the gin in the gin soaked boy...

My wife thinks I my last post was too pseudo intellectual (translated from bengali as best as I could). I just didnt have the heart to tell her that so was my life. I have opinions on everything and am arrogant enough to justify them as well as I can through mostly impeccable logic and some harsh words (I regret them a lot later). Having a hugely successful peer group and a very hard to emulate father does that to you. But all this is not without substance. Beneath is a very strong foundation of self doubt built on a bedrock of emotional confusion.

I think (Actually i know) that my wife can see through every bit of baseless information and convoluted logic that I throw. I think she sees that and sometimes feels angry about it, sometimes pity but mostly a kind of adulation as when you see a child come up with very silly reasons of not doing her homework.

Intellect, not to be confused with intelligence (though its a absic pre requisite) or talent, is a rare herb. Intellect (IMHO) is the ability to say something really clever in a hurry. Its writing a passage with a million meanings and understanding all of them. It is a gift of the gab, the thinking on your feet, the driving home of the point. I, for all my facade, do not have the gift. But as they say "when you dont have it, lie".

So to all and sundry who read my blogs...there is no moral there are no profound truths, and as I recently found out there actually is no such thing as a superioirity complex (go figure...). These are the words of a very ordinary person like all of us are (i am a firm believer that if ther is a single thing that binds all humanity its how ordinary and unremarkable we are individually-what with all the universe being so uncomprehensibly huge and ...uh get the point).
If you want to find something find the heart to write...

Revolutionary without a Cause

This morning while having tea and a profound conversation with my boss, he started whispering a song. The song was full of lyric holes, hastily substituted with soft humming and queried looks at me, to which I could only provide immaculate shoulder shrugs. The song was about giving music to people, people who made war, were petty, antisocial or even plain mean. Hoping - scratch that - implying that it would save them. This bangla song is not unlike many many others I have heard through the years mostly by people like Kabir Suman as he is now known.

The thoughts are of revolution but the establishment is missing. The change is pervasive to the point that the point becomes diluted. And as my boss so succintly put it "Biplob! biplob without a cause." People want things to change into a utopia which even they are not sure of. But change they crave.

I remember reading a play which my father had acted in and partially written (back in the days when he knew the communist manifesto cover to cover and had not become a benevolent industrialist). It was a satire on the two forms of theatre prevalent in the late sixties early seventies. One was the revolutionary play, lots of oppression, suffering and tyranny till the proletariat took up the cause, and under red cellophaned spotlights and an aptly chosen slogan/anthem declared revolution. The other was the absurd play, very intellectual and seldom understandable even by intellectuals (which they always covered by saying "its open to interpretation"). The satire was to bring out the futility of both kinds of theatre, showing the meaninglessness of mass revolution and elitist intellectualism in a modern and intricately dysfunctional society. How much the play succeeded in its cause may be judged by the fact that it inspired a young man from Delhi to try out something new. Safdar Hashmi started his troupe "Jana Natya Manch - Janam" and performed street plays about issues, specific issues. The issues were real and the consequences were enacted out in a way that would make you cringe just from the fact that it was so close to the heinous truths you chose to forget.

Seeing Rang De Basanti and all the righteous anger that the youth are supposed to have, I get back to the red spotlight and seem to be waiting for the bugle call. Somehow the cause eludes me. I am unhappy with the way things but clueless about my contribution in the revolution. I want to stand up and fight but whom and how? The movie doesn't answer that nor does a song about giving people music and transforming their lives. They are just nice words and beautiful emotions and in the end just as absurd as Beckett. Ah maybe we are all just "Waiting for safdar"

bundled with an iPod

...and in the 21st century Apple said, "Let there be neophilia".
My iPod has been the cynosure of my eyes, has been and i suppose will be. Its been by my side all round the clock every hour, every minute and and every second since i bought it ...yesterday. For a pint sized object which belts out unrelenting and often obscure music (you cant keep track of all the 3700 songs which are on it - maybe at any moment you will know 300 of them and like 50 but you GOTTA have 3700) , it sure bundles a lot of pride and joy in it. Strutting with the thing in my 'buk pocket' (if you dont get it - well better luck next time being born a bengali) I go among the ignorant rabble flaunting my piece of ultra coolness in an aerodynamic package. I shake my head a lot (although i am listening to gurudeb), talk loudly, apologize profusely for not listening coz "my 'pod's playin' ..." everytime anybody even makes eye contact. I am the 'been there done thats' among the wanna haves....and that feels better to my ego than any extra 5 inches anywhere.

My wife bought me the gadget after a month of non stop cribbing about how important it is for me to always carry over a thousand songs with me. So my birthday, pujo and anniversary gifts came all bundled into a 3 by 5 inch, sexy as all the girls who got to hell, shiny black package. Naturally excited I opened this packing box and fell head over heels in love. The way I handled and caressed it would have made any sufficiently aroused female have a meg ryan (see ‘when harry met sally’). That over I went ahead to read the entire manual aloud (with appropriate noises of pleasure) to my - bored to death wife - who then promptly put on the headphones and cranked up the volume.

Its been a while I have had the iPod now. I have been quite amused at its bundled features. Though nowhere mentioned in the manuals and help guides, these are the things which keep me from regretting a giftless coming year. The most endearing feature is its ‘buck up’ facility. Stressed out? Roll down to the van halen, def leppard playlist and pres s play. This amazing utility has diffused many a potential holocausts between me and my wife. Then there is the built in Song-O-Pedia which means you know the tunes and the words to almost all the songs you would care to sing. An amazing gen-gap bridger, I can finally have a meaningful conversation with my 13 year old neice, and as I discovered it is also a hit with my hard of hearing grandma-in-law, thanks to its dolby shaking sound and my not unimpressive collection of rabindra shangeet. And then ….the list is endless.

So dear apple people keep up the good work, because although you are selling just a damn impressive piece of hardware, it’s the bundled software which has made me happy to have taken a bite.

AND IT DOES VIDEO TOO.

PS - “How do adders Multiply?”

The Utterings of a Disillusioned Wannabe!!

Going to a disc (this word screams out -WANNABE!!) in delhi has brought on a revelation... in this mad mad mad world (I know I know - copyright infringement) of uberVIP's and their tank top wearing cling ons, social status is measured by the amount of freshly exfoliated and electrolysed skin showing. No matter how pathetically mirror cracking you look with 5 different skin tones on the same body (courtesy revlon) what matters is how much of your shoulder, back, cleavage and legs are out having a breath of fresh air. Don't get me wrong, I am as much of an ardent admirer of these, as any roadside Romeo whistling songs of his bollywood counterparts, but having it as an eligibility criteria for entry in a nightclub...

Socially I admit to be a wannabe. As all 20 endings with a decent enough job and fertile imagination, I hope for a vacation in san Tropez, a yacht cruise in the Riviera, a Mercedes S class with a music system even marlin Manson would find loud and of course a flat in DLF Gurgaon. As Recently as yesterday this list has been extended by an item - hosting a private party in a delhi nightclub.

A few of me (nope not a typo...There are crack marks on my weighing machine)and my friends went to one such on Saturday, where we were told with sarcastic pseudo-politeness " We would love to accomodate you but as there is a private party going on we are only admitting guests and those with prior reservations". As my ego tried to get back on its feet from that near knock out blow, I saw gaggling (gaggle of giggling - entry sent to websters) girls looking like bad copies of a Goya nude with spray paint on the interesting bits being let through smilingly by the son of dara singh of a bouncer. As he had failed to look at any reservation sheet or guest list , I assumed the guest list consisted of "60% or more skin showing only" kind of criteria...Which we in your demure middle class mortal morality had failed to embrace. Any how we somehow managed to camouflage ourselves within the gaggle and were ushered in.

Once inside the class divide was finally flattened, its pretty difficult to see anything in the strobed darkness inside so a well shown cleavage and a my drunk friend mooning the crowd looked all the same. In fact for some thing that charges a grand as an entry fee it was like being put in a sensory deprivation chamber. Everything looked dark and sometimes scarily fluorescent, smelt like puke+alcohol+chanel, felt like lycra and sounded like Vesuvius erupting in a rhythmic bhangra (faintly reminiscent of black glassed santros which drag race on Delhi roads...Imminently driven by black goggled teenagers...I wonder why). We got ourselves drinks in sufficient quantities to be able to undergo brain surgery and parked ourselves near the loo. There we got to talking about our latest wannabe item "the Delhi nightclub private party". Not that we could talk much...(the sign language we used would have made iqbal proud) but we communicated. We got to the part where we asked just how many years till we could afford one. Some said three years some four, I showed two fingers and was immediately rewarded with a show of one, which I still do not know if the person had utter confidence in his ability to make it big or was just being rude.

We got out alive, I thanked the selfsame bouncer for doing a wonderful job (I think he missed the sarcasm) and went back home. The next day I spent cradling a massive hangover (now I know ...you do feel like hanging yourself to end it) and thinking about the latest addition to my to do list. Did I really want it? My wife, when I woke her up and asked her, checked my temperature, then checked to see if she still had the number of the shrink on her cellphone and went back to sleep. At night as I was watching the football match I realized that all the short skirts in the world cant beat a good world cup match on TV...I slept sated.

Now I have a new item on the list "to watch the next world cup finals live" (now the shorter skirts there are definitely a bonus..wink wink)

PS..points to ponder "Are punjabuns the blondes of India"