Sunday ka Funda

"A story should have a beginning, a middle and an end… but not necessarily in that order."
- Jean-Luc Godard

The battle between what constitutes good cinema and bad cinema will never end. The mainstream, whether in Hollywood or Bollywood, will be looked down upon, even as the majority of people crowd the movie halls to watch escapist fare, or distorted versions of events.

I have been quite open about my love for Indian cinema, despite its flaws, and partly because of the manner in which the original New Wave has been completely altered to make way for the sanctimonious creators of pulp redefined.

A while ago I read about this conversation between actor-director Manoj Kumar and Satyajit Ray, two people from different genres of filmmaking:

At the 1967 International Film Festival in New Delhi, Ray told Kumar that he found his film 'Upkar', a tad too melodramatic. After a pause, Kumar replied: “Manikda (Ray’s nickname), consider the scene in 'Charulata' where Soumitra Chatterjee first meets Madhabi Mukherjee. There is sound of thunder and lightning in the background. Is it not melodrama?”

A smiling Ray apparently patted Kumar’s shoulder and said, “You caught me!”

"Drama is life with the dull bits cut out."
- Alfred Hitchcock

---

A few months ago we had an interesting discussion here about a song from a Manoj Kumar film

I no knot what to do...

"You know nothing about the business of writing," he told me.

Then came the details. How to get off. Get it off. Take off. Take it off. Book launches. Public relations. Publishers and their demands. Reviewers and their demands. Readers and their demands. The format. The cover. The pages. The typeface. The people to meet.

"What's happening with your book?" I asked him.

"I don't know."

I returned to my soggy half-finished sentence and patted it dry.

© Farzana Versey

Hotline

"Hello, my Internet connection has not been working for hours," I tell the service provider hotline guy, after being warned by a computerised voice that this call is being recorded for quality and training purposes and I am to be part of the education.

"Ok...please provide me with security details....thanks...ok, may I call you by first name?..." he rattles off.

"Anything, just get this working."

"So what is the problem actually?"

"The internet..."

"You want to subscribe?"

"I told you it is not working and when it does work it is very slow."

"I understand. Am really sorry for the inconvenience. How many bars are showing?"

Hic.

"Four," I say, squinting my eyes to make sure I don't miss out on any bars and mislead the training and quality.

"That's good. Now try browsing."

"That's what I have been trying to do, and it is not working."

"Oh, so sorry to hear that. Did you try switching it off?"

"I have done all that is possible. Switched off, on, removed batteries, put them in, taken the phone/tab for a walk..." [last bit not said aloud]

"Maybe you don't know the settings..."

"I've been using this before you were born." [not said aloud]

"We'll try it manually...go to home page, then to settings..."

"I have been there for a couple of hours..." I had also cleared cache, history, geography to make it light as a feather.

"Now add this...then this...type google...G O O..."

"I know how to spell."

"Now click save..."

"There is no save...it auto saves."

"IPad is Apple?"

"No. It is orange." [said softly because call is recorded and training might not be fruity]

"I will have to transfer you to my technical department..."

"And who are you?"

"I am hotline help. Transferring now...[music] Sorry about the long wait..."

[It's been 30 seconds only]

"Okay, transferring the line to Shahrukh Khan [not his real name]. SRK will now help you..."

"Even if Idi Amin does I'll be happy."

[obviously, I did not say it aloud]

"I understand you have a problem. Have you tried switching on and switching off?" asked SRK.

"No. I have no clue how to do it. Because I am not a machine."

[I did not say this latter bit aloud]

The wonders of life. The line got cut off. I resigned myself to being unconnected. A few minutes later I got a text message. "Were you happy with the help?"

I switched off. So, yes, the help worked in unintended ways.

Land and religion: Bangladesh's fight

What started as protest against the grabbing of ten acres of land has become a sinister plot that includes accusations of blasphemy. I got to know writer-activist Salam Azad about six years ago (a reference to it is here). Today, his life is in danger as fundamentalist forces issue death threats. His crime? He wants the property of the Hindus returned to them.

“People of the locality started a movement to recover the land back and build a hospital and girls school in the Hindu owned vested land. Very few people are concerned about the plight of the Hindus. Slowly and naturally the people of locality placed me in the leadership of the movement. I told the local people, at first, we save the three Hindu temples and then recover the land they agreed with me. The movement still continues. This effort to save the Hindu Minority interest is not of interest to the average, aloof middle-class and fundamentalists. Meanwhile Mr Nuh-ul Alam Lenin, is former pro-Moscow communist and presently Publicity Secretary of Bangladesh Awami Legue Lenin, supposed to be a moderate, is hand in glove with Fundamentalists. On 22nd of June 2012 in Sreenagar stadium, about 50,000 fundamentalists gathered demanding vociferously to hang me. Some even went to my village home (village Damla, Police Station: Sreenagar, District: Munshigonj) and attacked my paternal home. It is very painful and horrific for me and my family.”

What is surprising is that in March 2010 he was shortlisted to be Dhaka’s deputy high commissioner in Kolkata. But Muslim leaders in West Bengal wrote to Bangladesh Prime Minister Khaleda Zia not to send him because of his controversial writings, indirectly alluding to Taslima Nasreen. So, clearly he was not considered unwanted by the political elite and was not averse to a political role.


His book of fiction, Bhanga Math (Broken Temple), was banned by the Bangladesh Government on July18, 2004. However, as he states, “There was no other charge, like Blasphemy against me.”

Now, the ghost of this banned book is revisiting him. Two cases were filed in June, including an arrest warrant issued based on his “slanderous” references in 2004. No mention was made at the time. For commercial gain some vile forces are using religion. Land grab is riding on charges of Blasphemy. His situation reveals how monetary gain surpasses everything else.

“The citizens in a Secular Democracy do not have the faint idea how dangerous it is to live in a fundamentalist place with the charge of Blasphemy, hanging over the neck. The Government also tries not to displease the radical elements, unless that is absolutely necessary for their own interest.”

The death threats continue. The police have the numbers of the culprits, but have done nothing, provided him with no security till date. “I am in a dangerous situation and need protection.”

He has not sought attention for his banned book or his contribution to the minorities. He was accustomed to opposition, but after living a few years in exile he returned home. A home that apparently cannot shelter him.


Another encounter

“Where are our guns?” asked the 20-something. I don’t meet Bangladeshis too often, but whenever I have there has never been such a vociferous reaction. His father worked in the corporate sector, but scepticism about the lifestyle and youthful rebellion made him run away from home. He writes occasionally for the Bangla papers.

Although I have earlier written about India’s stand on Bangladesh (The Bangladesh India Forgot), the man born much after the 1971 War has inherited anger that we refuse to believe. I tried playing devil’s advocate: “But did not India help the Mukti Bahini?”

“We are thankful for the help. But when Indians say that Pakistanis ran away, then who took away our guns, our gold? We were left with nothing…”

“Are you saying India looted Bangladesh?”

“It is still looting. Bangladesh has rich natural resources. Burma and India have easy access, and India knows what is where.”

“And no one can control it?”

“We have fighting inside. I am concerned about our wealth. So many families lost their means of livelihood. I ask the elders and they are silent. How can guns disappear? Where are the records?”

“Aren’t you more concerned about the way things are now?”

“It is because of what has happened. Now extremists are taking over or people are looting us, destroying our land.”

He hates the Saudis and he hates Indians. He feels nothing for Pakistan. He is not a Muslim.

The conversation left me with mixed feelings – a minority in a land that needed a language, but who thought that both RabindranathTagore and Kazi Nazrul Islam, contemporaries and poets that bound India and Bangladesh, were a waste of time and taught nothing about “how to live”. He did not speak about being a Hindu. He spoke as a Bangladeshi who will one day return home. A home without gold and lost guns.

(c) Farzana Versey

The Interview

I was on the other side, being interviewed. It wasn’t the first time but I constantly found myself asking the questions inside my head. It’s part of the experiences I have had. So, before I get to me, I shall get to them.

How does it feel to get into the mind of someone, I am often asked. The answer is always: Challenging. Almost all of my one-on-one interviews have been rather intense. It is two people in a room, not unlike the relationship between a psychiatrist and a ‘patient’, except that the roles can and do get swapped. It is amazing how much you discover about yourself in the very nature of the queries you pose. Even after all these years, I like to have some questions ready; there on I take off from the response I get.

Then, a Pandora’s Box opens, and the treasures could be precious memories, newly-formed opinions, or skeletons, and there have been occasions when the person has broken down or felt elated or got angry because what had remained submerged suddenly spurted out. The catharsis was not expected. I still recall this woman quite literally jumping on the sofa I was sitting on, her rage barely contained. It was a large house filled with antiques. Should I leave or leave her alone? The answer came in the form of tears - mine. I sat there, plunging my nails into the upholstery. She had calmed down and reapplied her makeup. There was a smile on her lips and her long fingers touched my hand.

One thing I know. If you are not honest, you won’t get honesty. It may sound strange but I have met honest politicians, or at least whatever was discussed was done so honestly. Recently, I had to make a sort of list of the interviews I have done and the range includes industrialists, gangsters, people from films, academics, science, sports, activism, feminism, theatre, writing, media, astrology, psychology, sexology, religion. These are what may be called ‘names’ in their respective fields, but there have been very many others who were interviewed on themes. It could be a story on beggars or eunuchs or nuns. (Me: “Sister, what do you fantasise about?”)

How much of oneself enters into the subject’s voice? It depends on how the interview has progressed. I do not buy into the theory that one must not express an opinion in an interview. I spend a minimum of an hour and besides the words recorded there are the background sounds and images and my own voice.

“I was looking for your voice,” said a writer-colleague about my book. “It was there throughout but I found it most evident in the section with interviews.”

“But, they were speaking.”

“Your questions were what created this chain and sometimes you’d just move on, almost impatient!”

It was a perceptive observation and quite true.

So five months ago, in October, when I got a call from Khaleej Times (UAE) asking for an interview, I did not at the time know anything about the media there. “Why,” I asked.

“Because of your book.”

“That’s been around for a while,” I said.

“Yes, but it will be interesting for our readers and we will also talk about the other issues you write about.”

She told me she had been “warned” that I was very particular about whether she had really read any of the stuff and promised me that she had and will read more before we met.

I walked into the hotel lobby where we were to meet. My foot was recovering from a fracture so it was in a stopgap air cast. I would have been easily identifiable although the white slacks did cover the pumpkin green cast. No, she did not spot me. I just went up to the lone young woman sitting there in a hijaab. We moved to the coffee shop and the first thing she said was, “I was told you are a veteran.”

“Hmm, well, yes, I guess so…”

“You don’t look…” and the thought trailed off.

I told a media friend from that part of the world about it and asked how one was supposed to look like a veteran and why did I not, and he was quite exasperated, “A normal person would take this as a compliment.”

The interviewer was honest. I could sense it. There were questions about inspiration, the book, my political views, the process of writing, and some fun queries. It went on for over an hour. I did not want a photographer around. Now, I don’t have a portfolio and I took a few self-timer pictures. It shows.

I got a small shock when I saw the paper (it was in the main section and not the supplement and was duly announced in an earlier page). The low-resolution image had been blown up. I immediately knew what had happened. It helps being a ‘veteran’. Most of the quotes had not been carried and it must have been a last-minute decision. People who know informed me that my views are not always ‘proper’, so they had to temper it. Why could they not use a long blurb, instead? It was also referred to as a new book, but again my friend said, “Some people think Anna Karenina is a new book.”

The problem is that if you have been an interviewer for long, you do tend to be understanding: People at the desk only know that chop means chop from anywhere, including have an abrupt end without any context. I was particularly distressed about discovering that I do not read. I do not read maniacally other people's views on the subject I am working on. It does interfere.

This is one more aspect to note. I research a person only to an extent that I know the background or the specific topic of expertise. In my case, I have already spoken quite a bit, written a lot, there are reviews, so rather unfortunately a good deal of that seeped in and the interviewer’s fresh queries and my replies went wasted, except about how the book happened which I have not spoken about yet. Heck, she should have asked me about favourite fragrances or something and there would be more words rather than the grainy picture.

But you know what? Most people don’t care for what you say or how you think. For them a big picture is the big picture. So, text messages were exchanged about how I was in the news. I found it embarrassing, which is why I held back until now. Because now I can see the humour when an acquaintance who does not have any interest in writers or writings had held the paper against the lamp in a Chinese restaurant and said, “Man, I did not know you had been mainlining. You look like you’ve been out of rehab.”

“Hrmph, so has Lindsay Lohan. And I am a veteran.”

- - -

The interview is uploaded on 'A Journey Interrupted blog' here.

Yes, there is a scanned image and I have never mainlined or mainstreamed for that matter!

Gubernatorially Yours

It really seemed as much of a big deal as any sort of feedback. Or as small as any pesky spam.

So, when one fine day I got an email from the ambassador of a certain country my first reaction was 'troll'. He had talked about an exchange of ideas, had given his personal email address and phone number.

I did what protocol demands and wrote back to say thank you and blah. But, remember, ideas had to be exchanged? I waited it out. What was the worst that could happen if I called? Someone would have a good laugh? I'd like that. For anyone to go to such trouble just for a little laughter would tell me a lot about the state of that mind. But I digress.

I dialled the number and it was a foreign accent. I relaxed a bit. Caution did not leave, though.

"Who am I speaking to?" I asked uncharacteristically and impolitely.

"Er...who would you like to speak to?"

"Ok. It's like this. I got a letter from someone saying he wants an exchange of ideas. "

"Oh..." (How was he to remember that?)

"So, do you?"

"One moment. Who do you wish to speak to?"

"My name is FV. Are you...hmm...excellen..." Damn. I was supposed to say "Your" but the PA who had sent the attached note had said "His". So, my tongue was in this conflict zone between His and Yours and how can he be your?

"Yes," he said simply. "My name is X. Now I recall."

"Yes. But you know how it is. I thought you were some crank," I said with a straight face he could not see.

"I perfectly understand. Even in our profession we have to be careful. "

"I was not worried, just wanted to be sure. What ideas do you want to exchange?"

"I read you but want to understand the mind. We must open all channels. I have worked in Y country and know it is important."

"Let me be honest. I write only what I want to. But I can exchange ideas. "

"Exactly. You tell me when."

"Yes. Your Excel..."

"Excellent!"

(The initials used here are fictitious and any resemblance to characters with similar initials is purely fictitious.)

Two men and a flight

I had been delayed, or so I thought. Spent too much time at the counter buying chocolates; I had gone to pick up a packet of face tissues. I thought I heard the flight announcement. I was carrying little. Turned out that there was still time. Bought a Diet Coke. I hate cans. Got a Styrofoam glass. Took small sips. And watched. Nothing.

Was snapped out by a voice saying, “Madam, madam…”

He smiled and showed me a piece of paper. He wants a donation? No. He was showing me his name. Then he said, “I want to use your phone.”

He lived in China. In this sea of people he could only find me? I am often stupid enough to permit such usage. This time, since I had been watching nothing, I was blank and fresh. So, I said, “Ask the men.”

“Oh, nothing like that. I wanted to give a missed call to my wife.”

Fine. Ask the men.

As happens almost always, I began thinking about the scenarios. The call could be made to a drug dealer, some gangster. Or the wife. The deadliest scenario.

Wife calls back. Asks, who are you? I tell her who I am. Where are you? I tell her where I am. Do you know who called me? I would tell her who called her. Then why is he with you? I would tell her we are flying the same flight. And why are you flying together?

Bloody hell. Because there are over a hundred others doing the same and we are all planning an orgy in the air.

Mr. Shanghai shrugged when I said no and went on his way…

Another fellow sitting across with a thick book was smiling. More to himself. We said nothing, got into the van to take us to the aircraft. I heard a voice, “Madam, madam…”

It was Mr Thick Book. “I think I have seen you somewhere? Where you from?”

“Here.”

“Oh…but I have seen you…”

“Maybe…”

After the flight on the van at our destination, he stood near me. He had a nice watch. “Nice flight,” he said.

“Maybe.”

“So, where are you putting up?”

“Don’t know.”

I looked at his book. It appeared like something on art. He turned the pages. There were women draped in all kinds of dressy clothes.

“I am into fashion,” he said.

Instinctively I looked at my crushed cotton kurta, stretch churidar and crumpled dupatta.

“You are doing business?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Export-import?”

“Only export. I write.”

“Oh, we are so same field. Fashion and writing!”

“Indeed.”

I think I write quite stylishly, I told myself, as I swung my dupatta and walked towards the exit.

Uff, I goofed again...

A few days ago I called up the chemist. They do home delivery. I asked for Xylocaine.

“Ma’am, gel?”

“Hmm…yes, yes, not tablets.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“No, but you will have to send this real quick, it is very urgent, I need it now.”

“Sure, sure.”

The guy was at my door in ten minutes. I took the packet, paid him. When I opened it I found xylocaine gel, the stuff you read sexologists tell worried questioners who complain about painful intercourse to use. “Apply to the vaginal area 20 minutes before the act,” is the sage advice.

(Digression: Do people plan these things? Like, okay, it pains, so apply at 9 PM, at 9.20 wipe it off…with what? Keep something handy…then start getting in the mood, play music…tabla? flute? sarangi? Toooiinnnnn, toooiiin. …like a long sigh…then whatever…)

What I had wanted was the antacid Xylocaine. It is a liquid, not a gel. And what surprised me is the fellow who takes his time delivering the goods was so prompt. I can well imagine what must have gone on in his mind…

And the damn thing was not even urgent, but here we just need to make it sound this way…

Now, he has an extra broad smile whenever he visits.

I could have got an Oscar...

...oh, okay, that's stretching it....

You have all read about script reading sessions. Let me relate one. A debutant film director, who is already established in another aspect of film-making for which he has won awards, approached me a while ago to write a script. He had read my columns on terrorism. This is how the meeting went…

“Theme is terrorism,” he said.

“You have a story idea?”

“No, no, I leave it to you. Bas, see that we have interesting characters. I am getting top stars. It is big budget, we will have helicopters.”

“What will the helicopters do?”

“Big budget hai na.”

“So they will circle the air, whether they are needed or not?”

“Something like that, koi action scene we will put.”

“Hmm…”

“And strong woman character. You are best at that.”

“Sure.”

“Socho…this will make dhamaka.”

“Yes, we will have firearms, I guess….”

“Of course, big budget.”

“Okay, so in the first scene we will have this sound of shooting…the camera pans to waterfall and then slowly zooms into a few drops on a rock; zoom in closer to one drop…”

“Arre, wait, wait…I will do all this. You write the script, build story, characters…this panning-zooming is my department. I am the director!”

“Oh, I forgot.”

The film did not happen. No, not because of him, but he said, “Problem will be there. You are Muslim, and writing on terrorism will make trouble. But this project will not go ahead. You or no one.”

“It’s okay, I have not thought about anything beyond that water drop.”

“Think of other subject. Woman oriented.”

“That is so exciting. Village woman or city?”

“Haan, that we must think.”

“We can show city woman going to village…”

“Make it ulta.”

“No, that is common…you know, scene at VT station, the woman comes out wearing a ghagra-choli, her hair in braids, and cannot cross the road; there is traffic and she is confused. Very ghissa-pitta.”

“Then how you will show city type in village?”

“We can show her going to reform the place. First scene there will be background sound of water falling, and then you see her eyes.”

“Arre baba, that all you leave to me, I am the director.”

The End!

Not quite. The other day he called and said he had a major project. “Even Hollywood will be involved. Interested?”

“Hmm…”

“You don’t understand. This can put you in the big league.”

Size does not matter in everything. I said no, but not before imagining the shot of rain falling in sheets in the Grand Canyon and a lazy drop caught on the tip of a rock.

Doing me...

“Ma’am, we would like to do an interview.”

“About?”

“Just you, y’know, stuff.”

“Have you read the book?”

“Nooo…”

“Seen it?”

“Yeah. Cover looks cool.”

“So what will you ask me?”

“Stuff about your likes and things.”

“Hmm…I don’t have any likes and dislikes.”

“Aww, c’mon…if you are free we will send a photographer for a shoot tomorrow at your place.”

“What does a photo-shoot have to do with this book?”

“Oh, just stuff. Ambience, etc.”

Sure. I was getting the hang of it. Everybody I spoke to, including the serious types, told me I should go ahead.

I imagined myself curled on the sofa in the living room with the Indian flag in the background, holding a tasbeeh (prayer beads) in my hand while I gazed at a picture of the crescent and moon as a model airplane sat at a table beside me – all to convey the title of the book.

I have refused to give many interviews, some of the nature above. Even at the launch I was told a girl wanted to talk to me about the Partition. “But,” I told the person organising it, “there are people, I cannot just hole myself away.”

“It will take only five minutes.”

“Five minutes to discuss the Partition?”

Then I was told to name five books on the subject. I said not now. Fine, I was branded arrogant.

It really isn’t about arrogance, but not playing just about any game you are expected to.

One interview I did give, a fairly long one; it wasn’t carried. Wish the writer had checked with the publication about how ‘legit’ I am among certain media people!

I gave one more, this to a small web portal. The reason? It was new, the intent seemed right. I forgot all about it till I was told yesterday. It appeared in August and they have used the picture from this blog! Thankfully, they have removed the leopard eyes; if only someone had thought of taking out the half face too.

Talking of conducting interviews, I recall how much time one spent. Before the first big solo interview I did, the editor had asked me to prepare a questionnaire. I did. 60.

“How much time do you think he has?”

“As much time as it needs to finish these,” I said.

It was not meant to be cocky. If you want to probe a mind, discover something, then you have to give it time. He did. Of course, I did not stick to that structured questionnaire. And, yes, I did not know a darn thing about him. There were no search engines. I just called up several people to find out, read a bit – all this in a few hours and between completing another piece. This is how most of us worked.

I have been accused of being too hands-on, that I should delegate transcription and research to someone. I don’t know. Maybe it is possessiveness; maybe it is just replaying and rediscovering new things along the way.

Why am I talking so much about this today? A review has appeared. (I would not have known but for well-wishers who sent me the link. Thank you…)

Now, about reviews let me tell you about the one in a prominent publication. It was sent through a booktracking agency. As I read the words, they sounded familiar. I was shocked to realise that it was completely plagiarised from another review. With one original line - it said you should not buy the book. It would have been fair enough except that the full review preceding it was very positive!

A few days later, I clicked on the link and, poof, it was gone. Caught out.

This is intriguing. Why would any writer do such a thing? It wasn’t like s/he was getting a scoop, or it was a news story or something topical. It isn’t about a must-write-about thing.

Another point: When people say you are making generalisations, would they be kind enough to write out the words instead of adding dots?

I was telling this to someone and she said, “Enjoy it. This adds to the enigma.”

And here I thought enigma was a lonely hunter…

- - -

If you want to read the interview and the review, just click on the words. The latter gives quite a peek into the ‘characters’.

My attempt at 'diplomacy'!

I was meeting this Pakistani diplomat in a high-ceilinged room; he sat behind a large desk. Very suave. He said he would be visiting Mumbai and wanted me to suggest some hotel.

Given that he was an official of some standing, I mentioned the top-end hotels. I told him about the sea view in the old wing of one.

Then he enquired about the private airlines, and I told him.

He replied with a rather surprising, “Are they not too expensive?”

“Yes, they are, but you can buy coupons if you are certain about the dates of travel; then it turns out cheaper,” I said helpfully.

“Oh, and which one do you normally travel by?”

I gave the name. The places to eat and shop.

Happy about my potential as a tourist guide (so what if I will never be brand ambassador), I walked out. I saw him smile, the curve of his lips on one side rising higher than the other. The sort of smile when…ah, never mind.

I recounted this to an Indian diplomat who knew about our meeting. He looked aghast.

“Who told you to talk so much?”

“What do you mean? He wanted to know about my city.”

“Do you imagine you are the only source of information he has? He is a big guy with travel agents who know everything. They know more than they need to.”

“So why did he ask me about airline fares?”

“And you told him about coupons! This is really strange.”

“But the meeting went off well.”

“Yes, and he had a lot of information about you, which is what he wanted. This is their job. I know because we do the same. Have a good trip.”

I did.

PS: He does not feature in the book.

- - -

Results of last poll

What image comes to mind when you think of 9/11?

Terrorists 5 (23%), Muslims 4 (19%), TwinTowers 7 (33%), George Bush 7 (33%), Nothing 1 (4%)

Allah in an Islamic Society?

Why the Need to Spread the Message of Allah in an Islamic Society?
The Tablighi Jamaat Movement
By FARZANA VERSEY
Counterpunch, June 4, 2008

(The following is an extract from the recently-released book A Journey Interrupted: Being Indian in Pakistan, Harper Collins-India.)

- - -
I cannot publish the excerpt here, but it is available at the CP website (click title of article).

Will not be able to respond to any posts on the specific contents of the extract or book and would not encourage them here, if you don't mind. However, I felt the need to share them...do remember that an extract is about one aspect; I had a limit of 1000-word permitted by the publishers.

- - -
For the readers in the US who have been inquiring, it does not look proper for me to give links, but there are a couple of online portals shipping. My friends in San Jose got the copies within a week of ordering from one of them.

My Net worth?

They say people in Mumbai like to say, “You don’t know who I am?”

Am wondering whether I should try it with my internet guy…would go something like this…

Maalum nahin kya apun kaun hai? Yeh kya lagayela hai, aisa vaat lagaa dega ke bheja fry ho jaayega. Saala, itna speed ka paisa bhara aur bail gaadi maafak neeche aata maal…matlab download hota. Awaaz nahin mangta…seedha fast track par aaja… Log apun ka waaste roklela hai ke kya mast item daalega blog mein. Blog bole toh…ghar jaisach, kuchch bhi bak ne ka. Tere ko kaiku itna poochh-taach karneka. Tu kaam par lag ja… maalum nahin kaun hai apun?

But what does FV say? Hello, Mr X, can you please do something…this is so terrible. You know I just cannot connect and I work from here…I understand, of course….oh, all right…I shall wait.

And then they say I am a toughie….

On and off - 1

Not on…

One kid dies in India every 15 seconds

25% of children dying worldwide before the 20th day after their birth are from India

33% of the world’s underweight children under age five live in India

India accounts for 43% of the world’s infants born with a low birth weight

These are the latest statistics from ‘The State of the World’s Children-2008’ report by UNICEF.

You can bet that none of these will be considered issues to be dealt with. Our government and political parties are still thinking of what we should do with Taslima Nasreen, spy satellites, and the Left wondering how Left it ought to be.

In 15 seconds I could not even type this, and to think a baby died already?

On…

She was bent over. The moment she came out of the dentist’s room she gave me her new-denture smile. “Today I went in first!” she said in Gujarati.

“Ah, you remember?” I replied in the same language hesitantly.

I had been there a week ago and was taken in first.

She pointed to her head, “This still works well.”

“And I thought there was something special about me that you could still recall.”

“Haan, te bhi…that too!”

It was the most marvellous cackle I had heard in a while, and from a 93-year-old, I later discovered.

My dentist said, “Look, she has made your day.”

Yes, a brief glimpse, a remembrance, a reconnection…enough of life to sink your teeth into.

The day I turned my mother into an atheist

It had been a few months of what one may refer to, with some underplaying, as bad times. I was falling ill and feeling drained in every way.

The fan’s blades were providing me with unlimited entertainment. One chasing the other, merging, cutting through the stillness to create breeze. I don’t know when the gust of wind entered my eyes, with a little dust, and my cheeks got wet. I bit my lower lip; it was too late. Before I could rush to the bathroom, my mother had come in.

“What happened?” she asked, even as she knew the geography and history of the emotions. Her query was a redundancy, so she asked me to let it out.

We talked about the things that had happened, happened while I sat doing nothing to cause them to. She knows more than anybody else because she knows where I am…

In an uncharacteristic way she said, “Yeh God bhi na…”

“You think there is a god? Talk to him then.”

“I do, but it does not make a difference.”

“So, stop believing. Stop it. See this…and I pointed out the strips of medicines, the lacerating unseen wounds. Are we on trial?”

She shook her head, “Bohat testing ho gaya.”

“From today no god, okay?”

“Theek hai…”

“You are an atheist now.”

“Hmm, okay.”

“No more of that ayatal kursi, no more of these things. Nothing.”

“All right,” she said, as she held my hand.

We watched some TV and shut off for the night.

Next day began as days usually do – sun up, traffic sounds, door bells, phone rings, shower, breakfast, writing, reading…it turned to afternoon. I remembered last night.

“Now you are an atheist?” I asked her to confirm.

“Yes, yes,” she said.

Evening was drawing towards night. She came to my room as I was typing. “How does it feel?” I asked her.

“Feel what?”

“To be without all this god stuff?”

She smiled.

“What happened? You still believe?”

“I believe in what makes me feel good.”

“You have not got rid of all those religious things?” (I might add, we don’t have too many symbols around.)

“Have you?” she asked.

“Me?”

And she showed me a tasbeeh (prayer beads) that hangs from a knob on my shelf door, a miniature Quran on a string and a wooden plaque with an ayat (religious verse) all within touching distance from where I sit.

“That does not make me religious,” I said, and meant it.

“I know. Just as you did not remove these to prove you don’t believe, I don’t have to keep these or remove these to prove I believe.”

“Then what happens to our talk last night? I am still the same, things are still the same.”

“They will change, whatever you believe in.”

“So if you believe in me, do I become god?”

“You don’t have to be god for me to believe in you. You are yourself, and not many people are.”

Wat men?

While I am completely besotted by 'my area', the stretch between Chowpatty and Marine Drive is great fun.

I was at the Catholic Gymkhana after ages. I imagined a conversation that might have taken place between one of the regulars and me...Betty spots me and waves out. I make my way towards her table.

"What men, where da hell you are? Went Dubai or wot?"

"No, just been lazy."

"Ah, having fun haan. Gud-gud. Dis weder no, jus terrible. Was telling Rodney yesterday only to put AC in all da rooms, but dat Ambani fellow now wants to save power. Like wot hippocrit. Dey have ten-ten car, full blasting AC, also helicopter and we poor peepals suffer."

"You are not poor."

"Come yaa, for dem I am like chillar only. Poor peepals live in open so deer system used to all dis."

"Did you have problems getting here? The traffic..."

"Donn even ask. One ting is dis stupid old car. Told Rodney to buy new car, he sez no wait we will go to Emrica or sumting. I told him first take me to Panjim den we will talk of Emrica."

"You know the traffic was because..."

"I know, I know. Doze peepal are taking out morcha. Wot use? Bush is not coming to Bombay. And even if he came he would be coming in helicopter and going straight to Taj or Obroy. Deez fools jus want to waste time of poor peepal like us. Anyway for-get all dis politics. Tell me what are you doing dees dez?"

(Friend interjects, "Writing.”)

“You are crazy men. Get life and start using kompitter."

"I am.."

"Gud. You mus go fast with time. Deez days on internet you can find recipes, and for my Maggie I told Rodney der are nice boys. I showed him one foto, he sez boy's name is Orlando Bloom. I told wot is wrong, rose by any name will smell sweet only. He sed no we can't...imagine rejecting boy widout even meeting or talking."

"Ah well.."

"So I tell you kompitter is best ting. For you recipe and boy no use, so you can do shopping."

"I prefer feeling the stuff before I buy it."

"Damn, why you need to have feeling for everiting? Real pucca emoshnal fool. In dis weder who want to go out and buy? You start swetting like pig. Did you try ham sandwich?"

"Er...no.."

"Forgot, you don't eat pork. You must be starving den. No pork, even chicken dangerous. Doze birds also get bledy flu. Instead dey should get diariah and everiting from system will be out."

"It's okay. I can survive on vegetables."

"I know dis place. Dey make wedge kebabs, it look like real ting, I swear."

"It is real thing."

"Ah, I knew der mus be some michif. I must tell Rodney to try...dey surely put lamb in it. He was saying who wants to eat doll and baaji."

"It is...never mind. I must leave."

"Okay, dear. Donn mind my asking, but why Muslims donn like salami?"

"I guess they prefer salaami"

- - -

Had written it when Bush was visiting India a couple of years ago. The language is very Bombay-Catholic, though it may spill over into other areas of the country. Reproducing it here because I think this blog is getting a bit morose these past few days.

La-la-land

Despite having travelled overseas quite extensively, I find some American aspects truly hard to digest.

You enter a restaurant and just when you are half-way through the humongous portions, or merely pausing for breath or to contemplate your fingernails, you will hear a rather chirpy voice asking you, “Are you done?” When your eyes meet his or hers, there will be another salvo, “You still workin’ on it?”

Done? Working on it? I am surprised they don’t tell you, “Righto, enjoy masticating!”

Jaahils! This is food. This is ‘peit puja’. Only we understand the sheer devotion towards a culinary experience. Mind you, I am not talking about some fast-food joint. These were proper places.

At one, the girl waiting tables wore her cap backwards. It was a sushi bar, for god’s sake.

At a restaurant in the genteel Los Gatos, there was a cocktail named Tsunami Relief…Malibu Rum, hypnotiq, pineapple juice. Talk of insensitivity.

A ‘tall’ coffee is a small one. Why? Nobody knows.

If someone asks you, “So, how you doin; today?” you just cannot respond with a tepid, “Fine, thanks.” You have to sound like you have returned from a massage parlour…”Grrreeeaaatt…”

And then there is the other exclamation, more like punctuations.

“Hi there. What can I do fer ya?”

“I need a …”

“Un huh..”

“The names of a few home delivery places…

“Un-huh…”

“So, do you have them?”

“Un huh, jussamoment... Un huh, hey-you-ah”

Names are rattled off.

“Thanks…”

“Un huh…”

“I’ll call them now…”

“Aaan haanh!”

Finally, a climax is reached.

Why can't I shut up?

Sometimes, I need to just hold the reins, my horses and the whole stable…the following are mild oops situations. There are far worse ones…

Venue: Karachi, Rafi’s house.

We had moved to the open part of the terrace; it was quite dark. I was with this small group, mainly writers. A tall man walked in wearing a crisp starched white shirt. He was dark and had a thick moustache. Rafi introduced us.

“Yeh Abid Ali hai aur yeh Farzana…aapse kahaa tha na hamari Bambai se dost aayi hai?” (I had told you about this friend from Bombay…)

Abid Ali addresses me, “Bambai kaisa hai?” (How is Bombay?)

“Bas, Bambai jaisa hai,” I reply. (Just like Bombay.)

He smiles politely and is rescued from me.

I ask the friend who is sitting there, “Who is he?”

“You don’t know Waris?”

“Whose waris is he?”

“The drama serial…he is very famous.”

Okay, I had not seen Waris, although he did look familiar. And, yes, he has a voice that is a combination of an iron fist and velvet gloves…

- - -

Venue: Does not matter

A woman is complaining about life to her parents.

“One day I will just get pissed drunk with vodka and stand in the middle of the road and let a car drive over me.”

“Gosh, what a waste of vodka,” I say.

- - -

Venue: Covent Gardens, London

Had taken a quick city tour the first time. The group dispersed in different directions. I walked along with an American couple. The guy asked me, “Can you do that?” as he pointed to a group of jugglers trying to catch hold of several balls.

Without thinking I said, “Sure, but not with those.”

- - -

Venue: Delhi

IK comes to fetch me. His family has invited me for a perfect Tam-Brahm breakfast of idlis, dosa, upma. Unaccustomed as I was then to Delhi winters I had not carried many woollies. His Amma had sent a shawl for me.

“Here, wrap this,” he said as he revved up his bike.

Me: “I am very garam.”

Damn, I cussed!

I avoid using foul language in personal communication. (Voice in background: Such a nutcase. Does it mean she uses it in official communication? Other voice: No, no, she sometimes writes stuff like that, you know…) Except for damn, shit, hell, bitch (usually for myself) which I am afraid have become a part of punctuating.

Yes, it makes me feel good that I don’t use abusive words. I do it for myself, for my self-esteem. Perhaps in very close intimate company I might utter an expletive.

When I say fuck, I mean it…as in ‘fetch’. Okay?

So, I surprised myself the other day when I used a fairly horrendous word in Urdu/Hindi. “You are such a chootiya,” I told him. It wasn’t meant to be literal, but even then it was not something I would condone. I don’t even know what it really means, although I have a fair idea.

This was the second time I used the word. The first time was with an Egyptian friend. He was dropping me off somewhere at Jumeirah in Dubai; the traffic was bad and he was edgy. A SUV did what SUVs do…overtake. He lost his cool. “Indians, Indians, everywhere!”

“Hello,” I said. “I am Indian.”

“You are different.”

Well, I am…at least I was nowhere like that bloke who moved his vehicle like a bulldozer.

“Come on, come on, tell me some baad wordh thu give him…”

“Chootiya…” my tongue whipped it out like a magic wand.

“Wallah! What it means?”

“Very bad,” I said.

I thought I was inculcating subcontinental values in the Arab mind.

Next thing I know is he had rolled down the glass and was yelling out, “Ay, ay, shoot-ya.”

“Wait,” I restrained him. “If you have to, then at least say it right.”

Oh, the driver of that offending vehicle mattered no more. My friend was on a roll.

Till we reached Jumeirah I had to listen to his rendition of the different ways of saying ‘shoot-ya’… It was slightly better than his version of Bob Marley, though.

Yup, there he was humming and asked me, “You know Boob Marlee?”

“Yes…I like him a lot…”

“Gooth…listen…Woy, yoy, yoy…” he began tapping the steering wheel…

“Boofellow soljur, dhreadhlock raster
There was a boofellow soljur in the harth of Amerikha,
Stholan from Aafrica, broughth to Amerikha,
Farthing on arrawal, farthing for surwawul…”

Oh, it was soon my destination. He opened the door for me and as I waved out, he called back, “Habibi, shoot-ya!”

PS: For those who want the real words of Bob Marley:

“Buffalo Soldier, Dreadlock Rasta:
There was a Buffalo Soldier in the heart of America,
Stolen from Africa, brought to America,
Fighting on arrival, fighting for survival.”