How to Murakamify a regular story

Normal Story: 
A guy drifts along, not too happy with his life but not unhappy enough to do something about it, until one day he wonders if he should. He quits his job, and embarks on a novel about a guy in love with two sisters and unable to decide which one he loves more.

He likes a girl, a lot, but he isn't sure she has any feelings for him. Let's call her W. They go on long walks, they discuss movies, books, art, music. His crush on her intensifies, but she is vague in her responses to him.

Dawdling on the internet, he comes across X, a girl who makes him laugh. A romance ensues. X and he meet, finally, and they fall in love. He forgets W. X goes back to the country she came from, but their romance remains.

His novel gets rejected by various publishers. One tells him it has too many big words. He practices darts on a photograph of Chetan Bhagat.

X decides she cannot romance him on the internet, and finds herself a guy closer home. By the time he comes back to W, she has moved on.

He travels to Rajahmundry, and throws the manuscript of his novel down the Godavari. He finds himself another job.

Murakamification:
A guy drifts along, not too happy with his life but not unhappy enough to do something about it, until one day, he has a dream where he has furious sex with an Amar Chitra Katha character who comes alive. The next night, he dreams of being seduced in a bizarre manner by the character's sister. He decides to quit his job and write a novel about this.

A girl, W, who has the most perfect set of teeth, and he go on long walks for days. He likes her, but he's too intense to do anything about it. He only stares at her teeth. One day, he has his Amar Chitra Katha character dream again, and when it ends, he realises the girl is W. W mentions something vague that suggests to him that his dream might not just be a dream, but he's not sure if what she said means what he thinks she said.

The next day, he decides he must read the relevant Amar Chitra Katha, and Googles it. He comes across various threads where a mysterious woman, X, represented only by a stick-figure cartoon, writes Freudian interpretations of the stories. She makes him laugh. He responds, they correspond. His dreams now involve him having furious sex with the stick-figure cartoon. He locks himself up in a dark room to think. He can only think of furious sex with the stick-figure cartoon. Occasionally, W's teeth make an appearance, but they're quickly forgotten. Finally, the stick-figure cartoon begins filling out, until it becomes the sister of the Amar Chitra Katha character that W turned into. His fantasies now only involve the sister and not the original character.

His novel closely recounting these adventures is rejected by various publishers because it isn't translated from Japanese. He finds a translator who tells him gory stories of the Indo-Bangladesh war, but doesn't translate the novel. His translator commits suicide.

X disappears from the internet altogether - from the threads on Amar Chitra Katha, from his inbox, his chat-transcripts. Her facebook profile is missing, her twitter account is empty. He looks for her everywhere, but it is like she never existed. He only gets a mail with a singular attachment containing a cartoon drawing of the Amar Chitra Katha woman's navel.

W has also disappeared from the real world. All that is left behind is a photograph of her navel in his house.

After meandering along the Kerala coast for weeks, meeting a man who thinks he is a rhinoceros, a yogi who might be a fraud, a hotel owner who is a Geeta Dutt fan, he finds out where W and X have gone. He opens the pages of his manuscript and delves into it.
***

It goes without saying - I've pre-ordered 1Q84 and I can't wait for it!

Parking

There's a dead crow on my street where I park my car,
So I parked my car a few feet away.
This got me thinking:

How long will the crow carcass remain there?
Will someone clear it? Who?
When can I park my car in its usual place?

What happens to dead crows in this city?
Do they burn them or bury them?
Or do they just let them rot?

And what of the street dogs and cats?
And bandicoots and cows and buffaloes?
Do they have a squad that does the dirty work?

And what of all those men and women
Who have nowhere to die, no one to bury;
Who will put them away in a safe place
So that I can peacefully park my car?

Wikipedia, milaard!

So, at the last hearing of a tax appeal, a lawyer appearing for the Government relied on something from Wikipedia. This page, specifically.

Yesterday, Porus Kaka, a lawyer from Bombay arguing for the taxpayer, brought a printout of the same page, submitted it to the judges, and said, "My Lords, this is the same Wikipedia page the Revenue was relying on last time. I have made a few changes to this webpage to suit my case." Dramatic pause. "I'm not casting any aspersions on my Learned Friend, I'm only showing My Lords how Wikipedia works."

The judge smiled, and said, "No, Mr. Kaka. We weren't going to rely on this anyway."
***

When will our Supreme Court stop using Wikipedia?
(See here, here, here, here, here and here.)

Certainty, Remorse and the Death Penalty

By the time you read this, Ram Jethmalani would most likely have walked away with a stay of the execution of three assassins of Rajiv Gandhi. You might not hear of it in the English and Hindi news channels - they're too busy monitoring Anna's health - but the Tamil media is crawling with news, analysis and opinions. Opinion is divided, obviously, for the issue is rather thorny. Is there a case for showing any mercy to three persons convicted of assassinating the Prime Minister and taking the lives of at least fourteen bystanders, even after the President has rejected their clemency petition?

I was reminded, yesterday, of a passage from Dosteovsky's The Idiot (It is a long passage, bear with me):

But here I should imagine the most terrible part of the whole punishment is, not the bodily pain at all—but the certain knowledge that in an hour,—then in ten minutes, then in half a minute, then now—this very instant soul must quit your body and that you will no longer be a man— and that this is certain, CERTAIN! That’s the point—the certainty of it. Just that instant when you place your head on the block and hear the iron grate over your head—then—that quarter of a second is the most awful of all.

‘This is not my own fantastical opinion—many people have thought the same; but I feel it so deeply that I’ll tell you what I think. I believe that to execute a man for murder is to punish him immeasurably more dreadfully than is equivalent to his crime. A murder by sentence is far more dreadful than a murder committed by a criminal. The man who is attacked by robbers at night, in a dark wood, or anywhere, undoubtedly hopes and hopes that he may yet escape until the very moment of his death. There are plenty of instances of a man running away, or imploring for mercy—at all events hoping on in some degree—even after his throat was cut. But in the case of an execution, that last hope—having which it is so immeasurably less dreadful to die,—is taken away from the wretch and CERTAINTY substituted in its place! There is his sentence, and with it that terrible certainty that he cannot possibly escape death—which, I consider, must be the most dreadful anguish in the world. You may place a soldier before a cannon’s mouth in battle, and fire upon him—and he will still hope. But read to that same soldier his death-sentence, and he will either go mad or burst into tears. Who dares to say that any man can suffer this without going mad? No, no! it is an abuse, a shame, it is unnecessary—why should such a thing exist? Doubtless there may be men who have been sentenced, who have suffered this mental anguish for a while and then have been reprieved; perhaps such men may have been able to relate their feelings afterwards. Our Lord Christ spoke of this anguish and dread. No! no! no! No man should be treated so, no man, no man!’

What these three prisoners have faced is far worse. The Supreme Court confirmed their death sentences in 2000 - eleven years ago. They filed a petition for clemency before the President immediately. With no discernible timeline for when the President would consider and pass an order on their application, they have been waking up for eleven years without knowing if they will be alive in the evening. Every book they read, they aren't sure if it will be their last. Every meal they eat, every piece of music they hear, every sunrise they witness, they wonder if they will once more. Surely, this is a far worse punishment than death itself.

These are people willing to die for a cause, yes. They have shown no remorse, yes. They are still considered heroes amongst their ilk. If twenty years of jail and twenty years of uncertainty of existence hasn't reformed them, what will?

But then, our criminal justice system doesn't deal with remorse. Our strongest justification for the death penalty is still retribution. Let me use the cruder term - revenge. Is it possible to feel remorse when an avenger hovers over you, holds you captive and takes painfully long to shut every exit door? We aren't giving our criminals the space to feel remorse.

What of the families of the victims in Sriperumbudur? A friend who did a report on them says they are all struggling to make ends meet, that they are still recovering from the loss. Our criminal justice system has nothing to make them a part of the process; a crime is seen as an offence against the state and not against an individual or a community. The state acts coldly, the state even eliminates the victim from the process, except as witnesses. How can Murugan feel sorry for his actions when he doesn't know what suffering he has caused? Our system doesn't make an offender face up to his wrongs, it only gives him a chance to defend himself against them. Telling a victim that you did nothing wrong is much harder than telling the State that you did nothing wrong.

The 187th Law Commission Report speaks of the death penalty in the most scathing terms, it tells us of everything that is wrong with it. It also deals with this issue - of prisoners on death row, for interminable periods. Our Supreme Court has dealt with cases like this in the past in favour of the offender, but these are quick-fix solutions. Cases where clemency petitions are pending with the President for decades are not unknown.

The first step we need to take is to recognise that revenge cannot and should not justify criminal punishments anymore. The death penalty is heinous, it is violent, it is morally unjustifiable, and it is random. It must go.

Father, Child and Holy Dinosaurs

In the last five days, I have watched two movies that portrayed a father-child relationship and featured dinosaurs. Apart from this superficial and slightly freakish similarity, I think I can confidently state that Deivathirumagal and The Tree of Life come from two different universes.

The former approaches the subject like a sugarcane juicer would approach sugarcane, extracting every little drop of sugary sweetness it can from the story of a childish father and an too-smart-for-her-age child. The latter, ah, well... The latter approaches the subject with a microscope, a syringe and fine piece of forceps; digging into the cane, showing you little nuances, droplets of saccharine, strands of rough fibre and unexpectedly zooming out, to explore the existence and relevance of the sugarcane itself. Deivathirumagal is about the unordinary, it is about special people in special circumstances, but it is told in the most ordinary of manners, milking the specialness of the situation for every cheap teardrop, being needlessly cute, needlessly melodramatic, needlessly obvious, needlessly over-the-top. The Tree of Life, on the other hand, is about normal people, everyday relationships, regular emotions, jealousies, happinesses and freedoms, but it is about finding the magic in that normality, and still asking questions of it, it is about valuing those emotions, validating them, almost, but still placing them amidst a tremendous canvas. The Tree of Life is a meditation, it is a probing, self-indulgent journey, it is an artist's quest to understand his own emotions, and their place in the cosmos around him.

In Deivathirumagal, as a result, there is constant chatter, the father and daughter have a family-whistle, they have cute duet acts, he tells her stories, and gets proud of her reciting nursery rhymes. In trying to show that special people are normal, the movie forgets that normal people don't have any of this. The love between a parent and a child manifests itself far more subtly, in the way parents look at their children, in the way they discipline them, in their inherent protectiveness, in their pride, their disappointments and their desires; in the warmth of their touch, in the way they hold their them, in quiet intimacy. The Tree of Life captures that - and this is its greatest achievement.

Ultimately, The Tree of Life is Syama Sastry asking Goddess Meenakshi difficult questions in Ahiri; Deivathirumagal is the Backstreet Boys telling you which way they want it.

Twenty-buck Meal

Apparently, there is a regulation in Tamil Nadu, which makes it mandatory for restaurant owners (from what I gather, the regulation applies to the Bhavans - Saravana Bhavan, Vasanta Bhavan, Balaji Bhavan and so on) to supply some "meals" for Rs. 20. (Just as an aside, the word "meals" is always plural. "Oru meals kudunga." "Have you taken your meals?" "Meals saapudlaama?" Even the menus in the restaurant offer only "Chennai Meals", "Banjabi Meals", "Chineese Meals". This is like caste names. "Saar, neenga Brahmins aa?" I'm tempted to say, "Ille saar. Naa oru Brahmin daan.") Today, instead of ordering "Limited Meals" (misleading name, the meals have enough food to cure famine in a small village), I order the twenty-buck meals. It felt a little cheap, initially, but when the food came, I was very satisfied.

The "Limited Meals" features a mound of rice that's as big as (and looks like) one hemisphere of a football on a plate. The plate also has various (replenishable) bowls of poriyal, kootu, karakozhambu, sambar, rasam, two sweets, buttermilk, curd and more-molaga. Oh, I forgot the appalam. When I finish eating this, I usually come back to office and collapse for a while. It is a highly satisfying meal, I agree, but sometimes it feels too satisfying. Priced at Rs. 55, it is an overwhelming avalanche of food. It makes you feel like one of those vaadyars who has to attend, conduct and eat food at weddings everyday.

The twenty-buck meal is perfect. The rice is about half the amount. There's only a sambar, rasam, kootu and buttermilk (and I suspect these bowls aren't bottomless). A mini-coffee at the end of it, and the world seemed like a good place to be. I know I'll feel hungry in some time (the Limited Meals makes me run away from food for the rest of the day), but there are yummy momos close by.

This is what I love the Tamil Nadu Government for. Things like the 10-buck movie tickets - if you didn't know, you can walk into any movie theatre in Tamil Nadu and ask for a 10-buck ticket. Yes, any theatre, even the Sathyams, the Inoxes and the PVRs of the world. Free mixies, grinders, laptops, TVs, 4 gms of gold (for marriageable women - I'm neither a woman, nor marriageable, but still), free cattle (I'm not kidding you)... What a great place to live!

In the end analysis, this twenty-buck meal is good for my waistline. People describe me today as "well-built", and I can sense that they're politely implying that I'm plump. I don't want them to graduate to saying "plump" when they mean "fat", or "fat" when they mean "gargantuan".

Sammy and Friends

This is now on cricinfo.
***

There is a theory doing the rounds that with Sammy in the eleven, the Windies will always be either one batsman short, or one bowler short. It is an easy argument to make. Sammy, the batsman, struggles to make an impact because he does not have the defensive technique to play a long innings. Sammy, the bowler, is a holder, and he cannot be more than that at his pace. The only successful attacking Test Match bowler at Sammy's pace in recent memory is Shaun Pollock, and Sammy doesn't have the skill or the control to be Shaun Pollock.

On the afternoon of the first day of the Third Test match, I prayed that West Indies would have the courage to play one batsman less, and pick Kemar Roach to bowl with Edwards, Rampaul, Sammy and Bishoo. In this series, every time the West Indies had the Indian batting on the mat, the batsmen found a passage of uninspiring bowling to capitalise on - Harbhajan and Raina did it in the First Test, Laxman and Raina in the Second. A fifth bowler might have helped, I thought; a fresh pair of legs, some variety. Moreover, the extra batsman hasn't done much at all. Yesterday, with Rampaul missing - an unfortunate, unforeseeable tragedy - the Windies still had India in trouble, at 18 for 2 and at 172 for 5, and both times, the bowlers who were doing the damage were too tired to continue. A fifth bowler might really have helped.

But with Sammy in the fold, a fifth bowler means a batsman less. It means that Baugh bats at six, and Sammy at seven - not confidence-inspiring at all. Which brings us to that easy argument again - that Sammy is the fielder, not good enough as a bowler or batsman.

Let's look at the tougher argument for a moment.

That the West Indies have been struggling to compete in Test matches is trite, it is obvious for all to see. They won a Test match after two years against Pakistan earlier this year. They ignominiously lost to Bangladesh at home some time ago when their top players walked out on the series. The Board and the Players Association are locked in a battle that resembles a socialist trade union struggle for better pay and better working conditions. There are player strikes, suspensions, mysterious selection decisions, rabid interviews, talks of corruption, mishandling, unnecessary interference. For ten years now, since Walsh retired, the West Indies have been a collection of talent fissured and fractured by politics.

Sammy's appointment as captain - he's known as a Board man, rather than the Player Association man his predecessor Gayle was - happened in this context. He was never a regular in the Test side, and in the shorter versions, his report card read, "Can do better". His appointment came as a bolt in the blue. And it was well understood that he is role as a captain is similar to his role as a bowler - hold until the next guy is fit and ready.

Sammy has done a lot more.

Before Sammy, there were flashes of team-play, in that unexpected Champions Trophy win, for instance. Fans of the team, like myself, have consoled ourselves in individual brilliance - Lara's exploits against Murali, Chanderpaul's invincible runs of attrition, Chris Gayle's random, merciless attacks, and Jerome Taylor's freak spell.

For the first time in ten years, under Sammy, the West Indies are playing like a team, pooling in collective resources to punch above their weight - in a manner that reminds one of the way New Zealand play their cricket. In this home season, they drew with Pakistan, and have troubled India more than India would've imagined possible. Yesterday, with Rampaul out of the eleven, it would have been easy for the West Indies to bend over and submit. But two bowlers and Sammy - who, by the way, always bowls better than he looks like he's bowling - all carrying niggles, made India fight for their runs. Except in that last hour, when the bowlers were too tired to make an impact, they traded on equal terms with the Indian batting line up.

Sammy has brought this will to toil to the team, he has brought heart and commitment. When he's badgered in the press conferences, his responses are never tired, they are honest. When he is asked about his own merit, he responds with belief. When asked about selection, Gayle's for instance, he responds with a shrug, it's not his job to comment. And that is exactly how he plays his cricket, and how he captains the side - with enthusiasm and devotion that belies his natural talents. Maintaining his morale, his conviction amidst this pressure from the media and the players is admirable enough; that he infects his teammates with this courage is the sign of a truly great leader.

This generation of West Indian cricketers are still only discovering how to win, and Sammy is pushing them to discover it together, as a team.

Sammy is still doing a holding job, he knows that. When Bravo, Bishoo or Barath are ready, he will, most probably, make way. But he is doing a lot more than he was expected to do - it is just a question of time, and a little luck, before results follow.