Who Owns Kashmir?

Rahul Gandhi, like the rest of the Nehru-Gandhi clan before him, will never contest an election from Kashmir. When he says, “I myself am from Kashmiri family and want to have lifelong relations with the people of Jammu and Kashmir”, it is a declaration of the divine right of the potentate in a jigsaw puzzle of a state.

A delegation of panchayat leaders from the state visits him in Delhi; he lands up in Sonmarg and tells the people he wants to “understand your pain deeply”. This makes former chief minister Farooq Abdullah so emotional he blurts out, “We are Indians and we will die as Indians. No power can separate us from India. A day will come when children of Rahul and Omar will see fruits of steps taken by us.” In July, Hurriyat leaders met Pakistan’s foreign minister on her official trip to India.

So, who is ruling the state?

Rahul Gandhi organises a corporate picnic with big industrialists. Many promises will be made. Perhaps for more formula racing, tulip gardens, skiing facilities, to ensure tourist traffic. These are mirages used to market the state to others. He wants to “connect Kashmiri youth with the development process”. There is no introspection as to why that has not happened yet.

>>Read the rest in Express Tribune

All quiet at the crematorium: A.K.Hangal

How the social hierarchy reveals itself is evident in how many people did not attend actor A K Hangal’s funeral. He lived to be 98 and half of these years were spent in the Hindi film industry.

This is showbiz, and most of the people in it make it a point to be present for various reasons. At one of the prominent funeral pictures, I spotted two well-known stars having a good laugh. Could the joke not wait? Or were they, as has become so trendy to say, “celebrating his life”?

Okay, so why were no prominent names who Hangal saab acted with present? They will run to see a newly-born baby who will come out all swathed to hide her from the world; they will rush to the hospital for an actor who suffers from fever or routine checkups; they will visit to condole the death of a parent/grandparent of one of them.

Of the few character actors present, Raza Murad did not mince words:

“The actors would’ve come if a political party summoned them. But they didn’t have an hour to spare to pay their last respects to the man who gave 50 years to the industry and worked with all top stars.”

I’d also ask the media the same question: where were they? They will climb atop trees to capture a baraat they are not invited to; they will sit for hours outside vanity vans waiting for some star, or even starlet, to turn up after giving 40 retakes to get a sound byte; they will do their Entertainment slots with loops that make no sense. Had they landed there, some stars might have turned up.

Of course, they tweeted about it, or gave their two paise worth.

“A K Hangal, passes away this morning!! A veteran, a gentleman, a congenial co artist and a master at his work” – Amitabh Bachchan

But he is not Uddhav Thackeray getting an angioplasty, right? Besides, what are those two exclamation marks for to announce a death?

“An era comes to an end. Theatre and film were enriched by him” – Shabana Azmi

So what happened? After all, he was part of the great theatre movement IPTA, a card-holding Communist that Ms. Azmi admires so.

“Undying father figure in world of theatre n hindi cinema lived for 50 years in this profession only because he was disciplined n a thorough gentleman, who would bring theatre discipline on sets of a film shoot too . He worked with me in ‘Krodhi’ n ‘Khalnayak’ and we used to call him ‘humble sahib’. Great soul, indeed” - Subhash Ghai

I suppose Mr. Ghai thought he was so humble he would not have wanted to feel conceited about people attending his last rites.

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This is only one of the concerns. More important is the fact that Hangal saab could not afford treatment when he fell seriously ill last year.

I have written this earlier, but let me repeat it. The day after it came out, the film industry woke up. Some contributed quietly, some raised issues of ‘doing something for our seniors’. Jaya Bachchan sent a message to be conveyed that his ‘daughter’ remembers him (he played her father in many movies) and her office will handle his medical bills. How dismissive is this. Office? Could she not visit him or just keep silent about who would manage it? Why this announcement?

Upon mild recovery, Mr Hangal was on the ramp in a wheelchair. The reason? Part of a fashion show was organised by designer Riyaz Gangji to generate money for the ailing actor, according to Mumbai Mirror.

Helpless to save his health

This was insensitive and gross. Was he a showpiece? Can there be no dignity in such charity? Imagine someone who was a “freedom fighter” - incidentally everyone is mentioning this having discovered one more use for their patriotic fervour - expected to display himself and his “abject poverty” to get a decent life. These people get mileage and our seniors have no choice but to go along.

Following this, another case was highlighted about someone leading a penurious life. The editor of Sholay, a blockbuster and pathbreaker of its time, was living in Dharavi. Shocking? Yes and no. How many of us ever bothered to find out who edited the film? What about all those researchers who did critical tomes on these movies? Why such discoveries now?

M.S. Shinde worked on a salary of Rs. 2000 and he has no regrets:

“I worked with Sippy Films on a salary of Rs 2,000 (per film) all my life. I didn’t mind the salary because they allowed me to take up work outside.”

At one time even film stars, the visible beautiful faces immortalised in black and white, led lonely forgotten lives. They did not invest their money and instead chose to flash their Bentleys. That was stardom and glamour in the pre-red carpet days. It also had to do with splurging arising out of insecurity if they had made it from the pavements.

Think also about art house cinema before it got sponsors and acquired marketing skills. A whole bunch of idealists would descend on the city and often crashed at someone’s place. Or took the train back home after performing in a few street theatre plays.

This is not to deny the genuine problems faced by our veterans, but before we dismiss it as callousness think about the hierarchy that has always been prevalent. Even today the actors are paid much more than the director. We won’t get into the subject of junior artistes, at one time called ‘extras’, who have to await their turn and often cosy up to the ‘provider’. It is not a business that is organised and therefore a risky proposition for almost everyone concerned.

Mr Shinde might have had it better if there was mandatory provision for provident fund and retirement benefits.

Newspapers and TV channels, if they do take notice do so in a patronising manner: to announce how people came forward to help after they ‘broke’ the story.

The Hindi film industry is acting out a farce with its fake philanthropy helped along by the media.

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I’m afraid, this should have been a tribute to a fine actor, but this attitude upsets me. About Hangal saab and his most-remembered character of the blind Rahim chacha is Sholay, I have some reservations. It was a stereotype, the token nice Muslim posited against the rough terrain of thakurs and dacoits. His blindness, of course, gave it added pathos of not seeing the bad and therefore understanding the good.

But I cannot forget being creeped out by him as the lecherous old skirt chaser in Shaukeen. I disliked him, so credible he was. He, Ashok Kumar and Utpal Dutt, all wonderful, formed the trio of shaukeens. Dutt was always stylised; Ashok Kumar had his mannerisms. A.K. Hangal had the ability to not act. After seeing him as the genial grandpa or the family retainer in other films, this was a shocker.

I mentioned elsewhere how it is perhaps our moral obsession that makes all tributes glorify his Rahim chacha character and of course, the famous line, “Itna sannata kyon hai bhai?” (Why is it so quiet here)

It was indeed very quiet at the crematorium, for no one was there.

Black Stiletto

The heels dug in. Innocence. Heels that caused dents in the tracks. Heel marks don't leave trails on concrete.

HORRIFIC. It was not the cry against the piercing sole but the pack that descended not allowing the heel to claim innocence.

The heels maintained their composure, we are told. It is a shoe store - heels on celluloid, heels in books, long promos and extracts to mark the day of the heel. To mark territory for new heels.

The heel went on a city tour, a city where she dreamed of walking on clouds and stamping feet all over them even if it was to make them weep. She went and prayed in church. Gods do not talk, god did not create heels. God is vegetating in imprisoned imaginations.

The heel turned her face away as a picture of skull and ribcage "intact" was flashed. News bulbs flashed. Innocence flashed. See, the heel had only made a few dents. Where are the pieces?

Black stilettos are statement pieces. They stand tall and when they fall it is merely a fashionable trip.

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The heels belong to Maria Susairaj as she walked out of jail for a press conference. (I have cropped the newspaper picture.) Neeraj Grover's "friends from the TV industry" don't see the irony of the same industry offering her Rs 5 crore to appear in the reality show Bigg Boss.

It is okay to hold candle-light rallies. But will they be able to ensure that news channels do not give her some sort of heroic status? Will they be able to ensure that ads promoting any film on the subject are not screened?

Justice has to go beyond the courts.

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A friend has told me that I often tend to get too personally involved in news stories. I see people. If oversensitivity is a crime, then I plead guilty.

I don't wear black stilettos.

Black-try dinner

 Not given to political correctness for the sake of it, I yet find the idea of a ‘blind restaurant' revolting.

It isn’t new, and has branches in a few cities. Dans le Noir (In the Black) is staffed by blind waiters and waitresses. You can only choose whether you want meat, fish or vegetables, but not specify anything more. Same goes for cocktails. You are led by a guide and the visually-impaired staff becomes your eyes.

It is completely dark and you don’t even know who you are seated next to. Once the food arrives, you are informed and then begins the battle of trying to figure out what it is.

A report says, “It’s also a great chance to break free of social convention and eat using your fingers. Those same fingers are also the only way you can tell how much wine you’re pouring into your glass.”

After fumbling and spilling and making conversation with your neighbour, when you are done, you are taken to the lit bar area where they show you what you ate and the person you discussed the food with. 60 people spend 90 minutes indulging in this charade.

I know there are quirky food places and ideas. But is this a quirk? What kind of people would pay to experience the feeling of being blind? Do these eateries assume that blind people have no choice in the matter of what they eat? The idea of diners poking into bits of food and swirling their fingers in wine glasses just demeans those who cannot see. However, I know quite a few such people and this is most certainly not how they eat and drink.

The patronising bit of them acting as guides only makes it worse. It reiterates the theory that they have to live in eternal darkness and even then must display their independence. They cannot afford not to as they have to cater to the paying customer’s whims.

What learning experience can this be when the people come out and have a good laugh? Not only is it insensitive, I wonder about the kind of idiots who cannot manage to at least know from the aroma a little bit of what they are being served.

Darkness has many meanings and manifestations. I recall a visit to some old ruined castle in the UK where the big thrill was cobwebs hanging down some caves. The highlight was that some spooky creature would leap out and frighten the hell out of you. This was for a lark, to recreate an ambience.

Dans le Noir cannot afford to play such pranks because it is toying with disability, a ‘let’s see how it feels’ situation. There is no attempt at empathy or understanding. It is a vile commercial proposition and a rather sad success story, which it appears to be from the fact that it has spread out in different cities. It reveals that very many human beings are so devoid of vision that they want to act blind when they cannot see beyond their limited worlds.

Spray him!

Ah, isn’t this what women have been looking for - men who know how to cuddle rather than fumble?

It apparently won’t come naturally to these alpha guys, so we need to resort to some assistance. Not only will it make men do the bear hug, but also transform them into tear-jerking, diaper-changing, momma’s little helpers.

I had no idea it was oxytocin that made me such a bundle of agony and occasional joy. It turns out that it is a chemical coursing through the female body and makes women ooze with the milk of human kindness. It has been named, rather disingenuously, the “cuddle chemical”. If you are into more than cuddles, then your hormones are acting a bit frisky and if you do the occasional bitching, then, boy, bile has entered into that embracing zone to embarrass you.

Anyhow, scientists from Cambridge and Germany got hold of two dozen healthy males and gave them nasal sprays with this chemical. Another batch was given placebos. Please note that a lot of things can get triggered through the nose. Now, here is what happened:

Afterwards the men were shown heart-wrenching photos, including a little girl in tears, a child embracing a cat and a man in mourning, and asked them to describe the level of empathy they felt with those in the pictures. Their reactions were compared with those of men who hadn’t received the spray. The oxytocin group showed significantly higher emotional empathy levels than those men who had taken the placebo.

Besides being healthy, what other parameters were checked? Isn’t it possible that some in the chemical group were already more sensitive and those in the placebo group could have been less sensitive anyway? This is such an archetypal sample of healthy as is the idea of empathy. Despite all the oxytocin in my system, I would find a child embracing a cat cute and nothing more. As for the weeping girl, it would depend on what the girl was in tears for – a lost toy, a disaster, a tantrum?

One of the team members said:

“For many women, you could say it would almost be a godsend to make a man more empathetic and more like them. On the other hand, I am not sure they are used to having men that empathetic.”

I do not know of many women who would like men to be like them or want to be like men. Empathy, as I have shown, differs depending on context and one’s individual baggage as well as the environment. Some cultures are less expressive than others; some families ingrain a certain holding back as important aspects of socially acceptable behaviour; some people grow up to discover paths where they fall a few times and they cannot forget those falls.

If the scientists wished to see if men could be like women then, instead of the placebo group, they should have included women in their research. It would give a more real result.

Incidentally, I wonder why there was no discussion about another aspect of the chemical that is “a hormone naturally made in the body and involved in sex, sexual attraction, trust and confidence.”

Did these men feel more sexually tuned in? Did they appear more confident?

Why the need to tout the making of the sensitive male? I can smell some product promos on the way. Where’s my nasal spray? Here, give me a hug...sniffles...

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The image if from a Starbucks ad

Loos Morals

Happy Toilet Day! When I saw an ad this morning by one of those toilet cleaning companies, I thought it was a joke. One of those happy bogs thing to market the product. Turns out there is, indeed, more to defecation than a super bowel event.

Now don’t go screwing up your noses. It’s got big sponsors and volunteers. Quite happening.

This event has a history going back to eight years. In 2001, the World Toilet Organization decided to address the issue of worldwide sanitation. It would be easy to smirk. But, think about it. We discuss global warming which is somewhere between the clouds and the sky. This is nearer home. It is inside the home, if you are lucky to have en suite facilities.

This year Unilever's Domestos has got together to “improve the lives of those affected by poor sanitation and increase access to hygienically clean toilets around the world”. This is where I have a problem. We have the local brand from this company and their ad frightens the hell out of me. It shows these huge monsters that are supposed to be bacteria walking all over the shit throne and screaming with joy about mucking up our little daily tryst with weight loss. I have felt chastised for I have been using another brand for years. Squishing the blue liquid into the pot made me feel safe and secure. Now, these animated bacteria have been telling me for the past so many days that I have been doing it all wrong.

It’s okay for the likes of us who have private loos and a fastidiousness that comes with learned behaviour about How to Respond to Excrement with Excitement. Had I been an academician of some ill-repute I might have pondered over it and produced a big fat geek wedding kind of production on paper. But I am not. So, I turn to the best bet – cynicism. And it is valid. How many people with poor sanitation and lack of hygiene know about this squishy-squish bottled cleaning liquid? How many have basic facilities?

In the heart of my city, I have walked through lanes where women have to use umbrellas to hide their faces as they squat near the drains. I have seen people line the railway tracks. I have seen children leave little pellets of malnourished shit. There are villages where people go to the fields to relieve themselves.

Therefore, we are dealing with a bunch of people that is wooing the WC-ers. It is ethically unfair. There are events for the community, the school, the world. There is also the Big Squat, “A Movement for the Toilet-less”, to drive home the point "where would you go?" and how people without toilets are forced to go in public places.

Is this empathy? How temporary it is when they tell you, “At exactly noon on November 19th, gather your family, friends, classmates, colleagues and everyone you know to squat in public for 1 minute in support of World Toilet Day.”

You might be given a bottle of the cleaning liquid and those 60 seconds would help your knees get a bit of a workout. It won’t help anyone, unless you want to bond with the group or you are planning to visit a really backward area and your lives depend on managing this feat.

If it is noon in your part of the world and you go along with this, here you go.

As for me, I dumped it.