EMOTICONS 2.0

I had just begun to make my peace with internet abbreviations, when I had a new enemy to face. Emoticons.

I have never been a huge fan of emoticons. I feel they dumb you down.

If language is the diet we use online, emoticons are like street food – easy, commonplace. But keep doing it for a while, and you know things are going to get shitty.

Emoticons strip your message of all grace, wit and delicate charm. The finer nuances of language are lost amidst those yellow faces – blurring out meanings, codes, and references that the speaker is trying to make.

What started off as a cute little thing to express a feeling has now become a necessity that straitjackets everything you say into categories – happy, sad, flirty, moronic.

And then the categories began to expand. Till they all seem like hieroglyphic paintings that don’t make sense. Take for example, this emoticon:

:-@

What is this supposed to mean?

That I am talking to you while I am typing this out over the net?

Is it a reference to Lord Krishna, who opens his mouth to reveal that the entire World Wide Web lies inside him? Is it shock, or does it signify that you are tongue tied?

Why the fuck would you want to subject the recipient to this psychoanalysis?

From definite representations of a certain emotion, emoticons have become vague and overused.

And Google doesn’t make matters easier for you. And those Android emoticons are so bloody ugly! Just when you have typed out a long, passionate message, there is this green, alien smiling thing that attaches itself to your message. All Android phones have a smiley right there on the ‘Enter’ button, which means you can add a smiley after every message.

Hey there

What’s up?

Wanna go out?

I just picked my nose

Which kind of makes you seem like an 8 year old dud with the attention span of 3.5 seconds.

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                                                                  EMOTICONS 2.0

So clearly, we invented something that would make us communicate easily, but somewhere down the line, we screwed up.

What we need, are new emoticons. With clear, distinct, unambiguous messages that will not leave the recipient guessing about the motive. Let’s begin with a few samples:

The RITEISH DESHMUKH SLEAZY EMOTICON:

Riteish Deshmukh, son of former Chief Minister of Maharashtra, began steadily in Bollywood. His first film, Tujhe Meri Kasam, for some reason, ran for three months near my house. I thought he had a niche audience of some sort, who kept coming back to his films.

After that, however, Riteish has specialised in playing the Horny Young Man. From Masti to Kya Kool Hai Hum, he revels in playing the tharki guy, always looking for some action.

This emoticon will be useful for guys who want to leave no doubt about their intention. Why go through the drill of liking Profile Pictures and Status Updates, and then realising that all the girl wanted from you was to like her ‘I love Joey Tribbiani’ page. Why go through that crap? Make your intentions clear. Get rejected. Move on.

This is how the Riteish Deshmukh emoticon will look like:

No bullshit. Straight, clear, to the point.

Of no return.

 

The RAM GOPAL VERMA EMOTICON:

If there is one person who truly doesn’t give a fuck in our country, it is Ram Gopal Verma. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry – whether he/she has any idea about filmmaking or not, has an opinion about him, and a joke on him that makes you want to impale them on an electric pole.

I’m sure RGV would have gotten sick of it at some point, and decided not to give a fuck. Since then, he looks happy. There is a glow in his face, a joy that can be seen when he speaks his mind about Karan Johar.

Using the RGV emoticon sends the message that you know people hate you, but they can go screw themselves.

No one is going to fuck with you after this. And you are not getting anymore Game Requests. You have just set their asses on RGV ki Aag.

 

The NANA PATEKAR EMOTICON:

Nana Patekar is India’s Angry Bearded Man.

Throughout his films – from Yeshwanth to Taxi No. 9211, Nana Patekar has been delivering tight chamaats to assholes on the roads. And these are not the kind of motherly slaps – they are earth shattering, face-changing, perspective bending slaps that leave an imact. Like this.

Sometimes, I feel that for there to be a good law and order system, the government needs to unleash Nana on the streets. Give him a license to slap everyone who breaks a rule. And as shown in this video, after Nana slaps you, there is a life changing transformation that happens.

The Nana Patekar emoticon is also a nice way of keeping annoying people on the internet at bay. Like that guy who wants you to like his Facebook Photography page. Or that guy who wants to tag you to ‘Happy Ganesh Chaturthi’ images.

A fantastic, practical emoticon that saves you a lot of hassles.

 

The SUNNY DEOL EMOTICON

Sunny Deol needs no introduction.

The man who takes no bullshit. The man who will drive a train into your country (with his son filling coal into the engine), and screw you so badly, you will give your daughter’s hand in marriage to him.

The Sunny Deol emoticon is ideal for jingoistic, desh ke laals who see red when anyone says anything against India. Using the Sunny Deol emoticon once should suffice to freeze the person into silence. If the person doesn’t, you just enter his house, uproot his piping system, and fuck him up.

This is how the short conversation will proceed.

 

The RAVI SHASTRI EMOTICON:

Ravi Shastri is the only person in the country who can say the same things for more than two decades.

The man is always zoned out, saying the same stuff over and over again. Like someone else is in control of him – like that character from Harry Potter 4. Ravi Shastri will say whatever he wants, whenever he wants. Whether it is the final of the World Cup or a training session of Kochi Tuskers – there is no stopping this man.

Using the Ravi Shastri Emoticon will help you have your own space.

A very spaced out, dopey, three pegs of Johnny Walker kind of space.

 

The BABA RAMDEV EMOTICON:

This emoticon should find a lot of favour in our country. The Baba Ramdev emoticon is ideal for people who fulfill the following categories:

a. Love the country and swear to defend it’s culture from Western influence.

b. Believe in the indigenous powders to cure ailments like AIDS and homosexuality.

c. Have a political streak in you.

The Baba Ramdev emoticon can be used when you want to say something outlandish, but are unsure. Works like a charm when you have to say incredible things like ‘India is the greatest country in the world’.

                                                                             

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So there you go, brothers, sisters and hot chicks!

Go ahead and use these emoticons. Make your conversations direct. Leave no ambiguity.

Loha Purush Tritiya – Khade Lund Pe Khatarnak Dhoka

                                  

 

 

 

In our world of global, national, and local superstars, if there are two superheroes who have managed to hold their own in a clutter of good vs. evil, they are Batman and Iron Man.

Dark and brooding, Batman makes the others look like over-emotional Kumar Gauravs. But even though the Batman movies were far better made, I connected more with Iron Man.

May be it was his cynicism, or his hatred for rules, or his ambiguity between good and evil. Or maybe because he wasn’t dressed in blue and red, and subtly telling the world how fuckawesome the US is. He is unpatriotic, iconoclastic, and simply fantastic.

It is probably a sign of times that teeth-gritting, patriotic superheroes are a thing of the past. That they died when Brandan Routh wore the blue costume and circled the earth. That they were irrelevant in today’s times – emotional appendages of a time long gone.

 

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So when I walked into the theatre, I wasn’t expecting great visuals. I wasn’t expecting to be blown by the action. I was looking for more. I was looking to peel off more layers from the person who gave me the most intriguing superhero in recent times.

Sadly, the layers that peeled off were like onion. They weren’t great, and almost reduced me to tears. The third film succeeds in domesticating our wild man. A thought as disturbing as Aruna Irani breastfeeding a snake in Doodh ka Karz.

I don’t generally go about revealing the story of the movie, but this one is so wafer thin, you wouldn’t even mind.

So there is this organisation called Extremis which was intended as a cure for disabled people, but has gone bad. Also, there have been numerous terror attacks which leave no clue, apart from extremely high temperatures at the site. Iron Man has to find these guys, and kick their ass.

The thing is, these terror attacks on superhero films have become so jaded, you cant even take them seriously anymore. I mean, you know there will be this actor (who never got very famous) who plays the villain, who wants to kill people and the hero has to save him. Since the days of Mogambo, heroes’ sole aim in life is to stop these guys, and they never fail to do it. So who are we shitting here?

 

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If I were to point out the two reasons I didn’t enjoy the movie, they would be the following:

 

1. The Iron Man ka Chutiya Villain Theory:

Every Iron Man movie will have a villain. This guy will be played by cult actors. Actors you have seen in movies through the years and you are curious to see what they have in store for you.

But as the movie progresses, you will realise that the aura of Iron Man overshadows the villain, reducing him to a whimpering sidekick whose destiny has been written by the Mayans. It happened to Jeff Bridges in the first, Mickey Rourke in the second, and the same happens to Ben Kingsley in the third.

Mandarin, the villain that Kingsley is supposed to play, was written as a megalomaniac world conqueror. What the makers do with him is a fresh take, but you are expecting something to happen at some point.

In the end, Kingsley’s character is so frivolous, that if Gandhi watched the film, he would slap him, and ask him to show the other cheek.

 

1. 2.     Lack of Progression in Character

Now, comic book fans would always want to know what would happen to Iron Man after The Avengers. In case you went on holiday to Uranus, there was this movie called The Avengers, and it was the mother of all superhero movies. A fantastic effort by the genius who goes by the name of Joss Whedon.

After that, I was looking for some reference, some change in him. But Iron Man is essentially the same. Which makes the series like the Munnabhai series, where the same actors play the same roles, with different settings every time.

How can it be that this person (Tony Stark) goes through the grind of discovering himself, creating his armour, fighting his first battle, saving the earth, being attacked by extra terrestrial animals, and yet there is absolutely no change in the way he looks, feels, and talks?

As the film progressed, the writers did add some layers to the character. Like the bit where they showed him bonding with a little kid. Are you serious? Iron Man, the guy who takes on governments and demigods, making friends with a little kid to help with his work? It’s the cheapest trick in a superhero movie, and I was crestfallen that my favourite superhero had to go through the indignity of tolerating a ten year old who talks too much.

And as the final nail in the coffin, after the clichéd big budget, explosive climax, Iron Man destroys all his suits, and throws away the chest arc reactor into the sea. Because he wants to spend more time with Pepper Potts?

ARE YOU FUCKING WITH ME? IRON MAN?? DESTROYING HIS SUITS BECAUSE HE WANTS TO SPEND TIME WITH HIS GIRLFRIEND??

Why don’t you show him drying the laundry and changing the diapers already?

 

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I don’t generally like to make judgements, but I will make one here. Unless you masturbate to Robert Downey Jr. twice a day, don’t take the trouble of going to the hall.

Wait for it to come on torrents, download it. Encourage piracy, spread some anarchy.

Iron Man is probably playing the piano for his girlfriend in their Italian villa.

Autowallah

Excluding cops and politicians, could you think of another profession which is hated by most people?

Doctors are hated, mostly because people feel they are overcharging, and most Indians will never really hire a lawyer in their lives, so those don’t count. Cricketers are sometimes hated, but one good series, and you go from the national punching bag to the successor of Rajni Kanth. So that’s ruled out too. So which profession do you think is most hated?

I would say auto drivers.

There is generally a sense of mistrust about them. It’s like they are all charging four times their price and they will all take you through unknown routes, and finally kill you in a desolate corner.

Now, you could blame me for being overromantic about it. “You don’t have boobs,” you say. Yes, I am not a girl, so maybe I don’t have to face so many of the fears. I know for a fact that no autowallah is going to try to rape me, for one. So that’s half the worries gone.

But if you think about it, it’s a neverending cycle of distrust. People don’t speak to auto drivers properly, and so they don’t either, and both of you go on mistrusting and mistreating each other.

I have always had good luck with auto drivers.

If you speak to them a little, some small talk, you will see how well they come about.

Think about it, these guys have been riding the entire day, getting barked at by customers and pulled up, charged, and shooed away by lecherous cops, and being cursed at by co-commuters on the road. May be you cant blame the guy for not being polite to you. May be you could say something to him.

I have had countless number of experiences with autowallahs, but here I would like to narrate three of them.

 

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Ahmedabad.

The city without booze. For the reason that Gandhi was born there. The greatest bullshit story ever told and believed and not raised a glass to. Because you know, its illegal.

So since Gandhi is the father of the nation, as a sign of respect, no body drinks alcohol. Reducing possibly the most revolutionary thinker of the last century into a symbolic joke.

But anyway, I am just small fish. I have no reason to take up that man with the white beard who is going to become the Prime Minister. I have gone to visit my girlfriend, and am getting a look at the city for the first time.

There is something distinct about the autos of every city. There will be a style, a certain fashion that sets them apart from the autos of other cities. Like for example, in Kurnool, the front of the auto, to the right of the light, will have a painting of a star. One look at the auto and you knew if he was a fan of NTR, Chiru, Pavan Kalyan, or Mahesh. In the older parts of Hyderabad, there is always a quote written at the back of the autos. Like ‘Maa Baap ki Dua’, or ‘Hum Phir Se Milenge’.

In Ahmedabad, all the autos have a set pattern. From the outside, you notice nothing different. The usual yellow and black, with nothing to set it apart. But step inside, and to the left of the passenger seat, you will find a poster with a scenery.

One of those ‘God makes the world beautiful’ or ‘Live every day like your last’ or some other quote written on the top right hand corner of a picture with a waterfall or a house by the lake. That kind of stuff.

To the right, there will be a poster of an actress. No collage, no cut pasting, no wide variety of photos – just one poster. Of one actress. I guess they are really steadfast people, you know. Unlike the guys in Hyderabad who must be a little weird – there are pictures of at least three actresses, with two heroes thrown in for a wild fantasy.

But here, it’s just one poster of an actress, and that’s it.

So I have noticed this and one of the days we plan to step out to go sightseeing. Because anyway I cant booze or eat chicken, I might as well go watch some nature and shit.

So we are going to the place and we pull up an auto and ask him if he would go to the place.

He is not young, neither is he old. If I were to describe his face, I would do it like this.

Remember those pictures of Ramakrishna Paramahamsa that you saw as a child. Hollow cheekbones and a beard? Replace the black beard with a white one, and you have somewhat of an image of the man’s face.

He didn’t speak a lot, he didn’t switch on the loud music seeing a hot chick enter his auto. He just started driving.

It was a clean auto, well maintained. There were no odd sounds coming out of it – no odd  tinkering symphony of undisciplined nuts and bolts that come from other autos.

I look at my left, and I find the poster of a scenery. The usual. I look to the right, and I find there is no actress. Its just blank!

I start making conversation with him, but he clearly isn’t the chatty person.

He grudgingly starts speaking to me, dealing in monosyllables and nods.

“Bhai saab,” I ask him, “Aap ke auto mein heroine nahi hai?”

He turns to me, and gives me a bored look. The kind of look Sachin Tendulkar would give Ajit Agarkar’s son if he asked him what ‘off side’ means.

“Meri heroine,” he says, “mere ghar pe hai.”

We eventually reached the spot. The sun eventually set on my relationship. But I hope wherever the man is, he is making wild, passionate love to his wife every night.

 

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Hyderabad.

I have just arrived, and am still trying to figure out things. Where to buy cigarettes, where to buy groceries from, where to get some weed from.

It’s not like Orissa, where your friendly neighbourhood pan shop is going to give you a packet with a smile. It’s a new place and I haven’t yet met anyone who was smoking.

My friend and me decide to do the first that thing that great explorers do. Look up Google.

We are told that we need to speak to an auto guy, and he would take us there. To this place called Dhoolpet. It was also mentioned that we better be careful about the guy we choose, to avoid being reported or fleeced.

How would we go about it? We spoke about some strategies. We would first ask him to take us to a place nearby, and then slowly ease into the conversation about some weed, and see if it works out. But wait, what if he throws us out of the auto, and we are stranded in a new place, having paid two hundred bucks?

May be we should ask from the beginning. Feel around for ourselves, say the place, and then ask him if he wants to go there. Then speak nicely to him, may be offer a cigarette, and then he would warm up to us.

After considerable time spent in strategizing, we walk downstairs to the place where the autos stand. The first guy we see, has his hand stretched out, and is filling up an empty cigarette.

“Kahaan jaana?”

We both point out like excited children, “Woh chahiye”. He smiles, and asks us to sit.

We wait and watch as he fills up the cigarette, taps it on the nail of his left thumb, folds the open ends and runs his fingers along its length. When he is done, he lights it, and we start off.

We speak to him. More out of curiosity than ulterior motives this time.

He speaks freely, looking at us in the rear view mirror while speaking. He speaks of the things most auto drivers speak about. Cops, and what assholes they are. Rising petrol prices, and how much of the daily rent he needed to give to the owner everyday. Or bitching about people who zoom across on bikes.

“Subah subah ek maaru toh set hai,” he explains. Neither sheepishly, nor with pride. Matter of fact.

We ask him why he doesn’t drink instead, since everyone seems to do it. “Daaru mein dimaag ko rest nahi milta saab,” he says, holding his right hand to his head. “Jumjumjumjum hota rehta. Chala nahi sakta main.”

For about ten years, alcohol was prohibited in the state. The people of the state were denied their 650 ml of panacea because it was seen as a social evil. Then in 1997, Chandrababu Naidu rolled back the prohibition. Since then, the people of Andhra haven’t looked back.

Andhra Pradesh is the largest consumer of alcohol in the country. In just these ten years, it has been a short but meteoric career by the state in liquor sales. On any given day, you will find one man sprawled across the road in front of the shop. At 10 am.

The journey is long, but fun. The man is smiling, and after a long conversation we reach the place. It is a shanty basti, full of ashanty. There are children running about, dogs walking like they own the road, water flowing off some of the houses.

The man asks us to stop at a distance. “Aap logon se zyada lega. Main laatun.” We followed him.

The way to the house went through allies and shops. We peeked into the dimly lit houses. Some of them had idols that were being prepared for a festival. In others, we found women boiling something in a huge pot, its white fumes rising, without a smell.

The man wore a blue lungi and had a beard. There was a little bit of heckling, but the price was settled. We walked back into the auto and sat.

While we were driving back, new doubts sprang up in our mind. Would he blackmail us for going the extra mile? He knew where we lived, and it wouldn’t be too difficult to lodge a complaint in our name.

We drove back to our homes, from the coloured tiny streets to the broad, grey strokes of the offices and malls. It was a Sunday morning, and the roads were secluded.

The summers had set in, but it was rather pleasant. Like the sun was reluctant to work on a Sunday. There was no one visible as far as the eye travelled, and he took out a cigarette. He stopped at the curve of a road and pulled up to the right of the road.

I was prepared for it. I knew he would stop and ask for some money.

He put his hand into his pocket and took out a small piece of paper rolled into a ball. We stepped out to look at the road. We spoke as he emptied his cigarette, and blew the brown dust away. He crushed with his right thumb on his left palm, and filled it up, and tapped the butt against the nail of his left thumb. He then held it out for us.

We sat and spoke. And smoked.

Most auto guys will give you their phone number and ask you to call them. This brother didn’t give no fuck. He dropped us off at home. We never saw him again in that area.

 

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If one were to make a list of Germans who left an impact on India, Max Müller would probably be the first name that comes to mind. Adolf Hitler could be the second, considering that Mein Kampf is considered a management guide in India. Otto Königsberger will not be a name you will hear, even though he impacted directly many lives in our country.

Otto Königsberger will not go down in history as a legend. Books will not be written about him, nor will he be played by Robert Downey Jr. in a Tom Hooper adaptation.

During the years of the World War, Mr. Königsberger left Germany when the Third Reich rose in power. He travelled to different countries, offering his services as an architect and town planner, till he was signed by the British government to design buildings in India. He designed towns and cities, and a testimony of his many skills was the fact that after partition, he continued to work with the new India’s Ministry of Health. He later went on to teach at the University College, London, and finally at UN.

Why am I telling you all this?

Because somewhere in his illustrious career, he was asked to design a new capital for the state of Orissa. Cuttack, the erstwhile capital, could not be extended any further as it was surrounded by water on all sides, and a nearby temple town was chosen as the capital. Königsberger saab must have gotten a tad lazy on that project.

For many years, the entire of Bhubaneswar existed on two sides of a single road. The road from Utkal University to Rajmahal Square like a gigantic snake, divided the city into two halves. On the right, you could find the official buildings – offices, government quarters, schools, party offices, and a Ram Mandir thrown in. To the left, you had the private spaces – private residential colonies, newspaper offices, and showrooms that sold clothes when much of the town’s fashion came from a handful of shops.

The town has expanded since, like a blotting distributary heading in every direction. This road is still the busiest road of the town, and if you woke up at six (which is highly unlikely if you actually live here), you will notice the municipality workers sweeping the roads.

It was on this road that I found myself one night, returning home. It had rained in the evening, and the lights of the buildings shone off the wet roads. Red, orange, and purple, the reflections added a colour splash to the picture, like God discovered that he had been Van Gogh all along.

This was about 10 PM, the time when you board an auto knowing fully well that he wasn’t going to start till the auto was filled with at least double the number of passengers it could take. You were at the mercy of the auto guy, no matter how urgent your need.

There was one other person in the auto and as we waited for more customers, two blind men walked into the auto. They had their white sticks and their slow, unsure movements drew attention.

I moved a little to the right and after about ten minutes we started towards Vani Vihar. People got on and off at places, and the auto guy pulled up at Kharvelnagar to the left. The two blind men got out, and turned towards us.

“Bhaina, could you walk us to the other side of the road?” they asked. To each of us, and yet to no one in particular. It was already ten and waiting for another auto was a pain in the ass. Plus, the guy could charge whatever he wanted.

The man next to me made a ‘pltch’ sound and turned away. I got down and held one of their hands.

The one at the back held the shoulder of the one in the front, who held my hand, as we walked across the traffic policeman.

“Leave us in front of Big Bazaar,” one of them said. “Are you sure? I could drop you ahead of Big Bazaar,” I offered.

“No, no. We can go from there,” he insisted. This was odd.

Big Bazaar was the city’s first official mall. On the opening day, it looked like an avant garde gas chamber designed by Hitler – people were crammed into every imaginable space. The crowd has reduced since then, but it still remains a fairly busy place. It was difficult for a pedestrian with eyes to cross. How would they manage?

When we reached Big Bazaar, he slipped his hand out of mine curtly, saying thanks.

I stayed there to see what they’d do.

They turned left, 90 degrees and walked a little. There was a chhenna seller, his metal vessels gleaming in the night, a chhennapodo resting heavily on one of the vessels. The man looks at them, takes out a small, circular tiffin box and with two fingers, brings out a green, gooey paste.

He makes two balls of this paste, and places them on the rims of two steel glasses. Like a cherry on the top.

The two men stretch their hands out, feel the glasses, and raise them up. They open their mouths and the balls plop into their mouth, as the drink up the water. They pay him in coins, and turn. They hold each other’s hands, and slowly walk ahead.

I feel a little guilty – like I had peeped in on someone’s private moment. As I walk back, I wonder what sort of a high would the two blind guys get from the bhang. Most of us have ‘visions’, or ‘trips’. What sort of a trip would a person have, if he has never seen anything? It must be a more powerful high. A pure flight of fancy – unbridled by any imagery.

As I walk further, I look to the right, then to the left, and then to the right again for the psycho biker, and cross the road. To my luck, I found an auto waiting on the other side of the road.

As I crossed the road to reach the auto, I peeped into the auto to find it was the same one I had gotten out of.

The driver smiled, waited for me to sit, and started off. The man next to me wasn’t pleased.

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Ek Thi Genre

If you ask me, it is much easier to make an abstract or genre-blending movie, than to make a genre movie. Suppose you are the writer of No Smoking, or even say Peepli Live – you have a completely white canvas in front of you. But a genre movie has its norms, and if you can still evade the pitfalls and keep the audience interested, you have won a major war.

Over the last few years, Indian horror films have become the Bhatt of all jokes. Wildly successful, but extremely unimaginative, the Bhatts have spewed out horror films year after year, even creating franchises like Raaz and 1920. Then there is Ram Gopal Verma, sitting in the dark corner of a park, churning out horror films to scare the country.

Indian horror is a genre of its own. And before moving any further, it is important that we get a clear picture of the Indian ghost.

The Indian Ghost is unique from its brethren across the globe.

The Indian Ghost always has a motive. Revenge. Lust. Correcting a wrong that occurred long ago.

They have emotions, and feelings. Sometimes, like in Haunted 3D, they have to endure human indignities like getting raped. Or may be that’s because in India, even if you’re a ghost, you’re fucked.

Indian ghosts hang out in palaces for years, waiting for the right opportunity to strike, in order to take revenge. There is a single minded focus to their mission. I am sure in the underworld of ghosts, Indians must be taking over the jobs of their counterparts, such is their Zen-like focus to their mission in life.

Indian Ghost – The Thinking Ghost’s Sex Symbol.
In this picture, Aftab Shivdasani, who was last seen alive in 2003, can be seen trying to bone the ghost.

And it is after years of watching such no brainers that I have stopped watching horror films. Of course, that’s not saying much, since most of the movies that run are horrific in their own way.

With Ek Thi Daayan, what interested me was Vishal Bharadwaj revisiting the horror genre. His debut, Makdee, was a smart film that toed the line between a childrens’ film and a horror flick, and managed to hold its own, considerably.

The other thing the makers did right was in the casting. Hashmi, Kalki Koechlin, Pavan Malhotra, Konkana Sen Sharma, and Huma Qureshi read like a heady cocktail.

Ek Thi Daayan begins like a Shikhar Dhawan debut. Confident, taking huge strides forward, and whacking you out of the ground once in a while. The writers get it bang on. Simply by playing on common sense.

I really find it funny when I see grown ups in horror films seeing something spooky and getting all sweaty and pissy. It’s rare that someone who didn’t believe in ghosts would all of a suddenly do it. The person has watched too many movies, and a general cynicism has set in.

But at childhood, we are all believers. We have our heroes, who bring in the daylight. And lurking behind the shadows, we all had our monsters. The one in the film, or the TV show, or the spooky story that our cousin narrated in the vacations.

With this as their carrot, Vishal Bharadwaj and Mukul Sharma begin on a believable footing. It seems believable that an eleven year old would believe in the dark world of ghosts, especially if he is an aspiring magician – someone whose whole life revolves around make belief.

The premise set, the film chugs on comfortably. Till the interval.

Now, this is the other thing that sucks about Indian films. Why the fuck do we need to have an interval?

In a genre like horror, it is extremely difficult to capture the attention of the viewer, and just when the makers have managed to, you have an interval. You are drawn into a fascinating imaginary world, and the next minute you are ordering a large Coke with popcorn. How does a filmmaker bring back the mood that he strived to create for more than an hour?

And that is the reason why most Indian horror films are diagnosed with the same illness. “Interval tak mast tha, boss. Phir mazaa nahi aaya, yaar.”

Chutiye, mazaa is liye nahi aaya kyunki tu jaake Coke khareed raha tha.

 

*************************************

And then, critiquing a genre movie is a different ball game too. How do you rate a genre movie? If you’re walking into a horror film looking to get spooked, Haunted 3D might have done its job well. If you’re looking for a tight, coherent story – may be not.

Ek Thi Daayan attempts both, and in my final judgement, does pretty well.

Go watch the movie, and in the next post, we’ll discuss the climax.

Come Again

As he watched the labourers pack their stuff and leave for the day, Chidanand Sharma felt a sense of great peace.

The labourers took off the towels that were rolled into pancakes above their heads, and dusted the cement off their clothes, and washed their hands and legs under a tap in front of him.

As he looked at the under-constructed building in front of him, he thought of how something so drab, so monstrous could grow into something grand and imposing. Rods stuck out at odd angles, and the overall dull grey of cement covered it like a long, loose, grey gown.

He normally left at this time, after the workers left. But he felt like sitting today.

He wanted to talk to someone, but there was no one next to him. And these illiterate workers would never understand what he wanted to say anyway.

He sighed and leaned back on his chair.

*************************

 

If you knew me twenty years ago, you wouldn’t think I would be sitting here, in front of my own house, talking to you.

A few teeth have been missing, the hair is nearly gone, but I am more or less there. Around.

But if you had met me twenty years ago, I wouldn’t blame you for predicting that I would be dead by now – old, not very well off, weak. But here I am, sitting in front of this space, that I own.

Of this entire planet, a small patch that I truly own. It’s mine. I can roll in it, or run about naked, and no one would say anything. My wife would, if she were alive.

I don’t have much wisdom in me, in spite of my age. But one thing I did learn. That there is something wrong about the way children and youngsters are brought up. I don’t mean your generation or my generation in particular. I mean human beings in general.

We are pushed too far, too fast. So much that a person hasn’t yet lived out a quarter of his life, and he already has an idea about success, failure, and other odds. People marry too early, have children too early.

If I could advice a youngster, I would tell him to take it slow.

It will take you some time to learn about yourself, see who you truly are. The problem is that even before you know much about yourself, you are trapped. You have chosen what you want to do, and your father has selected who you have to be with, and you are stuck. No where to go. Like a monkey stranded on an island.

Ah!

If only I knew all this earlier.

I didn’t know a thing, of course. My father beat me till I reached a certain age, and then left me in the company of a young girl, who was as clueless about life as I was.

Even before we learnt about each other and ourselves, we had a third person to take care of. A tiny, stupid creature who wouldn’t be able to talk, walk, or fend for himself for years to come. Decades, even.

This is something else I dislike about the way things are.

Why do all parents have to like their children?

My father beat the life out of me, whenever he could. Not once did he feel guilty about it. On the contrary, he always made it to be that he was doing it for my benefit.

This whole circus of being a parent, setting an ideal for your child, holding his hand through his growing years, ensuring he is settled and well. What is all this for?

If you think about it, even the scriptures say that we are among the lakhs and lakhs of creatures that habitat this earth. They are all getting born, reproducing, and dying. Why do we make human lives so different?

That is the other thing that disturbs me about the way things are, at the present.

What is that you say? You don’t want to know? Take me for a grumpy old fart, don’t you? But this is the last thing I shall talk to you about, and then I shall leave. I don’t see too well in the dark, and I feel a little hungry too.

So, what was I talking about?

Yes. About the things I dislike about the world.

You see, I got married at the age of 22.

If you have already reached the age of 22, you would know what I am talking about. If you have crossed the age, think back to your miserable 22 year old self, and imagine.

I farmed on my ancestral land for 14 years after my marriage. My father, after having fulfilled his duties of being a father by making me a father, stopped going to the farm after he reached 52. His back gave way and he couldn’t move around much.

So he slept on the stringed cot in front of our house and oversaw my life. He ensured I worked enough hours in the farm, and sent my child till the right age of schooling (“Till the child reaches 15. After that, the real learning comes from doing the work of his ancestors.”). He oversaw what I bought my wife for the festival, and how much we spent every month.

When he died about eight years later, I realised that I had never done anything by myself.

Though I dreaded looking at my father in the morning, while he slept on the cot and smoked his beedis, I had absolutely no one to tell me what to do.

My wife and I spoke about it, and we tried to do the sane thing to do. In three years, I knew I was no good at it. My son had grown up, and he was not interested in doing what I did. Not like the poor boy had not tried. He was brought up in a society that made it a sin for him to disobey me, and so he did it.

But it didn’t take me long to realise that he wasn’t very good at it, just like me. He would never make a good farmer, so there was no reason why he should keep at it. So I agreed when he said he wanted to look for a job in nearby Gopalpur.

About eight years after my father died, I broke down.

I could not take the daily load of going to the farm, and the toil that led to the one month of fruit, only to descend again into the toil. The farm was doing terrible, like the soil was angry that Father had left. I was 43, poor, and weak. I could farm no more.

One day, I simply refused to go to the field. My wife went hysterical, in the way women around here do. She beat her chest and started wailing, causing a lot of grief to our neighbours, but I was unmoved. What would I do there? I knew enough to know that a miracle was not in the offing.

I spent nearly two years without going to the farm. My wife tried to salvage the damage by hiring a few labourers to work on our field for a few months. But they took their share of the harvest, and after a point, my wife found it too much to handle. I sometimes think she realised what a trecherous work it was. I dont remember her pestering me too much after those few months.

It was tough, but not impossible. I took up work as a labourer in nearby Bhadrak.

When my uncle and his sons came over, they often spoke to me with a worried look on their faces. They asked me why I had quit working on the field, whether I wanted some money, or other things they thought they understood about me.

I never told them the real reason. The real reason was that I was tired.

I didnt blame them for thinking lowly about me being a labourer. I wasn’t young, and the trade required competely different skills. There was also the fact that there would a scoundrel of a man ordering you around, everyday.

But if you thought about it, there were a few things that were better in this trade. There was a little more control you had over the circumstances. Nothing was dependant on the rain, and the soil, and the gods above.

The construction was human made. You decided how much you worked, what sort of work, and you got paid at the end of the day.

I learnt a lot about myself in those few years. That I didn’t mind taking orders from someone, if it meant that I could have an easier work. My wife stopped complaining when she realised this was what I was going to do. We planned to sell off a bit of our land and keep the rest. Our rescue plan.

It was about three years, later, that I found my calling in life.

I was 45. I had gotten beaten for 15 years, worked as a farmer for 28 years, a construction worker for three years, and then found my calling.

I sold the land and with the money I bought a refrigeration machine. The thing was expensive, and it took me about a year to understand how it worked in its entirety. After a year, I had started reaping the first fruits of my decision.

We made two flavours of ice cream. Orange and Coconut. The ice creams did not have a name or a brand, though I wish I had given it one then. But I was desperate back then. I produced the ice creams and sold them to an ice cream maker, who marketed them under his name. Icy-Cool Ice Creams.

Being from the city, you might not have them. They are not very healthy.

Everything that worked against me all my life – the scarce rainfall, the heat, the arid dryness – worked like a charm for me. The ice cream business seemed a lot more solid than the others I had put my fingers in, and there was an assured amount at the end of the month. How much I earned depended on how much I worked, and luckily, the two lads I assigned were honest and hard working.

In a few years, I knew I would not die a poor man. My wife, however, died in a few years.

I dont know if I felt bad about it because I loved her. I was never given a choice of loving her or not. She was there, whether I loved her or hated or, or was simply indifferent.

The ice cream business got better, and I got three more refrigeration units next to the original. About four years back, I started my own line of ice creams. Milky Ice Creams. If you are in the village, you should try it. Hygienic, well prepared, and tasty.

I don’t work too much these days, I just sit and oversee things, much like my father. But I don’t beat up the boys, I merely shout at them once in a while.

About a year ago, Haria’s neice came back to the village. I first saw her when I had gone to see him about a wire that dropped off into my farm. She was in her late 30′s, fair, and had round breasts.

She did not walk like Indian women walk after reaching middle age.

In fact, after looking at her, I felt repulsed of the way most women live their lives. Fat, clumsy, unattractive. She looked fresh, and even though her hair had started greying, her body was firm. And her breasts, what breasts they were!

Firm, and supple. I remember coming back to my house and thinking of her, and feeling the blood in my loins.

That’s when I made the final plan of my life. I would marry her.

I would build a new house, and buy two cows, and then approach Haria about his niece.

I earned quite well, and was not a particularly bad man.

He might not agree, of course. You know how we feel about family members younger to us – unnecessarily protective.

But I want to do it. I want to do it because I have never really wanted to do anything in my life.

If everything goes bad, I will at least have a house of my own.

So that’s all I had to say to you.

I am happy that you sat and listened to me. I will go now. I can’t see too well in the dark, and I am feeling very hungry.

****************************************

Chidanand stood up, and dusted his lungi.

He lifted the iron chair, folded it and leaned it on the grey wall. The birds had stopped chirping, and if you squinted, you could see the silhouette of a man walking, his body shifting weight from one leg to the other. Slowly.

Katju ka Faltu mein Man Dola

Being a blogger in India is like being a dope peddler in Jamaica, or a match fixer in Pakistan. You never run out of stuff.

Every week, there are people literally screaming to be mentioned here. People making absolute asses of themselves, in full public view, and seeming very proud of it as well.

This week’s contribution is by Justice Katju.

Now, I don’t know if the national media has an agenda to pick one person for the entire year and publish whatever they say. If you think about it, every year, there is one person who is mentioned in the news again and again. There was Rakhi Sawant, Mahesh Bhatt, Poonam Pandey, and now this year, it is Justice Katju.

The most annoying thing about Justice Katju is not the fact that he closely resembles singer Abjijit Bhattacharya (the Sunny Deol of the Bollywood music industry – always screaming against Pakistani singers, but rarely finding work these days)

The most annoying thing about Justice Katju is the utter contempt in his statements for everyone else but himself. Justice Katju has had an outstanding career as a judge, but how does that qualify him to become the Chairman of the Press Council of India? To a layman, the role of the role of the Chairman of the PCI would mean monitoring the media of the country. Not bitchslapping politicians, supporting actors, and calling 90% of the nation ‘idiots’.

Justice Katju doling out wisdom in one of his many avatars

Does becoming the Chairman of the PCI entitle you to an opinion on everything? Apparently, it does.

So Katju appeared on our newspapers this week, saying that Sanjay Dutt needs to be pardoned.

Now, I can understand that Bollywood folks want him set free. Going by the kind of stories chosen to be made, the average IQ of a Bollywood actor might mildly surpass that of an anteater’s. They can’t be taken seriously.

Most of the messages say, “Sanjay Dutt is not a criminal.” Hmmmm. Why would a person keep an AK-56 with him, then? A collector of antiques, may be? A connoisseur of firing weapons? Or may be he liked the film Ab-taK 56? I don’t know. Like their films, their arguments don’t make sense.

But why would a learned man like Justice Katju talk about freeing an actor? Not only does the idea seem preposterous coming from a former Chief Justice, it is a bukkake in the face of that idol in every court that stands for equality before law.

And not only did Mr. Katju simply state his wishes, he wrote a letter to the Governor of Maharashtra. A six point letter that will go down in history as one of the greatest letters ever written by a judge.

Here is the letter:

Your Excellency,

The media has reported today that Sanjay Dutt has been awarded 5 years imprisonment by the Supreme Court. I appeal to you to pardon him under Article 161 of the Constitution for the following reasons:

(i) The Supreme Court, having found that Sanjay Dutt had in his possession a prohibited weapon without a licence, awarded him the minimum imprisonment which was prescribed under law. Section  25 (1(A) of the Arms Act states that if a person has in his possession a prohibited weapon without a licence he shall be awarded punishment of not less than 5 years imprisonment and not more than 10 years. Having found Sanjay Dutt in possession of a prohibited weapon, which is defined in Section 2 (1) (i) of the Arms Act as an automatic weapon which keeps firing until release of the pressure on the trigger, the Supreme Court awarded him 5 years imprisonment. However, there is power in the Court under Section 4 of the Probation of Offenders Act, 1958 to release the person under these circumstances of the case on furnishing a bond.

A few months back, Katju had said that 90% of Indians were idiots. The contempt comes across clearly as he defines for us idiots what is a gun (an automatic weapon which keeps firing until release of the pressure on the trigger). He then goes on to mention the exact clause under which Dutt could be pardoned, but ignores that it would be unfair to all the others ‘idiots’ who are accused of the same crime.

He then goes on to explain with the help of six points why Dutt needs to be pardoned. Each of those points are so rich, so dipped in logic that he should win six Booker prizes for each of those points.

 

a. The event happened in 1993 i.e. 20 years ago. During this period Sanjay suffered a lot, and had a cloud hovering over his head throughout. He had to undergo various tribulations and indignities during this period. He had to go to Court often, he had to take the permission of the Court for foreign shootings, he could not get bank loans, etc.

 

Okay, firstly. Let’s talk about the indignities that Sanjay Dutt went through. The media (which Katju is supposed to monitor as part of his real job, by the way) has been following Dutt since the time he was first jailed. It has created a ‘bad boy’ image for him, something he has exploited in numerous films. His case was fought for by Ram Jethmalani, that paragon of justice and equality, which obviously is what he means by ‘indignities’. Incidentally, a 71 year old woman Zaibunissa Qazi, was charged with the same crime (possession of arms) but since she did not have the entire nation asking for mercy, she was charged with TADA. For the same crime, all the others get booked under TADA, but not Sanjay Dutt.

Over the years, Sanjay Dutt was paid crores to act in unintelligent films like ‘Waah! Life ho to Aisi’ and ‘Rudraksh’ – inflicting mental torture on viewers after having them pay for it. He enjoyed a luxurious life of cars and bikes, and if the media is to be believed, is paid 5-7 crores for each of the 4-5 films he signs every year. India’s Per Capita Income has been marked as Rs. 5,729 per month. This guy earns 30 crores a year, and you say he needs to be pardoned because of the indignities he faced, like asking the court’s permission to leave the country?

 

b. Sanjay Dutt has already undergone 18 months in jail.

Hmmm. Alright. So the punishment is ‘not less than 5 years in jail’, which comes to 60 months. He has served 18 months. With the gift of Mathematics that Justice Katju is endowed with, he has arrived at the conclusion that 60 – 18 = 0. LHS = RHS. Hence Proved. The law might not be equal for everybody, Mr. Katju. Thankfully, Mathematics is.

 

c. Sanjay Dutt has got married, and they have two small children.

Katju should get a Booker Prize and a big pack of Diary Milk Silk for this point. He has gotten married and has kids. Yeah. So? The nation, its judicial system, and penal code, should bend over backwards to forgive this guy. Because he put his life at risk to have kids?

Dawood Ibrahim is married with kids, as is Chhota Shakeel. How about we pardon them too? If that is one of the points on which you demand he be pardoned, what about the rest of our criminals? With a population nearing 200 crores, why don’t we make a list of all the criminals with kids, and then pardon them? Mental fellow!

 

d. He has not been held to be a terrorist, and had no hand in the bomb blasts.

This is again baffling. A few years back, Justice Katju was part of the bench that gave bail to Binayak Sen. Binayak Sen is a doctor who was working in the interiors of the jungles of Jharkhand. He was charged with sedition and conspiring against the state. Katju said that ‘mere membership of a banned organisation would not make a person a criminal under the TADA”. Now, Sanjay Dutt was booked under the same case, TADA. He was accused of purchasing firearms from the propagators of the 93 blasts. And not just a mere pistol, mind you. Abu Salem and co-accused Riyaz Siddiqui delivered 9 AK – 56 rifles and some hand grenades, and later a pistol. And then, people say he wanted to protect his family. Against what? The Chinese Army??

In another point that no one brings up amidst the bonhomie, Dutt was known to be close to the gangsters. The pistol he purchased was given to him by Anees Ibrahim, Dawood’s brother. Also, Outlook in 2002 released a series of transcripts where Dutt speaks to Chhota Shakeel, calling him ‘bhai’, talking about film projects, and asking him to ‘fix’ some people in the industry. When you know the entire nation is looking for a person for the death of more than 300 people, and you keep in touch with him over the phone and ask for his blessings, doesn’t it cast some shadows on your character? But of course, Mr. Katju could just put it down to some extra social networking. That’s all!

 

e. His parents Sunil Dutt and Nargis worked for the good of society and the nation. Sunil Dutt and Nargis often went to border areas to give moral support to our brave jawans and did other social work for society.

This is again a load of bull. Being a Supreme Court judge, could Mr. Katju show me one document, one legal instance or ruling where someone was pardoned because his parents were good people who worked for the society? They might have done social work, but isn’t the point of a law and legal system to punish someone for their own crimes, and not forgive them for the virtues of their parents? Are we living in the times of Krishna, where Shishupala was pardoned because his mother was a noble person?

What sort of a fucked up logic is this?

And finally, the greatest point of them all, aptly titled “f”.

f. Sanjay in this period of 20 years has through his film revived the memory of Mahatma Gandhi and the message of Gandhiji, the father of the nation.

Really, Mr. Katju? He revived the memory of Mahatma Gandhi? By acting in a film where he imagines Gandhi giving him advice? Going by the same logic, Raj Kumar Hirani should be smiling right now. He can go and shoot Anu Malik for the terrible music in Munnabhai MBBS and get away with it. After all, he was the director, the captain of the ship, right? He was responsible in keeping the memory of Gandhi alive.

Also, Ajay Devgan and Bobby Deol for Bhagat Singh, Sunny Deol for Chandrashekar Azad, Aamir Khan for Mangal Pandey, and Rajpal Yadav for Hero – Love Story of a Spy? How about we give them all some immunity because they kept the memories of our heroes alive? And going by the same logic, Manoj Bajpayee and Nawazuddin Siddiqui should go to jail for their roles in Gangs of Wasseypur, no?

The fact is that the same law through which you earned your bread and butter, Mr. Katju, is strong enough to refuse you your shallow demands. It will stand true on its own, in spite of the sycophantic ass-licking that the entire nation seems to be engaged in.

It’s true that Sanjay Dutt is not a terrorist. It’s true that he did not purchase the guns to shoot people. But he did it fully aware of the repercussions, and of the identity of the people he bought them from. For every Sanjay Dutt, there are thousands of convicts who do not have access to top lawyers, or the comfort of hundreds of crores to keep their families comfortable while they serve their sentence.

You should be ashamed, Mr. Katju. Being an icon in legal circles, you have shattered every ounce of respect I had for you.

Welcome to the 90% Club, Mr. Katju. We are all idiots, aren’t we?

Interviewing P. Sainath

It was one of those days when you think nothing special will happen. I was sitting in my room when I saw a mail from a professor.

“Dear Hriday, P. Sainath will be in the University. Could you come up with a list of questions to interview him?”

My jaw dropped.

***********************************************************

P. Sainath has been a crusader in print media, and a legend in journalistic circles. He heads the Rural Affairs section of The Hindu, and you might not believe this, but before him, not a single paper even carried a page on Rural Affairs. His book ‘Everybody Loves a Good Drought‘ won the Pulitzer Prize and with the money he has set up an organisation that encourages journalism among rural youth. He spends about 300 days a year in rural areas, and you won’t see him on television channels on news panels.

I was excited.

I started preparing my list of questions a few days in advance.

I had only seen a few of his interviews on YouTube, and they were all either speeches he was giving at some event, or interviews to people who were probably recording through their mobile phones.

And I noticed he wasn’t the most curt of people. He would randomly throw in words like ‘bullshit’ and ‘fuck’. This was going to be fun!

Now, I have watched interviews and news shows since I was in my Primary School. Since the TV is among the least democratic places at any Indian home, I had no option but to watch news interviews throughout my childhood.

Karan Thapar’s interview of Kapil Dev (which I wrote about here) has remained etched in my mind. It was when I first noticed how much power the interviewer wields over the interview. Arnab Goswami used to fascinate me for a few years, but then I saw him interview Bal Thackeray once, and the way he fell flat and licked his feet like a pussy, made me cringe.

I thought about it a lot. What sort of an interview was I going to conduct?

I didn’t want Sainath to think of the interview as just some random college interview that had some ‘safe’ questions.

Now, let’s talk about the scenario.

It was 2011. India had won the World Cup a few months back. Weeks later, Anna Hazare had started his campaign, and the nation was up in arms. Facebook was full of posts and pictures called ‘I am Anna’, and a few of my classmates unfriended each other on FB because they didn’t agree on Anna’s stance.

I had seen a few interviews of Sainath where he had spoken about how Anna’s recommendation of a Lokpal was screwed, as only the elite could be a member of the Lokpal committee. He meticulously pointed out that none of the members could be democratically elected.

I had a starting point.

Another of Sainath’s pet peeves is the way media functions in the country. He loves to give the example of the India Fashion Week, where 500 journalists covered an event where clothes that were worn by 1% of the country were displayed. At the same time, the number of journalists who cover the farmer suicides in Vidarbha is a pittance.

As a media student, I had my second question.

Upon further digging, I found that on one hand Sainath was proud that the media was partly responsible for starting the anti-corruption movement (something that he had been talking about for years). At the same time, he was angered by how the entire movement had become an event on Facebook, with nepotism and jingoism overtaking logic.

I had found my line of fire !

**********************************************

I sent my questions to the department and apart from a few changes, the list was okayed.

I was to conduct the interview with another classmate, and I had to remind myself that this was not a class debate, and I couldn’t simply stand up and shoot off my opinion. I had to wait and listen, and then ask questions when the person was done.

I read up on how to be a good interviewer. I saw some interviews of my favourite guys – Thapar, John Lipton, Stephen Fry. I imagined how the interview would happen, playing it over and over in my head.

I had long hair back then, and much against my wishes I got them cut. Feeling a bit like Samson without his locks, I stood in front of whatever mirrors were left in our hostel toilets, and practiced my expressions. I put on my pedophile glasses and a new kurta.

You could say, I was suitably prepared.

After his address at the University’s auditorium, Sainath walked into the department.

 

********

 

The interview began slowly, like the first few overs of a Test match.

I bowled a few outside off, and Sainath looked at them carefully, and safely blocked them with a straight bat.

I remember thinking about this analogy. That I was a fast bowler, and if I bowled too safe, I would only get cover drives. I was looking for the lofted six over long on. As I said, I was on my own trip!

The questions got a bit riskier.

I had attended his address, and I tweaked the questions a little bit.

“You had spoken about Gandhi being a prolific journalist. Do you think he would have approved of the Anna campaign that’s going on right now?”

Now, I should admit there is no point to such questions, really. It’s a hypothetical question, and no one would really know for sure. But such questions make for ‘quote-worthy’ replies, and I persisted.

I saw him flinch, and turn away. He sounded a bit agitated. Ha!

As the interview progressed, he got more and more animated.

The topics then moved on to the media, and why the media doesn’t cover news about rural affairs. He had spoken about this a lot, but I thought that for a media college, it had a lot of relevance.

That did it!

He flew into top gear. He spoke about assumed target audiences. About the problem of ‘Paid News’ that plagued every paper in the country. He spoke about the corruption of the Rajas and Kalmadis, and how the lesser reported incidents – the ones that could actually make or break a poor man’s life – were of equal importance.

He spoke about the exalted Liberalisation measures. Of how it might not be as haloed as it is made out to be.

After a point, it stopped being about me vs. him.

He spoke clearly – not once rushing his words, or looking away. He looked straight at me when he talked, and stressed on the words he wanted to stress. Not once did he treat me like some chutiya college interviewer, he never smiled at my questions, or dismissed them away as trivial.

Amidst the lights and the cameras, it somehow felt good. It felt good that he had taken me seriously. Felt good that I had his interest throughout the interview.

The next few questions flew by in an instant, and by the end of the interview, I felt foolish about wanting to spike him.

I thanked him for the interview, and we stood up. He was polite, shook hands, and spoke to the professor.

I stood there, genuinely pleased with myself.

 

**********

After he left, I walked into the studio room, and I saw everyone sitting silently, some with their hands on their heads. I asked them what happened.

They had forgotten to record the sound for the interview.

Not a word from the 30 minute interview had been captured.

I don’t remember if I felt shattered or angry. I just walked out.

I don’t normally tell people that I had once interviewed Sainath. When they ask me for proof, I have nothing to show.

It must still be lying around somewhere, that interview. If you walk into the Communication department at the University of Hyderabad, you might find it in the archives. A video where the people are talking furiously, nodding vigorously – but no sound escapes their mouth.

It’s true what they say. Truth is often stranger than fiction.