Desicritics Category: Culture: Dance

Understanding Myself in the US

Chaitanya S — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 02:35:39 EDT

The past year in the US have made me believe I’m God. And by God, I’m not talking about my divine experiences of floating in air or walking on water by the grace of the Holy Spirit called Smirnoff. That’s a different story and hard to pen down since all my friends have a different take on that.

The cause of this godly sensation is because I have read in the Bible that 'You shall not put God to the test’. Well paying heed to the Holy book, my university did not test me with a single exam this semester. My belief in my divine abilities were confirmed when my friend heard about the situation in my school and commented in a tone of reverence, “You are in heaven, dude”. Duh, of course, you mere mortal, where else does God reside anyway!

This conversation took my mind to one of my favorite songs “stairway to heaven”. All I want to say is that if you want to take the stairway to a university in heaven like mine, I’d recommend you slog your ass off under the supervision of a “verny” devil in hell called Mumbai University for 4 years and bear the scourge called Mechanical engineering. Toss in another 3 years of working in the city and you’ve won the devil’s sympathy to be granted parole in heaven for 2 years.

“I never knew my first time would be this good”, I said as I handed the pretty blond girl some bills. She gave a smile and said “Come again” before handing me my denims, belt and shoes. I gave her one more look as I walked out of the door feeling rejuvenated. After almost 5 months of self control I needed this. The urge to resist temptation is too great for a single young man to bear. I’d made a promise to my soul before coming here that I would not indulge myself in such acts. But some pleasures come at a price and every person has to pay a price for that. For someone in a distant land, such prices are usually paid either in cash or card.

I’m not ashamed to say my friend had recommended the place to me. He said it was where students usually went to seek “solace”. As I entered and looked around, I knew it would be addictive. Everything about the place was enticing. “Retail therapy never killed anyone”, I smirked as I came out swinging my shopping bags.

I was chatting with my friend the other day and she proclaimed something on the lines of “dancing is more of a mental skill than a physical one”. Now before I contest this statement, let me clarify that I suffer from a syndrome called “dancing dyslexia”. I just cannot read the steps which are being taught. I shamelessly admit that have I fractured my ankle while learning to dance. And it wasn't even break dancing (pun intended). It was jive. The only person who showed no hint of sympathy was my dance partner. To her the “accident” was a blessing in disguise as she had already suffered sore toes because of my flat footed stomping. Also, she almost had her arm ripped off a couple of times and narrowly missed crashing into a pillar when I spun her round.

But before I dwell too much in the dark ages of my youth, back to the mental aspect of dancing. Well I believe if dancing is such a mental activity, Einstein would have been an award winning choreographer. Also, Shakira would have made an amazing physics professor. Not that you’ll ever hear a whimper of a complaint for the latter. Some purists may argue that Shakira lacks the communication skills and knowledge required to teach the subject. Such purists have definitely not attended lectures in Mumbai University then.

I’ve been here for quite a while now and have been picking up some local terminologies. Americans have a habit of saying “I’m good” akin to our “No, thank you”. For example if you are asked by a host “do you want another drink and pastry”, the polite thing to do is smile sweetly and say is “I’m good”. I know I don’t do that for such invitations, but it’s just an example.

Now in my native country, the new age national language is “Hinglish”. Whilst conversing in it, at times you have no idea whether you are conversing in English or Hindi. So saying “I’m good”, if not interpreted correctly, gets a look of scorn from the conservatives, quaking in the boots by the conformists and a whoop of joy from members of the Indian Gay Society (or whatever it’s called).

Had a kind Indian lady ask me the other day, “so beta, do you want me to help you find a nice Indian bride after your graduation”. Instinctively I gave a sweet smile and replied seconds before I saw palpitations for the first time in life, “thanks auntyji, I’m good”.

Movie Review: Bhoothnath & Desi Little Miss Sunshines

Deepti Lamba — Mon, 12 May 2008 12:39:16 EDT

Here is the thing about the much talked about movie - Bhoothnath – Amitabh Bachchan did a great role as the ghost obsessed with his house, Juhi Chawla acted well as the 'much suffering always on the move' wife, Banku was the mischievous imp and Shahrukh Khan overacted as usual, while managing to look suave in his guest appearance but it was watching little tots dressed as hip hoppers and cheerleaders or little Fergies in a song that made me shift uneasily in my seat.

Like any other parent, I am used to seeing my little daughter grab my purse, wear my sandals and act like a grown up, but if she happens to gyrate and shake her hips like Mallika Sherawat or shimmy like the cheerleaders nowadays at the IPL cricket matches, I would hang my head in shame as a parent.

But it seems this Bollywood virus is quite contagious amongst the current breed of parents. There are specific dance instructors who hold workshops where tots are taught Bollywood dance steps, wear skanky clothes and perform for the proud parents.

It seemed the audience found more reason to say Aaeeyo when Anthony, the street bum, took a swig of alcohol but no reason to blink seeing little tots do dance steps that screamed sexuality loud and clear. They seemed more offended by drunken behavior.

There is much reason for us to be disturbed if such trends are allowed to take root. We used to find little girls dressed as little Britneys to be horrific but now it’s being promoted in India as well. Where is our censor board? Where are the women organizations screaming morality and claiming this is against Indian values this time around? Is no one going to protest that we are taking away their childhoods too soon? Are we to have desi ‘Miss Little Sunshines’ soon?

For Christ sakes - eight year olds wearing torn leggings, skanky tube tops and minis that barely cover their bottoms is not okay whether in a kids movie or in adult movies.

While leaving the theater, I wondered why otherwise such a sweet movie left such a bitter taste in my mouth. Take that song out and the movie would be a pleasure to take the tots to.

How Wikipedia Conquered my Reality Soap/TV Addiction

Kim — Sat, 26 Apr 2008 00:08:29 EDT

I was typing a comment on Uma's post A Bad Habit Called A Reality Soap and realised I had written a comment long enough to be a post :)

I realised I was watching most of the reality shows I liked because I liked seeing who would get eliminated next.

I was lucky, because most of the reality shows I watch are the American ones which come to India a couple of months after they are released in the US. So after losing a couple of hours spent unproductively watching reality shows, I realised that just checking the Wikipedia entry for that season cured me of it.

Wikipedia lets me know who got eliminated and why and who won & thats it, no longer any compulsion to watch the show. Thats because my trigger to watch most of them was the suspense and surprise.

With my location change and different seasons playing in different countries on different channels, I was getting confused with sequence of events on serials like Lost, Prison Break, Desperate Housewives. Wikipediaalso helped me catch up on all the seasons of Lost with 3 hours of reading. Same for the other serials too.

Of course there are the shows like So you think you can dance? which I watch for the performances but I'm not too interested in the results show the next day because I know I will figure out next week who has been dropped anyway.

I used to be a huge fan of American Idol till Constantine, Latoya, Jennifer Hudson, Melinda, Daughtry consecutively kept getting out way before their time while lesser performers were still kept on. I just stopped watching each season when my favorites got out because I no longer felt it was worth watching. Proof of the flawed voting system is that only 2 of the winners of this show in its 6 seasons - Kelly Clarkson (Season 1)and Carrie Underwood (Season 4) - have received commercial success while many of the finalists who were dropped on the side have had a better success rate. Season 7 which is currently on does not have a single finalist who seemed interesting enough for me to follow the series and Simon is now more obtuse than brilliant, so I just watch it intermittently.

With Rockstar INXS and Supernova, I had slightly better luck. My favorites made it to the final 3 each season although they lost out to the person I least liked from the entire bunch both times. While I have reconsidered my opinion on J D Fortune, I still think Dilana was the best of the second bunch.

I used to love The Amazing Race till it started blurring the lines with Fear Factor. When competitors on The Amazing Race had to start eating weird stuff it grossed me out too much to follow it.

Each of my favorite reality shows/contests gave me its own reason to stop me from being addicted and obsessing about watching it on time every week. The downside is that I seem to have replaced it with an addiction to Wikipedia.

A Bad Habit Called A Reality Soap

Uma Ranganathan — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 03:12:25 EDT

Years ago, when I started watching the “Bold and the Beautiful” and got unexpectedly hooked onto it I hit upon a slick explanation. I happened to be in Germany at the time and even I began to believe that the reason I was offering to others for the pains I took to organize my lunch break (if not my entire morning) around this truly moronic soap opera set in California was because I wanted to improve my working knowledge of German.

Never having known me to speak anything but the truth (especially when I’m a bit high on whiskey or red wine) people believed me. Of course. The same way that I know you are now going to believe me when I tell you that the only reason I’ve been glued to this reality show on Zee Marathi for the past several weeks, a dance competition featuring a host of ambitious young contortionists, is that it’s my way of bonding with the maid whose usually surly mood gives way to giggles and chatter while big and small bodies fly, jump and skitter across a glittering, discofied stage. Friends who occasionally stay overnight on a Wednesday or Thursday have gently pointed out to me that they’ve seen me watch the show even when S is on leave, to which I respond that it is actually to improve my working knowledge of Marathi that I sit up glued to the idiot box, in the interests of establishing better rapport with S, with whom my relationship hits an abysmal low from time to time. Oh well.

All I can say is that within a short spell of time I went from not knowing who the hell Sachin Pilgaonkar was to looking forward to chuckling over his deity pose during the entire show. Like all fictitious soaps, what I call “reality soaps” too are about highs and lows, about heartaches and happiness and you get to almost feel that the guy who just danced like spiderman suffering from manic convulsions, and whose act was followed by choice titbits from his childhood offered by his beaming parents, is someone you’ve known for the last fifty years (even if the guy happens to be only eighteen).

And so over a period of time I got to know Sadrick (yes that’s how he spells his name I believe) and Sukhanya and their dance guru Phulva, and Ajinkya and a host of others whom I would have been so happy to invite to tea on a Sunday evening (which is a safe thing to think about since this is an activity I never indulge in anyway). Sachinji, or Mahaguru as he likes to be called, presiding over the whole spectacle, self important smiles and all somehow – and most unexpectedly - wormed his way into and ensconced himself in a corner of my heart without my intending to let him in.

All of this brings me to a pertinent question, which is, why the hell am I writing this piece! It is not to criticize reality shows as such. If I wanted to criticize anything I would bring the hammer down on the works, the entire entertainment industry of today including the ad world and all its pretensions. But then, neither do I want to defend reality shows. That would be even worse than raging against them.

No I am actually wondering what it is that hooks people like me onto the most soppy TV soaps and the most ridiculous reality shows which make you laugh for the wrong reasons. We can forget about quality. We can forget about the deeper perspective. Forget just about everything and you’re left with something like habit. Addiction. Smoke a cigarette on three occasions and if you’re unlucky you become a smoker for life. Same goes for alcohol, for drugs, for anything, even the people you marry. You often don’t live with the person you’ve married out of love or respect for your partner. You can’t get away because you’re addicted. Addicted to what they offer you, to their presence, whatever. A partner or anyone you live with often becomes a bad habit. And a bad habit is hard to shake off.

I should consider myself lucky in terms of Eka Peksha Ek. Soon it will come to an end. The winner will be felicitated with much fanfare this coming Sunday, and people will laugh, cry, congratulate the winning candidate, commiserate with those who didn’t make it and everyone will go home feeling like something important just happened. I sure as hell will miss old Sachin but on the other hand, the end of the series will free up two of my evenings again, to read, to listen to music and do other stuff which is currently on hold. I’ll be even able to watch some good TV programs for a change, maybe - such as a film on the mating rituals of whales or killer ants on Discovery Channel. Only till the next silly soap or reality show turns up of course.

Child Artists - Prodigies Or Fodder For Pedophiles?

Kim — Sun, 23 Mar 2008 00:22:35 EDT

There are a surfeit of reality programs/contests geared for kids on TV these days. There are also a number of kids who act/dance in TV serials and movies.

I have a few basic issues with child performers and their overall development as human beings, after being thrust into the limelight at a young age. But at the end of the day, their parents are their custodians should be taking care of the mental development of their children.

Coming to the singing and dancing contests, most of the judges do try to be gentle with the children, but some of them are quite rude and fancy themselves as the Indian answer to Simon Cowell. This is terrible for the self esteem of young children who have not yet developed the coping mechanisms of dealing with negative comments directed at them (especially on National TV)

A friend of mine in the advertising industry, told me of an audition they had called for, a week ago in Bombay. It was on a week day during school timings. More than 5000 parents turned up with their children. Obviously the company could not see them all on the same day. The parents whose children did not get a chance on Day 1 were prepared to come back every day of the next week and longer, if it meant getting their child a chance to audition. Not a chance to act, not a chance to be in a movie, but the chance to audition. They were willing to have their child miss school for over a week for a chance to audition for a silent role in an advertisement.

My mom would have turned down Karan Johar or Yash Chopra themselves, even if they had guaranteed me or my siblings a leading role in their upcoming movie, if it meant missing even half an hour of school.

Parents these days are trying to push their children into the limelight too soon. We do not have much data on grown up child stars in India. But look at Hollywood. With the exception of the Olsen twins (who also had their weight problems) which of the child stars has emerged as a balanced human being ?

In spite of all this background, my main issue is with the kind of performances that some of these children are being coerced into displaying here in India.

They are dancing to item number songs. 6-12 year olds dancing to the steps of Helen or even worse - Rakhi Sawant and her ilk. Rakhi is old enough and smart enough to know what kind of effect her jhatak mataks & clothes can have on the adult male population. What do these little ones know and why should they know it so early in their life?

Look at the kid in the "cutting-shutting" paint ad. She was memorable for being what a normal 7 year old child would be. So why is the media trying to con us into believing that 6 year olds are old enough to be dancing as vamps and item girls? Why are they sexualizing young children?

The US has a long history of child beauty pageants and an equally long history of pedophiles who follow the child beauty pageant circuits. Mental health experts almost all agree, that exposing young children to the sordid world behind the glamor is completely unhealthy for their well being. And the end result of making children dress, dance and act like adults makes them easier targets for pedophiles.

Agreed we do not have a well documented history of Indian pedophile cases. The only ones that make the news are when foreigners abuse children under the guise of orphanages or children's homes. But that does not mean that pedophilia doesn't exist in India.

The actions of these children is perfect fodder for the appetites of pedophiles. They even look obscene to the general public (I hope its to the general public and not just a minority of people like me)

So why are these children doing this? Is it pressure from parents or from the media to be all grown up and dance like a vamp? Or is it because the Shiamak Davar dance classes makes them seem OK? - His dances choreographed for children are reasonably age appropriate, but he sometimes has a couple of children dancing with the older members of the troupe and performing the same steps as the 20+ year old troupe members.

Fortunately Javed Jaffery tried to bring about a voice of sanity in an episode that I watched today of Sansui Boogie Woogie - he is the first Indian celebrity who I have heard talking about age appropriate steps. But he wasn't strong enough in condemning this practice. As the celebrity anchor on the biggest launch pad for dance talent in India, he could afford to be much more stronger on his disapproval of some of the steps.

I hope parents begin to see sense some time soon. They are always going to try to live out their own dreams through their children - that isn't going to change any time soon. But I do hope they stop turning their children into adults before their time.

A Visit to Karachi's Red Light Area

Rumana Husain — Sun, 9 Mar 2008 11:44:56 EDT

Karachi has been called the ‘city of lights.’ One imagines that it flaunts this title on its breast for perhaps its well-lit boulevards, streets and alleys or its obvious wealth of the wealthy. At another level, despite its statistics for robberies, car thefts, homicides, suicides, guns, poverty, illiterates and myriad other problems, the title is given because of the phantom of a grand, spirited, wholesome experience of living that it offers.

Perhaps like any other city globally, the city of Karachi has its own special zone that houses the ‘red light area’ which has thrived on Napier Road even before this country was born. Unlike the Hira Mandi, which was the residence of the courtesans and the prostitutes of Moghul Lahore, Karachi’s Napier Road has never had the airs of a seat of culture. Hira Mandi continues to exist as the country’s most well-known prostitutes’ quarter. Napier Road is just one of its many counterparts. But perhaps what distinguishes these mohallas – from Lucknow to Lahore – from the rest of the world, are the singing and dancing girls. They not only provide enticement, but also entertainment and diversion to their male clients.

The days of the courtesans of yore have long passed. Both the physical grandeur of the Lucknow quarters of Hadi Ruswa’s Umrao Jan Ada, and the art and craft of the courtesans; gentle manners, etiquette and appreciation of the fine arts of poetry, music and dance, exist no more. Nevertheless, it is important to remember that both Hira Mandi and Napier Road have provided the Pakistan film industry with several luminaries.

For this story one had to go through an extensive rigmarole of connections, backings-out, denials, temper outbursts, dead-ends as well as congenial but cagey meetings.

It was obvious right from the onset that this was no simple assignment. A ‘link’ to Napier Road had to be found as one could not just end up at some tawaif’s doorstep and expect her to narrate her story. True, one was filled with trepidation by this visit to the mohalla which no princes and nobles ever visited in search of learning etiquette and the arts, but which nevertheless creates curiosity and concern.

The rendezvous with an ‘insider’ is set for 4.00 p.m. “This is the stretch between the Nigar and Kumar cinema houses, and I will be waiting for you in front of a medical store,” he confirms on the phone. I hope that the man would be true to his word and this is no chicanery. For moral support, I take along a close friend.

On arrival at the agreed spot, our own apprehensions and the reactions of the inhabitants interlock like the teeth of a good zip-fastener. Despite a hot afternoon, the street is not as deserted as one expects it to be. Shops located in old and shabby buildings along the street, are selling food, medicines, cloth, hardware, and much more.

Two men are waiting for us. As we slow down, they walk along the car directing where it should be parked. On seeing us stop, a few children tag behind them. Our ‘link,’ (let us call him Adam – as a verbal undertaking to use only fictitious names is given during this meeting) speaks into his mobile phone. Moments later, we see a middle-aged woman emerging from the shadows of a building. She has a mobile phone too. Our small group of men, women and children stand near the car. We exchange pleasantries, and then follow the two men into a building. The children are gruffly shooed away by the woman who is following us.

Ascending the stairs, zigzagging over piles of garbage and several four-pawed felines rummaging through them, we enter a flat on the third floor.

We are greeted by two women: Seher is in her thirties; with olive skin and a pleasant demeanor, and the other, Maroofa; elderly, thick skinned and silver haired. The younger woman has stars in her eyes while the ‘mother’ has greyness.

No statues, pictures, divans, rugs, easy-chairs, books, and bric-a-brac appear where one could dream his life away. Instead, the outer room has an old linoleum floor with gao takias lined up against the wall. In one corner lie a harmonium, a pair of tabla and ghungroo. The inner room, where we are led to be seated, is a tiny and stuffy room with a sofa and a bed. No other furniture or décor is visible. This is surely a poor woman’s burrow.

Facing us, the two men sit on the bed, while the two hostesses sit on the floor. The woman, who had appeared on the street, walks in just then. All four of them stand up to greet her. “This is Sajida Apa,” Adam bows his head in deference while the burly and breathless woman makes herself comfortable on the bed.

“Do you know that this entire place was closed for four years and five months?” Adam asks us and then continues, “It is only due to Sajida Apa’s personal and endless efforts, and her sacrifice of lakhs of rupees, that the place has reopened just two months ago.” For the rest of the time that we spend there, this is oft repeated by each person we meet. All of them seem to revere her.

Apparently, the local police had clamped down the activities of the two-hundred or so flats of this mohalla. It was only after a lot of perseverance, moving applications and files from this place to that place and ultimately to the High Court, that the Motesib-e-Aala has now legally notified that the area may function as before.

Adam, the spokesman, who is hijacking almost all the questions that we direct to the women, says the reason for the clamp is not clear. “These women are simply artists who sing and dance to entertain. The bazaar is shut during the month of Ramazan, the ten days of mourning during Moharram, on Eid-e-Milad and even on Kashmir Day,” he clarifies. He then goes on to explain the contribution of “this University of the stars, where talent gets nurtured.” He asks if we know of any institutions for music and dance from which the radio, film and television industries could be benefited. He was proud that this place had one registered “Anjuman-e-Musiqaraan” and one unregistered “Anjuman-e-Fankaraan-e- Musiqi” – associations for musicians.

I turn to ask Maroofa if Seher is her only daughter, and request Adam to let the two speak. Maroofa says she has sons who have got married and live on their own. The mother and daughter are left to fend for themselves. Maroofa is quite clearly a Pathan.

“What about you, Seher, don’t you want to get married?” My friend asks. Seher says she has a seventeen-year old son who lives with her. She did get ‘married,’ but returned to her mother as her ‘husband’ refused to take care of the mother as well. “Who will look after my mother? I had to leave my husband and come back.”

I question if the marriages of these women do work out, if at all. Seher says there are very few girls who have gone away leading happily married lives. Most of them come back. On inquiring what her son does, she says he has just completed class ten. “Do his friends at school know where he lives?” It seems rather cruel asking such questions outright, but there is no choice. Seher says “no,” it’s a secret. So is her own secret: she sings at a prestigious restaurant in the evenings and the management has no clue that she comes from the infamous Napier Road. “We will certainly come to hear you there,” I say, and Seher’s face changes colour. “Please don’t tell ‘them’ where I live,” she pleads.

A young boy of eighteen or nineteen has been sitting in the doorway listening to our conversation. He is sent out to fetch soft-drinks for us, which he zealously does. “Who is he?” we ask. Adam says he is a very good tabla player. Adam and his friend Nawaz are also musicians. They say many girls in the area practice singing and dancing with them. We hope to watch these sessions, referred by them as ‘tuitions,’ but learn that Fridays are off days. “Come on any other day except for a Friday, between 3.00 to 5.00 p.m. and you can catch them busy with their tuitions,” Adam informs. He says he had forgotten this fact when we set up the appointment.

Sajida Apa informs us that there are now just about twenty-five flats in the area carrying on with this business. She goes on to comment that by shutting down these quarters for such a long period, the government has only helped the girls to spread in other ‘respectable’ areas of the city. The heydays of Napier Road, it seems, are over. Just then a woman, perhaps in her late twenties, pays a visit. Sans a dopatta, showing plenty of skin and jewellery too, we get introduced. She is a neighbour. She has just moved to Karachi from Lahore. “How come, isn’t Lahore a better place for business than Karachi?” But her reply is in riddles. She soon makes an excuse and exits. The others just shrug their shoulders. Apparently, we are nosier than they are.

Several decades ago, the first blow to this business was severely felt when the Karachi film industry went bust. Some of the much sought after girls from these quarters who got modelling assignments for the print and electronic media, had moved on to become film actors. Bag and baggage in tow, these girls then shifted to Lahore. The exodus of the girls, their relatives, and hangers-on has left a big howling lacuna which wraps these quarters in webs of glorious nostalgia. As times changed, social taboos against modelling, singing, acting and dancing also dwindled. Educated young men and women from respectable families chose performing arts as careers.

We are inside the “Husn-e-Noor” building. Opposite it stands “Shamshad Manzil,” which has a ramshackle look about it. We are told that one of the most dazzling stars of the film industry used to live on the second floor there. The smile that launched a washing powder commercial, before it launched a thousand ships, was ruling the industry for almost two decades. The dilapidated look of the balcony where she must have once stood – broken windows, a rag for a curtain and junk furniture lying in it – is ample evidence of how those who have made it big never return. Plastic, glass and leatherworks’ small industries have been set up in many a building that once belonged to the ‘courtesans.’ The most famous building of its times, called “Bulbul Hazaar Dastaan,” has been abandoned now. “Sangeet Mahal,” “Fankar Mahal,” “Jamila Shakila Building” are some of the other well-known blocks of flats where business is not as usual. Shamim Ara, Zeba, and Babra moved on many years ago to become superstars, and Salomi, Asiya, Najma and Panna are also remembered for their stellar performances in films.

“Can we come back in the evening to hear the girls sing and watch their dances?” I ask Adam. We are assured that we can do that, but perhaps in the company of our husbands. Apparently, every evening, from 10.00 p.m. until midnight, the doors of all the flats remain open. Those who tread up the stairs can decide which smile is more bewitching, which beckoning more trapping. They make their choice and enter.

“Yahan dhoka faraib koee nahi,” Adam says rather conclusively.

“People come of their own will and pay anything between Rs. 200 to Rs. 20,000 for a performance. We neither fix any rates nor do we turn any one out.” Sajida Apa adds authoritatively. “And this is not to speak of the drunks, neurotics, and pure creeps who sometimes might appear to preponderate among the other, more easygoing clients?” We ask as we part with Maroofa and Seher. Adam points out at a sticker on the wall that warns in Urdu that consumption of liquor is not allowed in the premises.

Making our way down the stairs in a similar fashion as we had come up, my friend and I hassle Adam and Nawaz, as meeting just three or four of the inmates of these quarters do not seem satisfactory for the job at hand. “Come back again, come any afternoon but on Friday, come back at night to witness the nightlife here. All the eating places on Napier Road remain open until dawn,” he two men make excuses that they cannot take us to other flats as the girls are either sleeping or have gone out shopping. When we reach the street level, we run into two girls entering the building.

Despite their black gown and head scarf, their good looks are obvious and they are made up to the hilt. The girls are carrying mobile phones and shopping bags. They are ‘cousins’ Zahida and Nadira. We trudge up again to speak to them in their own flat. The place appears even poorer than the previous one. Zahida’s ‘mother’ does not resemble her one bit.

There is something vulnerable and pathetic about the girls. They spin us the tale they have memorized. This is good life; singing and dancing until midnight, watching video films or television all night, sleeping during the day and then the tuition in the afternoons. Life goes on. Who needs to have skills of any other kind?

Breaking the Cycle of Consumerism and Poverty

Melody Laila — Tue, 19 Feb 2008 05:20:52 EST

Rs. 1000/- Entry, Rs. 600/- for a Jack Daniels. That's what it costs us, relatively rich, Mumbaikars for a single night out at an average night club. And that's not counting how much we spent on dinner before we reached the club. Or the number of drinks we had there. Or the cost of the clothes we wore. Or the fancy car we gave to the valet.

And then there's this and this, where parents of young girls are, "Caught in the vicious cycle of poverty, the cash-strapped parents can ill afford to refuse an offer that helps them earn Rs 100 per night"

Rs. 100/- a night. Imagine that.

Here's me. I want:

A new Video iPod
A new Phone too - preferably the iPhone (yes, loving apple these days)
New Shoes (can never have too much of those)
New Jeans (I can't seem to get the right shade of basic blue I want)
- not to mention the daily entertainment I crave. I want to go out with my friends; see movies, club, eat, drink & be merry.

And then there's Moushumi, a 10 year old girl, one of the Bengali girls rescued from Bihar after being locked up, beaten and forced to dance sleazy numbers in front of violent, gun-toting crowds.

Here's what she says:

"Although they beat us up, they served good food. It was much better than what we get at home"

Because of that, 10 year old Moushumi is willing to risk everything and go back on the stage.

And I? I'm now questioning what I can do, I know I must do something... Suggestions?

Margazhi and Music

Blokesablogin — Wed, 2 Jan 2008 03:03:57 EST

While the Gregorian calendar begins yet another cycle of months, the Tamizh calendar is in the middle of its 9th month called Margazhi or Margashirsha in Samskritam. This month is celebrated with Music. The divinely inspired songs, Thiruppaavai, of Aandaal or Kodai as she was called are sung in the early hours of the morning hailing Vishnu. The Thiruvembavai of Thirunyana Sambandar are also sung in praise of Lord Shiva.

These great poets from the 7th and 8th centuries (as per modern historians) sing, "Oh! Sleepy head! Don't you realize the Divine is awaiting you? Wake up and get ready to meet the Divine." These songs are traditionally sung early in the mornings.

As children, we used to go singing in the streets like carolers and many a households would have made special breakfast treats for us kids. At the Vishnu temples, molten, mouth watering pongal 9made with rice and mung beans) would await us at 6 in the morning throughout this month! In those pre- TV, computer days, this was great entertainment and fun.

Traditionally, grand rice flour designs called kolam are drawn in front of homes and decorated with bright yellow pumpkin flowers. When we were young, there would be an unsaid contest in the neighborhood of getting up earlier than the neighbor from across the street to get more road space to draw the designs!! As late as last year, when I was travelling through interior Tamil Nadu, I got glimpses of these lovely designs from my train window (in the Trichy-Tanjavur section) at early daybreak.

The Chennai Music festival begins with the first day of Margazhi that falls in the middle of December. All the music "sabhas" or halls have an impressive array of Carnatic musicians to attract their annual audience. The Music Academy sets the standard for who is "in". Based on the slot that is alotted to the artist, you know how "popular" they are! I always found that part quite amusing. This is the traditional "MAR"(Music Academy Rating) like MTV ratings!! It is not unusual for performers to be irked if offered the "wrong" slot! Some snooty ones even refuse to sing when approched unless they are given the right time. And you thought you had primetime only on TV?

This is also the time to stock up on music CDs. Rare recordings of some rare musicians can be found here during this time of year. Just as we have a book fair, this is like the ultimate in music. There are good discounts too and it takes days to just rummage through the selections.

The visual arts such as dance and drama also find their place in the "season" as it is lovingly called. Mylapore Fine Arts and Krishna Gana Sabha in T. Nagar are the popular auditoriums for the visual arts. Noted dancers and theater groups put on their shows with much fanfare. New scripts are introduced as old favorites are repeated.

Some of the music enthusiasts plan their days earlier on to fit in as many programs as possible. The season pass for each sabha costs anywhere from the hundreds to the thousands. Day passes and program passes can be bought, if they are not filled to the rafters already! Serious music students flit from one place to another trying to catch their favorite musicians or program.

The morning sessions are for the serious learner. They are lecture demonstrations with very proficient scholars, musicians and musicologists who share some amazing insights into Ragas, Talas, musical forms, poetry, Bhava (emotion) etc.

The Hindustani fraternity are also included. The Music Academy has had a tradition for long to have a Hindustani vocalist perform on New Year's eve to welcome the New Year with a bang on the Tabla! When my mother was young, she has heard Ustad Allahrakha manytimes ushering in the New Year. I have heard Pt. Bhimsen Joshi and Pt. Jasraj within these resounding walls.

The women in their kanjeevaram silk sarees and the men in their dhothi/kurtas vie for space with the guys and gals in kurta/kurthis and blue jeans. It is a cool, happening space. You can show off your knowledge of music, identifying ragas and such, giving your personal critique of the performers. All those long hours of learning music finally finds a stage to shine, however temporary. Running into friends and acquaintances are common. Three and four times removed cousins, aunts and uncles are introduced. Some NRI family members troop into town for the grand season too.

This "season" has seen some rain as have several before. The hot coffees and steaming idlis and sevais (rice noodles seasoned with coconut or lime) provided by the local caterers at each event center appear like ambrosia. Friends and good music always create an appetite for good food. And the fact that one is zipping from morn to night demands that the body is kept fuelled.

Transportation is chaotic to say the least. The Chennai Metropolitain Transport Corporation runs special buses to diffuse the rush. But the ladies in the rich silks and diamonds continue to come in their chauffeur driven cars and disembark at the bottom of the stairs that lead to the auditorium, like royalty. Throw in some scooters, motorbikes and autorickshaws (many on the wrong side) and the scene is complete.

All in all, the Margazhi Music Season is something to be experiences atleast once in one's life. I wish you a musical year ahead, with harmony and peace. May this Margazhi bring spiritual awakening amidst the sleepyheads in our society who rely overtly on bombs and bullets to blow up people rather than waking them up with mellifluous music.

Rakhi Sawant Loses Competition and Whines

Amrita Rajan — Thu, 27 Dec 2007 01:58:29 EST

Did the Rupert Murdoch-owned Star Plus play dirty with everybody's favorite motormouth Rakhi Sawant?

To begin at the beginning, there was a show called Nach Baliye. The Indian version of Dancing with the Stars, it went one up on the American show and upped the irritation and must-see quotient by eliminating the trained dancing partners (copyright issues with the format might also have been a consideration) and substituting real life couples instead. So at the end of the day, nobody’s fiance ran off with their dancing partner but there’s a lot of high school clique-ry going on.

Typically, the show is full of TV ’stars’, both real and imagined, culled from a vast line up of daily soaps mass produced by the House of Ekta Mata or knockoff brands as may be the case. However, this nepotist little family of pure, virginal daughters-in-law and dastardly vamps can get old pretty fast, so the producers like to throw in some variety - like Sandhya Mridul (who, incidentally, lost to a bahu) on Sony’s Jhalak Dikhla Jaa… and Rakhi Sawant on Nach Baliye.

Now, I’ve never seen this show and I am so incredibly sorry I haven’t. Never have I regretted a snobbish impulse more than right now. Clearly, reality TV is the only saving grace of Indian television. I stand chastised. But I do know somebody (make that several somebodies) who has seen the show - every single episode - and recapped it all: the always awesome Aspi & Co. Here’s what went down in the final four hour episode as the favorites to win geared up for the grand announcement:

As the results were about to get announced, Rakhi shed copious tears. Abhishek clasped and read the Hanuman Chalisa under his breath. Someone next to Rakhi’s mum looked about to keel over a statue of Mary she was holding. Both the dancers looked like they were winding themselves up for an “Oh my God! I won!” type of release.

But bhais ki pooch if it wasn’t the competition that was announced as the winners. For a whole minute, it seemed, neither Abhishek nor Rakhi moved. They didn’t even glance at the winners – let alone make a gesture to congratulate them. And when they did move, they stormed straight off the stage.

BWAHAHAHAA!

Er, I mean - FOUL! “Milard, I object!” This cannot be! Yeh paap hai! Gabbar Singh called and said, “Bahut nainsaafi hai!”

Forty-eight hours have passed since that awful day. A day when hope died. When an angel lost her wings. Since someone pricked a baby’s balloon, brought a tear to a mother’s eye, kicked a man when he was down, stole a blind man’s wallet and generally showed us that yeh duniya agar mil bhi jaye to kya hai?

And one woman has risen from the ashes to fight injustice in the TV world. That woman… is Rakhi Sawant.

“This was fixed! Abhishek and I got to know about the illegal software that the winning couple used. It is called PC SMS tool kit. Apparently, the other couple had roped in 3-4 cyber cafes for the purpose. With the help of this software, they polled 200 votes per second and that got them a lead of 5 lakh votes over us. Yeh cheating hai ! And when we tried to send a vote for ourselves, our voting lines were closed. Humne unhe vote bheja, woh chala gaya… hamara nahi gaya . Our votes bounced. We also found out that the software was purchased in the name of the winning contestant’s brother.”

And so, Rakhi said, it was the duty of the Mumbai police to play Santa (Claus, I presume) and help them out by investigating this showbiz chicanery. The police said they’d overshot their costume budget for the year but they’d look into it in the new financial year. Nooooooo! Of course they didn't say that. They said they’d investigate in due course.

Meanwhile, Nach Baliye winner and Rakhi’s significant other’s rival (in the strictly dancing sense) Aamir thinks the best couple won and he finds it a little suspicious that Rakhi knows so much about rigging votes. He further added that Rakhi needs to look up sportsmanship in the dictionary. He can explain this unique point of view to her at length when she joins the daily soap circuit and hangs out with all the other soap stars at the billion and one programs they typically meet up at.

That’s right, folks, Rakhi Sawant has read the writing on the wall and understood that one needs to be a soap star to win stuff around this turf. Look at Aamir’s partner Sanjeeda who plays a vamp and still won, “PC SMS” or no “PC SMS”. Rakhi had talent (hey, the girl can't do a lot but she can dance), a beefy partner who knew the Hanuman Chalisa, a mother with a statue of Mother Mary, fake bobs, fake lips and fake everything you can think of. What did Sanjeeda have? She had Ekta Mata.

So now Rakhi wants Ekta Kapoor as well. But she doesn't want to play a vamp. No sirree. She says she's getting on in years and PYTs keep trying to hog the limelight she doesn’t want to let go of, so she’s planning on a career change: a dutiful daughter-in-law. This way she can get fat and nobody will mind. They’ll just fast forward the show a couple of decades and give her a couple of kids to make miserable.

Can she do it? Can the woman best known for her pout, her attention-getting antics, her reconstructed body poured into itsy bitsy outfits switch gears and throw herself into the arms of Coy and Demure?

Come on, Ekta, give her a chance. If nothing else, do it just to find out how much you can screw with your audience and still get away with it. It'll be a guaranteed ratings buster! For the first week at least.

An Impromptu Review of the Konark Dance Festival

mbjesq — Wed, 19 Dec 2007 00:21:38 EST

Two weeks of holiday in Orissa, and our first stop is Konark, site of the enormous (though largely destroyed) Sun Temple. We have bustled north to catch the fifth and final day of the annual Konark Dance Festival, which uses the illuminated temple as its dramatic backdrop.

We were the special guests of the Chairman of the Orissa Tourism Development Corporation. This guaranteed us VIP treatment and second row center seating, immediately behind his highness, the Governor of Orissa, and his entourage.

We arrived marginally late – the performance had just started. This was slightly stressful for our American contingent (Linda, Mui, and Bill); but our Indian faction (Puru and Maya) were utterly nonplussed. This arrival was positively early by Indian standards. Besides, the Governor had only arrived fractionally before us.

The festival is a semi-big deal in the Indian classical dance world, it seems, if only because of the spectacular location. It features a variety of Odissi, Bharat Natyam, Manipuri, and Kathak performances by so-called “up-and-coming” artistes. In truth, the concluding night’s dance – by an earnest, but amateurish Odissi troupe and an exuberant, but equally amateurish company from Manipur – was remarkably poor for a festival with such impressive venue, resources, and longevity. Perhaps the earlier nights were better. Nonetheless, the dance was colorful, the musicians extremely tight and uncharacteristically well amplified, and the setting sufficiently dramatic to elevate even the lowliest performance.

What the festival lacked in quality classical dance, it more than made up for in classical ass-kissing. If the performances seemed over-long, they probably ran about the same length of time as the introductions and post-performance remarks by a self-important emcee, so obviously in love with the sound of his own voice that it was a marvel of self-control that the endless, masturbatory soliloquies didn’t bring him to climax. Whatever erotic nausea this might have produced in the audience was diffused, however, by his sidekick, some high-society woman who read three-or-four pages of prepared text in monotone between the dance pieces. As she flipped each stapled page, you could palpably sense the audience straining to count how many more leaves of torture she had in her sheaf.

The real point of the festival is not, of course, the opportunity it provides for the emcees to play star-for-a-night. It is not even the dance. It is for the Orissa Governor, as Chief Guest, to “felicitate” each an every person even remotely connected with the dance performances. This was the centerpiece of the evening. Each dancer, musician, choreographer, lighting designer, stagehand, and chai-wallah was required to stifle their yawns and boredly touch the Gov’s feet as he greeted them beatifically. If the felicitated looked disinterested, imagine how we in the audience felt. Time itself seemed to stand still. Just when I thought there might be a riot or mass exodus, the Governor returned to his seat, still visibly flushed with adrenaline from his star-turn.

After the performance, one of the television networks covering the festival approached Bill – a handsome, middle-aged farangi whose deportment reveals an obvious sensitivity and elegance – for an interview. He declined and put the reporters on my trail. As you can see from the photo above, I acquiesced.

My comments, which aired on OTV (Orissa Television), consisted of pabulum about “a beautiful and fitting end to a spectacular festival… blah, blah, blah.” The experience put me in mind of the old joke: “How do you tell when a lawyer is lying? His lips are moving.” Give the people what they want.

When the journalist asked me how the program might be improved, I knew that whatever I might say, nothing critical would ever make the newscast; so I decided to have a little fun. I offered that the program would be greatly improved by omitting the Governor’s felicitations, “which certainly makes him feel important, but holds absolutely no interest for anyone else.” Maya nearly wet herself in horror, while Puru and Yoo-Mi laughed hysterically. Neither the cameraman nor the reporter seemed to care, one way or the other. Like most Indian journalists, they ask pro forma questions, and never really listen to the answers given. It was left to some poor night-shift editor to discover the horrific clip and deep-six it fast.

The next day, after touring the Sun Temple, we gathered in the guest house lobby to watch the story on OTV’s hourly newscast. Of the dozens of television interviews I have given over the last couple years, this was the first I’d actually watched. Yikes!

Two days later, as evening came on, our group walked into a small, remote village in Orissa's Ganjam district. A young guy in his twenties sat beneath an old tree at the town’s cross-road, and called to Puru. “I saw that farangi with the choti (meaning either "pony tail" or "small penis" – it's hard to say which he meant) on television,” he advised Puru in Oriya. “Who is he?”

The villager was too polite to add, “… and who-the-hell cares what he thinks about the Konark Festival?”