Pot Pourri

I was cleaning up my Documents Folder when I came across this text. Now, I am feeling all senti. It is from the last play we did in fifth year, called 'Pot Pourri'. Many of these lines didn't make it to the final cut, hell, all the character's names were changed, and many that did make the final cut were forgotten on stage by the actors.
***

This is the poster for the play - designed by me.


And these are the lines in that .doc file - the file was called lineman.doc. Why? I don't remember. I'm simply reproducing the file as it is. For the sake of sentimentality.

General - Scene 1
(Balu and Arun clearing up stuff. Singing loudly and badly.)

Balu: (takes some really dirty looking food item) Fuck, what is this? Ooh, this is from that bunch of bananas I bought sometime last month. Arun, you want one? (Starts walking towards him with it) Arun, come eat.
Arun: Balu, please da.
Balu: Its good for your complexion, da.
Arun: Don’t touch me. I’m warning you.
Balu: What’re you going to do? The last time you hit me, you started crying.
(Balu laughs and starts chasing him around. Prem enters. Balu goes away to his cubi awkwardly.)

Prem: Shylock! Last day of fucking college, I thought we might’ve just given him the slip… But the fucker’s caught us.
Arun: He has to make his money da. You have a big London job…
Prem: Stop your communist cock, please. He flicked 6000 bucks the other day.
Arun: Firstly, you don’t know he’s done it. Importantly, he sells newspapers for a living.
Prem: So?
Arun: He sells newspapers for a living. He has a RIGHT to steal from us. What are you going to do next? Oppose reservations in the private sector?
Prem: Stop being gay.
Arun: You know I don’t like it when you speak to me like that.
(Prem throws something at Arun, and then looks at the bill)
Prem: It’s a hundred and seventy bucks a head, cough up, cocksuckers.
Arun: Balu, its hundred and seventy bucks a head. Cough up, cocksucker.
(Balu gives the money to Arun, who hands it over to Prem)
Prem: I don’t have thirty bucks change.
Arun: He doesn’t have thirty bucks change.
Balu: Keep the change.
Arun: Keep the change. I hate doing this shit da.
Prem: Cock up!
(They get back to their clearing up. Prem starts different song. Arun joins in.)

Balu: You have scotch tape?
Arun: Prem has.
(Balu looks at Prem for a second, and then leaves stage.)

Prem: (taking a bundle of papers/reading materials out of the room) We’ve accumulated so much junk in the last five years!
Arun: I can’t believe we’re done though. It seems like yesterday when we came in.
Prem: Stop being gay.
Arun: I’ll hit you if you say that once more. Five years hasn’t made you any more sensitive to the minorities.
Prem: You remember what Prof. Hegde said, “How can they be a minority? There aren’t enough of them”.
Arun: I remember that really well.
Prem: How can you be senti today? You’re out of this fucking shit hole. Finally.
Arun: Are you trying to tell me that you don’t feel senti even a little bit leaving this place?
Prem: Yes.
Arun: Think about it da. You’ll never sit on the terrace again…
Prem: Don’t romanticise this fucking place. The terrace stinks. There are dope heads fucking losing their brains. Two gay… sorry, pansy guys sitting in a corner and discussing nonsense philosophy. I once heard a guy say, “A man is not an ornament!” Such shyte! (picks up some reading materials) What are you doing with these reading materials?
(Balu walks back in with scotch tape in his hand)
Arun: (holding up a scarf and reading what’s written on it) SK… Balu, this is yours.
Balu: Never seen it before dude.
Arun: But, it has… Oh…

End Scene

(Prem and Balu doing the last bit of cleaning up. Arun’s packed, and is about to leave.)
Arun: This is it, then.
Balu: I’ll mail you da. Seriously.
Arun: I’ll be happier if you talked to him. Or at least tried to.
Balu: This is a guys’ thing da. Don’t interfere.
(Arun walks to Prem.)

Arun: Be the bigger man, Prem.
Balu: I said don’t interfere.
Arun: He said don’t interfere.
Prem: I’ll see you in Delhi, then?
Arun: Yeah.
Prem: Don’t cry da, please.
Arun: Fuck off. I hate you guys. (Starts weeping and leaves)

(Balu packs up and leaves without a word. Prem looks surprised, but sits for a few seconds, before packing up and leaving. Balu walks in few seconds later, looks at the empty room and goes away. Prem comes back, looks, sees it empty and walks out.)

Surya - Scene 2
(Balu and Arun at foreground of quad, feet on grass. Balu is messaging someone on his phone.)

Arun: (somewhat excitedly)…but if you look at the judgments of the Supreme Court after 1981, which is when Justice Bhagwati was going on a virtual rampage, and particularly if you see his opinion in Ajay Hasia, the whole thing has changed now, and even things like the BCCI may soon get sucked into the definition and be forced to act in accordance with vague-ass part III rights that the court suddenly comes up with (notices Balu isn’t paying attention at this point, furious)… and… your sister is a goat with… with… massive mammaries the size of Mexico! Why the fuck do you ask me a question if you are more interested in messaging than in what I am saying?
Balu: (puts away phone, but not too hastily) I was listening only; its just that its damn annoying to be sitting here alone…
Arun: Alone?! then I am off, you can really wait “alone” now for all your real ‘buddies’.
Balu: Why the drama?
Arun: You never have the time for us anymore man. And when we do get a moment sometime in the day, your mind is always elsewhere.
Balu: What? What are you on?!
Arun: You haven’t been in the room for two weeks now.
Balu: I’ve been doing some work for this NGO.

(For a second, they look at each other, and then they start laughing.)

Arun: What’s really going on man?
Balu: Ok, ok! Its just that everything is getting to me yaar. One year in this place and I already feel like, you know, I am losing my soul or something… you know the feeling… its like, I can’t relate to what I’ve become anymore… I am so afraid that one of these days I will wake up, look in the mirror, and actually feel happy about myself because I know that Justice Bhagwati revolutionised the way the Constitution is read… you know what I am saying? … I need to be who I was 2 years ago man, I need to start re-discovering the things that… that make me me.
Arun: Hmmm.

(For a second, they look at each other, and then they start laughing.)

Balu: Ok. Serious. I’ve been taking salsa classes.
(Arun looks at him suspiciously)

Balu: Serious, da.
Arun: Ok, I believe you. Speak with Sujata, her cousin takes salsa classes for Upendra. She’s apparently quite big.
Roshan: (Smiles, tries to act nonchalant but doesn’t do that very well, however Arun sees nothing at this stage) That’s the one I am going for! Sujata also attends the classes, both of us drive down together in the evenings.
Arun: Hmmm. So she’s seen you prancing around in black tights, eh?
Balu: Salsa dancers don’t where tights. They may in Gaypolis, they don’t in Bangalore.
Arun: This salsa cock is at Alliance?
Balu: No!
Arun: But Alyosha said he saw you and Sujata there…
Balu: French classes.
Arun: What?!? Are you kidding me?
Balu: What’s wrong with French classes?
Arun: Nothing. Just that you’re going with Sujata!
Balu: What’s wrong with that?
Arun: Nothing…

'Coz Talk is Cheap Anyway

Two nights ago, I watched, and made my cousins watch Koyaanisqatsi. The last time I saw it was more than three years ago, and I felt the same sense of amazement and awe that I felt all those years ago. My cousins, on the other hand, fell asleep, and will curse me for the rest of eternity. (and probably never watch any movie that I recommend!)

Now why did I decide to revisit Koyaanisqatsi after all these years? Well, I revisited Man with a Movie Camera after about a year, downloaded Berlin that preceded it, watched that, realised how much of Man with a Movie Camera was inspired by it, and decided to watch the next major achievement in non-narrative film-making - the Qatsi Trilogy - to see if there was any inspiration there. (I don't know if there are any major achievements in between. If you know of any, please tell me!) This led me to download more silent shorts from all over the internet - including a few by that great Frenchman Georges Melies, a very interesting Alice in Wonderland by Cecil Hepworth, a couple of Luis Bunuels. Tonight, I intend to watch another silent feature - and one of my nostalgic favourites - Buster Keaton's The General.

My greatest belief, after all this, is that we attach too much value to talking. If one has an open mind, it isn't hard to realise that Koyaanisqatsi asks you a million more questions about yourself and the world around you than all of the Blade series put together. Yet, more people would gladly watch the Blade series. Chaplin's movies, especially City Lights and Modern Times, touch you more than most movies you'll ever see. But there's no dialogue, and it is in black and white, you ask! Kubrick's 2001:A Space Odyssey is most effective in the Dawn of Man sequence. Nobody has ever seen anything even remotely like it.

We attach too much importance to the spoken word. We trust the audience too little. In real life, a lot is assumed, a lot less is said. But when it comes to the talkies, as they were known, we want everything to be said explicitly. They're reaching a wider audience, we're told. Bullshit. The audience has dumbed itself down. Every time a person walks into a cinema, she is conditioned by years of cinema-watching to dumb herself down. Because, the filmmaker assumes, wrongly, that a person perceives a lot less than she is capable of perceiving.

And when someone gets it right, when someone realises that you and I are capable of understanding a lot more, we play our part to perfection by branding him an artiste, whereby immediately relegating him to be watched by those half-crazed intellectuals, whom we assume are being intellectual only to fake coolness.

What is lost in all the talk, is the rhythm, the innate rhythm that is there in all life, in all movement arouns us - animate and inanimate. Rhythm that is disrupted by the explanatory dialogue - unnecessary dialogue that disturbs the music of the images that string reality and fantasy, dialogue that forces interpretations on us to the extent that we aren't required to interpret anymore, the dialogue strives not towards intellegence, but intelligibility.

Peter-Pottering

I've been away. Chasing elusive tigers. Rafting on bamboos. Playing Mynah. Chilling on ferries and consorting with the light waves on the Malabar Coast. Pondering over the questions of life. Questions of the Smartness of Man. Questions on Animal Behaviour and Animal Chilling. Eating Death-by-Chocolate. Peters and Marys. Old Peters and Old Marys. Mad Peters and Mad Marys. Bark Collectors and poachers. Madras' contribution to English Grammar - how it de-Peterised the Peters in us.

I also had six hours to kill at the Cochin Airport last afternoon. These are some reflections, and short incidents on the trip that I wrote about at the airport.



Smartness of Man
"Finally... Oh, damn."
"What happened?"
"For a second, I thought I could see nothing man-made in my view, and then I realised that the bamboo raft was visible."
"Look the other way, maybe you can..."
"No. The guides are there. Their clothes are man-made. Man has this tendency to disturb everything around him. Right?"
"Yeah."
"Wait. I have a new theory - all animals disturb. When an elephant walks through a thicket, it disturbs the plants and stuff. But there aren't enough elephants to cause permanent damage."
"No. The damage caused by the elephant is ordained by Nature. Otherwise, there'd be too many trees and so on. Thing is, man is too smart, and so he looks to beat nature. He's too smart for his own good."
"Maybe he's not smart enough."
Pregnant pause.
"Profound!"

(I love the way this conversation progressed as if it was between two aliens looking down on earth.)

Peter and Mary
The most useful word on the trip was 'Peter'. The word has its origins in Madras Tamil.

Although Akanksha did raise concerns over the anti-feminist sentiments of the term, which made us occasionally use 'Mary' as an alternative, 'Peter' was what we usually stuck to.

pe·ter /ˈpē'tər/ n. a generic term to describe anyone who is, or wants to be a foreigner, usually from the US, UK or EU. Specifically used to describe foreign tourists. Usually carries a large camera, backpack, wears a pouch and has turned pink in the heat. e.g. Many Peters hang out in Kerala.

pe·ter adj. refers to things that peters do. e.g. We did some Peter stuff like watch Kathakali and Kalaripayattu, or You'll get stuck with Peter prices if you don't bargain properly.

pe·ter, pe·tered, pe·ter·ing, pe·ters intr. v. to do things that Peters do. The Peters Petered around the Peter part of Cochin on Saturday.

Mar·y / mâr'ē/ the female of a Peter. "Dude, hot Mary. 11 o' clock."
Note: Mary is rarely used as a verb or an adjective.

On Purpose
Travel gets you thinking. Especially trekking through the jungles. As dried leaves crackle under each footstep, you are drawn into a world of your own. The magnificence of creation renders your daily pressures of deadlines and entangled love-lives irrelevant, and you're able to ask yourself the larger questions. A good trip isn't one that gives you answers - it is one that asks more questions.

As I saw elephants, boar, bison, and deer - all chilling in the jungle - spending most of their day either sleeping, eating, drinking water or releasing the remains of their eating, I couldn't help thinking of the larger purpose of life. We do so many things - we are lawyers, doctors, engineers, janitors or sportsmen. And we condemn those who chill - those who only eat and sleep. Humans are meant for larger things, we say. We aren't animals. Movies are made on people getting lakshya in their life. Calling someone a monkey is even considered racist.

Why? Why cant you and I spend the rest of our lives chilling? Find food. Eat. Sleep. Get up. Find food. Eat. Why does this sound monotonous to you and me, and not to the rest of the animal world?

Oldness of Peters and Marys
A trend that Akanksha pointed out during the trip - most Peters are fairly old. There were hardly any young, strapping Peters in Thekkady. After much thought, she came to the conclusion that young Peters hang out at the more expensive places like the Taj at Kumily, backwaters of Kumarakom, Delhi, whereas younger Peters and Marys are usually around places like Fort Kochi, Goa, McLeodganj, Pondicherry that are all much cheaper.

The Crazy Peters are usually the younger sort. The older are more racist, and less Indophilic. The younger do the whole 'exotic India' routine - peacock feather mantras, Yoga course in the Himalayas for six months, Indian music with real Indian instruments like the tabla, Maharishis and Swamis, Kamasutra. The older hang out at the open air coffee shop at the Taj and complain about the heat and dust.

The Big Sleep
Walking along the coast in Fort Kochi, we saw a board pointing towards a Dutch Cemetery. A question of deep philosophical significance was asked, "How does it matter if the Cemetery is Dutch or not?"

Reminds me of this paragraph from the last page of The Big Sleep:

"What did it matter where you lay once you were dead? In a dirty sump or in a marble tower on top of a high hill? You were dead, you were sleeping the big sleep, you were not bothered by things like that. Oil and water were the same as wind and air to you. You just slept the big sleep, not caring about the nastiness of how you died or where you fell..."

***
As you can see, it was a fun trip. We went on what is called the Tiger Trail, run by the Periyar Tiger Reserve. Their website is more than useful, and their guides are real pally - especially if you can speak a smattering of a South Indian language. Even Akanksha's Tamil will do! And just for trip value, here's another snap from the trip - one that somehow signifies the meaning of the whole tour...

Svalbard and Strangelove

Today, on the Environment News Service, I read this:

"The Svalbard Global Seed Vault opened today on a remote island in the Arctic Circle, receiving the first shipments of what will be a collection of 100 million seeds from more than 100 countries. Unique varieties of the African and Asian food staples maize, rice, wheat, cowpea, and sorghum as well as European and South American varieties of eggplant, lettuce, barley, and potato are the first deposits in the icy vault...

"With climate change and other forces threatening the diversity of life that sustains our planet, Norway is proud to be playing a central role in creating a facility capable of protecting what are not just seeds, but the fundamental building blocks of human civilization," said [Norwegian Prime Minister] Stoltenberg."

I was reminded of this exchange from Dr. Strangelove:

"Strangelove: I would not rule out the chance to preserve a nucleus of human specimens. It would be quite easy...heh, heh...(He rolls his wheelchair forward into the light) at the bottom of ah...some of our deeper mineshafts. Radioactivity would never penetrate a mine some thousands of feet deep, and in a matter of weeks, sufficient improvements in drilling space could easily be provided.
President: How long would you have to stay down there?
Strangelove: ...I would think that uh, possibly uh...one hundred years...It would not be difficult Mein Fuehrer!
President: Well, I, I would hate to have to decide...who stays up and...who goes down.
Strangelove: Well, that would not be necessary, Mr. President. It could easily be accomplished with a computer. And a computer could be set and programmed to accept factors from youth, health, sexual fertility, intelligence, and a cross-section of necessary skills. Of course, it would be absolutely vital that our top government and military men be included to foster and impart the required principles of leadership and tradition." Nuclear reactors could, heh...I'm sorry, Mr. President. Nuclear reactors could provide power almost indefinitely. Greenhouses could maintain plant life. Animals could be bred and slaughtered. A quick survey would have to be made of all the available mine sites in the country, but I would guess that dwelling space for several hundred thousands of our people could easily be provided."

While I can understand the need for these measures, if only more people spent more time trying to prevent 'climate change and other forces threatening diversity [or the sheer existence] of life' maybe we'd never need to use that vault or build more of those. Get green, people! Say no to war. Oh, also, watch Dr. Strangelove.

[Also, funny thought about the need for the vault - conversation after Doomsday - "Appa, I feel like having Dal Chaawal. All these nuclear polluted foods are killing me!" "Ok, kanna. Lets pick up some seeds from the Vault..."]

Update: Lets all hope there are helpful signboards that lead one to this Vault, and that the signboards are radiation and global warming proofed. Else, we'll have news reports like this one every now and then!

Subtle Subramanian - Part II

...continued from here.

***
The first time Sen walked, it was caught on tape and beamed across the world daily for many years. He was an incredibly cute, chubby baby - The Man Upstairs had sculpted him personally for Cerelac advertisements. There is a rumour that the then head of Nestle undertook severe penance for a new Cerelac baby. In the climax of this penance, he was beating a gong with all his might when he dropped it. At that very instant, in a box-like apartment in Andheri, Sen was born.

Sen loved to talk. He found his voice, and his love for the sound of his voice very early. He could make three-hundred and sixty distinct baby sounds by the time he was six months old. On his first birthday, he apparently said his fifth adult-language word, and one that would become his profession, "Share". While his mother, a writer, was convinced that he was referring to Kipling's legendary tiger, his father, a Bengali banker settled in Bombay foretold the future. "This boy is all talk", he said, "stock market talk".

But for all Sen's talk, he never walked. People around him tried everything. They put his favourite he-man toy a few metres away from him, he gave them a dirty look and a sound firing in his native tongue. They tried to forcibly make him stand, he cried loudly till they could stand it no more. When they placed him back in his comfort zone - he took off again - telling them that they should never have climbed down from the trees.

One of the highlights in Sen's life was the Cerelac advertisement. The whole day, his parents were tense. What would the ad agency say when they realised that a baby who couldn't walk was advertising the product for the age group between one and two years? What would the target audience think of the cereal? A boy fed on this for more than a year isn't walking. Maybe the agency would only shoot Sen's face. But his parents had lied in their letter.

"You shouldn't have said he could walk 'briskly'!"
"I didn't even want to say he walked. You forced me."
"Yeah. But why did you add the 'briskly' part?"
"I heard Mr. Shah telling his wife that he had put 'walks comfortably' on his application. I had to think of an adverb."
"Of all the adverbs in the English language, there is nothing worse than 'briskly'."
"Suggestively."

And so Sen was placed before seven cameras, enough lights to illuminate three football stadiums, a multitude of crew members, the edgy Director and Mr. and Mrs. Shah - the parents of the other baby - the Girl Who Walked Comfortably.

When Sen saw the cameras, he was excited. He gave his speech with more vigour, and said the word "Share" more often than usual. And then his keen eye noticed something - the camera followed his movements. But it looked dangerous. He thought that maybe it harmed him, and he tried to avoid its gaze. But everywhere he moved, the camera was there. Something told him that it couldn't follow him on the one movement that he hadn't tried before - upwards.

So, from a squat, he graduated to a stand. His parents were in shock. Sen was overjoyed. Why was he refusing to give this movement a shot, he wondered. He forgot about the evil camera eye tracking him. And he walked. If you were a little charitable, you'd even say he walked briskly. His other-worldly cuteness was always there. The Girl Who Walked Comfortably gave Sen a glowing look that made him go red. He reacted the same way he reacted to everything in his life - he talked incessantly. The head of Nestle developed the world's first case of an artery block caused by happiness.

This incident ensured two things in Sen's life. It created a bond between him and the cameras. His lack of acting skills, and his over-serious approach to life meant that he could never leverage his bond with the cameras to cinematic fame or celebrity status. He became a newsreader in a Business News channel. It also meant that women never thought of him as hot or cool. They always thought he was cute. Every single woman. Even Lila.
***

On the same day that Sen was married to the cameras, a newlywed couple in Madras left on their Honeymoon. Subramanian had been looking forward to this day for months. He and his missus would spend that night on a train - in a First AC cubicle all to themselves.

"Chee, not on the train," she said, pulling herself away.
"Why not?"
"Not on the train. Its not nice."
"This is First AC. We're never going to travel in such luxury again."

She brushed him aside and stared resolutely outside the window. Subramanian sat next to her, but made an extra effort to seem like he wasn't looking at her.

After some silence, he asked again, "Are we doing this or not?"
"Why are you talking as if it is some chore - like cleaning the car or something?"
"How do you want me to talk?"
"Be a little more subtle in your approach?"
"Subtle Subramanian - that has a nice ring to it..."
"I give up. Lets get this done with before you find other things that have a nice ring to them."

Subramanian didn't want to get too adventurous. It was his first time after all. But years of pent up frustration and pillow-practice didn't make the atmosphere conducive for self-control. He did get a little too adventurous. When he crossed the lines that he shouldn't have crossed, she pushed him away emphatically. A combination of the force of the push, their position and the lack of space in the train resulted in a fractured jaw. Although he brushed aside concerns that evening with a quick, "I'm okay," he wasn't. The features on his face were all permanently pushed, slightly to the left.

The result of those activities on the train was Vinod. Destined to not be subtle, bound and gagged by fate to the Indian Railways, and ordained to find true love on First AC compartments.

When the Indian Railways announced its upgrade system, Vinod was the first in the country to be upgraded to First AC. And in his little cubicle, was an incredible woman reading The Economic and Political Weekly. If the woman didn't resemble a Ravi Varma painting as much, he might have been surprised by the fact that such a journal even existed. As he found resting places for his luggage, he decided to make conversation with the woman.

Hi, he practiced in his head. Nah. This was too random.
Excuse me, he thought. But what if she said, kya re? The only reply he could remember was, main do bacchon ki maa re.
Hey, he thought, does this train stop for long at Egmore? Yeah. That had a nice ring to it.

Just then, a vaguely familiar face walked in, announcing to the girl, "I found water..."

"Holy fuck," said Vinod.
"Macha!" said the new entrant.
"How are you, da, Sherman?"
"Good da, macha. Where are you these days?"
"I'm shifting, actually. Was in Madras with TCS. I'm now joining their office in Bombay. You?"
"Bombay. Investment Banking." Such pomposity, thought Vinod.
"Macha, is that your sister Kavya?" he asked Sharma quietly.
"No da..."
"Cousin?"
"No... Girlfriend! You're still the same, eh? Subtle as ever."

"Hey, Lila, meet Subtle Subramanian. My friend from school in Hyderabad..."
"Hi. L-L-Lila. Hi... Um, I, um, I-I think you're really beautiful. But I'm sure people have told you that already."
She smiled. "Yeah. People have told me that, but..."
"... a little more subtly! Hahaha! Subtle Subbu, what a guy!" Sharma intervened. Sharma was the same, Vinod thought. Vinod asked himself a question that Lila asked herself many times in her life - God, what was she doing with him?! When he looked at her a little closely, he realised something.
"Hey. I know you... My dad watches you all the time."

Uncomfortable pause.

"Oh my god, I meant, um, you're on the news, right? I knew I'd seen you somewhere."
"Yeah. I have a lot more make-up on, and usually I wear more corporate looking clothes. Although I don't fully endorse globalisation and corporatisation. Just thought I'd clarify before you get the wrong idea." Vinod was getting wrong ideas. But they had nothing to do with globalisation or corporatisation.
"She's attempting a sort of a critique from within the system. Bring in new discourses to the way business news is viewed and understood by the moneyed," Sharma explained.
"Hmmm," said Vinod, for the lack of a more intelligent thing to say. But he understood why they were together. Clearly, no one else knew what she was attempting. Few people even realised she was attempting something. Fewer listened to what she had to say on the news.

For most of the journey after that, she read the EPW, Sherman worked on his laptop, the two of them walked out for cigarette-and-allied-pleasures breaks every now and then, and Vinod practised staring at her, subtly, and failed.
***

Every conceivable surface had been plastered with gold paper - the bare-chested princes wore cardboard jewellery coated with gold paper, the princess with the garland in her hand had gold plastered over her thermocole crown, the frail bow had more gold paper on it than wood. Even the centre table on which the bow rested was not spared - gold adorned every little place it could have adorned.

One by one, the princes came forward to try and lift the bow. The bow was a sorry twig from a nearby tree that could break if someone even held it firmly. It required excellent acting on the part of the kids make it seem as if it was too heavy. The princes were doing a great job. The first five in the line, the side-artists who fail, approached it hesitatingly and lifted. The princess had an expression of anticipation on her face as she looked at each prince attempting - an expression that changed to dismay at each failure.

And then the hero, Rama, Lord Rama, walked up to the bow. His gait was confident. He knew that he was scripted to lift it, and that little Sita would garland him. The audience would clap, and the curtain would fall as badly orchestrated Ram Bhajans played in the background. Effortlessly, Rama lifted the bow and broke it while trying to string it. The heroism and majesty in his face was mirrored by the nervous teacher standing backstage.

It was Sita's turn to do her bit now. But the five-year-old Sita realised something. She didn't want her husband to be a weightlifter. She wanted him to be a cool guy. She was looking for a husband, not a bodyguard. She looked around at the princes. The teacher was getting nervous. Garland him, she mouthed from backstage. Sita set her eyes on another prince standing at the back, Rama's brother, Laxmana - the cool dude who decided Sita wasn't good enough for him and let Rama do the heart-winning.

Sita ran straight to Laxmana and garlanded him. The bewildered boy started crying on stage. The audience was in splits. Rama, not being able to comprehend the situation, started crying too. The man handling the audio had no idea if he should play the Ram Bhajans now, but decided to do so anyway. The man handling the curtain, who had fallen asleep, woke up when he heard the music, and let the curtain fall. Sita beamed triumphantly. The applause was deafening.

"Lila!" the teacher screamed.

Lila gave her part-mischievous-part-innocent smile that would, later in her life, be used with unerring success on all kinds of men.

Calming down, trying to understand the child's nervousness and making concession for her age, the teacher said, "You chose the wrong prince, dear."

Twenty-one years passed.

In a particularly heated exchange, Lila said, "Sherman! I'm done with this relationship. I cant handle this superciliousness."
"Supercilicity."
"No. I checked the dictionary this time before using a big word. Superciliousness."
"Its that guy, isn't it?"
"What guy?"
"That guy who reads the news with you."
"What?!"
"I know - you've fallen in love discussing 'technical overhangs' and 'short-covering' with him all day."
"Just like I fell in love with you discussing 'colonial hangovers' and 'tropes of subjectivity?'"
"I saw him making eyes at you. What the fuck - the whole world saw him make eyes at you. Its all over the internet. On your channel website."
"Channel website?"
"Yeah. On the discussion forums. Look at the thread under Infosys."
"Oh, I think I forgot to mention the other reason I cant stand you - you're so suspicious about every man I ever talk to. I'm sure you think Vinod and I are secretly humping also."
"Vinod likes you more than Sen likes himself. He's not very subtle about it. And you to..."
"I like the fact that Vinod isn't subtle. At least I wouldn't have to wonder each day if this guy actually likes me or not. It'll be clear to me and the world. Sometimes I cant handle your subtlety. Me and Sen. God! You've been dying to ask me about this, haven't you? All those roundabout ways of putting the question to me - 'What do you think of office romances?' 'This girl in my office was telling me that she found Sen really cute. You think he's cute?' God! Pathetic. For the record, I think office romances are fine, and that Sen is cute, and he looks and acts like an overgrown baby."
***

Three days later, Sen saw his opportunity. He confessed that the discussion forums were right, and that he wanted to do more than just make eyes at her. The cameras had, as usual, recorded the more crucial events of his life. She asked for some time to think about it. That evening, she said yes.

She vividly remembered what her kindergarten teacher told her all those years ago, "You chose the wrong prince, dear".

Should she have chosen the weightlifter over the cool dude? But which of the two was the weightlifter? Wait, was it the third guy?
***

Subtle Subramanian - Part I

Vinod Subramanian, sat alone on the beach watching old mamas and mamis in sweaters, monkey caps and mufflers. It must have been twenty-three degrees at least, but in Madras, given its usual weather, this was peak winter. He allowed himself a little smile. The waves hit the shore listlessly, almost as if they were bored of doing the same thing for centuries. Or maybe there was a hint of sadness in their behaviour.

He stared at them until a little drop of salty water was waiting to break free from his eyes and run down his cheek. He held it back, got up, and drove away into the city as dawn eased into a bright morning.
***

"That's the singer who was close to Fidel Castro," she said pointing to a poster that had 'Revolucion' emblazoned across it, and laughed almost endlessly.

"Okay, fine. I'm ignorant. You've said that a million times in a million different ways." Vinod declared indignantly.
"I can understand ignorance, but thinking that Che Guevara was a singer close to Castro..."
"Tell me, why would rock music loving, weed smoking, youth in India who haven't lifted a finger for any cause have posters and T-shirts of a revolutionary in South America? I think I'm entitled to assume that he was a rock star."
She laughed even more.
He continued, "I mean, Bollywood music lovers don't walk around with T-shirts of Chandrashekhar Pandit."
"Who?"
"Chandrashekhar P-p-pandit..."
Now she could hardly sit straight laughing. Her laugh was about the most unique laughs he'd ever heard - some people snorted, others sounded like Bollywood's professional rapists, but this one was in its own league - there was a high-pitched squeak that came in every two seconds or so! In his experience, many of the world's prettiest women lost their aura when they laughed out loud. She didn't.
"Chandrashekhar Pandit?"
His eyebrows knotted. "Wait, I know this guy's actual name - the guy with a mush and a gun..."
"Don't forget the dhoti."
And after two whole minutes of agony, he declared, "Azad!" Pause, "Why do I know Chandrashekhar Pandit?"
"Azad was called Panditji by people..."
"Oh yeah, that's what Ajay Devgan keeps calling him."
"Ajay Devgan?"
"That Bhagat Singh movie..."

More laughter filled a room that was a collage of newspapers, books, wires, clothes and cigarette butts. There was a sofa somewhere, but was well camouflaged amongst the previous days' Economic Times, while a mass of wires that belonged to her sixteen-piece sound system made their home on the mattresses that doubled-up as dewans. He looked nervously around the walls to see more people who looked like singers, but probably weren't, and an odd photograph or two of her family. There was a battered old TV in one corner of the room, and even at 8 pm, CNBC was on - in mute - with the stock prices and headlines flashing at the bottom of the screen. The rest of the furniture in the room was a table that had more newspapers and books, a shoe shelf that was nearly empty, and a little teapoy with yesterday's coffee mugs and a coconut shell doubling up as an ash tray. He cleared a few newspapers off the sofa and settled down on it.

She pointed upwards, towards the ceiling.

"Holy fuck." he exclaimed.
"We need to work on your vocabulary!"
"You painted that?!"
"Yeah. Nice?"
"A nude chick?"
"Yes. A nude chick. We really need to work on your vocabulary."
"An unclothed member of the female race?"
"We're a different race now?"
"A lower one, yeah." She gave him a look. "Kidding..."
"Thin ice."
"Anway, what does it signify? Some female liberation shit, with her clothes thrown away?"
"Thinner ice. But I'll let that pass. Benefit of the doubt and what not. You see that little equation in the corner?"
"Yeah..."
"I read this article once that had this long set of equations to prove that an erectile disfunction is equivalent to the square root of minus one. Those are the last two steps of the derivation. If you look closely, the that the woman is made of..."
"Little numbers and equations! Fuck!! But what does the erectile disfunction have to do with her?" and after a couple of seconds of reflection, "Or the square root of minus one?"
"Oh, that is for you to interpret and understand. One doesn't 'explain' art to other people."
"Yeah, when art is that hot, it is a crime to 'explain' it!"
"You think she's hot?"
"Very!"
"My brother told me that her eyes are a little off-centre - specifically the right eye."
"What?! Come on, look at those eyes, they're perfect! And Bipasha Basu has one eye smaller than the other. So, that really doesn't make a difference."
"I never realised that!"
"You have to observe her closely..."
"Her face? Do guys do that?"
"I do," he said, with a superior look.

She said nothing for some time - just stared at the woman who somehow signified the erectile disfunction and the square root of minus one, and dreamily walked into the kitchen. "What do you want?" she hollered.
"You," he said joining her in the kitchen.
"Sen wont be too pleased," she said.
"Sen'll never suspect a thing," he said moving towards her naughtily.
She thrust a drink in his hand. "For now you'll have to do with this."
"You know," he said, "I used to actually have a huge crush on you when I met you initially."
"I know."
"How do you know?"
"You weren't really Subtle Subramanian."
"Damn. I was really hoping you'd break up with Sharma."
"Sherman... I cant believe I was with him for that long."
"Yeah, and by the time I'd heard you broke up, someone pointed out that you were seeing your co-newsreader!
"He asked me. If you had asked me, even when I was with Sherman, I'd've said yes."
"Is that offer open even with Sen?"
She looked at him with that raised left eyebrow. "Are you asking me seriously?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. Yes. The offer is open."
He laughed into his drink.
She said, "Vin, I'm serious."
His eyebrow was raised now. And then his eyes grew as wide as two tennis balls. He took stock of the situation, and leant closer to her and asked, "Will you go out with me?"

She didn't say anything. She just leant towards him.

"I must warn you. The features on my face are to the left."
"Eh?"
"My face is not proportional."
She looked at it closely. "No!"
"Yes."
"I've done an experiment. I clicked a picture of myself, and took the left half of my face and laterally inverted it and pasted it instead of the right half. I looked different."
"Bergman-esque!" she said suddenly. He laughed. That's what he loved her for. He didn't understand what she meant by that - who was Bergman? Did he have a disfigured face? He didn't understand most things she said - about discourses and ontologies, about nihilism, countercultures and anarchy, about imagined communities and shared histories, about feminism and maelstroms, about Yugoslavia and Rwanda. But he listened to her, often with fascination, because she had this way of talking that made her look much prettier than she already was.

"Bergman is this famous Swedish filmmaker..." she explained.
"The joke sounded funnier without the explanation," he said.
"Jokes always do."
"But, coming back to the point, I have a disfigured face."
"You actually did that?"
"What?"
"Your experiment?"
"Yeah. I wouldn't have told you, if it weren't true."
"Nice use of the subjunctive mood. Not bad," she commented suddenly.
"The what?"
"Oh, don't bother."
"Yeah. I have other things to bother myself with."
"Like your disfigured face."
"I think I should get surgery done."
"Nah."
"Yeah. Plastic surgery."
"I'll compensate for the disfiguration," she said, moving her lips slightly to the right before towards his face. And the kiss was just the right mix of the spiciness of romance and the tangy tinge of mischief.
***
As much as he enjoyed getting up early in the morning to watch cricketers monkeying around in Australia in yet another Test Match, he hated Ravi Shastri's cliche-ridden drone. The cricket was often 'ordinary', the 'keeper almost always played a 'gritty' innings (unless he was Adam Gilchrist, god bless his soul), bowlers either hit or did not hit the 'right areas', and every now and then, the visiting batsman was "Edged and taken!" On this particular day, when an 'attractive shot-maker' was 'in his element', the ball had 'four written all over it' nearly every two minutes. Some poor soul was doing a lot of writing.

He increased the volume until the drone filled his little apartment and walked to the basin in the interests of personal hygiene. His reflection in the mirror confirmed his recent beliefs - that his face wasn't proportional. Slightly to the left. He told himself that he shouldn't worry about it so much. When he bared his teeth to his reflection, he noticed that his teeth were to one side also. The middle teeth at the top didn't fall on the middle teeth at the bottom. After a whole minute of trying to remember, it came to him - his incisors! That's what they were. They were off-centre.

"You know what I hate about this place," she said suddenly entering the bathroom. "You don't get newspapers."
"I get the Mid-day..."
"Newspaper?"
"Mid-day." he declared, emphasising on the first syllable for no reason, when the dreaded voice came, "Edged and taken!"
"Fuck. Laxman."
"Dravid falls for that teasing line outside the off..."
"Thank god!"
"You know, I think the Hyderabadis' love for Laxman is much like Laxman's batting..."
"Don't theorise about cricket. Please. I mean, how would you feel if I said things like, 'The subjunctive mood is in its death throes, and the best thing to do is to put it out of its misery as soon as possible'?"
"That's Maugham, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"I'm impressed."
"Wikipedia."
"Better than Competition Success."
"For quite a while, that was my primary source of knowledge."
"But you actually read up on the subjunctive mood?"
"Yeah, I didn't realise that it was a grammatical thing - I was hoping it'd tell me more about women."
"The sub..."
"Edged and Taken!"
"Fuck. Laxman."
He ran to the TV wearing a worried expression and a T-shirt that now had more toothpaste than fabric. She had other worries.
***

To be continued

Eh?

Roebuck's article on January 8, 2008 in the Sydney Morning Herald:

"The only surprising part of it is that the Indians have not packed their bags and gone home. There is no justice for them in this country, nor any manners."

Roebuck's article on January 30, 2008 in the Sydney Morning Herald:

"INDIA'S performance in chartering a plane to take the players back home in the event of an independent judge finding against them in the Harbhajan Singh case counted amongst the most nakedly aggressive actions taken in the history of a notoriously fractious game. If this is the way the Indian board intends to conduct its affairs hereafter, then God help cricket."

Opinions change. Really fast.