Six Degrees of Separation
The other day I met Abhishek, an avid Orkutter friend of mine; and was telling him about one Mr Jaysimha I had met. Jaysimha had thrown up a lucrative career in airlines to become a memory technique teacher, and prior to that he had obtained six post-graduate degrees while working. “Six degrees is quite something, isn’t it?” I said.
“It’s all about six degrees my friend, he said. Between all of us there are six degrees,” he said.
“Well, I am quite happy with my three degrees; and you are happy with the only one you have, isn’t it?” I said.
“Fool. Haven’t you heard of six degrees of separation? Haven’t you heard of Stanley Milgram?” Abhishek was agitated.
“Well I have heard of ages of separation. But this degree thing sounds quite jazzy to me,” I chuckled.
“Well when you open Orkut and click on anyone’s name, a link is shown between you and that person. That person is a friend of a friend or something like that. It’s a small world, you see,” he reflected.
“I guess so,” I said, “the word itself is becoming the world. Just type words on your computer and you have the world inside your room.”
“Exactly,” said the Orkutter, “And Frigyes Karinthy had foreseen it in the early 20th century. The Hungarian writer wrote a story called “Chains” where he said that everyone is linked to any other person by just six other human beings. That was fiction. Then Stanley Milgram conducted experiments in the 1960s and came up with the same idea. Since then, the idea has spawned all over, and it is increasingly believed that any person in any field is away from any other person by just six links. John Duares’ play in the 1990s made the term really popular, and then there were songs and films and everything.”
“Quite a scary thought,” I said, “that Bin Laden is just six steps away from me. If Bush gets to know this, he is also just six degrees away, and then third degree torture may just a degree away.”
Monday, July 16, 2007
Friday, July 13, 2007
Film Review- Harry Potter
Big Battle, Tall Order
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
7 on 10
Dir: David Yates
Cast: Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson, Michael Gambon, Imelda Staunton, Ralph Fiennes
There are no Quid ditch matches in the latest Potter film, lesser roaming around and lesser playing around with spells. The elaborate extravaganza of the previous films has been replaced by an inner turmoil in Potter’s mind. Potter (Daniel Radcliffe) and Dumbledore (Michael Gambon) are suspected by the Ministry of forming a private army to overthrow the Minister.
To keep a check on the activities at Hogwarts, a new professor has been appointed. Her name is Dolores Umbridge (Imelda Staunton) and she is supposed to guide the students prevent themselves from dark magic. Her training, however, is all theoretical, and she tells Potter that this is what is needed to pass exams. She wears pink, and smiles, and smiles, even when she punishes students by making them write “I must not lie” which gets imprinted on their hands in blood simultaneously as they write on paper. Potter, on the other hand, has been told by his mentor Sirius Black (Gary Oldman) that Voldemort (Ralph Fiennes) is back. In absence of training, the students are seriously impaired, and start training under Potter. Umbridge starts a witch-hunt in the house of witches.
The movie marks a remarkable shift in terms of the scenes turning indoors. Harry goes through intense psychological moments, where he feels that with all that has happened in the past, what if he is also becoming like Voldemort? “I feel angry all the time,” he tells Sirius. He goes through traumatic nightmares with past and future whirring past him and leaving him and the audience stunned at the end of it. The spectacle is maintained with centaurs, and flying animals, the Weasley twins (James and Oliver Phelps) bursting crackers inside the exam hall, and sparkling spells but the attention is more on the angst inside a teenager, the turmoil of going through changes. Harry also gets to kiss for the first time. The romance with Cho Chang (Katie Leung) is a non-starter, because it doesn’t really fit into the plot anywhere. The cutest part of the film is Hagrid’s half-brother who is a giant. He picks up Hermione in his hand and puts her down when she stares at him. He gifts her a bicycle handle with a bell on it.
Sequels generally lack punch, but Potter gets better and better with every film. The frames are very tight to convey the internal battles. Even the climax is shot in a closed room. The action is lesser than the previous films, but the atmosphere is built slowly and constantly so that there’s barely any time for revelry. The shadow of You-Know-Who looms large, and his invasion of Potter’s memory is chilling. Radcliffe has pulled off the role of a teenage rebel very well. Dumbledore, played by Gambon, is stoic and yet very stylish. Every frame where he enters is full of panache.
Potter maniacs don’t need views or reviews. It is for the muggles, and they can go watch this film without juggling too many thoughts.
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
7 on 10
Dir: David Yates
Cast: Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson, Michael Gambon, Imelda Staunton, Ralph Fiennes
There are no Quid ditch matches in the latest Potter film, lesser roaming around and lesser playing around with spells. The elaborate extravaganza of the previous films has been replaced by an inner turmoil in Potter’s mind. Potter (Daniel Radcliffe) and Dumbledore (Michael Gambon) are suspected by the Ministry of forming a private army to overthrow the Minister.
To keep a check on the activities at Hogwarts, a new professor has been appointed. Her name is Dolores Umbridge (Imelda Staunton) and she is supposed to guide the students prevent themselves from dark magic. Her training, however, is all theoretical, and she tells Potter that this is what is needed to pass exams. She wears pink, and smiles, and smiles, even when she punishes students by making them write “I must not lie” which gets imprinted on their hands in blood simultaneously as they write on paper. Potter, on the other hand, has been told by his mentor Sirius Black (Gary Oldman) that Voldemort (Ralph Fiennes) is back. In absence of training, the students are seriously impaired, and start training under Potter. Umbridge starts a witch-hunt in the house of witches.
The movie marks a remarkable shift in terms of the scenes turning indoors. Harry goes through intense psychological moments, where he feels that with all that has happened in the past, what if he is also becoming like Voldemort? “I feel angry all the time,” he tells Sirius. He goes through traumatic nightmares with past and future whirring past him and leaving him and the audience stunned at the end of it. The spectacle is maintained with centaurs, and flying animals, the Weasley twins (James and Oliver Phelps) bursting crackers inside the exam hall, and sparkling spells but the attention is more on the angst inside a teenager, the turmoil of going through changes. Harry also gets to kiss for the first time. The romance with Cho Chang (Katie Leung) is a non-starter, because it doesn’t really fit into the plot anywhere. The cutest part of the film is Hagrid’s half-brother who is a giant. He picks up Hermione in his hand and puts her down when she stares at him. He gifts her a bicycle handle with a bell on it.
Sequels generally lack punch, but Potter gets better and better with every film. The frames are very tight to convey the internal battles. Even the climax is shot in a closed room. The action is lesser than the previous films, but the atmosphere is built slowly and constantly so that there’s barely any time for revelry. The shadow of You-Know-Who looms large, and his invasion of Potter’s memory is chilling. Radcliffe has pulled off the role of a teenage rebel very well. Dumbledore, played by Gambon, is stoic and yet very stylish. Every frame where he enters is full of panache.
Potter maniacs don’t need views or reviews. It is for the muggles, and they can go watch this film without juggling too many thoughts.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
interview- mark tully
MARK, MARKS AND MARX
His enthusiasm leaves a mark on you. He’s scored a lot of marks in writing, journalism, in shaping modern media. Mark Tully’s frame is 72 years old, but his eyes light up with enthusiasm when you tell him your school was very similar to his. “So did you get good marks in school?” asks Mark, and an affirmative reply brings out an envious childish smile, and he becomes modesty incarnate “Oh I was never really an academic, but I like reading and writing.”
Mark’s new book India’s Unending Journey: Finding Balance in A Time of Change is a candid, lucid account of his own journeys, through time and space, in India. Once you start reading, it’s not easy to put it down. It’s a first person account with a maze of memories, co-incidences and opinions. At one point, Mark describes his coming to India in 1965. He stayed at the Claridges in Delhi, and had been told that it was not as good as its namesake in London. He says that he, however, was happy for that was the first time he lived in a room with an attached bath. He went to the balcony, and could see cooks cooking on cow-dung cakes. The aroma of cow-dung cakes transports him back to Calcutta where he was born, and he says smell is a very powerful vehicle of nostalgia. He knew it then that he was fated to be in India.
Will or Willed?
The clash between free will and destiny forms an important part of the book, and Mark’s own thought-process. When we ask him why is that foreigners come and stay on and fall in love with India, he tells, “I can tell about myself. I was destined to be here. In 1969 French filmmaker Louise Malle made a film on India called L’Inde Fantome, which was an effort to show “real India”. Indira Gandhi thought it was in bad taste and banned BBC. Then I thought my Indian innings were over. But I was back. During emergency, I was expelled. After that I told my bosses that they had to send me back, for I had done nothing wrong. Not sending me would send wrong signals. After that they gave up on me.”
Going back to his school days at Marlborough school, he recalls how everything revolved around good performance in academics and sports. “Everyone’s marks were read out at the end of the term and it could be quite hard on children who did not score well,” he chuckles, “I sometimes felt like a loser, but in some ways it was good. It helped me experiment and find myself.” Mark believes that too much emphasis on free will makes people believe that whatever is happening is because of their own brilliance and nothing else. “On the other hand, the Eastern philosophy lays stress on fate. Too much emphasis makes it fatalism. The balance lies somewhere in between,” he says. He thinks that kids who are very good at school, very often end up being narrow minded individuals because of the feeling of self-importance.
City of Cycles
Mark believes that it’s in a cycle. He has named his pet dog Mishti after the earlier pet he had, called Missy. The new name connects him not just to the old one, but also to Calcutta and its Mishti. And then his memory takes him back to the Delhi of 1960s. “It was a city of bicycles. Over time the city has changed so much, its size, its transport. Public transport has lagged behind, now there is nothing for the pedestrians.”
Of governance
Recounting the 1970s, Mark says that he wouldn’t say that the governance was good, but the government was more able then. When asked if it’s because of the hobnobbing between businessmen and politicians, with businessmen doing really well after 1991, he says, “In a way yes. Businessmen aren’t worried about anything but their immediate interests. There is a need to go beyond this. The Tatas are into a lot of charity work, but how are they behaving in the land acquisition issue?”
Mark in media
Mark enjoyed political reporting, and the most vivid memories of the 1977 election, when the Janata government came to power. “It was sad to see that government fall just a little while later,” he says. Apart from these two, the incidents that have left an indelible mark on Mark’s psyche are the 1984 Bhopal Gas Tragedy, “a man made disaster”, the riots, assassinations of Indira and Rajiv, and the demolition of Babri Masjid.
Mark received flak for the way BBC handled the demolition of the mosque, and the mutiny in Sikh regiment after operation Bluestar. “We were criticized for showing the visuals of the demolition. But do they realize that if we had not shown the real pictures, what picture would have been painted by rumour mongers?” He says the same about the Sikh regiment mutiny, “We told the story because someone told us. The story was already out. The bush telegraph works faster than the real telegraph.”
Poly tricks
Mark says he’s been sitting, watching the way India goes forward, “the way the wheels go round.” He recalls 1979 when Charan Singh and Jagjivan Ram couldn’t reconcile themselves which led to the rise of Indira again; he recalls George Fernandes who moved Rightwards from being a firebrand Leftist.
“I was in UP during the last elections,” he tells, “Mayawati had been booted out, and a group of Brahmins was jubilant. A guy’s cars had been confiscated by an SC thanedaar earlier, he had got them back with the change of government. I went a little ahead. There was this guy, bandaged all over. He had been beaten up by upper caste men for some silly reason. The man said this wouldn’t have happened under Mayawati. Caste politics is a reality and shying away is not a solution.”
Mark feels that the economy is growing but in a very lopsided manner. “I would have been much happier had socialism worked,” he chuckles staring into the distance.
His enthusiasm leaves a mark on you. He’s scored a lot of marks in writing, journalism, in shaping modern media. Mark Tully’s frame is 72 years old, but his eyes light up with enthusiasm when you tell him your school was very similar to his. “So did you get good marks in school?” asks Mark, and an affirmative reply brings out an envious childish smile, and he becomes modesty incarnate “Oh I was never really an academic, but I like reading and writing.”
Mark’s new book India’s Unending Journey: Finding Balance in A Time of Change is a candid, lucid account of his own journeys, through time and space, in India. Once you start reading, it’s not easy to put it down. It’s a first person account with a maze of memories, co-incidences and opinions. At one point, Mark describes his coming to India in 1965. He stayed at the Claridges in Delhi, and had been told that it was not as good as its namesake in London. He says that he, however, was happy for that was the first time he lived in a room with an attached bath. He went to the balcony, and could see cooks cooking on cow-dung cakes. The aroma of cow-dung cakes transports him back to Calcutta where he was born, and he says smell is a very powerful vehicle of nostalgia. He knew it then that he was fated to be in India.
Will or Willed?
The clash between free will and destiny forms an important part of the book, and Mark’s own thought-process. When we ask him why is that foreigners come and stay on and fall in love with India, he tells, “I can tell about myself. I was destined to be here. In 1969 French filmmaker Louise Malle made a film on India called L’Inde Fantome, which was an effort to show “real India”. Indira Gandhi thought it was in bad taste and banned BBC. Then I thought my Indian innings were over. But I was back. During emergency, I was expelled. After that I told my bosses that they had to send me back, for I had done nothing wrong. Not sending me would send wrong signals. After that they gave up on me.”
Going back to his school days at Marlborough school, he recalls how everything revolved around good performance in academics and sports. “Everyone’s marks were read out at the end of the term and it could be quite hard on children who did not score well,” he chuckles, “I sometimes felt like a loser, but in some ways it was good. It helped me experiment and find myself.” Mark believes that too much emphasis on free will makes people believe that whatever is happening is because of their own brilliance and nothing else. “On the other hand, the Eastern philosophy lays stress on fate. Too much emphasis makes it fatalism. The balance lies somewhere in between,” he says. He thinks that kids who are very good at school, very often end up being narrow minded individuals because of the feeling of self-importance.
City of Cycles
Mark believes that it’s in a cycle. He has named his pet dog Mishti after the earlier pet he had, called Missy. The new name connects him not just to the old one, but also to Calcutta and its Mishti. And then his memory takes him back to the Delhi of 1960s. “It was a city of bicycles. Over time the city has changed so much, its size, its transport. Public transport has lagged behind, now there is nothing for the pedestrians.”
Of governance
Recounting the 1970s, Mark says that he wouldn’t say that the governance was good, but the government was more able then. When asked if it’s because of the hobnobbing between businessmen and politicians, with businessmen doing really well after 1991, he says, “In a way yes. Businessmen aren’t worried about anything but their immediate interests. There is a need to go beyond this. The Tatas are into a lot of charity work, but how are they behaving in the land acquisition issue?”
Mark in media
Mark enjoyed political reporting, and the most vivid memories of the 1977 election, when the Janata government came to power. “It was sad to see that government fall just a little while later,” he says. Apart from these two, the incidents that have left an indelible mark on Mark’s psyche are the 1984 Bhopal Gas Tragedy, “a man made disaster”, the riots, assassinations of Indira and Rajiv, and the demolition of Babri Masjid.
Mark received flak for the way BBC handled the demolition of the mosque, and the mutiny in Sikh regiment after operation Bluestar. “We were criticized for showing the visuals of the demolition. But do they realize that if we had not shown the real pictures, what picture would have been painted by rumour mongers?” He says the same about the Sikh regiment mutiny, “We told the story because someone told us. The story was already out. The bush telegraph works faster than the real telegraph.”
Poly tricks
Mark says he’s been sitting, watching the way India goes forward, “the way the wheels go round.” He recalls 1979 when Charan Singh and Jagjivan Ram couldn’t reconcile themselves which led to the rise of Indira again; he recalls George Fernandes who moved Rightwards from being a firebrand Leftist.
“I was in UP during the last elections,” he tells, “Mayawati had been booted out, and a group of Brahmins was jubilant. A guy’s cars had been confiscated by an SC thanedaar earlier, he had got them back with the change of government. I went a little ahead. There was this guy, bandaged all over. He had been beaten up by upper caste men for some silly reason. The man said this wouldn’t have happened under Mayawati. Caste politics is a reality and shying away is not a solution.”
Mark feels that the economy is growing but in a very lopsided manner. “I would have been much happier had socialism worked,” he chuckles staring into the distance.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Word Dropping - HORSERADISHED
Word dropping
We came back from the Camel’s Back Cemetery – Victor, my Australian genealogist friend and I, and had a long walk in the winding roads on the dark, cloudy evening of Landour. We decided to go to a bar. “Screwdriver,” he shouted out his order, and looked at me and asked, “Do you know the origin of his vodka and orange juice cocktail?”
“Sounds like some sexual connotation to me,” I said.
“One track mind,” chuckled Victor, “it has an Iranian connection. The oil workers of USA in Iran used to carry screw drivers in their jumpers. They used it to mix their drink.”
“Then this thing must have a lot of grease in it,” I chuckled and ordered for a Bloody Mary.
“There’s it just the matter of grease, and here it is the matter of blood,” Victor grimaced, “if you can’t have that, you can’t have this either.”
“Well it’s called Bloody Mary because tomato’s texture is red,” I said.
“There’s more to it my friend. Queen Mary I is known as bloody Mary. She had many miscarriages, and was never able to have a baby. That’s why she is called Bloody Mary. Bloodier than her was Elizabeth Bathory, a countess in Hungary, in the 16th century. She used to bath in blood. It was believed that bathing in blooding helped retain youthful complexion.”
“You are making up a vampire story like Dracula,” I said, slightly petrified.
“Oh,” said my friend, “she is the inspiration behind Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Even vampirologist Raymond McNally in his book Dracula was a Woman, agrees with my idea.”
Victor came closer and said, “Do you know they invoke Bloody Mary by standing in front of the mirror and chanting her name in various ways? And then she stares at you from within the mirror.”
“Okay, okay, let’s concentrate on the drinks,” I said.
“Oh indeed. I must tell you that Bloody Mary has an amazing ingredient, the horseradish. It’s a spice, an aphrodisiac, a medicinal herb, and much more.”
“I didn’t know horses eat radishes. I have heard of rabbit and carrot, and can stretch it to rabbit and radish for the sake of onomatopoeia but this is too much.”
Victor said, “In German it was called meerrettich and the English made it mare-radish. The next generation turned the mare into a horse.”
“I think I am quite a horse in my head,” I said and drank quick shots to avoid more vampires.
We came back from the Camel’s Back Cemetery – Victor, my Australian genealogist friend and I, and had a long walk in the winding roads on the dark, cloudy evening of Landour. We decided to go to a bar. “Screwdriver,” he shouted out his order, and looked at me and asked, “Do you know the origin of his vodka and orange juice cocktail?”
“Sounds like some sexual connotation to me,” I said.
“One track mind,” chuckled Victor, “it has an Iranian connection. The oil workers of USA in Iran used to carry screw drivers in their jumpers. They used it to mix their drink.”
“Then this thing must have a lot of grease in it,” I chuckled and ordered for a Bloody Mary.
“There’s it just the matter of grease, and here it is the matter of blood,” Victor grimaced, “if you can’t have that, you can’t have this either.”
“Well it’s called Bloody Mary because tomato’s texture is red,” I said.
“There’s more to it my friend. Queen Mary I is known as bloody Mary. She had many miscarriages, and was never able to have a baby. That’s why she is called Bloody Mary. Bloodier than her was Elizabeth Bathory, a countess in Hungary, in the 16th century. She used to bath in blood. It was believed that bathing in blooding helped retain youthful complexion.”
“You are making up a vampire story like Dracula,” I said, slightly petrified.
“Oh,” said my friend, “she is the inspiration behind Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Even vampirologist Raymond McNally in his book Dracula was a Woman, agrees with my idea.”
Victor came closer and said, “Do you know they invoke Bloody Mary by standing in front of the mirror and chanting her name in various ways? And then she stares at you from within the mirror.”
“Okay, okay, let’s concentrate on the drinks,” I said.
“Oh indeed. I must tell you that Bloody Mary has an amazing ingredient, the horseradish. It’s a spice, an aphrodisiac, a medicinal herb, and much more.”
“I didn’t know horses eat radishes. I have heard of rabbit and carrot, and can stretch it to rabbit and radish for the sake of onomatopoeia but this is too much.”
Victor said, “In German it was called meerrettich and the English made it mare-radish. The next generation turned the mare into a horse.”
“I think I am quite a horse in my head,” I said and drank quick shots to avoid more vampires.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
the age of bicycles
Two weeks back, I was at Robin Cinema hall, where the manager gifted me three posters of B-grade films, souvenirs for life. When I asked him why the hall did not have posters, he said in earlier times, a groom got three things for dowry – HMT watch, Murphy radio and bicycle. All the bicycles were tied with a long chain and there was no need for a parking lot.
A week back I went with a friend to Daryaganj from ITO, to buy an African drum. On our way back, we decided to take a cycle rickshaw back. The distance is barely half a kilometer. The guy refused, “I had gone that side in the morning and the cops made me carry bricks on my rickshaw for four hours.”
Yesterday, I met Mark Tully and asked him how Delhi looked like in 1965. “Oh it was a city of bicycles,” his face lit up, “and there were rickshaws and tangas. Car was a vintage sort of a thing.”
Cycle market still exists in Jhandewalan and it seems they are doing good business, but one doesn’t come across even ten cycles during the day. Tully’s statement took me back to my school days, which is not very long ago, when we craved to buy the latest bicycles. I was incorrigibly envious of my brother because he owned a sleek BSA Street Cat while I had a regular Atlas model. He said he felt like Street Hawk on his Street Cat. I made up with my speed and I still like to believe that I used to cover five kilometers in five minutes. The parking lot had more cycles than the number of students, and pranksters would once in a week push a cycle, and everything would come crumbling down. This time when I went to school, there were the latest bikes, and cycles only a couple of dozens. Even campuses like JNU and IIT have lost their cycle; their pulse has shifted to Pulsar. I had inherited a cycle from an IIT friend who went to the US. I still proudly tell that my cycle was stolen in the first week of its inheritance. Now I leave my scooter here and there, but no one steals it.
A friend made a very interesting observation that as the wheels get broader, it gets tougher to paddle. The power then shifts to the fuel – who can buy how much fuel.
There is a sweet little song by Katie Melua which goes like this : There are nine million bicycles in Beijing / That's a fact / It's a thing we can't deny /Like the fact that I will love you till I die. The nine million cyclists of Peking are peddling their goods across the world. Very soon the two million cars of Delhi will have the Made in China tag, which everything else already has.
A week back I went with a friend to Daryaganj from ITO, to buy an African drum. On our way back, we decided to take a cycle rickshaw back. The distance is barely half a kilometer. The guy refused, “I had gone that side in the morning and the cops made me carry bricks on my rickshaw for four hours.”
Yesterday, I met Mark Tully and asked him how Delhi looked like in 1965. “Oh it was a city of bicycles,” his face lit up, “and there were rickshaws and tangas. Car was a vintage sort of a thing.”
Cycle market still exists in Jhandewalan and it seems they are doing good business, but one doesn’t come across even ten cycles during the day. Tully’s statement took me back to my school days, which is not very long ago, when we craved to buy the latest bicycles. I was incorrigibly envious of my brother because he owned a sleek BSA Street Cat while I had a regular Atlas model. He said he felt like Street Hawk on his Street Cat. I made up with my speed and I still like to believe that I used to cover five kilometers in five minutes. The parking lot had more cycles than the number of students, and pranksters would once in a week push a cycle, and everything would come crumbling down. This time when I went to school, there were the latest bikes, and cycles only a couple of dozens. Even campuses like JNU and IIT have lost their cycle; their pulse has shifted to Pulsar. I had inherited a cycle from an IIT friend who went to the US. I still proudly tell that my cycle was stolen in the first week of its inheritance. Now I leave my scooter here and there, but no one steals it.
A friend made a very interesting observation that as the wheels get broader, it gets tougher to paddle. The power then shifts to the fuel – who can buy how much fuel.
There is a sweet little song by Katie Melua which goes like this : There are nine million bicycles in Beijing / That's a fact / It's a thing we can't deny /Like the fact that I will love you till I die. The nine million cyclists of Peking are peddling their goods across the world. Very soon the two million cars of Delhi will have the Made in China tag, which everything else already has.
Friday, July 06, 2007
film review - the bong connection
Bong on Song
The Bong Connection
Director: Anjan Dutt
Cast: Shayan Munshi, Raima Sen, Peeya Rai Choudhuri, Parambrata Chatterjee, Victor Banerjee, Soumitra Chatterjee, June Maliah.
7 on 10
Bongs have bitter critics – in Bongs themselves. The first “Benglish” film reverberates with Bongs bashing Bongs – “you are an ass of a Bong”, “you are a commie from Kolkatta”, “you are a Bengali clerk” etc etc. One ABCD Bong (American Born Confused Desi) – Andy (Shayan Munshi) comes to Kolkata in search of his musical dreams. Another one, Apu (Parambrata Chatterjee), a software professional, goes to Texas in search of the American dream. Apu consciously remains a “Bengali though, as he tells his girlfriend Rita (Peeya Rai Chowdhary) that she’s a brat because she wears Western outfits. He has a girlfriend back home too, Sheela (Raima Sen) who wears sarees.
Andy comes to Kolkata and starts practicing with a local band. The old Bengali babus snore between practice sessions while he implores them to get on with the music. Frustrated, he goes to Shantiniketan, where he finds this Bengali rock band which is very popular but torn internally. He symolises the angst of the person who wants to return home but is frustrated with the stagnation of the place. The frames are brilliantly shot in Kolkata – it’s in colour but you get a feel of sepia, with the old wooden doors, old chattery Bengali men, large houses, all frustrated, and yet content. Andy falls in love with the place but gets no success. Finally, he gets a call from Mira Nair in Canada but is unwilling to go back as he’s fallen in love with both the soil and Sheela who’s still waiting for Apu. His uncle wants to sell off their ancestral property because he is a “Bengali clerk” and doesn’t want to put any effort into it.
On the other hand, the Bongs in America go through their own travails of trying to retain their identity and yet are wannabes. The issues of nostalgia, identity crises, racism, chasing a dream come through quite nicely. Reverse racism happens when Apu’s boss played by Victor Banerjee sacks his colleague when he coms to know he’s a gay. The stories of Kolkata and Texas are juxtaposed so close together that the tension keeps building up despite the humour. The self-critical “Bong” director and script writer knows all the “Bong jokes” and applies them with dexterous timing.
Bong or no Bong, it is eminently watchable for all, and the music that traverses between Bauls, Rock and ranindra sangeet is equally good.
The Bong Connection
Director: Anjan Dutt
Cast: Shayan Munshi, Raima Sen, Peeya Rai Choudhuri, Parambrata Chatterjee, Victor Banerjee, Soumitra Chatterjee, June Maliah.
7 on 10
Bongs have bitter critics – in Bongs themselves. The first “Benglish” film reverberates with Bongs bashing Bongs – “you are an ass of a Bong”, “you are a commie from Kolkatta”, “you are a Bengali clerk” etc etc. One ABCD Bong (American Born Confused Desi) – Andy (Shayan Munshi) comes to Kolkata in search of his musical dreams. Another one, Apu (Parambrata Chatterjee), a software professional, goes to Texas in search of the American dream. Apu consciously remains a “Bengali though, as he tells his girlfriend Rita (Peeya Rai Chowdhary) that she’s a brat because she wears Western outfits. He has a girlfriend back home too, Sheela (Raima Sen) who wears sarees.
Andy comes to Kolkata and starts practicing with a local band. The old Bengali babus snore between practice sessions while he implores them to get on with the music. Frustrated, he goes to Shantiniketan, where he finds this Bengali rock band which is very popular but torn internally. He symolises the angst of the person who wants to return home but is frustrated with the stagnation of the place. The frames are brilliantly shot in Kolkata – it’s in colour but you get a feel of sepia, with the old wooden doors, old chattery Bengali men, large houses, all frustrated, and yet content. Andy falls in love with the place but gets no success. Finally, he gets a call from Mira Nair in Canada but is unwilling to go back as he’s fallen in love with both the soil and Sheela who’s still waiting for Apu. His uncle wants to sell off their ancestral property because he is a “Bengali clerk” and doesn’t want to put any effort into it.
On the other hand, the Bongs in America go through their own travails of trying to retain their identity and yet are wannabes. The issues of nostalgia, identity crises, racism, chasing a dream come through quite nicely. Reverse racism happens when Apu’s boss played by Victor Banerjee sacks his colleague when he coms to know he’s a gay. The stories of Kolkata and Texas are juxtaposed so close together that the tension keeps building up despite the humour. The self-critical “Bong” director and script writer knows all the “Bong jokes” and applies them with dexterous timing.
Bong or no Bong, it is eminently watchable for all, and the music that traverses between Bauls, Rock and ranindra sangeet is equally good.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Rains...
The black roads of Delhi that radiate heat like a car radiator, gather a thin film of water with the first rains, and reflect the sky laden with clouds. The air gathers an aroma, and you’re transported to some other time when it rained similarly. Rains induce an intriguing longing and nostalgia; it’s a time when you want to do everything else but work. You want to celebrate with the tears of heaven that find their way back to the sea through funnels, tunnels, rivers and rivulets. Delhi barely rains, and when it does, it’s worth becoming a peacock. Here is what we feel are the things to do when it pours in Delhi:
Chai, samosa, soup
There’s nothing like having chai, samosa, soup at home and staring out of the window, but if you are venturing out, which one must, then perhaps one must begin with Connaught Place. Driving around the round abouts in rains can be great fun unless they are all jammed. There’s this Tourist Restaurant in YMCA where you can look out into the greenery and rains and whizzing traffic while sipping on your tea. Eevening is the best time here, with the place lit with star-like lights and the glass panes shrouded with moisture on a rainy day. You could head to the Cha Bar in Oxford Bookstore at Barakhamba road and take your pick from a range of teas – masala, herbal, Darjeeling, ayurvedic. They also have huge glass panes that overlooks the outer circle. You can couch around and browse through books while sipping and staring out. Around CP, the other two places that synchronise themselves with the rainy day are the Terrace Garden in Triveni Kala Sangam, and the canteen at max Mueller Bhavan. The terrace garden is on the ground floor itself but the ambience is quite terrace like, with the grassy lawn contoured in levels. The bamboo chairs that overlook the lush greenery add to the whole look. It’s a small place but the variety of food is quite a lot, and quite reasonably priced.
Max Mueller is the pick of the lot, they have a whole range of items like sizzlers, Russian salad; their mint iced tea is a cool refresher.
Long drives
The pitter-patter of the rains, the wiper’s monotonous pendulous movement, or the droplets striking against your face if you’re biking, make you long for longer and longer drives. The best places to drive are the roads that run through the ridges. The stretch between Jhandewalan and Dhaula Kuan is amazing, it’s eight kilometers long and you can drive unabated, starting with the colossal Hanuman statue in whose heart pigeons reside instead of Sit and Ram. There is heavy greenery on both side and the leaf blades shine like pearls all along. Instead of going to Dhaula Kuan, swerve left to the road leading to Maurya Sheraton, and take a left again where you have to take a right for Maurya. Take a left again into the road that goes inside the ridge, and you’ll encounter Begum Sakina’s palace which we’ve written about earlier. Nearby is a mazar in the middle of the forest, and there’s nothing like visiting a mazar in the rains. You could also go to Nizamuddin and get into some trance with rain and qawwali at night. It doesn’t rain so much here, we know, but if it did, what would it be like. Get back to the main road and drive down Mother Teresa Crescent, the five kilometer long swirl where trees and vehicles pass you by, and you think you’re in some timeless zone. You can go back to Jhandewalan from here, and head to the North campus Ridge from Bara Hindu Rao. The roads are narrow here, but empty, and you cross historical monuments like the Mutiny memorial and Peer Ghayab. You could get own and walk on the pathways of the ridge, and then go to Kamla Nagar and sip chai at any of the umpteen stalls. The ridge in South around Vasant Kunj is also amazing. You could drive on the long stretch on Aruna Asaf Ali Marg or the narrow road that leads to Faridabad after Batra hospital. India Gate, of course is needless to mention. After all your drives you can participate in the mass rain dance there. Dance doesn’t really happen, but the mass is always there, you could induce one.
Words and melodies
If you are the indoor variety who admires the sound of the drizzle with the whirr of the fan, you can cuddle up and catch up with your old books. It’s always personal taste, so recommendations are silly, but try out The Little Prince on a rainy day. With the prince traveling to different planets, and he falling in love with a flower, and making his tea on a volcano, you might just like to be transported to worlds of fantasy. Or pick up any Marquez book, his words smell of the earth. Or read a book you read in childhood, rains are very nostalgia inducing. Music is even more personal, someone might like Pink Floyd with rain, and some may like just ghazals, some might like Rain is Falling Chama Cham Cham!! For me, it is 500 miles – Teardrops fell on mama’s note/ When I read the thing she wrote/ We miss you son we love you / Come on home.
Rain and pain are intrinsically intertwined, as are rain and celebration. It’s the time when the skies connect with the earth. So son’t pack yourselves inside your AC offices. Have a stomach ache and go out!
Chai, samosa, soup
There’s nothing like having chai, samosa, soup at home and staring out of the window, but if you are venturing out, which one must, then perhaps one must begin with Connaught Place. Driving around the round abouts in rains can be great fun unless they are all jammed. There’s this Tourist Restaurant in YMCA where you can look out into the greenery and rains and whizzing traffic while sipping on your tea. Eevening is the best time here, with the place lit with star-like lights and the glass panes shrouded with moisture on a rainy day. You could head to the Cha Bar in Oxford Bookstore at Barakhamba road and take your pick from a range of teas – masala, herbal, Darjeeling, ayurvedic. They also have huge glass panes that overlooks the outer circle. You can couch around and browse through books while sipping and staring out. Around CP, the other two places that synchronise themselves with the rainy day are the Terrace Garden in Triveni Kala Sangam, and the canteen at max Mueller Bhavan. The terrace garden is on the ground floor itself but the ambience is quite terrace like, with the grassy lawn contoured in levels. The bamboo chairs that overlook the lush greenery add to the whole look. It’s a small place but the variety of food is quite a lot, and quite reasonably priced.
Max Mueller is the pick of the lot, they have a whole range of items like sizzlers, Russian salad; their mint iced tea is a cool refresher.
Long drives
The pitter-patter of the rains, the wiper’s monotonous pendulous movement, or the droplets striking against your face if you’re biking, make you long for longer and longer drives. The best places to drive are the roads that run through the ridges. The stretch between Jhandewalan and Dhaula Kuan is amazing, it’s eight kilometers long and you can drive unabated, starting with the colossal Hanuman statue in whose heart pigeons reside instead of Sit and Ram. There is heavy greenery on both side and the leaf blades shine like pearls all along. Instead of going to Dhaula Kuan, swerve left to the road leading to Maurya Sheraton, and take a left again where you have to take a right for Maurya. Take a left again into the road that goes inside the ridge, and you’ll encounter Begum Sakina’s palace which we’ve written about earlier. Nearby is a mazar in the middle of the forest, and there’s nothing like visiting a mazar in the rains. You could also go to Nizamuddin and get into some trance with rain and qawwali at night. It doesn’t rain so much here, we know, but if it did, what would it be like. Get back to the main road and drive down Mother Teresa Crescent, the five kilometer long swirl where trees and vehicles pass you by, and you think you’re in some timeless zone. You can go back to Jhandewalan from here, and head to the North campus Ridge from Bara Hindu Rao. The roads are narrow here, but empty, and you cross historical monuments like the Mutiny memorial and Peer Ghayab. You could get own and walk on the pathways of the ridge, and then go to Kamla Nagar and sip chai at any of the umpteen stalls. The ridge in South around Vasant Kunj is also amazing. You could drive on the long stretch on Aruna Asaf Ali Marg or the narrow road that leads to Faridabad after Batra hospital. India Gate, of course is needless to mention. After all your drives you can participate in the mass rain dance there. Dance doesn’t really happen, but the mass is always there, you could induce one.
Words and melodies
If you are the indoor variety who admires the sound of the drizzle with the whirr of the fan, you can cuddle up and catch up with your old books. It’s always personal taste, so recommendations are silly, but try out The Little Prince on a rainy day. With the prince traveling to different planets, and he falling in love with a flower, and making his tea on a volcano, you might just like to be transported to worlds of fantasy. Or pick up any Marquez book, his words smell of the earth. Or read a book you read in childhood, rains are very nostalgia inducing. Music is even more personal, someone might like Pink Floyd with rain, and some may like just ghazals, some might like Rain is Falling Chama Cham Cham!! For me, it is 500 miles – Teardrops fell on mama’s note/ When I read the thing she wrote/ We miss you son we love you / Come on home.
Rain and pain are intrinsically intertwined, as are rain and celebration. It’s the time when the skies connect with the earth. So son’t pack yourselves inside your AC offices. Have a stomach ache and go out!
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Riches to rags
In da house
For the past week, I’ve been crossing the subway of the fleet street, where all the newspaper offices are, to the other side where you get this amazing Neembu Shikanji Soda. They have their own concoction and have a big pamphlet about the benefits of the drink. Anyways, on that side of the road, in the afternoon, sits this kabadiwalla who keeps scribbling on paper. His clothes, his gunny bag, the paper he writes on are all in tatters. He keeps scribbling on paper in with a red pen in English, in a very small handwriting, and I try to peek in, and he stares back. One day I gathered the courage to ask what he was writing. All English went in thin air and he launched a volley of hardcore Haryanvi abuses.
I wonder what his story is. The last time I bumped into an English-speaking beggar was quite an intriguing experience. We had carried a story in the paper too. His name is nothing other then Dyer, speaks impeccable English, is an Anglo-Indian who had even served in the army. Linked to the word “Dyer”, I had come across this dyers’ shop in Calcutta, the window of which says: I live to dye, I dye to live, the more I dye, the more I live.
Another such riches to rags person is this lady who roams around in the Janpath market and asks in accented English for money. She tells you that the queen’s reign will come back one day, and she is collecting money to go see the queen. That’s where I learnt that she had written that poem: Where you been? To London to see the queen.
At Ganga dhaba in JNU, you’ll come across this old man, Vidrohi ji, who thinks one day there’ll be a red flag on the red fort. He sings revolutionary songs all night, and lives hand-to-mouth. He was a PhD student in the university.
Fact more often than not is more fictitious than fiction.
For the past week, I’ve been crossing the subway of the fleet street, where all the newspaper offices are, to the other side where you get this amazing Neembu Shikanji Soda. They have their own concoction and have a big pamphlet about the benefits of the drink. Anyways, on that side of the road, in the afternoon, sits this kabadiwalla who keeps scribbling on paper. His clothes, his gunny bag, the paper he writes on are all in tatters. He keeps scribbling on paper in with a red pen in English, in a very small handwriting, and I try to peek in, and he stares back. One day I gathered the courage to ask what he was writing. All English went in thin air and he launched a volley of hardcore Haryanvi abuses.
I wonder what his story is. The last time I bumped into an English-speaking beggar was quite an intriguing experience. We had carried a story in the paper too. His name is nothing other then Dyer, speaks impeccable English, is an Anglo-Indian who had even served in the army. Linked to the word “Dyer”, I had come across this dyers’ shop in Calcutta, the window of which says: I live to dye, I dye to live, the more I dye, the more I live.
Another such riches to rags person is this lady who roams around in the Janpath market and asks in accented English for money. She tells you that the queen’s reign will come back one day, and she is collecting money to go see the queen. That’s where I learnt that she had written that poem: Where you been? To London to see the queen.
At Ganga dhaba in JNU, you’ll come across this old man, Vidrohi ji, who thinks one day there’ll be a red flag on the red fort. He sings revolutionary songs all night, and lives hand-to-mouth. He was a PhD student in the university.
Fact more often than not is more fictitious than fiction.
Egyptian Tanoura Dance
Whirls, twirls and rapture
Last week, ICCR organized a three day Sufi festival, out of which two were singing days with Begum Farida Khanum and Adil Barki respectively, and one was a dancing day with Tanoura dancers from Egypt. Kamani auditorium has never been so alive as on Friday when the Tanoura dervishes whirled everyone into a trance.
The performance began with singers singing and performing on their instruments. The most remarkable instruments are Ney, a flute variant, and the Algerian drum. Ney has a special significance, air has to be breathed in and out rather than blown into it. The wind passing through the flute is not just the breath of the player, but the breath of God. Once the breath enters the journeyer, symbolized by the dancer, the journeyer seeks union with God through the whirling movements. Modernisation affects everyone, and the group used a keyboard as well along with the traditional instruments. Once the mood was set, the dancers came in with their large, round, variegated skirts, and what followed was sheer visual delight. There is symbolism to all the movements of the dancers, which we can’t delve into, here. There was a central dancer around who the rest of the band whirled. It was like planets revolving around the sun. The whirling is continuous, long and varied. The skirt whirls at different angles, it’s even whirled over the head. When the dancer tilts at an angle where the right hand is raised up and the left almost touches the ground, it signifies a union of the heaven and earth.
After the dancers, the drummer came forward with his Algerian drum which looks like an oversized damru, but it’s variety is tremendous – it can produce a range of sounds. The drummer made the audience clap with his beats. It was as if the entire audience was on stage, clapping, dancing, chanting. This was followed by a girl making a human horse dance on stage. The black horse fainted after a while, and was revived by the girl’s kiss. The horse got down from the stage, went into the audience and kissed everyone. Besides, there were stick dances and other performances. The verve that the show generated is something one hasn’t observed even in a live rock performance. Don’t miss out a Tanoura performance if you ever get a chance.
Last week, ICCR organized a three day Sufi festival, out of which two were singing days with Begum Farida Khanum and Adil Barki respectively, and one was a dancing day with Tanoura dancers from Egypt. Kamani auditorium has never been so alive as on Friday when the Tanoura dervishes whirled everyone into a trance.
The performance began with singers singing and performing on their instruments. The most remarkable instruments are Ney, a flute variant, and the Algerian drum. Ney has a special significance, air has to be breathed in and out rather than blown into it. The wind passing through the flute is not just the breath of the player, but the breath of God. Once the breath enters the journeyer, symbolized by the dancer, the journeyer seeks union with God through the whirling movements. Modernisation affects everyone, and the group used a keyboard as well along with the traditional instruments. Once the mood was set, the dancers came in with their large, round, variegated skirts, and what followed was sheer visual delight. There is symbolism to all the movements of the dancers, which we can’t delve into, here. There was a central dancer around who the rest of the band whirled. It was like planets revolving around the sun. The whirling is continuous, long and varied. The skirt whirls at different angles, it’s even whirled over the head. When the dancer tilts at an angle where the right hand is raised up and the left almost touches the ground, it signifies a union of the heaven and earth.
After the dancers, the drummer came forward with his Algerian drum which looks like an oversized damru, but it’s variety is tremendous – it can produce a range of sounds. The drummer made the audience clap with his beats. It was as if the entire audience was on stage, clapping, dancing, chanting. This was followed by a girl making a human horse dance on stage. The black horse fainted after a while, and was revived by the girl’s kiss. The horse got down from the stage, went into the audience and kissed everyone. Besides, there were stick dances and other performances. The verve that the show generated is something one hasn’t observed even in a live rock performance. Don’t miss out a Tanoura performance if you ever get a chance.
Mystic Mountain – Mc Leod Ganj
Narrow winding roads through tea gardens, deep gorges with establishments in clutter in the distance, a bustling market when you reach the top of the hill where you can have fruit wines and Tibetan massage. Could there be a better getaway from the scorching city where you feel like breaking the red lights where you get baked? McLeod Gunj is now just two hours away with flights operating between Delhi and Kangra. From Kangra, you can take a cab for five hundred rupees that’ll take you to McLeod Gunj.
The place is quite crowded now in general, and this time of the year makes it even more crowded, there are long jams at times. The jams, however, do not take away from the charm, you can just walk it and enjoy the view while your cab trudges along. On top of the hill is Bhagsunag, where there’s a temple and a waterfall. This is the best place to stay as it’s less crowded than McLeod Gunj, and just fifteen minutes walk from there. One has to trek for half an hour to reach the falls; you can either walk along the path or walk through the rocks through which the river flows. People generally laze around on the rocks, couples lost in themselves, some taking a nap, or washing clothes, or drinking and dancing. Near the fall is a sheltered spot where people have painted graffiti on stones. The grafitti are beautiful – paintings, messages of peace and love. An elderly couple came and folded their hands at the spot. The wife asked, “Whose temple is this?” and the husband replied, “Yeh jal devta ka mandir hai.” At the fall, the water is so chilled that they cool their cold drink crates in that. The shower of the fall is blissful, and you can just hang around for hours there, and have refreshments as well at the two stalls nearby.
Downhill, the McLeod Gunj market bustles with activity. There are pamphlets advertising Tibetan massage for men and women- you can get massaged, you can learn it; you can learn astrology, feng-shui, languages, and hordes of things. The book shops are amazing, with unique books about Tibet, Tibetan astrology and odd second hand books which foreigners sell off. You’ll find many books in Hebrew too. For, the Israeli population is overwhelming, the market is full of Israelis shopping and biking around. A large number of foreigners ensures a tremendous variety of food in the restaurants. At Bhagsunag, the German bakery has Israeli, Tibetan, German and Indian foods, and priced very reasonably. You get fruit wines in McLeod Gunj as well, from rhododendron to apple to plum. One can also get a lot of jazzy and ethnic Tibetan costumes as well.
The main attraction of McLeod Gunj is the Dalai Lama monastery. There are several monasteries in the area. The one next to the market is an imposing structure with a series of good-luck wheels around it, and a numbers of monks chanting their mantras inside it. A little away is the Dal Lake, which is considered very holy. When you go boating, you have to take your shoes off at the bank. The lake is small and depleting, and needs a lot of maintenance. Do not confuse the hounds for dogs and try to shoo them here. They are real hounds! Down the hill from Dal Lake are a couple of resorts where you can chill out with a swim, massage, and beer. You have to go uphill again to reach the sunset point where you see little kids on horses going back to their international boarding school. The view from here is amazing, the telescope-wallas charge you ten bucks to show snow capped mountains.
There are hordes of places one can go to here, there are the tea gardens, monastries, endless number of temples. Our pick of the lot, however, is “St John’s Church in the Wilderness”. As you enter the place, a dog will bark at you and you’ll be freaked out, but it’s locked in a cage so you needn’t run away. It is really in the wilderness and very beautiful. It’s not an amazing piece of architecture aesthetically speaking, but its settings make it out-wordly with dense greenery at the edge of a deep valley, and the cemetery which has a thousand stories engraved on the graves. Here lies Lord Elgin, as well Lord Mc Leod himself. There’s a grave of a man who was killed by a bear, another grave of a soldier who died a day before his marriage. The church is in tatters and needs serious attempts at restoration.
At night, you can party in any of the hundreds of pubs around and eat and drink world cuisines and not empty your pockets. There are a couple of discs also, which play a lot of Punjabi music, they are the makeshift variety, and are great fun. You can watch movies in mini theatres where they play movies on DVDs.
The place is quite crowded now in general, and this time of the year makes it even more crowded, there are long jams at times. The jams, however, do not take away from the charm, you can just walk it and enjoy the view while your cab trudges along. On top of the hill is Bhagsunag, where there’s a temple and a waterfall. This is the best place to stay as it’s less crowded than McLeod Gunj, and just fifteen minutes walk from there. One has to trek for half an hour to reach the falls; you can either walk along the path or walk through the rocks through which the river flows. People generally laze around on the rocks, couples lost in themselves, some taking a nap, or washing clothes, or drinking and dancing. Near the fall is a sheltered spot where people have painted graffiti on stones. The grafitti are beautiful – paintings, messages of peace and love. An elderly couple came and folded their hands at the spot. The wife asked, “Whose temple is this?” and the husband replied, “Yeh jal devta ka mandir hai.” At the fall, the water is so chilled that they cool their cold drink crates in that. The shower of the fall is blissful, and you can just hang around for hours there, and have refreshments as well at the two stalls nearby.
Downhill, the McLeod Gunj market bustles with activity. There are pamphlets advertising Tibetan massage for men and women- you can get massaged, you can learn it; you can learn astrology, feng-shui, languages, and hordes of things. The book shops are amazing, with unique books about Tibet, Tibetan astrology and odd second hand books which foreigners sell off. You’ll find many books in Hebrew too. For, the Israeli population is overwhelming, the market is full of Israelis shopping and biking around. A large number of foreigners ensures a tremendous variety of food in the restaurants. At Bhagsunag, the German bakery has Israeli, Tibetan, German and Indian foods, and priced very reasonably. You get fruit wines in McLeod Gunj as well, from rhododendron to apple to plum. One can also get a lot of jazzy and ethnic Tibetan costumes as well.
The main attraction of McLeod Gunj is the Dalai Lama monastery. There are several monasteries in the area. The one next to the market is an imposing structure with a series of good-luck wheels around it, and a numbers of monks chanting their mantras inside it. A little away is the Dal Lake, which is considered very holy. When you go boating, you have to take your shoes off at the bank. The lake is small and depleting, and needs a lot of maintenance. Do not confuse the hounds for dogs and try to shoo them here. They are real hounds! Down the hill from Dal Lake are a couple of resorts where you can chill out with a swim, massage, and beer. You have to go uphill again to reach the sunset point where you see little kids on horses going back to their international boarding school. The view from here is amazing, the telescope-wallas charge you ten bucks to show snow capped mountains.
There are hordes of places one can go to here, there are the tea gardens, monastries, endless number of temples. Our pick of the lot, however, is “St John’s Church in the Wilderness”. As you enter the place, a dog will bark at you and you’ll be freaked out, but it’s locked in a cage so you needn’t run away. It is really in the wilderness and very beautiful. It’s not an amazing piece of architecture aesthetically speaking, but its settings make it out-wordly with dense greenery at the edge of a deep valley, and the cemetery which has a thousand stories engraved on the graves. Here lies Lord Elgin, as well Lord Mc Leod himself. There’s a grave of a man who was killed by a bear, another grave of a soldier who died a day before his marriage. The church is in tatters and needs serious attempts at restoration.
At night, you can party in any of the hundreds of pubs around and eat and drink world cuisines and not empty your pockets. There are a couple of discs also, which play a lot of Punjabi music, they are the makeshift variety, and are great fun. You can watch movies in mini theatres where they play movies on DVDs.
Word Droppin11- Coulrophobia
Word dropping11
Coulrophobia
An Australian genealogist Victor and I became friends, trying to find out something about John Lang together. Lang was an Australian lawyer-writer who spent a large part of his life in India in the 19th century, and even fought Rani of Jhansi’s case against the East India Company. I did not know till I met Victor that “genealogist’ could be a profession.
“Well,” said Victor, when a friend and I met him for the first time, “the genealogy of the word genealogy is that it’s got a Greek genealogy. ‘Logos’ as you know is student, and ‘genus’ means generation. In a young country like Australia, everyone wants routes to their roots.”
We were at the Camel’s Back Cemetry in Mussoorie where Lang’s grave is. My friend trying to match the genealogist’s poetic penchant, said, “This cemetery has a lot of symmetry. Everything is so neatly laid out.”
Victor replied, “Not all cemetries are symmetrical my friend. And in some places, deliberately so. Some communities have been afraid of symmetry. It is called symmetrophobia.”
“That’s quite funny,” my friend said, “I have never heard of something like this. The best architecture is symmetrical, the best looking faces are the most symmetrical ones.”
“You need to learn a little more my friend,” Victor said, “ have you read Lindsay Jones’s The Hermeneutics Of Sacred Architecture: A Reassessment Of The Similitude Between Tula, Hidalgo And Chichen Itza? The Egyptian and Japanese deliberately keep their buildings assymetrical.”
I realised that we were entering into a dangerous territory and butted in, “We are at the grave but do we need to be so grave?”
Victor’s eyes suddenly lit up, “Do you know why the two ‘graves’ you used in your sentence have different meanings?”
“Well they have almost the same meaning,” I said, “both are depressing.”
“No,” said Victor, “the noun ‘grave’ where people sleep the longest slumber comes from Germanic and Gothic graban which means a ditch, whereas the adjective ‘grave’ for sombre expression comes from Latin ‘gravis’ which means, weighty and serious.”
“Your point has got quite some gravity,” I tried to be innovative.
“But you’ll realize the irony when you know that a similar sounding ‘gravid’ means preganat, because it comes from the Latin root. Grave and gravid, and vividly different meanings,” Victor said.
My friend was looking flummoxed and said, “Let’s go, or else the dead will turn in their graves. We will resurrect them with our chatter.”
“I am no resurrectionist,” said Victor and started laughing.
“Why are you laughing,” friend asked.
“Oh because it reminded me of Charlie Chaplin,” the Austrlian chuckled.
“Resurrection and Chaplin?” I asked
“Well, resurrectionist is a euphemism for grave robbers, and Charlie Chaplin’s grave was robbed. A couple of people kidnapped his dead body in hope of a ransom,” Victor said.
“Quite funny,” friend said, “they were bigger clowns than Chaplin. I’d rather stay away from such clowns.”
“Oh you have coulrophobia. You are afraid of clowns,” Victor said.
“Yes,” said the friend, and ran off pointing towards him.
Coulrophobia
An Australian genealogist Victor and I became friends, trying to find out something about John Lang together. Lang was an Australian lawyer-writer who spent a large part of his life in India in the 19th century, and even fought Rani of Jhansi’s case against the East India Company. I did not know till I met Victor that “genealogist’ could be a profession.
“Well,” said Victor, when a friend and I met him for the first time, “the genealogy of the word genealogy is that it’s got a Greek genealogy. ‘Logos’ as you know is student, and ‘genus’ means generation. In a young country like Australia, everyone wants routes to their roots.”
We were at the Camel’s Back Cemetry in Mussoorie where Lang’s grave is. My friend trying to match the genealogist’s poetic penchant, said, “This cemetery has a lot of symmetry. Everything is so neatly laid out.”
Victor replied, “Not all cemetries are symmetrical my friend. And in some places, deliberately so. Some communities have been afraid of symmetry. It is called symmetrophobia.”
“That’s quite funny,” my friend said, “I have never heard of something like this. The best architecture is symmetrical, the best looking faces are the most symmetrical ones.”
“You need to learn a little more my friend,” Victor said, “ have you read Lindsay Jones’s The Hermeneutics Of Sacred Architecture: A Reassessment Of The Similitude Between Tula, Hidalgo And Chichen Itza? The Egyptian and Japanese deliberately keep their buildings assymetrical.”
I realised that we were entering into a dangerous territory and butted in, “We are at the grave but do we need to be so grave?”
Victor’s eyes suddenly lit up, “Do you know why the two ‘graves’ you used in your sentence have different meanings?”
“Well they have almost the same meaning,” I said, “both are depressing.”
“No,” said Victor, “the noun ‘grave’ where people sleep the longest slumber comes from Germanic and Gothic graban which means a ditch, whereas the adjective ‘grave’ for sombre expression comes from Latin ‘gravis’ which means, weighty and serious.”
“Your point has got quite some gravity,” I tried to be innovative.
“But you’ll realize the irony when you know that a similar sounding ‘gravid’ means preganat, because it comes from the Latin root. Grave and gravid, and vividly different meanings,” Victor said.
My friend was looking flummoxed and said, “Let’s go, or else the dead will turn in their graves. We will resurrect them with our chatter.”
“I am no resurrectionist,” said Victor and started laughing.
“Why are you laughing,” friend asked.
“Oh because it reminded me of Charlie Chaplin,” the Austrlian chuckled.
“Resurrection and Chaplin?” I asked
“Well, resurrectionist is a euphemism for grave robbers, and Charlie Chaplin’s grave was robbed. A couple of people kidnapped his dead body in hope of a ransom,” Victor said.
“Quite funny,” friend said, “they were bigger clowns than Chaplin. I’d rather stay away from such clowns.”
“Oh you have coulrophobia. You are afraid of clowns,” Victor said.
“Yes,” said the friend, and ran off pointing towards him.
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