Questions

Its been long. Too long. This feeling of being able to write your thoughts and let people know what you are thinking, and not have to know if they think you're being a sissy is suddenly far too alien for my liking. However, I guess the wise man who said 'Better late than never' wasn't talking out of his ass.

Lately, there has been a lot of introspection. Analysing mistakes I have made, looking for ways to correct them, questioning the very foundation of my belief in my abilities and my dreams. This is certainly not how I intended for things to be. Does anyone who dreams of being successful have phases where they don't really see how they are going to get there, inspite of knowing deep down that they will? What happens if reality is much worse than how you once imagined it to be? Is the place I dream of getting to going to greet me with a similar shock? Or will I really find my personal Utopia? Only time will tell.

The Great Divide

We live in strange times. Our generation – yours and mine – coincides with an era in the evolution of the Indian society that is contradictory and polarized at best. We claim to have a modern and contemporary outlook towards everything in general. We tout gender equality, indiscrimination and such things. We say we aren’t even a little bit flustered when we are beaten by a member of the opposite sex at our favorite sport. And yet, we dream of that big car we’ll get as a dowry if we become engineers or doctors. We shun, or gape unabated at the girl in the bus whose cleavage shows. We discourage our wives from working just so she can wait till late in the evenings for her beloved husband with a cup of tea and pakodas at the ready. Yes, dear random blog reader, we Indians are a confused lot.

I say Indians in particular, because while one half of the society accepts and understands what development really means, the other half has one foot firmly planted in the past, confusing loyalty for one’s religion with fanatism, and equating a love for our culture with intolerance and chauvinism. We have ‘restaurants and bars’ that have the inevitable drunk tottering out at midnight and don’t look twice, while if a girl or a woman is spotted having a beer, we make a mental note to go back to our friends and talk about how our culture is going to hell, with a wide eyed audience rapt in attention.

Being a ‘mallu’ I have had the opportunity of scrutinizing what is paraded as the only matriarchal society in the country. Kerala is a state that supposedly has the best gender ratio, with more women than men, per thousand people. People tell me how it’s a sign of gender equality; and subsequently I sneeze because I am allergic to bullshit. Gender ratio means nothing. It’s an inconsequential statistic that just does nothing beyond showing that we don’t commit female infanticide. Hurray for that.

We do, however, curse our luck and start buying jewelry as soon as a girl is born, so that we can proudly show to potential suitors the heap of gold they get as a reward for marrying our daughter. My own concerned relatives have advised my mum that since my sister is approaching ‘marriageable age’, she should stock up on gold. My sister and I, however, have the good fortune of having a mother who all but slaps them in the face, but I am sure the vast majority cannot say that. Call it intelligence or common sense, I somehow fail to see why parents should assume that the sole reason a girl is born is so they can virtually choose to have/buy the son of their dreams, when she is of marriageable age. Or why most parents are convinced that their daughter does not have any aspirations beyond loyally serving her husband’s every whim.

A spinoff of the above phenomenon comes to mind. A friend of mine you may be acquainted with – Ajay – raised an interesting point. While we as men are entitled to openly say we ‘want some’, it is generally considered taboo for a girl to express her sexuality in any way. While I suspect a part of it is voluntary, a much bigger part of it has much to do with how it has been engrained into our society that girls by nature should be shy, timid and ‘ladylike’. Boys, on the other hand, can be perverted, vulgar, and a downright pain to the neighborhood as a whole, but are seldom questioned for anything lesser than a rape. This blatant flouting of equality also has direct implications on our everyday language - a guy who frequently changes partners is called a ‘player’, while a girl who does the same is labelled a ‘slut’ – a term with strictly negative connotations. Another example is how, mostly in the northern states, any girl/woman who is a rape victim is shunned by society which conveniently assumes, in keeping with our ‘culture’, that the girl must have somehow initiated the attack on herself.

Being ‘modern’ and ‘forward thinking’ calls for more than a couple of clubs in the neighborhood, or a franchised American coffee shop next door that serves rum balls. It can be done only with a drastic restructuring of the society as a whole. With numerous lessons in tolerance and indiscrimination to our kids. With giving an individual credit for what they are, and knowing there is always potential beyond heaps of gold and a marriage to a celebrated young bachelor. I think it is up to us, the future of India, to bridge the gap between theory and practice and try and take our country, with all its diversity and culture, smoothly into the 21^st century.

And leave nothing behind.

The Final Frontier.

Tennis is a cruel sport by its very nature. You get no second chances. A defeat in any round can never be cast away as an insignificant entry in a statistics register; its gravity cannot be dimmed by stellar performances in following games against others in the 'Group'. There is no team member to blame and no one to bank on if you're having a bad day. It is just you, your racquet and your image on millions of TV sets around the world, letting people judge your every move.Roger Federer will agree. After hailing him as the greatest ever to have stepped on a tennis court, we tarnish his spectacular victory by insinuating that he holds the trophy only because he didn't have to beat Nadal to get it. A statement that is so incredibly demeaning, I pity everyone who actually believes it with enough conviction to say it out aloud; and the sport itself, the spirit of which is being painstakingly upheld by men and women who strive relentlessly in their pursuit of a lifelong dream, just so the world can contort its ugly face and scream, 'luck!'.

Rafael Nadal is definitely one of the greats of the game. His dominance of the clay court is unquestionable, and so is his commitment to being one of the best. His Wimbledon title was well deserved, albeit by a less than colossal margin. But he is human, no matter what his stamina and persistence would have us believe. And his early exit this time stands testament to that fact. It is his fault, and his fault alone that he did not make it to the finals to play Federer, who for his part can only try and beat the person he plays. Add to that the fact that Federer handed Nadal's nemesis a three set drubbing in the final, and any doubts we have about if the trophy was deserved should fade into nothingness. If they don't, we should take a good long look at ourselves in the mirror and vehemently question our very right to behold history in the making.

The tears that streamed down Roger Federer's face that fateful day are not only proof of the sheer passion he has for the game, but a befitting tribute to one of those very rare moments in time when a mortal is rendered into the realms of immortality.

The best man won.

Long Live The Music!

There is something about the death of a great artist that I find very intriguing. Its hard to pin point (part of the reason its intriguing), and equally hard to understand. Take Jimi Hendrix, for instance. People argue, and often with very good reason, that he was THE best guitarist to have ever set foot on the planet. The fact that he was instrumental (forgive the pun) in inventing/discovering everything there is to do with a guitar is obviously right up there in the list of reasons why. However, at the risk of being shot at, I wonder if its just because of how good he was, and not when he died. Jim Morrison is the second name that comes to mind. Arguably, he was one of the pioneers behind the birth of the genre psychedelic rock. The fact that he had a voice to die for did help, of course. So did the charisma he exuded from every pore. Add to the list an untimely death that baffled everyone and Voila!, we have ourselves a winner. Then there was Nirvana, another great band who became synonymous with teen rebellion and rage in the early '90s. Nirvana would have never made it this far, without the charm and mystery that had become a part of its vocalist, Kurt Cobain. Though I personally feel their music was far from what one would call sophisticated, it had something about it that transcended musical capability. One would tend to think it had at least a tiny bit to do with Cobain's dramatic suicide. An incident that, perhaps, made him more popular than when he was alive.The one thing that the three names I mentioned above have in common, apart from the fact that they all died at 27, is that each, at the time of death, was at his peak. Acme. Pinnacle. Whatever you want to call it. Basically, the absolute best.

More than once have I had this discussion with my friends, and more often than not, I have heard,'If they could do so much when so young, imagine what they could have accomplished if they had lived 30 years longer'. I beg to differ. Tragic though it is, for their music to live on, they had to die. No one talks about Iron Maiden nowadays, do they? Or Metallica? Or AC/DC? These bands, each one spectacular in their own right, are all fighting a losing battle against age and decay. Each one is drifting away from the music they were good at - In 'St. Anger', Metallica sounds like a bunch of Chihuahuas in heat, and 'System Has Failed' by Megadeth would have been better off being named 'More than the System has failed' or something. On the other hand, however, if they do see some sense and call it a day, someone will take their place in the inevitable Circle of Life, only to be replaced by someone else in due course of time. And after all the packed concerts and hit singles, no one will so much as throw a retirement party. It takes nothing less than shotgun shell to the brain, or in the Beatles case, a bullet in the chest from a crazed fan, to make them immortal. Such is the irony. Perhaps, Kurt Cobain was right. Perhaps, it is better to burn out than fade away.

'Abu Dhabi Mall !/?'

There are a lot of things about being in a country and working there, that can get you feeling un-comfortable, to put it mild. You tend to walk out from the airport the very first day with some preconceived notions about the place, and it does take a while for you to realise that they were entirely baseless. However, the fact that you can buy that kickass new phone with a fraction of your salary does help you come out of it. And you do get your occasional laughs, largely because of the fact that asking the simplest of questions to strangers can bring you down to sign language (flapping your arms from side to side in a manner that would resemble a rain dance), in the vain hope that the person you are trying to converse with would understand you just wanna know where the toilet is, rather than their views of the much-talked-about big bang theory experiment. A case in point is the recent encounter i had with a gentlemen i will hence refer to as 'X'.

Friday is the weekly holiday in the UAE, and thats something i ll never get used to (i hope). And it is for that precise reason, that Thurdays are a nightmare for anyone planning use the public transport system, where you are a person who cant afford a car, or one who just dreams of passing the driving test (trust me, the latter outnumber the former by a more than significant amout). It so happened that on a thurday, i was foolish enough to think i'd manage getting a cab at 8 in the night. The fact that 15 people were standing in the queue befoe me certainly didnt help. Nor did the fact that an empty taxi in the UAE on a thursday night is as rare as an Indian politician without a criminal record. So it was only natural that when i saw a bus that was going to somewhere near my destination, i sprinted towards it. I wouldnt normally get into a bus so full of people and the smell of sweat, but under those circumstances there werent two pills to choose from.

Not long after I stepped on that montrosity of a vehicle, I started wondering how I'd know when i got to Abu Dhabi mall. As if on cue, Mr. X got on, and asked me if the bus would go to Abu Dhabi Mall. At least, I thought he was asking me that, considering all i understood of was he said were those 3 words. I recollected reading 'AD Mall' above the windscreen so i told him not to worry, a bit too confidently, perhaps. After a few stops, the crowd in the bus had notably thinned, and my worry as to where to alight had more than occupied my mind. The last thing i wanted to do was to get off the bus and have to wait for another taxi to go back to where i came from. It was at that moment that i decided to shed my reservations regarding the expected language problem and ask the gentleman to my right, whether the bus stop we had just arrived at was Abu Dhabi Mall.

'Abu Dhabi mall? Abu Dhabi mall?', i couldnt have put it simpler. The reaction of that man was something i didnt expect, as he suddenly sprang up from where he was sitting, and promptly got off, turning back to watch the doors close behind him. Where had i seen him before? Dammit, that was X.

As the bus slowly pulled away, i hoped he would realise, after finding out that he was miles away from AD Mall, that i was, in fact, asking him if we were there, and not stating it. Oh, well.

Down with the Tour Down Under.

I apologize to all readers of this space (though am pretty sure there arent many), that this post is dedicated to a topic that has been written about, discussed, and milked for all its worth. Yup, its about the Australian cricket tour.

Why? Is the question that begs to be answered. Why would Ricky Ponting sink to levels unheard of by the Australian team, to get rid of Harbhajan Singh? Why would Steve Bucknor give such horrendous decisions, some of which most certainly spelt doom for the Men in Blue? Why would Mark Benson ask Micheal Clarke if he took the catch cleanly, though the world knew for a fact, by then, that he is no angel sent down from heaven to do His bidding? Why would Ponting then stupidly declare that this was one of the best test matches that he had ever played? What were the god damned umpires doing? Thinking about their next meal, or drooling over some aussie chick, when brett lee was hurling leather at over 145 mph?

These are all questions that have boggled experts from Harsha Bhogle and Peter Roebuck, to commoners like me and the average Indian, for days now. Ricky Ponting, who I have respected and admired for a long time now, for his impeccable captaincy of the Aussies, has now proved that he is only human. And not by much. The way they jumped around after 'they won' the test match was immature, for want of a better word. I put 'they' and 'won' in quotes cuz I dont believe they hardly won it for themselves, the umpires did. And when it comes to morality, am sure even the 'won' is up for debate. I say, we should hit them where it hurts the most. Pull out from the tour. Why wouldnt you? Indians dont seem to command any respect there, besides being a world class cricketing nation, having a billion supporters behind them. The aussies have shown time and again that they would rather win than have a fair game, and the umpires seem to have a lot more on their minds than what is going on in the field. Absolutely disgusting.

The Indian Hitch. Unfortunately.

I am not really fond of subjecting myself to mental torture of the third degree, but since the circumstances left me no choice, I decided to try and endure it. And see how disastrous the latest flick by 'David Dhawan' really was. And it tipped the scales alright.

You know a film industry is going to the dogs when someone like Sohail Khan (or Arbaaz Khan? Dunno, the uglier one) is passed off as an IIT/IIM graduate. I cringed, as did, I suspect, IIT and IIM grads around the world. To the uninitiated, am talking about David Dhawan's Partner. As if subjecting the audience to the mentally impossible task of picturing a brainy Sohail/Arbaaz Khan, wasnt enough, Mr. Dhawan goes a step further, and two tragical minutes later, a 12 yr old kid makes a fully operational heat seeking missile! The last I checked, that recipe definitely WASNT on the back of my instant noodles packet.

Though Bollywood seems to be making attempts at deviating from the plot ever-so-slightly, it does so in ways, that makes me wonder where the 'Director' of the film was, when God was handing out brains to all mortals. When the journalist is waiting to take a look at 'Love Guru' for the first time, for instance. To make sure she is not the first one to see his face, the director simply projects our journalist as a hopelessly vain, full-of-herself female who cant stand the wait and wants pictures of hers taken instead!

And no matter how it will (not) suit the plot, a child is always thrown into the equation, in every remake. In 'Partner' too, there was the inevitable brat who tries his best to first push 'Prem Uncle' away, and a couple of hopeless dialogues later, is fondly calling him, you guessed it, 'DAD'! There was another cliche, in the form of the stupid gangster, who calls himself Chhota Don. Pur-lease. Is the sense of humour of the Indian public so dry, that except for the rare, once in a blue moon good laugh, the makers of the movie stick to 'tried and tested' jokes?

What was most striking about the movie, and perhaps the most well known of all, is the way its been, if thats the word I am looking for, Xeroxed from the movie 'Hitch'. And by that I mean, that the only scenes that I didnt consider IQ-threatening, were all from the Will Smith starrer minus the class, and Will Smith of course.

I was reading the newspaper the other day (You heard me!) and David Dhawan, it seems, was basking in the glory of his 'Partner'. Wait a minute, 'HIS'? 'HIS'??! The only thing that was 'his' in the movie, was the hopeless dialogues, brain dead humour and a story that would make Chetan Bhagat cry! And am not a fan.

It would be totally understandable, since the directors have shown that they possess the IQ levels of igneous rocks time and again, if Bollywood takes a Leaf out of the Book of their American counterparts. But what the point in borrowing the whole book, drawing lewd pictures in it, crapping on it and then handing it back to them?

And in case you are wondering, no, I definitely DONT 'Want a partner'.