We, the People; and They, the Media

The aftermath of a blast is a goldmine for the media- "PM condemns blast", "UPA soft on Terror: BJP", "We will not spare the culprits: Patil", are near givens each time an attack of this nature is perpetrated. Add to that the channels' websites' gems: "Were you there? Write in.", "Today's poll: Should we bring POTA back?" and a host of other features and applications that cash in on the junta's interest (including the interest of people like me who live abroad and rely on NDTV and CNN-IBN's websites for news).

There is no denying that the media plays a big role in times like these. They get the license to grill politicians, expose the government, criticize Intelligence, and in general make a lot of noise on behalf of the angry public. All of us want to express our anger and you-bastards but it's the scribes with mikes, cameras, and IDs that get to do it. To inform is their right & duty; to influence is their privilege, and a sacrosanct one at that. While providing incorrect information is wrong; misguiding the public, shifting their focus from the core to the periphery, and seasoning stories with TRP tadka is an abuse of the privilege society hands them.

There are innumerable examples from English and vernaucalar media to support this. The most recent - and the second most nauseating - case was the media talking about Shivraj Patil changing his clothes thrice in the evening after the Delhi serial blasts. All of them - NDTV, CNN-IBN, TOI, and tragically, even The Hindu mentioned this in their reports just hours after the blast. It was okay to report this to the extent of expressing the general public mood. But none of these reports took that extra step of disowning these sentiments (some of them actually endorsed the view); because I can't believe any serious media house with a brain of the size of a hydrogen atom really considers Patil's attire to be an issue. That the man has been frighteningly incompetent is a substantiable allegation, that he doesn't have the balls to talk tough and with conviction is a proven fact, that he hasn't an ounce of self esteem has been demonstrated by this- when we have these very valid reasons to be mad at the man, why divert our attention and dissipate our anger by appealing to the idiot in us? Would we be less angry with him if had appeared thrice in the same clothes? Is his habit of wearing fresh clothes before each public appearance antagonistic to his duties as Home Minister? We, as a society, have the habit of thrashing a guilty public figure for everything that's out of public jurisdiction (I am guilty of this too); for example, criticizing Yuvraj Singh for partying too much and Sarah Palin for her pregnant daughter. The comments on Patil's frequent dress change can be a topic four friends joke about over a cup of tea, but to wax eloquent on it in prime time takes the sucker punch out of the real issue and shows how puerile the media can get. Thankfully, politicians of all hues wasted no time in rubbishing the issue.

The most nauseating case of journalistic perjury in recent times has been the coverage, I heard, Hindi news channels gave to the LHC experiment by CERN. It is a momentous experiment in more ways than one- it will answer not only scientific conundrums, but might also be that push fence-sitting agnosts like me need towards atheism. It is an experiment that has been on the drawing board for years now, and scientists the world over swear by its safety. Yet, some harebrianed teams at Aaj Tak, Star News, and the like have been fuelling already quelled rumours about the experiment imperiling the existence of the earth. And given the exclusive viewership Hindi news channels command, millions of Indians are misled into believing a scientific impossibility. For many people sitting in villages, watching Aaj Tak on a 14" TV set while milking their cows, a headline like "SEPTEMBER 10 KO DUNIYA KHATAM" can be a real shock- especially when they have no resources but other crappy Hindi channels to verify this. Star News claimed "Star News ne kiya tha vaada ki duniya nahi hogi khatam, aur aisa hi hua." I felt like firing that reporter along with the proton in the LHC. Hindi news channels, per se, are not synonymous with stupidity, but their assumption that anything that must appeal to rural junta must be gossipable, feather-rufflable and font 30, is what makes all of them cheap without exception. When India TV talks about the love triangle of tigers, we accuse them of wasting airtime, but excuse them because they're not trivializing anything- they're just passing off bullshit as bullshit. But irresponsible and untruthful reporting, intentional or unintentional, like in the CERN case, should be punishable by law.


I don't deny the media's right and need to generate revenues. I also understand the pressure on TRPs as more and more channels share viewership and hence advertising revenues. Even to maintain, if not improve, their ad revenues, news channels must constantly ensure that they not only provide news but also entertain viewers enough to keep them from the remote. This can be done either by enlightening viewers with diverse programmes like Auto shows, debates, travelogues, interviews, and programmes like Jai Jawaan (on NDTV),or by pandering to their non-serious interests like Saif's tattoo or Dhoni's bike. Since the battle for ad revenues is not just among news channels, you find Aaj Tak & NDTV pitted against Sony and Zoom. But entertainment can make sense, and their belief in the opposite lumps many news channels with the David Dhawans and Anees Bazmees of the world. I am also against the notion (which I too held one time) that journalists must present facts and leave their interpretation to the public. Journalists must have the right to interpret the facts they gather as long as they don't create propaganda or perpetrate falsehood. The media played a laudatory role in cracking the Jessica Lall case and the BMW 1 case, made all the right noises about the murders of Manjunath Shanmugam and Satyendra Dubey, and brought to light the horrific Nithari killings. But that does not act as an antidote for their excesses in the Aarushi case (which, by the way, should rank above CERN in nauseating reporting) and the other liberties they take under the banner of Free Press. They might have the legal right to present anything they desire, but do they have the moral right to treat us as just stepping stones up the TRP hill?

Maya Memsaab

I am scared, extremely scared, and I'm not saying this in James Bond's style. Read on to find out why.


The Background

Since mid-January this year, India has been in a turmoil of sorts. It started with the markets crashing, fuel price soaring, dollar weakening, IT slowing, manufacturing stalling, GDP growth declining, and inflation touching double digits.

The budget brought euphoria to the working class as taxes were reduced. It brought relief to farmers as loans to the tune of Rs.71,000 crores were waived. The Pay Commission recommended a 40% hike in government employees' wages. But all these were fast forgotten in the face of soaring prices and high fuel costs.

The turmoil has not just been economic. With India's proposed growth in infrastructure, a secure energy supply is imperative. The UPA government, nay, the Congress, nay, Manmohan Singh rightly pressed ahead with the Nuclear deal but met with bitter opposition from not only the opposition (whose job it is to oppose) but also from the Left. The trust vote was thankfully in Manmohan's favour, and a major political crisis was averted. In his final speech to the Parliament before the trust vote (which was never delivered thanks to the cash-for-votes hungama), Manmohan Singh rebuked Advani for calling him a weak PM. In particular, he stressed on Advani's incompetence in dealing with terrorist attacks. By a cruel twist of fate, 24 bombs exploded days after those measured words, seriously hampering the image of the UPA.

What this politico-economic instability has done is give other political parties ample room for rhetoric. We saw the old guard, Advani, almost ready to take oath as the next PM. We saw Karat and gang hurling innuendo after unwarranted innuendo at the Congress. We saw small state parties like SP and BSP in a position to make or break the Government. Of all these arrows flying and nullifying each other in Mahabharatha style, one arrow steered clear and now threatens to rip the Indian political fabric to shreds.

The Darr

I don't remember the first time Mayawati made her desire to become Prime Minister public. But I remember seeing a mammoth cut-out of a waving, 32-teeth baring Maya not in Banaras (which is my second hometown), but in Bangalore sometime last year. That's when I first heard about her Prime Ministerial ambitions, and I laughed it off carelessly (in the classic Pan Pasand style- Mayawati aur Pradhaanmantri? Hmph! Kabhi Nahi). She has since been on a relentless nationwide campaign, fraternizing with leaders of various states. With her BSP, the Left, and the UNPA joining hands just days before the trust vote, the third front looks a lot more menacing. There was never reason to believe that we would have a non-Congress, non-BJP government at the centre in the forthcoming general elections. We knew BSP, SP, AIADMK, DMK, CPI(M) would just be the little shoves on the ass the Congress or BJP woluld need to scale the wall. Even the formation of the UNPA (an ideologyless medley of state parties aiming to use their respective regional clouts to conquer Delhi) was taken seriously by only the UNPA. It's not a bad idea, in principle, to have a strong third front. In practice, however, the present third front aims only to overthrow the present government. The UNPA-BSP-Left third front is a highly opportunistic alliance of ideologically incompatible political outfits with supremely egotistic leaders that believes it can provide a stable government at the centre. How is it possible to have a Chandrababu Naidu -who refused to allow reservations to creep into ISB admissions- and a Mayawati -who would reserve seats in a restaurant if she had a chance- in the same government? How is it possible to make any kind of lasting alliance with someone like Jayalalithaa? The very fact that they have made public their sole motive as being the overthrow of UPA shows very poorly on their general intellect and their perception of the electorate.It reeks of acute politiciosis.

Mayawati doesn't want India to be a progressive and prosperous country. She doesn't want advances in science and technology. She does not want to beef up India's infrastructure. She does not want to rapidly industrialize the country. At least, she doesn't say all this. I might be wrong but she has said nothing to prove me wrong. All she has been saying is "Why can't I be PM", "UPA and NDA are conspiring against me", "They are scared a daughter of a Dalit will become a PM" etc. The only thing she has made clear is that more reservations are coming- for Dalit Muslims and Christians, and for all the XCs in the private sector. She's also handing out a bone to the poor in the upper castes. Does she say one thing about educating the lot of XCs so that they needn't depend on reduced cut-offs all their lives? She's misleading the Dalits into believing that their lot will be less discriminated against as a result of 'one of them', an 'untouchable' being elevated to the post of Prime Minister. That's as inane a conclusion to make as was made when Pratibha Patil's appointment as President was supposed to be a morale bosster for women. If people of generation X-2 hated dalits and considered them untouchable, are they going to kiss them on the forehead now that 'one of them' is the PM? It's as difficult for that generation to start loving dalits as it is for mine to hate them for their caste. Dr.Ambedkar suggested reservations for the downtrodden because that is exactly what they were. Indians, in a wave of nationalistic feeling, were willing to sacrifice a little to integrate their historically downtrodden brothers into free India. My generation is largely more tolerant, except when parents and grandparents inculcate those shitty use-chhoona-mat values in their kids (my parents and more importantly grandparents never did so). The only way you know someone is an SC or an ST is when they tick that tiny square in all their forms. I don't blame them for doing so- heck, if someone reserves 50% of the seats for Palakkad Iyers born in Barrackpore and living in Hyderabad I would jump with joy. The blame rests, obviously, on the parties that keep the caste system alive in their incendiary speeches. Party A panders to the lower castes, because if it doesn't, Party B or C will. There's no way we can get a broad political consensus of phasing out reservations instead of squeezing in more. The only option is having the Supreme Court somehow fitting it into the fundamental rights as a right against reverse discrimination or something. Nobody is against upliftment of the underprivileged- but disguising a political weapon as an olive branch; letting the 'underprivileged' sniff it and stuffing it down our throats; is the kind of politics India can do without but one it is most likely sinking into.


Here's a woman who is busy erecting statues of ahem, hmmm, let's see...herself. Here's a woman who's proud of being elected the Chief Minister of India's most populous state not one time but four. Anybody who can be proud of being Chief Minister just by virtue of being one, and that too of a state that is as underdeveloped now as it was at the start of the tenure, is probably going to make the rest of India like UP. That is what I'm scared about, and what hamaari junta should fear too. It's so irritating to hear her say "If i can be the Chief Minister of India's most populated state, why can't I be the PM of India?" Well Kumari Mayawati, the rest of India has one billion people, which is approximately 600% of the population of UP. You might have charisma and appeal, but we're not looking for a model. We want an erudite leader who can cleverly market India to the rest of the world.


I could go on and on. You just have to enter "Mayawati Prime Minister" in Google to see all these scarily amusing reports and interviews about Mayawati. We welcome a Dalit woman Prime Minister if she's worth the post; not a woman who gets a kick out of becoming Prime Minister because she's a Dalit. Mere desh ki junta, please don't vote for her. The ones at the top now might not be very good, but not-very-good is better than disastrous.

Mission Istanbullshit

I know this film's 2-3 weeks old, but read it- there's no harm reliving past horrors.


When a good director uses good actors for a good script, you generally get a good movie; when a good director gets a bad script, you get a disappointing movie; when a bad director gets good actors, you call it a Yashraj film; and when a bad director gets worse actors for an awful script you get Mission Istanbul. You can't help but think why Apoorva Lakhia made this movie. He seems to have taken a lot of pains to make a pathetic movie. Right till the end, you can't figure out whether it was a spoof on terrorism or an attempt to address it. Well, it turns out Lakhia didn't have the brains for either. When people like Priyadarshan and Anees Bazmee direct a movie, they say balls to the discerning audience and make empty-headed pot-boilers. The audience knows what to expect. But Lakhia picks up a subject of international concern and flogs it so badly that at the end you feel the film had nothing to do with terrorism. In many ways, it's like a Tandoori Paneer Pizza. It's an international concept Indianized to suit our taste buds. Lakhia does the same to this movie, making international terrorism look no more serious than roadside goondagardi.


When the director and producer pick actors of the calibre of Viveik Oberoi, Zayed Khan, and Suniel Shetty, you know they're not serious about making a film. I still can't figure out why people cast Suniel Shetty. As a solo hero, he can be a nightmare; in a multistarrer like Main Hoon Na or Border, he's generally the recipe for disaster; in multistarrers like Mission Istanbul where's he's the most experienced actor, he still manages to act worse than everybody else. Lakhia must've realised this, which is probably why he finished him off before he could do more damage.


Ok, here's the story, or whatever little there is of it. Zayed Khan is an 'IIT topper' with a Computer Engg degree who chooses to work for Aaj Tak (that's stretching creative freedom to its limit). He's India's best 'TV journo'. He is sent to Istanbul to work with Al Johara (psst psst, it's Al Jazeera; this is where I start thinking it's a spoof)- the channel wants to set up base in India. As events unfold, we find out that Al Johara is not what it seems- it acts as a mouthpiece for the terrorists who, in the name of Abu Nazir (an obvious attempt at recreating Osama, down to the last strand of the beard), orchestrate terrorist attacks all over the world. The head of this terrorist organization is an actor from Ekta Kapoor's glycerine factory, and couldn't look less menacing. You can make out he played an aadarshwadi beta or pati five minutes before every shot.


Anyway, Viveik Oberoi is some kind of crusader against terrorism and convinces Zayed that Abu Nazir is dead and Al Johara is keeping him alive using 'computer graphics'. Zayed also finds out that anybody who tries to leave Al Johara is bumped off, and that there's a mysterious 13th floor where all the phoney Abu Nazir messages are fabricated. Does this sound familiar? Those of you who've read, or watched the adaption of John Grisham's The Firm can't miss the connection- the idea of a reputed company acting as a cover for a notorious gang, the idea of the company killing employees who want to leave the company, the idea of having one floor dedicated to the underhand activities- yeah baby, it's all there. You can't blame Lakhia though; especially when you compare it to more shameless adaptations of the Abbas-Mustan variety.


The rest of the movie is about Zayed and Viveik trying to 'save the world'. They steal all of Al Johara's information on a pen drive and have the security guards hot on their heels. The highlight of the movie was Al Johara's security guards surrounding Zayed, Viveik, and a woman (it's not worth describing the woman's role in the movie), brandishing hockey sticks and clubs! This scene also features the most ill-timed and annoying product placement shot I've ever seen in cinema. It goes thus. Viveik and Zayed have a Mountain Dew each in hand. Viveik asks Zayed "Darr lag raha hai?" to which the latter replies "Nahi. Darr ke aage jeet hai." The plot and screenplay were so bad, that I'll actually recommend people to watch the film. For the climax, Lakhia seems to have roped in Salman to direct the shot- Zayed and the head of Al Johara shed their shirts and start beating each other up. Obviously, Zayed won.

The USP of this movie is that every scene is an eyesore and a brainsore. The movie was alternating between spoofy (the ludicrous George Bush sequence, the poor imitation of Osama) and silly (the rest of the film) with not one scene that gives you an idea of Lakhia's take on terrorism. All it says is, if only terrorists were as emasculated as the ones in this film, even hollow-headed brawnies like Zayed and Viveik can save the world. The movie was extremely poorly researched and shockingly insincere; it was almost insulting to the terrorists. The first thing a director must do after writing the story, is incorporate the local accent in the dialogues (Gangaajal, Omkara, Mr. & Mrs. Iyer). This is even more important when your actors are shown to be natives of that place. Lakhia was so way off the mark, it looked deliberate. Viveik and the head of the terrorist network speaking good Indian Hindi was a testament to both their command over our national language and Lakhia's general obtuseness. Viveik was particularly irritating as he's been carrying that suave, confident smirk which was pleasant when he entered the industry, but makes my bile boil now.

All said, Mission Istanbul is a remarkable achievement. Eliciting incompetent performances from all involved is no mean feat. You always have a but-that-chap-was-good actor whose spoils an otherwise delightfully bad film. Lakhia has transcended this and made a genuinely bad film that fails to deliver on all fronts- for this he deserves praise. But if you insist, I'll give you a silver lining- the movie did not have Tusshar Kapoor, which is a pleasant surprise considering who the producer is.

If Pritam had a son

The Amrikan Dream

So finally, after months of waiting, getting bored, biting nails, spitting them, sweeping them, learning to cook, forgetting to cook, relearning, telling people “I’ll be there in the next couple of months”, getting frustrated, cursing Bush, I’ve finally landed in the USA (I’m not sure if ‘the’ should be used. Ashok, where art thou?). Right from when I was this small, I’ve had this next-to-heaven-and-chocolate-icecream image of the US. Coming from Hyderabad, where I wouldn’t be surprised if kindergarten kids are taught G for Green Card, I’ve always been curious about this country- sometimes a starry-eyed curiosity and sometimes a so-what’s-the-big-deal curiosity. As I stepped onto the New Orleans airport with my light cabin baggage and a heavier emotional one, I began feeling wet. I wasn’t crying or peeing, it was just so humid. I’ve been one of the strongest anti-humidity advocates, and in response, I’ve been sent to such places as Varanasi, Kuala Lumpur, and now Louisiana. But not wanting to curse the place on my first day, I quietly mopped my forehead.

The journey to Louisiana was long, but not really tiring. There was a small scare in the Paris-Houston flight. It wasn’t terrorists or hijackers or any of the AL XYZs. It was a couple that wanted me to exchange my aisle seat for a middle seat a few rows behind so that they could sit together. I almost declined, when I saw the real reason they wanted to sit together. Their babies! Middle seats are the most beautiful seats ever made by man, especially when they’re far away from babies. I instantly agreed to swap seats. My new co-passenger was only marginally better. He was watching some sitcom on his screen and laughing loud enough to make me miss the babies.

My first impressions of the US (or at least of the place I live in)

The city

There’s loads of space everywhere. Malls have parking lots bigger than the malls themselves. Everybody has a car, and hardly anybody drives bikes. And those who do drive bikes, drive those monster 1000+ cc ones that sound like a jet engine. You won’t find people driving small scooters with a packet of milk or a loaf of bread hanging from the handle. People assume other drivers follow the rules here, so they drive really fast and leave you little margin for error. For guys like me who’ve driven Scootys and other cute chutku vehicles, and on roads where lane markings are just rangoli, where the hand is the indicator, and expletives are traffic signals, the discipline here is scary. There are no nukkad stores where you can buy a Rin soap for 4 bucks and get a Boomer as change. It’s all very mally and superstorey here. In Rajat’s words ‘chaddi se lekar car ki tyre tak sab ek hi mall mein milta hai’. And as Sunil Chittappa said, every road here has a name, and so you hardly get aage-se-left-phir-deadend-pe-right kind of instructions here.

The People

People here are either behind the steering wheel or on their way to or from one when on the road. You hardly find people taking a walk on the roads. If they walk, it’s generally on the special pavement provided in the colony for people to take their dogs for a stroll. So far, I’ve found people polite and courteous. Many people ask me where I learned to speak English. They unfortunately still think about India as this country of malnourished children and overfed cows. And how they struggle with my name! Ash kay, Ashki, Akshi, Aaakshi, Aaakshaay, and Aaashkaay are just some of the bastardized versions of my name. But this one takes the cake, the icing, the cherry, and the wafer: Akjhay Rajagotalan. Most people give up on my last name, they’d rather read Braille.

The Lingo

Louisianians speak English with a characteristic drawl. Natives also bathe their talk with double negatives like ain’t not and don’t need no. Thanks to Hollywood, the accent is not very difficult to decode. One chap had a particularly amazing accent- “If yall don’ get yall cords (cards) I’ll cancelem, and make em new for you. You can go aunlaine and do yall transactions. And of course yall can curm (come) anytaim to the beyyynk and withdraaaw yer money.”
Talking of banks, I must admit I don’t understand the funda of keeping 2 accounts- one savings and one checking. The savings account gives an interest of –start the drum roll- hold your breath- 0.25%. What the hell will people keep money there for? To earn 2.5 dollars at the end of the year from a 1000-dollar deposit? I might be presumptuous by criticizing the 2-account theory, but I’d love to have somebody explain it to me.

Housekeeping

Yes, I am cooking. Ankit and I cook, and we actually do a pretty good job. If you don’t believe me, just fly down on your expense; I’ll cook you a subsidised, insured meal. Ghar ka kaam sounds a lot more posh here- bartan maanjna, kapde dhona, and bazaar se saamaan khareedna become doing the dishes, doing the laundry, and shopping for groceries. I am still pathetic with my iron, and would much rather wear my shirts crumpled.

Television

TV here is BORING and funny. News channels are full of Obama, McCain, and celebrity divorces. The news reports are filled with rhetoric, and are plain bad. Some of the advertisements are really amusing. Companies aggresively market products like pet hair remover (to remove your dog’s hair from the sofa) and polythene bags! You don’t need pet hair removers- you just need to whack the kutta’s bums the next times it slimbs the sofa. Attorneys, drug marketing companies, and insurance firms too make some weirdly amusing ads. VH1 and MTv rarely play music, and the radio plays awful rap music. Anyway now that I have my laptop (yippee J), I don’t need the TV for entertainment. I have also tested my webcam and mike thanks to Ketaki and Chitti-Chittappa, so staying in touch is a lot easier. I watched Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na on the internet yesterday. It was a nice timepass movie. It was entertaining without being stupid- a complete antithesis of Priyadarshan’s funda. It’s a feel-good movie with a cliched plot, but it’s made well and I wouldn’t mind watching it again on the internet.

Yawn

Chalo bhai, time to sleep now. One week in Amrika has been quite eventful. I’ve been hunting for a house and a car, and have run into some very interesting people in the process. I can probably describe that later. Good night. Let me see the American Dream!

The Image Puzzle

Substitute each image with a word to get the correct answer. I think this one is a give-away towards the end, but well, that's all the dimaag I could use. Please don't write the answer as a comment. Send me an email at akshay.bhu@gmail.com. Of course, you can tell me how good or awful the game is in the comment window.

The

A

against the

in

prices.

Maa Kee

20 days is a long enough time to kill the excitement / enthusiasm of being in a new city / country. Slowly, but surely, the desire to explore, experiment, venture out, etc. is replaced by a stronger desire to get into a routine. Those travel guides are relegated to the bottom of the pile, those travel websites slowly tread down to the bottom of the dropdown list in IE (don't call me a loser; we don't have Firefox in office), and you are no longer interested in fiddling with cuisines. In the last year, I've tried enough cuisines to get sick of trying more cuisines. I tried Mexican cuisine, I loved fajita with chicken; I tried Japanese cuisine, I couldn't bear it; I tried Thai cuisine, I hated it; I tried Mediterranean cuisine (in Varanasi), I detested it; I tried Indonesian cuisine, I absolutely loathed it! More recently, I tried Taiwanese, and I http://thesaurus.reference.com/search?r=20&q=hate it. So what do I do for food these days? Well, lunch is in the mall in the twin towers. The eatery is called Bengal Cuisine, and feeds me Naan, Alu Gobby, Alu Begun (Baingan), Sola (Chhola), and Dal for a miserly price of INR 60! Dinner is generally in a large covered-from-the-top-but-open-from-all-sides restaurant whose Masala Doshai can give Saravana Bhavan a run for its money. Super doshai, with a super chutney and decent sambar- all for INR 34. For me, a good city is one where both the rich and the not-so-rich have enough choices to lead a comfortable life. Kuala Lumpur, by this coin, is an excellent city.

Anyone who ever visits Kuala Lumpur, simply must go to Chinatown once. The heart of Chinatown is two parallel streets, no more than 4 feet wide, and lined with shops selling exotic brands at eccentric rates. Rolex, Tag Hauer, Omega, Breitling watches for less than INR 600, Adidas and Nike gear at unimaginable discounts, and a variety of odds and ends at a fraction of the cost you would pay elsewhere. The street is so narrow that if a customer in one shop steps back, he might butt you into the facing shop. Richie and I roamed the streets for no less than 3 hours, and returned only when we were broke.

Last weekend, I went to this hilltop tourist destination called Genting Highland. It's just an hour's drive from the city, and the weather is a pleasant change from Kuala Lumpur's. Genting Highland is famous for its amusement park, and most of the rides really were amusing. It's the kind of place where a group of families can tikaao their children on merry-go-rounds and spread their carpet and open their hot cases and distribute paper plates and play frisbee. There were a few exciting rides that scared the shit out of me, but in general, the place was kiddish. By 6 in the evening, the entire place was shrouded in clouds and it became pretty chill. After a few more hours of dilly-dallying, losing two rounds of pool, and dining at Pizza Hut, we returned at 11.

After my trip to Batu Caves, and before my trip to Genting, I spent a boring evening in one of the most happening areas in town. Bukit Bintang is famous for its malls (3 of them, one purely for electronic goods, one where you can buy stuff at affordable rates, and one where you can't afford an empty glass of water). It is even more famous for its massage parlours scattered on both sides of the road; massage parlours that (I've heard) turn into brothels at night. But I was on this road neither to shop, nor to get felt up. I was there just to kill time and hunger. Wandering from lane to bylane to bybylane, I spotted a street lined with cheap-looking, delicious-looking roadside restaurants. There were so many restaurants, I was sure I would find something for my fussy palate. My stomach rumbled, and my wallet nodded in approval. The first restaurant I spotted was Dragon View, and dragon was the only animal they did not serve. The names of the restaurants on the street should've told me that these restaurants were anything but diverse-Sun Chui Yen, Sai Woo, Cu Cha, Shui Kee, Loong Kee, Lim Kee, Hup Kee, etc. I instantly got this crazy idea of getting mom here and opening a restaurant called Maa Kee.

Talking of Maa, I made a few interesting observations about the Malay language. Thank you is Terima Kasih. Now, if you ever said that in India, you’d have your brains blown out before you could reach ‘sih’. I found a few parallels between Hindi and Malay- Maaf, Yakin, Sabun, Khidmat, and Awam mean the same in both languages. There are few awkward parallels too- you is ‘anda’, water is ‘air’, door is ‘pintu’ and city is ‘bandar’. If Symonds ever drops in here, he’ll sue the entire damn city for racial abuse.

Anyway, the series of Kee restaurants had a variety of skinned animals on display that made the lane look like a fried zoo. I loitered around for some more time before spotting Restoran Srirekha. My tongue almost lolled down like a red carpet into the restaurant. The place was crowded- some Indians who, like me, would’ve fled the Kee-street; and some foreigners (locals?) who’d have their innards incensed with Andhra chilli and run back to Animal Planet.
All this talk of food is making me hungry. Time to run to Bengal Cuisine for my daily dose of dal-roti. I might be here for just another week, so my next post will be from the comfort of my room in Bangalore. Till then, happy reading and enjoy the IPL (sob sob L)

Sightseeing in KL

At the Headquarters of the Department of Disaster Management

“All stations alert, we have an emergency. I repeat; all stations alert we have an emergency. Category 3 tummipane reported at 21:45 hours. All teams ready to evacuate.”

“I told you this was coming. The levels of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere and the ocean tempera-”

“Shut up, Gore. This ain’t the environment; it’s a goddamn stomach. Junior, what’s the status at the large intestine?”

“All queuing up sir. We’re just waiting to reach the Western Command.”

“It’s Commode, idiot. Gore, stuff that Nobel into his mouth, willya.”

“Ok, we’re ready for evacuation sir. Sister has been informed.”

“Cistern, jerk-head. Now open the gates.”

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH……………….

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I know most of this sounds insane. Ok, ok, I’ll give it to. Every bit of this is insane. But let me not jump straight to the event that led to this outburst. I’ll do this chronologically.

The day began like all holidays begin. I woke up, saw the digital clock say 11:00, grunted that I missed breakfast time again, and pulled myself out of the monstrously large bed. I tried to draw an agenda of things to do, and finally decided to spend the day productively by playing the World Cup in Cricket 07, watch BBC, eat something, and play another World Cup. When I went to the door, I saw an envelope lying on the ground with At Nikko, We Serve With Love written on it. The letter informed me that I had exceeded my limit, and therefore had to “furnish cash” to the hotel. I looked at the words on the envelope again. Big love! The good thing though, was that in going to the reception to “furnish cash” I shook off the lethargy. My sweat glands salivated at the sight of the sun outside. Still, some strange andar ki awaaz advised me to stop being a lazy bum and go around the town. Now, I’ve been ignoring my andar ki baat ever since Sunny Deol started mouthing the very same words on national television, but this time I decided to heed the call. A slow shave and a quick shower later, I was out of my comfortable room and into the punishing heat of Kuala Lumpur, with a handkerchief and a camera in hand. My destination: Batu Caves.

Whenever I go to a new city, I try to use public transport as often as possible. I love observing the local junta even if I don’t understand a word they speak. Now, those of you who know me well enough will rubbish this entire love-to-observe story and say I use public transport simply because it’s cheaper. Well, that’s true to an extent, but only to an extent. My train ride to Pasar Seni was in the crowded LRT, which is the local train here. I was to take a bus from Pasar Seni to Batu Caves. When I dismounted at Pasar Seni, I almost felt like enquiring if I was still in Malaysia. Teeming crowds with veebodi (sacred ash) smeared across their foreheads, murukku and pakodam selling on the footpaths, a live Tamil ‘concert’, a signboard saying Jalan Doraisamy (Jalan means ‘Street’ in Malay), and a row of shops with Tamil boards- who says Chennai is only an Indian City? In the bus, I was surrounded by an Indian reading a Hindi Newspaper, an elderly Malaysian Tamilian couple, a native Malaysian Muslim woman, and a group of native Malaysian Chinese men- a snapshot of Malaysia in a radius of 1 metre around me. I was immediately delighted I chose to travel by bus.

Half an hour later, the bus stopped a couple of hundred metres in front of a magnificent wall of rocks and trees. Batu caves, famous for its temple of Lord Murugan and the annual Thaipoosam festival (nothing to do with Thailand), lay ensconced within that mottled façade of green and grey. As I walked towards the caves, an imposing golden yellow statue of Lord Murugan came into view. I learned later that this is the tallest statue in the world. Next to the statue was a flight of stairs that seemed to never end. The lead-up to the temple was littered with tourist buses, tourists, and empty Sprite cans. There were many small shops selling flowers and garlands, evocative of similar shops near every Indian temple. At the foot of the hill were temples, a small pond with beautifully coloured fish (I’d like to think some artist pulled them out of water, painted them, and threw them back in), a small gushing waterfall, and innumerable souvenir shops and restaurants.

I laboured up the 272 steps. It was a very uncomfortable climb, because the steps were very narrow and I almost had to walk sideways lest I trip. But boy! Wasn’t the climb worth it! A breathtakingly beautiful cave, with idols of Hindu gods and goddesses standing out from the jagged walls, and the Gayatri mantram playing in the background- it was all picture perfect. A short walk through the cave opened out into another grey-and-green façade with the temple of Batumalai Murugan in the foreground. I’m at a loss for adjectives to describe this setting, and I don’t think Barron can do justice either. I won’t attempt to describe. I’ll let the photographs do the talking.

The magnificent statue of Lord Murugan with the adjoining stairs




The Batumalai Murugan Temple

At the end of the 272-step climb

Inside the caves

Talking of photographs, none of the shots I took had me in them because I was alone. I tried snapping myself, and let’s just say that if it wasn’t a digital camera I would’ve slaughtered myself for wasting the reel. I had asked a Tamilian chap to click a picture of me against the rock wall when I was halfway up the 272 stairs. But he refused because he was afraid his wailing 4-year old would roll down to the foot of the golden yellow Lord Murugan. At the Batumalai temple I gave my camera to a babyless man, but the amount of instructions I had to give him could fill up a PhD thesis. I finally found a man without a baby and with some knowledge of cameras, but as it turned out, the self-snapped images were the best of the lot.

Apart from the Batumalai temple, there were two other caves with Hindu deities and scriptures on the walls. The caves were simply spellbinding and I was really glad I shook off that laziness in the morning. This trip was worth every minute and every ringitt I spent on it. On returning to the foot of the hill, I had a sumptuous idly-vada lunch in a pure vegetarian restaurant (a dodo in this part of the world). I spent close to three hours at Batu Caves, and I might have lingered around for some more time if my mind had stopped drifting to that blessed air conditioner in my room.

Anyway, I was back at Pasar Seni at 5:30. The Tamil concert was gone, and in its place was a three-man band playing Stairway To Heaven on acoustic guitars. The song was a fitting description to my 272-step journey to the temple.

I lazed around in the room till 8:30 and stepped out again to answer my tummy’s call. I was in the mood for something different, and a cozy looking Taiwanese restaurant was just was the doctor ordered (as it turned out later, this is just what the doctor had NOT ordered). I combed the menu, and chicken was the least offensive animal on a menu that had coffee as its only vegetarian dish. When the waitress brought me a steaming bowl of noodles and a small tray of awesome-looking chicken chops, I was applauding myself for my choice. Ten seconds later, I realized I couldn’t have made a more daft choice. The noodles were insanely long; when I tried to suck a noodle in, it just kept coming till I was out of breath. The noodles were immersed in a spicy liquid and were so slippery I passed through hell trying to coil them around the fork.

Twenty minutes later, I was exhausted. Hunger wasn’t even a factor. I paid and ran out. Moral of the story: If you ever enter Little Taiwan, don’t waste time asking the waiter for tasty stuff or spicy stuff. Ask him what is easiest to eat.

Halfway to the hotel, the rumbling began, and you’ve already read what happened later.
It’s now 1:10 a.m. It’s the end of a long day. I fulfilled part of my earlier-planned agenda. I did watch BBC, I did eat, and though I didn’t play the World Cup, I beat Australia in Perth by 7 wickets. I’ll upload this one tomorrow. I don’t surf the internet much these days as I don’t have a connection in my room. Still, I’ll try to upload some photographs of my trip. Chalo chalo, let me sleep now. Tata.

Travelogue

Time: 2 a.m. IST
Date: 20th April 2008
Location: Mid-air

I sat reclined on the window seat, gazing at the vast stretches of darkness below. I was just ruminating about how the darkness rendered boundaries between land and sea, and land and land meaningless, when it happened. The plane tilted one way first, then the other, like a drunk staggering down the street. It then started wobbling violently. The deathly silence was broken only by the sound of glass hitting the floor dully. The trembling of the craft seemed to be enhanced by the collective trembling of a hundred-odd hearts that were now somewhere near the throat. The captain mumbled something in some language, which soothed none of the hundred-odd hearts, which, by now, were lodged firmly between the palate and the tongue. It was no less than an earthquake mid-air, the difference being that while in an earthquake you run out into the open, here running out would land you in a sea off the coast of Malaysia. Thankfully, the pilot leveled the flight, and the hearts commenced their return journey to the chest. Two minutes later, a life-size make-up kit walked up to me, bared her teeth, and said, “That was bad, wasn’t it?” I spent quite some time figuring out the colour of her face. As she walked past me, the colour was changing with the angle of incidence of light from white to dirty gold. (Don’t blame the champagne; it was the chamki on her face).

If reading the above paragraph makes you think I’m grossly exaggerating a routine case of aircraft turbulence, you are dead right. The fact is, I am bored, I have a pen and this notebook, and I have nothing better to do than write. I have my laptop with me, but I’m still writing in the notebook because it’s been ages since I’ve written anything substantial on paper. If you ask me to tell you the letters of the English alphabet, there’s a good chance I’ll start with QWERTY. My handwriting, which had been gift-wrapped and parceled to the dogs the day I began writing, is now going to rabid stray dogs. If things go on the way they are a little longer, I might soon become the exact antithesis of ambidextrous.

Anyway, let me continue with the travelogue. After landing at the Kuala Lumpur International Airport (KLIA), picking up my baggage, and flashing artificial smiles at the stewards and airhostesses (earlier variously referred to as ‘make-up kit’ and ‘she’), I walked into an eerily isolated terminal. The only people around were other passengers of MH 187. It was so quiet I could almost hear my stinking breath. I walked close to a kilometer before reaching the baggage claim area. Thankfully, Murphy kept his ass out and my bag was one of the first on the belt.

I’ve heard about Kuala Lumpur’s humidity, but having lived in Banaras for four years, and having made innumerable summer-visits to Chennai, I considered myself a seasoned campaigner. But when I stepped out of the cozy, air-conditioned airport, it struck me. The moisture hit my face like atomized pee. And it was just 5:30 a.m.! The taxi ride from the airport to Hotel Nikko lasted 30 minutes. In India, that would probably translate to a distance of 20-25 km, but here, it was no less than 50 km. I was initially preoccupied with inserting my new sim into the phone. When I was done, I looked out and saw a green wall. I looked out the other side and saw a grey wall. I looked straight, and saw a red needle resting peacefully at 130. I was half-impressed and half-scared. I’ve seen too many shows of World’s Most Amazing Videos on AXN to be completely rid of fear. When the car slowed down, the green wall disintegrated into trees, and the grey wall into metal rods.

Twenty minutes into the ride, I saw a few lights in the distance that were much higher than other lights in its surroundings. I eagerly leaned forward and asked the driver if that was the Petronas twin towers. He mumbled something in some language* which, as I realized 10 minutes later, was a yes. Two tall, imposing structures stood out against the morning sky. The Kuala Lumpur Convention Centre (KLCC) where Hotel Nikko is located is also home to the Petronas twin towers. In terms of height, many other buildings in the area are insanely tall, but in terms of magnificence, none of them are within a ballistic missile’s distance of the twin towers.

It’s midnight now, and as I lie sprawled on the bed, I look out at the awesome buildings across the street. It has been a long day. I walked twice to the twin towers- once with a handkerchief in hand to mop the steady stream of sweat, and the second time with a handkerchief and a camera. Dinner consisted of vegetable biriyani, mango juice, and Norflox 400 (to curb a possible revolt against the biriyani).

I’ll go to sleep now. I’ll promise I’ll type this out. If you’re reading this, I’ve kept my promise, and if you aren’t, then, well, what promise? What started off as a decently scripted article, is now almost an illegible scrawl. Anyway, good night, and wish me a fruitful month in Kuala Lumpur.

Yippee, I kept my promise!

* This is the second time I’m using this phrase. Creativity, where art thou?

Back to Where I Won't Belong for Long

As a throwback to the good old times when I used to write in class and blog pretty often, I've tentatively plagiarised the title of this post from my own blog. A lot of posts in my BHU days were based on train rides, trips to Secunderabad, and college; and since the last month has involved train rides, a trip to Secunderabad, and a trip to college, I sniff an opportunity to add another post to this increasingly dormant page.

Being in Bangalore these days, home is not too far away. All I need is a weekend, train tickets or bus tickets (if my stomach promises to hold up) or flight tickets (if those blessed frequent flier miles haven't run out). I had four distinctly different train rides in the last month; a to-and-fro Banaras-Delhi trip and a to-and-fro Bangalore-Secunderabad trip. The trip from Banaras to Delhi was in a Special train. Until that day, I considered special to be a word associated with positivity, i.e., a Shane Warne googly is a special ball, but Sreesanth's full toss is not. But I was forced to reconsider when I entered the train. How'd you feel if your first step inside the train was greeted by an intoxicating whiff of human execreta- a delectable mix of all three states of matter humans reject from their constitution? And what about the steel sink which has breathtaking patterns of paan spittle? Asian Paints must explore these patterns and start a new company called Asian Paants or something. How'd you feel when the blue seat you're about to sit on is not so blue, but has a thick brown layer which has to be breached by a newspaper / cloth / unwitting ass? What if the toilet is already caked with dried-up streams of urine and freshly deposited mounds of you-know-what? The sight in the toilet is a testimony to bad marksmanship. How do people consistently manage to miss that gaping hole and decorate its periphery? If all this wasn't bad enough, I saw a man making his kid pee on the vestibule. I really wished Sunny Deol was there to tear the vestibule away from the train.

While the memories of that train ride continue to haunt me as I write, other memories literally cry themselves into attention. Murphy is a bastard. Period. He is a genius, but he's a bastard. He knows I hate babies in trains, planes, theatres, and basically any place where I've no choice but to endure them. But he still surrounds me with groups of them. In the train ride from Bangalore to Secunderabad there were 3 babies in different stages of babydom in my cubicle. For the benefit of readers, a baby can be defined as "Human off-spring that is a breathing Bose system and a strong motive for murder." Apart from that there were a whole lot of babies in adjoining cubicles- babies that cried, babies that drooled, babies that ran around, babies interested in reading my book, babies refusing to eat, babies refusing to stop eating, babies refusing to pee, babies refusing to stop peeing. Mom says I too was as irritating as these kids. I agree. That's how babies are. My return journey however, had an interesting baby. She duly reported to me after her toilet visits as though I was supposed to keep count. She was chattering non-stop, and although she called me uncle (blame it on the beard), I thought she was quite cute.


My journey to Banaras was extremely eventful. I caught up with a lot of my classmates, juniors, and teachers. All of them had a lot of things to say, but one thing they all seemed to agree upon was my girth. "X, kitne mote ho gaye ho!" (where X = Bhaiyya, Saale, Akshay for juniors, classmates, and teachers respectively). We dined, we treated, we went to the ghaats, we ate paan, we clicked photos, we lost a digicam, we shot videos, we lost the handycam, we drove bikes, we had an accident, we stayed in juniors' rooms, we lost the keys to one room; and Oh! in the middle of all this we were given our degrees. The graduation robe made us look like wizards from some Potter flick, and the hat/cap was designed to give us a headache- a kind of retribution for all the headaches we gave our profs.

Alright, time to sleep now. I'm off to Malaysia tomorrow, so I doubt I'll post anything for another month. Till then, goodbye and goodnight!