’ seems to have replaced ‘World Peace’ as the sure shot winner answer for all beauty pageant wannabes.

Getting back, the US ofcourse, takes the blame for all ills ailing mankind. Esp. from the French point of view. Think of it, not only did they pick the most un-evolved item of the French cuisine, the pommes de terre frites or pomme frites, (which are not French anyway) and branded them as France’s most identifiable contribution to the world cuisine… the ubitiqous French fries. Which self-respecting Frenchman would tolerate that? And now, they are adding ‘gas’ to the fire through these green-houses gases. Something obviously needs to be done about it.

Alain decided he had to climb a building to bring awareness. He has been climbing all over the world. Sometimes he succeeds and sometimes he is yanked off before he can ascend and other times he has been arrested and beaten up. Yet he persists. He is a professional afterall and these are nothing but hazards of the job. His latest fancy was the NYT building. It was easy to scale and a 'green' building. A clever choice. Ask any celebrity and they’ll tell you that they fantasize climbing over the media’s head. In this case he literally did it.

So one fine day he started to climb.

The same routine again. After a bit, he was discovered, the police called and a welcoming committee was waiting for him at the top of the building.

His act performed, Alain happily made his way to cool his heels in Jail.

He was done by mid-morning.

But that is not the end of the story.

Another man. Renaldo Clarke a denizen of the City . He had spent a particularly restless night punching mosquitoes in his Brooklyn quarters. The natural side-effect of heat is mosquitoes. Right? And what do mosquitoes carry? Malaria. So Mr Clarke had dreamt a dream, he wanted to do something about the mosquitoes of Brooklyn and in countering the Malaria they spread. He too wanted to climb a building to bring awareness.

Clarke watches the afternoon news. He sees Alain Robert waving into the screen. Holy heavens. This guy has stolen the march on him. "Damn these French. Even after we have declared ‘Freedom’ from their fries and threatened to return the Statue of Liberty, they continue to be a nuisance." Clarke had had his fill. And thus, at 6:00 PM he started his ascent.

When I looked up from my vantage point of 8th Avenue at around 7:00 PM, he had made his way up to the 30th floor. But now he seemed stationary. Probably tired? Nothing was moving up there. Down below there was a lot of movement. My country genes held me there for a while, wide-eyed and mesmerized. But then suddenly something within jerked me up. Knock! Knock! It is close to 7:00. You have already missed the 7:00 PM bus; you don’t want to miss the 7:20 bus, do you?. The charming NJTP awaits your passage. Get going!

So, I disengaged, and walked away…. Just like a New Yorker.

As my bus emerged from the bowels of Port Authority, the NY Times building loomed up in front. And there he was, that small figure, hanging on for his dear life. He hadn’t moved an inch since I had left. As the bus wound out of the city into Lincoln Tunnel, I wondered what his fate would be. I was slightly perturbed with the sense detachment that seemed to have taken root within me, but then I also started perceiving a new sensation, a gut feeling that told me he would get there. For at the end of the day he belongs to the City. The spirit of the City resides within him. A little heat, a few mosquitoes, a dream, some action and tons of tenacity….. That’s all it takes to get scale a height here.

New York City, it spins it’s web tighter and tighter; there is no escape.

Post Script
Mr Clarke did make it to the top, totally exhausted, but victorious. After his moment of fame in front of the cameras, where he revealed his concern for Malaria, he too went to join his French friend to cool down in jail. They were both freed a couple of days later.
Photographs courtesy New York Times