A party that lasts 3 years teaches you a lot of things.
February Fantasy:
Everybody on the dance floor
It is hard to remember how many bottles of alcohol were consumed. It is also hard for most people to remember the events of that night. The terrace, the bedroom, the dance floor and yes, the bathroom, had all been taken over by the music. No-one remembers how it began but at some point, the dirty dancing crackled and spiralled.
Come on baby, light my fire...
The body-count per individual ranged from none at all to 6. Most people were somewhere in between. Could have had something to do with the fact that the party was one day after Valentine's Day, which seems to be designed by Hallmark and Archies to make everyone feel inadequate.
Or maybe everyone was just drunk beyond belief. Drunk on the vodka and the whisky and the gin and the beer. High on the beautiful weather that night- Delhi winter's last lap. On College. On each other. On Madonna and The Beatles and Punjabi remixes. Sloshed because of the sense of the ridiculously safe anonymity on a dark dance floor where it is nearly impossible to tell who you've wrapped your arms around and are dancing with. High on the fact that maybe you don't even want to know who you're dancing with. High on love, or the possibility of it. And wasted on an occasional shot of infidelity; most potent of all in my opinion (also leads to the worst hangover but that's besides the point). And, most of all, drunk on the fact that there is no impending judgement.
----Remember, 'the morning after' is just like any other morning and ought to be treated as such.
Smoky September:
Last day of the fest. No Escape.
I get knocked down, but I get up again
"Can I bum a cigarette off you please?"
"Sure. It's a Navy Cut though."
*smiles*
"That's my brand too. Thanks."
*smiles back*
The cigarette is lit and the two of them stand together smoking.
Pull-hold-puff-pause-pull-hold-puff-pause
"Crazy scene tonight huh?"
"Yeah... Look at them going at it on the dance floor!"
"Why aren't you with them?"
"Need a breather."
"I see... Beer?"
"Sure."
Sharing a drink.
sip-pause-sip-pause-sip-pause
I drink a whisky drink, I drink a vodka drink
I drink a lager drink, I drink a cider drink
They never make it back to the dance floor. The conversation at the bar carries on. Inconsequential, regular stuff. Right uptil 2:00 AM when the place finally closes down.
Nah, don't worry. It doesn't turn predictable and they don't end up best friends for life/ get married to each other. But every time they meet after that, they share a smoke and a drink, and the No-Escape-night sparkles in the fizz and glows in the embers of the Classic Mild/ Benson and Hedges/ whatever (brands change with economic prosperity!).
Nostalgia in tobacco and alcohol.
I sing the songs that remind me of the good times
I sing the songs that remind me of the better times
----Sharing a cigarette or a drink is a quasi-religous experience.
Yes.
It is.
March madness:
Party in Ghaziabad. We're in North Campus. A one-hour drive away.
"Are we going?"
"Too far ya... Too much of an effort. Let's just chill at home."
"Cool. What are we eating? Chinese?"
"Hmmm... Momos and fried rice."
The College boys arrive alongwith the delivery boy.
"Come ON women. Let's go! All the third years are going... It's a full on third year scene. And the Maths guys have bought an insane number of beers."
We hesitate. What finally decides the matter is that it's easier to go than to spend half an hour making excuses.
Leave at midnight. Get there at 1:00. The party's just getting started.
A massive garden with beer bongs placed in strategic spots. General camaraderie. The music is loud and EVERYONE is dancing. People being thrust up on the table one by one. Cheers and beers and no-more-tears...
The electricity lets us down A general protest. One smart cookie drives his car onto the lawn and puts on the music- full blast. Never say die.
We wind up at 5:30 AM. The cops have arrived. Flee the scene!! The cars screech out of the driveway past the police vans.
Three cars driving side by side on the highway. The last few cigarettes and bottles of vodka being passed from car to car, while driving. Laughing at the madness.
Driving up the ridge. It's a winding road and contrary to the popular perception of crazy, drunk college kids, all three cars slow down and drive carefully. Blind turn coming up. We're in the first car and we take the turn.
screech-skid-crash-silence
A Maruti van, speeding in the opposite direction on a one-way road has crashed into the car behind us. We park on a side and suddenly there are 20 people on the road. The Maruti driver has already fled into the forest before anyone could react. He must have known he had crashed into a car full of Sports players (who also happened to be Jats). The two passengers weren't quite as smart. The College crowd loses its temper. When you're high and still driving carefully, an accident really hurts. The Maruti-men are hauled out and bashed up. We (that is- the girls) protest feebly but there isn't much point.
K. walks around in a trance and comes up to us.
"Have you seen my shoes guys?"
He's been walking around barefoot.
"Nope. Just go sit down in the car please."
The cops are a 100 metres down the road and have arrived. They stand around, enjoying the show. For those of you who are unfamiliar with North India's social dynamics... Jats and cops are brothers, kindred spirits...
The frustration has finally been vented. The passengers pay up to cover the cost of the damage.
The cops see us off with strict, paternal-style instructions to drive carefully and get some sleep.
"Thank you ji! Bye!"
Home sweet home. N. had left the party earlier. He took the keys and is now sleeping inside.
ringing-the-bell
ring-ring-ring-ring
Crap.
"Call him."
dial-no answer-dial-no answer-dial-no answer
Oh, you have got to be kidding.
Banging on the door, screaming his name together on the count of three. Six voices shout in unison. Our knocking is bringing the damn house down.
N. has evidently passed out good and proper.
The neighbours are now screaming at us. Bedlam in the building.
We give up. Drive to another friend's place and collapse into bed at 8:00 AM.
----Every night is a potential adventure and holds the possibility of a memory you will recall with fondness.
Also, don't mess with Jat footballers and hockey players.
December Disaster:
A birthday party. Beautifully done up. Waiters and expensive food and lush green lawns and a DJ. Vintage airplanes in the backyard.
'Cos i try and try to forget you girl
But it's just so hard to do
Everytime you do that thing you do
A hand up a skirt is all it takes to ruin a night.
She was wearing a very pretty skirt. Short and shimmery and green. He was talking to her when suddenly, without preamble or permission, he thrust his hand under the flimsy fabric.
What an idiot.
I don't ask a lot girl, but I know one thing for sure
It's the love I haven't got girl, and I just can't take it anymore
Her boyfriend was livid with rage (yes, there was a boyfriend in the picture) and I think he would have killed the offender if he hadn't been held back by friends. She was sobbing in the corner. Some of the guys slapped him around. A couple of his friends attempted to defend him.
"He's very drunk yaar. He's had too many."
The host realized that the party could easily turn into a war-zone and it nearly did. A couple of people got beaten up. They weren't involved in the episode but that hardly matters when tempers are running high and there's a girl involved. Blood on the dance floor.
"Take him away guys. We'll deal with it later."
They do. He doesn't come to College the next day. Only after 30 days and repeated apologies does he step into the hallowed halls once again.
----Don't be an asshole.
Alcohol is not a reason or a valid excuse. You only do the things you really want to do.
January Joint-
Sitting around in the sun.
rolling rolling rolling rolling rolling
Boom Shankar
Memories of Malana and Manali. Someone's got a friend along whose sitting with us.
Take three hits and pass it on. The group is large and there are only 2 'J's. The new chap's turn.
1...2...3...4...5...6...!!!
The old-timers look at one another. Obviously a rookie. Hostility is growing in the circle.
7...8...9...
Someone takes pity on the poor chap.
"Dude...pass it on. There are a lot of people left."
"Oh sure, sure.. Sorry!"
5 minutes later, it reaches him again.
1...2...3...4...5...!!
6...7...8...9...!!
----Every social activity involving more than 3 people is a ritual and has its own rules.
And some people never learn...
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Monday, October 09, 2006
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
She remembers the weight. The sheer weight of insecurity. Walking down the corridor alone and a group of people bursting into peals of laughter right as she passes by them. Of course they were laughing at her. Weren't they? Insistently telling herself, "You are as tall as you think you, as beautiful as you think you are, as smart as you think you are, as cool…"
Bullshit.
You are only as much as they want you too be. YOU need to be validated by someone else. Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder, remember??
She tries anyway, and strides swiftly past the snickering, giggling gaggle.
ARROGANT
A way with words. That didn't help her much. Writing as a means of cathartic release is overrated. Pages and pages of lucid, lyrical diary-entries are rendered irrelevant when you wake up in the middle of the night during a slumber party and overhear your 'best friends' trashing the way you dress. "Her bra-straps show when she wears those spaghettis!" When you pretend to still be asleep. When it takes a colossal effort to reign in the sobs that threaten to wrack your body. When you wake up and have breakfast together the next day- sausages and eggs and toast. When you never talk about it. Never. When u hesitate the next time you have to decide what to wear to a party. When, for reasons you do not know and cannot fathom, you choose to wear defiance and black straps.
S--L--U--T
An afternoon in the school canteen. Dosas and idlis. A Frooti squirted in your face by the harbinger of your doom- the boy who used to be a pillar of support. Whatever happened to that?? Rushing to the bathroom to wash your face, and collapsing on the floor. Your 'best friends' follow and calm you down. A ludicrous sense of gratitude. At least they still care a little bit- or pretend to. Who cares? The pretence of friendship is better than complete solitude. The truth is not all that it's made out to be. Illusions sustain her. Illusions sustain you. ‘The Matrix’ be damned.
hysterical
A party. Terrace-top. The advent of slow, romantic songs. Pairing up. "May I have a dance?" An awkward teenage attempt to align herself to the rhythm, though she can feel people staring-staring-staring. The moonlight reveals far too much. The morning after- rumours.
"She accused him of trying to kiss her!"
"No she did not!"
"Yes, she did."
Bewilderment. Kiss? What kiss?? Just a dance. Realization. No such thing as 'just a dance'. Hearsay.
"I'm sure she led him on."
"He would never have done that!"
"Well, she’s quite a bitch anyway. Maybe she just made it up to get attention."
"Where there's smoke, there's fire!"
Is there always? Really? The memory of that night... A ruin in the landscape of your life.
You are only what they say about you. The grapevine is your identity.
Gossip is The Gospel Truth.
*TEASE*
Academic excellence. Voices. Insinuations of competetiveness, the need to be better than anyone else. She stopped attending Chemistry. Would invariably walk in late with a 'friend' so that they would get thrown out of class.
Going home and picking up ‘The Fountainhead’. Howard Roark’s voice in your head. "Second-rater" Ringing, ringing, ringing till you hurl the book in rage. Angry at them and angry with yourself. Because you’re just-not-strong-enough.
pridepridepride
Thank god she has her family. Loving, caring, laughing, supportive, regular. Oblivious. How could they know? You are Dr.Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and a hundred others besides. Because you are secure where you are free. A different person at home, she builds walls and towers and fences. Your home is your fortress. Her own world-the one that matters. But her fortress collapses in the fraction of a second when her eyelids flutter opening the morning. Another day has begun. She cannot escape the sunlight that streams in through her window. The same shards of light that will invade the school bus, the field, the classroom.
Family is simply. not. enough.
And you sidle into the classroom. Feeling small but not small enough. The battle has started. You want to go home because every evening is a temporary reprieve, a period of relief. Keyword- temporary.
l.o.s.e.r
‘Life-changing moment’. The phrase is the oxymoron of her life. People say their lives changed when they saw/read/heard/thought something. A defining moment. She is unable to pinpoint that instant. She is almost jealous of the fact that she is unable to recall the moment of transition.
It would have made a good story.
ATLAS SHRUGGED
The sunlight is rich and mellow.
A million friends- including the spaghetti-trashers. Real friendship. Undiluted by the past.
Gossip is inevitable and irrelevant.
Love.
She is part of the laughter.
Breaking other people’s hearts.
Joy.
The boy-who-tried-to-kiss-her is a close buddy; they go out for dinner and drinks.
Home is more of an open-house. People dropping by all the time.
Walls? Security from the awful crime rate. That’s all.
Knowledge.
Academic brilliance- again.
The world is her fantasyland.
High.
Lay down your arms. And surrender to me.
The truth does set you free. She is free.
She still loves illusions though.
Does not try to carve up the universe into black and white anymore.
Binaries are pointless.
Enjoy the chaos.
Forgiven.
Not forgotten.
Bullshit.
You are only as much as they want you too be. YOU need to be validated by someone else. Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder, remember??
She tries anyway, and strides swiftly past the snickering, giggling gaggle.
ARROGANT
A way with words. That didn't help her much. Writing as a means of cathartic release is overrated. Pages and pages of lucid, lyrical diary-entries are rendered irrelevant when you wake up in the middle of the night during a slumber party and overhear your 'best friends' trashing the way you dress. "Her bra-straps show when she wears those spaghettis!" When you pretend to still be asleep. When it takes a colossal effort to reign in the sobs that threaten to wrack your body. When you wake up and have breakfast together the next day- sausages and eggs and toast. When you never talk about it. Never. When u hesitate the next time you have to decide what to wear to a party. When, for reasons you do not know and cannot fathom, you choose to wear defiance and black straps.
S--L--U--T
An afternoon in the school canteen. Dosas and idlis. A Frooti squirted in your face by the harbinger of your doom- the boy who used to be a pillar of support. Whatever happened to that?? Rushing to the bathroom to wash your face, and collapsing on the floor. Your 'best friends' follow and calm you down. A ludicrous sense of gratitude. At least they still care a little bit- or pretend to. Who cares? The pretence of friendship is better than complete solitude. The truth is not all that it's made out to be. Illusions sustain her. Illusions sustain you. ‘The Matrix’ be damned.
hysterical
A party. Terrace-top. The advent of slow, romantic songs. Pairing up. "May I have a dance?" An awkward teenage attempt to align herself to the rhythm, though she can feel people staring-staring-staring. The moonlight reveals far too much. The morning after- rumours.
"She accused him of trying to kiss her!"
"No she did not!"
"Yes, she did."
Bewilderment. Kiss? What kiss?? Just a dance. Realization. No such thing as 'just a dance'. Hearsay.
"I'm sure she led him on."
"He would never have done that!"
"Well, she’s quite a bitch anyway. Maybe she just made it up to get attention."
"Where there's smoke, there's fire!"
Is there always? Really? The memory of that night... A ruin in the landscape of your life.
You are only what they say about you. The grapevine is your identity.
Gossip is The Gospel Truth.
*TEASE*
Academic excellence. Voices. Insinuations of competetiveness, the need to be better than anyone else. She stopped attending Chemistry. Would invariably walk in late with a 'friend' so that they would get thrown out of class.
Going home and picking up ‘The Fountainhead’. Howard Roark’s voice in your head. "Second-rater" Ringing, ringing, ringing till you hurl the book in rage. Angry at them and angry with yourself. Because you’re just-not-strong-enough.
pridepridepride
Thank god she has her family. Loving, caring, laughing, supportive, regular. Oblivious. How could they know? You are Dr.Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and a hundred others besides. Because you are secure where you are free. A different person at home, she builds walls and towers and fences. Your home is your fortress. Her own world-the one that matters. But her fortress collapses in the fraction of a second when her eyelids flutter opening the morning. Another day has begun. She cannot escape the sunlight that streams in through her window. The same shards of light that will invade the school bus, the field, the classroom.
Family is simply. not. enough.
And you sidle into the classroom. Feeling small but not small enough. The battle has started. You want to go home because every evening is a temporary reprieve, a period of relief. Keyword- temporary.
l.o.s.e.r
‘Life-changing moment’. The phrase is the oxymoron of her life. People say their lives changed when they saw/read/heard/thought something. A defining moment. She is unable to pinpoint that instant. She is almost jealous of the fact that she is unable to recall the moment of transition.
It would have made a good story.
ATLAS SHRUGGED
The sunlight is rich and mellow.
A million friends- including the spaghetti-trashers. Real friendship. Undiluted by the past.
Gossip is inevitable and irrelevant.
Love.
She is part of the laughter.
Breaking other people’s hearts.
Joy.
The boy-who-tried-to-kiss-her is a close buddy; they go out for dinner and drinks.
Home is more of an open-house. People dropping by all the time.
Walls? Security from the awful crime rate. That’s all.
Knowledge.
Academic brilliance- again.
The world is her fantasyland.
High.
Lay down your arms. And surrender to me.
The truth does set you free. She is free.
She still loves illusions though.
Does not try to carve up the universe into black and white anymore.
Binaries are pointless.
Enjoy the chaos.
Forgiven.
Not forgotten.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
A C(K?)ontroversial Q(K?)uestion
One of the Indian intelligentsia’s (?) favourite whipping dogs in recent years has surely been Balaji Telefilms. For the uninitiated, that is the company that is responsible for flooding channels with the K-serials.
“These serials should be pulled off the air.” (This from the usual advocates of freedom of expression by the way…)
“Shameful stuff! So incredibly regressive…”
“I mean come on! Life is not all about who has the bloody keys to the family safe.”
“Such a waste of time. Why don’t they show us something more intelligent? As if we have nothing better to do.”
Seems we don’t. Have anything better to do, that is. The TRP ratings of ‘Kyunkii Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi’ and ‘Kahaanii Ghar Ghar Ki’ have consistently remained the highest on cable television ever since they first began to be aired. That means that an overwhelming majority of people with access to cable television sit down every weeknight to watch Parvati and Tulsi fight for their respective khandaans with the ubiquitous and convenient plastic surgeries, attacks of amnesia and unexpected pregnancies thrown in. Are the critics of these serials implying that these people are witless, unintelligent viewers? That they have no choice but to settle for Balaji fare? Nonsense! The Indian viewer is spoilt for choice and has consistently chosen to watch these serials over others.
At this point it becomes important to decide whether we feel that television reflects society or vice versa, for a number of criticisms are related to this original bone of contention. Surely, the mirroring and impact are mutual and simultaneous. At the same time, it is obvious that the television reflects society far more than the other way round. Was it the popularity of soaps like The Bold and the Beautiful that led to a dramatic increase in divorces amongst Americans or did these soaps in fact simply depict the growing frailty of American marriages?
What in fact, is the problem with depicting patriarchal joint families, a materialistic society, warring business factions and regressive outlooks? These did not suddenly spring forth from our television sets with the advent of four or five television serials. Isn’t Balaji Telefilms being true to the spirit of a certain, already existent segment of the Indian social landscape, albeit with the inevitable embellishment and melodramatic representation?
That is another issue by the way. We are all agreed by now that these serials reflect life to a degree, right? However, a common grouse against these serials is that they are ‘unrealistic’. I agree. They do not represent life as it is. So what? The essence of contemporary Indian cinema and television is exaggeration. Very few ‘realistic’ reels invade our homes and theatres (there is an increase now though, what with parallel cinema and ‘reality shows’ making waves. Still a tiny part of the big picture though…). Unattractive secretary? Let’s make her downright ugly with an unflattering hairstyle that anyone with an iota of sense would change if she wanted to. An Indian college in 2004? Let’s transform it into fantasyland with clothes and make-up the like of which aren’t seen in the streets of Manhattan, much less Mumbai. A hero taking on Pakistani soldiers? Let’s make him single-handedly defeat a whole regiment- and throw in a couple of Pakistani tanks for good measure and extra applause in the theatres! But I digress… What I am trying to say is that controlled and precise representations are not the norm. They are few and far in between. So why chastise just the makers of the K-serials for something that pervades our entire entertainment industry? Do women in real households wear saris at home that look like they belong in designer showrooms? Of course not. Do diyas assume a life of their own and extinguish themselves when a calamity strikes the khandaan? Of course not! (My apologies to those who believe in the divinity of diyas. Let’s just agree to disagree, shall we?) Is the normal Indian businessman stupid enough to repeatedly sign on documents without reading them first? Of course not- at least I hope so. We all know things do not superficially function the same way in the real world as they do on screen. And why should they, some would say. What is the point of mediums that allow us to get away from every day life, if every day life is all we get to see anyway?
Then there is the issue of ‘negative’, stereotypical representations. There are fingers being pointed at Ekta Kapoor (Balaji Telefilms is her baby) for contributing to the suppression of Indian women, the spreading of superstition and what not. Let us first assume that the K-serials are in fact, regressive (Though many would disagree. I have personally heard people praise Parvati and Tulsi for being empowered and powerful women. One could argue that they are limited by a society that has cast them into the mould of the ‘ideal’ Indian woman, but their agency in the events of the soaps is unquestionable. Anyhow, let’s not even get into that argument- it is an endless one and not what we’re dealing with here). Do these daily servings of popular hogwash strengthen the hold of patriarchy and blind superstition and so on and so forth over the average Indian mind? To put it simply, will men start expecting their wives to prioritize their families over everything else because they see good old Tulsi do so? Will women start fighting over the house-keys because someone in the K-khandaan does so? I seriously doubt that. Surely we overestimate the impressionable potential of the average Indian viewer. I suppose one could say that these serials are harmful in the sense that they do not promote change or a Cultural Revolution. In other words, they help perpetuate the current state of things. Well, don’t most forms of entertainment do that? Surely the lack of radical thought is not enough reason for the kind of vehement criticism that ‘Kyunkii…’ and ‘Kahaanii…’ have provoked.
My own personal problem with the popularity of the K-serials is restricted to the fact that they have caused me a great deal of inconvenience as far as writing mails is concerned. Ekta Kapoor’s love affair with ‘K’ has led to an insane amount of interest in numerology, and I am simply unable to address anyone in writing anymore because names seem to be spelt differently every second week!!
If you ask me, despite the chaos (or is it kaos?) they’ve caused, these serials are a boon to society. Housewives have something new to chat about. Families have been granted a regular post-dinner pastime. Lonely old people have excellent entertainment. For God’s sake, the K-factor roused people to action after the Gujarat earthquake; the critical juncture at which ‘Kyunkii…’ was, motivated the survivors to mend the television cables and tune in to Star Plus faster than one could say ‘bharatiya naari’! I believe there was even talk of an award. Something to do with the solace these familiar serials provided the quake-stricken community… Ekta, the philanthropist…
I, for one, am rooting for her all the way. She has put her finger on the pulse of the people. And with resounding success. She is giving the people what they want- in fact she has mastered the art! No amount of ‘intelligent’ criticism can change the fact that the K-brigade is ruling the airwaves. As for how mindless it is…it has never been necessary for entertainment to be intellectually stimulating. It’s just entertainment after all! Let the ‘intelligentsia’ stick to recitals of medieval Central Asian poetry and lectures on geological surveys in Latin America (cerebrally challenging and suitably offbeat enough to be in vogue and be discussed at the Saturday night Habitat Centre book launch…). In the meantime, Ekta Kapoor remains the Czarina of soap operas, and soap operas remain the order of the day. There is a popular saying that goes something like this- People get the government they deserve. Well…People also get the television serials they deserve. The mandate is out. It’s Kulture over Culture!!!
“These serials should be pulled off the air.” (This from the usual advocates of freedom of expression by the way…)
“Shameful stuff! So incredibly regressive…”
“I mean come on! Life is not all about who has the bloody keys to the family safe.”
“Such a waste of time. Why don’t they show us something more intelligent? As if we have nothing better to do.”
Seems we don’t. Have anything better to do, that is. The TRP ratings of ‘Kyunkii Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi’ and ‘Kahaanii Ghar Ghar Ki’ have consistently remained the highest on cable television ever since they first began to be aired. That means that an overwhelming majority of people with access to cable television sit down every weeknight to watch Parvati and Tulsi fight for their respective khandaans with the ubiquitous and convenient plastic surgeries, attacks of amnesia and unexpected pregnancies thrown in. Are the critics of these serials implying that these people are witless, unintelligent viewers? That they have no choice but to settle for Balaji fare? Nonsense! The Indian viewer is spoilt for choice and has consistently chosen to watch these serials over others.
At this point it becomes important to decide whether we feel that television reflects society or vice versa, for a number of criticisms are related to this original bone of contention. Surely, the mirroring and impact are mutual and simultaneous. At the same time, it is obvious that the television reflects society far more than the other way round. Was it the popularity of soaps like The Bold and the Beautiful that led to a dramatic increase in divorces amongst Americans or did these soaps in fact simply depict the growing frailty of American marriages?
What in fact, is the problem with depicting patriarchal joint families, a materialistic society, warring business factions and regressive outlooks? These did not suddenly spring forth from our television sets with the advent of four or five television serials. Isn’t Balaji Telefilms being true to the spirit of a certain, already existent segment of the Indian social landscape, albeit with the inevitable embellishment and melodramatic representation?
That is another issue by the way. We are all agreed by now that these serials reflect life to a degree, right? However, a common grouse against these serials is that they are ‘unrealistic’. I agree. They do not represent life as it is. So what? The essence of contemporary Indian cinema and television is exaggeration. Very few ‘realistic’ reels invade our homes and theatres (there is an increase now though, what with parallel cinema and ‘reality shows’ making waves. Still a tiny part of the big picture though…). Unattractive secretary? Let’s make her downright ugly with an unflattering hairstyle that anyone with an iota of sense would change if she wanted to. An Indian college in 2004? Let’s transform it into fantasyland with clothes and make-up the like of which aren’t seen in the streets of Manhattan, much less Mumbai. A hero taking on Pakistani soldiers? Let’s make him single-handedly defeat a whole regiment- and throw in a couple of Pakistani tanks for good measure and extra applause in the theatres! But I digress… What I am trying to say is that controlled and precise representations are not the norm. They are few and far in between. So why chastise just the makers of the K-serials for something that pervades our entire entertainment industry? Do women in real households wear saris at home that look like they belong in designer showrooms? Of course not. Do diyas assume a life of their own and extinguish themselves when a calamity strikes the khandaan? Of course not! (My apologies to those who believe in the divinity of diyas. Let’s just agree to disagree, shall we?) Is the normal Indian businessman stupid enough to repeatedly sign on documents without reading them first? Of course not- at least I hope so. We all know things do not superficially function the same way in the real world as they do on screen. And why should they, some would say. What is the point of mediums that allow us to get away from every day life, if every day life is all we get to see anyway?
Then there is the issue of ‘negative’, stereotypical representations. There are fingers being pointed at Ekta Kapoor (Balaji Telefilms is her baby) for contributing to the suppression of Indian women, the spreading of superstition and what not. Let us first assume that the K-serials are in fact, regressive (Though many would disagree. I have personally heard people praise Parvati and Tulsi for being empowered and powerful women. One could argue that they are limited by a society that has cast them into the mould of the ‘ideal’ Indian woman, but their agency in the events of the soaps is unquestionable. Anyhow, let’s not even get into that argument- it is an endless one and not what we’re dealing with here). Do these daily servings of popular hogwash strengthen the hold of patriarchy and blind superstition and so on and so forth over the average Indian mind? To put it simply, will men start expecting their wives to prioritize their families over everything else because they see good old Tulsi do so? Will women start fighting over the house-keys because someone in the K-khandaan does so? I seriously doubt that. Surely we overestimate the impressionable potential of the average Indian viewer. I suppose one could say that these serials are harmful in the sense that they do not promote change or a Cultural Revolution. In other words, they help perpetuate the current state of things. Well, don’t most forms of entertainment do that? Surely the lack of radical thought is not enough reason for the kind of vehement criticism that ‘Kyunkii…’ and ‘Kahaanii…’ have provoked.
My own personal problem with the popularity of the K-serials is restricted to the fact that they have caused me a great deal of inconvenience as far as writing mails is concerned. Ekta Kapoor’s love affair with ‘K’ has led to an insane amount of interest in numerology, and I am simply unable to address anyone in writing anymore because names seem to be spelt differently every second week!!
If you ask me, despite the chaos (or is it kaos?) they’ve caused, these serials are a boon to society. Housewives have something new to chat about. Families have been granted a regular post-dinner pastime. Lonely old people have excellent entertainment. For God’s sake, the K-factor roused people to action after the Gujarat earthquake; the critical juncture at which ‘Kyunkii…’ was, motivated the survivors to mend the television cables and tune in to Star Plus faster than one could say ‘bharatiya naari’! I believe there was even talk of an award. Something to do with the solace these familiar serials provided the quake-stricken community… Ekta, the philanthropist…
I, for one, am rooting for her all the way. She has put her finger on the pulse of the people. And with resounding success. She is giving the people what they want- in fact she has mastered the art! No amount of ‘intelligent’ criticism can change the fact that the K-brigade is ruling the airwaves. As for how mindless it is…it has never been necessary for entertainment to be intellectually stimulating. It’s just entertainment after all! Let the ‘intelligentsia’ stick to recitals of medieval Central Asian poetry and lectures on geological surveys in Latin America (cerebrally challenging and suitably offbeat enough to be in vogue and be discussed at the Saturday night Habitat Centre book launch…). In the meantime, Ekta Kapoor remains the Czarina of soap operas, and soap operas remain the order of the day. There is a popular saying that goes something like this- People get the government they deserve. Well…People also get the television serials they deserve. The mandate is out. It’s Kulture over Culture!!!
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
A regular ride home...
On the way home at 8.30 AM in the company cab.
A traffic light on MG road. The cab is required to turn right, into Chhattarpur.
A green signal for vehicles determined to go straight down the road. We must however, wait. At least...legally, we are obliged to.
There is a red Maruti 800 in front of us. Playing it safe, on the right side of the law.
Our cab-driver starts honking. He's in no mood to wait.
Stubborn, stubborn Maruti 800. It refuses to budge!!
Blaring horn, now accompanied by muttered swearing on part of the driver.
When *Madangir-3rd drop* in the back of the cab exasperatedly says, "Just skip it goddamit!", we know he is voicing the collective thought in the cab.
Headaches coming on. Staying up all night, followed by relentless, jarring noise in an unusually stuffy car (it's crowded today and it's definitely hotter than it has been recently)... the perfect way to ruin your peace of mind.
Is the light never going to change? An eternity of honking.
Finally!! The green arrow pointing towards the right, glows! A light at the end of the tunnel; a light to end all our suffering...
Crap. Maruti 800 still isn't moving...
Cabbie loses all patience. A few dicey moments and about 6.5 near-casualties later, cabbie has managed to swerve to the left and is in the process of overtaking Maruti 800 from the left. We halt next to the still-static car.
In spite of ourselves, we peer curiously into the neighbouring vehicle.
Cabbie rolls down window, sticks out his head and glares at the obstinate middle-aged man. The man who refused to budge.
All his hurry now forgotten, the cabbie now addresses Maruti-man.
English meets Haryanvi meets Hindi.
"Uncleji!! Turn kyon nahi karte ho??" (Why don't you turn??)
It is a busy, small intersection. A bus full of people on our left lean out interestedly. A million cyclists crowd around, ready to enjoy the fun. A green Alto which is coming from the left, espies the potential for entertainment and halts right in the middle of the intersection.
Cabbie now decides not to disappoint the audience.
He looks around at the other people and with a grin and biting sarcasm, shouts to all and sundry, "Learner hai, learner hai!! Abhi- Abhi gaadi chalaani seekhi hai!! Inki galti nahi hai." (He's a learner, he's a learner!! He's just learnt how to drive the car!! It's not his fault.)
The spectators snicker. Humour is a nice change from fisticuffs.
Maruti-man stares straight ahead. He's about 50 or so. Silent. We can't help but giggle too.
Cabbie is in no mood to relent. "Arrey, thulley bhi nahin khade hain, Uncleji!" (There aren't even any cops around!)
*a pause as the speaker ackowledges the listeners' sympathetic nods*
Then addresses the audience once again, "Chaloji, koi baat nahin... Seekh jaayenge." (Anyway, it doesn't matter... He'll learn.)
Maruti-man is transfixed. He refuses to acknowledge Cabbie. He refuses to retort. But most infuriatingly, he refuses to move!!
Cabbie has vented his frustration and had his fun. He rolls up his window, shifts into first and the horn blares again.
The minor traffic-jam caused by the spectacle disintegrates as Cabbie attempts to drive through a couple of motor-cyclists and the Green Alto, ignoring all laws of space and matter, and life and death.
It doesn't matter. Green Alto, and almost-dead motor-cyclists are still too amused to lose their tempers. They smile appreciatively at Cabbie and our cab screeches as it turns left.
One last look at Maruti-man. Stony-faced. Hands clenching the steering wheel. Greying hair.
In all the drama, the signal has changed back to red. We realize just as we're taking the turn.
The cabbie races past the Chhattarpur temple. *Khanpur-6th drop* ventures a comment, "Good work, bhaiyya ji... Aise slow drivers ke saath to aisa hi karna chaahiye." (Good work... This is exactly what one should do with such slow drivers.)
Cabbie has mellowed. Feels generous. Pops out the tape of bad-quality Haryanvi music and puts on 95.0 FM. His way of showing us he's in a good mood, because we're always asking for FM.
"Arrey, theek hai... Chalta hai." (Oh, it's ok... It doesn't matter that much.)
We settle into our seats comfortably. Shakira and Himmesh early in the morning.
The driver glances back at us one last time, "Learner tha na..." (He was a learner...)
We smile obligingly and some of us close our eyes. We still have enough time to squeeze in a short nap.
The cab screeches to a halt. We need to turn right to drop *Chhattarpur-1st drop*. The traffic light is red. There's a truck in front of us.
Cabbie swears. The horn blares. We are resigned to our fate. We concentrate on FM. We close our eyes and settle back into our seats.
A regular ride home...
A traffic light on MG road. The cab is required to turn right, into Chhattarpur.
A green signal for vehicles determined to go straight down the road. We must however, wait. At least...legally, we are obliged to.
There is a red Maruti 800 in front of us. Playing it safe, on the right side of the law.
Our cab-driver starts honking. He's in no mood to wait.
Stubborn, stubborn Maruti 800. It refuses to budge!!
Blaring horn, now accompanied by muttered swearing on part of the driver.
When *Madangir-3rd drop* in the back of the cab exasperatedly says, "Just skip it goddamit!", we know he is voicing the collective thought in the cab.
Headaches coming on. Staying up all night, followed by relentless, jarring noise in an unusually stuffy car (it's crowded today and it's definitely hotter than it has been recently)... the perfect way to ruin your peace of mind.
Is the light never going to change? An eternity of honking.
Finally!! The green arrow pointing towards the right, glows! A light at the end of the tunnel; a light to end all our suffering...
Crap. Maruti 800 still isn't moving...
Cabbie loses all patience. A few dicey moments and about 6.5 near-casualties later, cabbie has managed to swerve to the left and is in the process of overtaking Maruti 800 from the left. We halt next to the still-static car.
In spite of ourselves, we peer curiously into the neighbouring vehicle.
Cabbie rolls down window, sticks out his head and glares at the obstinate middle-aged man. The man who refused to budge.
All his hurry now forgotten, the cabbie now addresses Maruti-man.
English meets Haryanvi meets Hindi.
"Uncleji!! Turn kyon nahi karte ho??" (Why don't you turn??)
It is a busy, small intersection. A bus full of people on our left lean out interestedly. A million cyclists crowd around, ready to enjoy the fun. A green Alto which is coming from the left, espies the potential for entertainment and halts right in the middle of the intersection.
Cabbie now decides not to disappoint the audience.
He looks around at the other people and with a grin and biting sarcasm, shouts to all and sundry, "Learner hai, learner hai!! Abhi- Abhi gaadi chalaani seekhi hai!! Inki galti nahi hai." (He's a learner, he's a learner!! He's just learnt how to drive the car!! It's not his fault.)
The spectators snicker. Humour is a nice change from fisticuffs.
Maruti-man stares straight ahead. He's about 50 or so. Silent. We can't help but giggle too.
Cabbie is in no mood to relent. "Arrey, thulley bhi nahin khade hain, Uncleji!" (There aren't even any cops around!)
*a pause as the speaker ackowledges the listeners' sympathetic nods*
Then addresses the audience once again, "Chaloji, koi baat nahin... Seekh jaayenge." (Anyway, it doesn't matter... He'll learn.)
Maruti-man is transfixed. He refuses to acknowledge Cabbie. He refuses to retort. But most infuriatingly, he refuses to move!!
Cabbie has vented his frustration and had his fun. He rolls up his window, shifts into first and the horn blares again.
The minor traffic-jam caused by the spectacle disintegrates as Cabbie attempts to drive through a couple of motor-cyclists and the Green Alto, ignoring all laws of space and matter, and life and death.
It doesn't matter. Green Alto, and almost-dead motor-cyclists are still too amused to lose their tempers. They smile appreciatively at Cabbie and our cab screeches as it turns left.
One last look at Maruti-man. Stony-faced. Hands clenching the steering wheel. Greying hair.
In all the drama, the signal has changed back to red. We realize just as we're taking the turn.
The cabbie races past the Chhattarpur temple. *Khanpur-6th drop* ventures a comment, "Good work, bhaiyya ji... Aise slow drivers ke saath to aisa hi karna chaahiye." (Good work... This is exactly what one should do with such slow drivers.)
Cabbie has mellowed. Feels generous. Pops out the tape of bad-quality Haryanvi music and puts on 95.0 FM. His way of showing us he's in a good mood, because we're always asking for FM.
"Arrey, theek hai... Chalta hai." (Oh, it's ok... It doesn't matter that much.)
We settle into our seats comfortably. Shakira and Himmesh early in the morning.
The driver glances back at us one last time, "Learner tha na..." (He was a learner...)
We smile obligingly and some of us close our eyes. We still have enough time to squeeze in a short nap.
The cab screeches to a halt. We need to turn right to drop *Chhattarpur-1st drop*. The traffic light is red. There's a truck in front of us.
Cabbie swears. The horn blares. We are resigned to our fate. We concentrate on FM. We close our eyes and settle back into our seats.
A regular ride home...
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
I can smell Diwali in the air
I can smell Diwali in the air.
That probably sounds unnecessarily profound, but if you really think about it, it's true. There are certain nights when you step out and and you can feel the approach of winter. A moment of ecstacy. Then of course, thoughts are quickly diverted to the fact that a whole new winter wardrobe needs to be arranged or the fact that tickets need to be booked for the Goa trip (funny how we crib about Delhi summers right from April to October and flee the Delhi winter when it finally arrives) or that you'll have to carry a light shawl to work tonight-the air-conditioner is just too damn effective!
But the awareness of that fleeting moment remains.
The awareness of Diwali round the corner.
Of card sessions, and dinners, and pujas, and shopping, and gifts, and pathakas, and music.
Card sessions where the stakes vary from matchsticks, to "5 rupaiye ki blind, 10 ki chaal", to glass bowls that contain enough money to fund a round trip to Mauritius, to nights where car-keys and girlfriends' lingerie items are tossed into the betting ring- fair game.
Dinners where everyone excitedly dresses up, adhering to most hosts' strict instructions ("Keep in traditional guys!"). Where Laxmi reveals herself in stiff gaddis of crisp bank-notes. Where good food and good alcohol and good-looking people blend into one another, creating a symphony of warmth and companionship and joy. Where P. Uncle insists on getting drunk within the first half an hour and then religiously makes a trip to the bathroom every 15 minutes. Where chairs are often abandoned, and everyone settles down comfortably on gaddas and cushions, closer to the marble, and by implication closer to the earth. Where backless cholis and enticing navels and expensive aftershave create threads of desire that link nearly everyone in the room by the time two drinks have been had. Where P. Aunty is greeted with cheers when she brings out her famous kebab platters (accompanied by moans and groans from the vegetarians in the room!). Where, occassionally, the game is forgotten and money takes precedence; suddenly it's not just a grand or two at stake...it's a friendship. Where conversation sparkles and laughter rings deep into the night. Where N. and G. decide to take a midnight walk together, fully aware of the fact that the morning will be overcast with regret. Where wealth, friendship, festivity, laughter, alcohol and the onset of winter collide into each other; with a little bit of luck and enough talent on the part of the players, everything is still intact (albeit with subtle, sometimes nearly invisible changes) after the last 3 open rounds for 'health', 'wealth' and 'prosperity' are played, after the gracious hosts are thanked, after the last car has purred away, after an unsettling silence finally settles over the stage...
Are things still the same??? But let's go back to the dinners for a bit...
There are roughly three categories of people one meets during the regular Diwali celebrations.
There are friends of the moment, the kind you're interacting with day in and day out at that point in time.
Then there is the comfort zone; my personal favourite! Old is gold and all that jazz. Friends whom you've been meeting nearly all your life at the parties your parents go to. Friends who come together barely once a year now (we're all grown up and don't accompany our parents to social gatherings anymore! Diwali is a rare exception). Yet, when we're all in the same room, distance and time become irrelevant, and nostalgia takes priority. Memories of sneaking into the kitchen and stealing the snacks before the 'adults' finish them. Winter picnics complete with sandwiches, badminton, cricket and the one-odd Aunty who'd insist on packing aloo-puri in massive steel containers.The high levels of excitement when we'd go to a house with a computer in the early 1990s and spend hours playing 'The Prince of Persia'. A slight sense of awe as the older children reached the Board Classes, and started asking us to amuse ourselves while they studied in their rooms. Envy when we'd learn that other kids were allowed to talk on the phone for as long as they liked. A renewed bonding when the youngest person in the large circle became acquainted with the concept of 'sex'- the lowest common denominator had been achieved and now we could all sit together and talk again. The only time we meet now, these witnesses of our lives, who could testify to all the awkwardness of our adoloscent years, is Diwali. And it is sheer, mellow joy!
And then of course, there are acquaintances. the kind you've met at a couple of other people's places and shared an interesting conversation or a memorable dance with. People you want to get to know better!
Diwali doesn't discriminate. All three types come together, and hostility and elitism take a backseat as glasses sparkle with shimmering bubbles and dupattas glitter with sequins (clothes from Lajpat Nagar and Ritu Kumar's showroom are eerily alike!) and old Hindi film songs warble in the background. Till the inevitable happens and someone makes a smart-ass comment about someone's college/clothes/car/companion/whatever. Before you know it...resentment simmers, sarcasm glimmers and then- fireworks!! Or maybe not. There are times when the lava doesn't erupt; it simply slinks back into the depths of the earth where it came from. But something alters, the universe shifts JUST a little bit, and we know we're one step closer to ruining something beautiful.
Diwali brings us one step closer to a perfect world. Diwali is a disaster waiting to happen. Diwali is a consumerist mela that speaks of love and family and friendship and joy with the same ease with which it peddles televisions and paints while appealing to our desire to keeping up with the ostentatious neighbours. It is only too easy for the cosmos to spiral out of control in the unstable season that is Diwali. But to not like it, to ignore it, to hate it, or to fake your way through it is like not falling in love because you're afraid of getting hurt.
Every Diwali changes us.
And that is because it is a symphony of extremes- the best and the worst and plenty of grey thrown in. The flames only remind us of the surrounding darkness. But where would we be without the diyas??
J. Aunty's home-made biryani is diametrically opposed to K. Uncle's insistence that the food be catered from the most expensive outlet in town in order to make sure that everyone knows the bank account is overflowing. L.'s jaded flirtation with T. is poles apart from W. and M. who fall in love over red wine and Nusrat's songs. The hue and cry over child labour creates a situation where the same children now starve due to unemployment. The noise of the firecrackers and the silence of small betrayals come together. Mithai, dry fruit, chocolates, Danish cookies, Tropicana exist in close proximity and the clash of civilizations is suddenly an oxymoron (or is it?). Drunken nights and early morning pujas are regular events in the same house. A truly well-meaning gift to your neighbour will not necessarily eliminate the stab you feel when you receive a present that is three times more expensive. The honest laughter you share with your new found friend will not help you completely overlook his tendency to control the card-game.
To deny this is to deny ourselves.
To deny this is to deny the reality of contradictions.
It is an odd season. There's a nip in the air but you still need to turn on the AC in the car. A time of transition. Winter fruits trip into summer vegetables. A time when opposites co-exist in the same dimension.
Celebrate the contradictions. Celebrate life. Celebrate Diwali.
Starting something new.
On a day when the newspaper carries the regular reports of school shootings, sex scandals, corruption in the legal system, civil strife, epidemics and so on and so forth, I shall begin blogging.
It seems ridiculously jarring, but what the hell... I've been wanting to do this for a while.
Boom Shankar!
On a day when the newspaper carries the regular reports of school shootings, sex scandals, corruption in the legal system, civil strife, epidemics and so on and so forth, I shall begin blogging.
It seems ridiculously jarring, but what the hell... I've been wanting to do this for a while.
Boom Shankar!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)