Watching the All Stars Cricket League was a strange experience.
Firstly, it wasn’t like I had made a slot in my schedule, marked the day, finished bath and food early, and sat down in front of the TV. Naah.
It was a memory at the back of my mind, something I could always get to, after two beers, and catch up on.
That was what it was about. Catching up.
Catching up with those guys I loved and adored and watched and imitated and cut pictures of and stuck to my scrap book. The guys were getting together once again, and it would be fun to see how they’ve aged.
Strangely, the Indian players didn’t seem to have changed a lot. Sachin played a slow, cautious innings, holding it together, the fear of losing early wickets perhaps too deeply embedded in his psyche.
Laxman swung and missed, and went back to the pavilion before you could say ‘Odomos’. Much like he has been doing for Kochi Tuskers, that team where everybody seemed to have elephantiasis. And Agarkar. Agarkar didn’t do much in the match.
Then there was Sehwag, doing what he has been doing all along. My only pang of regret was that McGrath wasn’t in the opposition. I’d have liked to watch Sehwag cart him across deep mid-wicket, all the way to Alaska.
The Indians were just going about the motions.
The Sri Lankans were at it too. Being efficient and productive, diving around and fielding well, and doing their bit for the team. The Australians were fit and effective. In many ways, it could have been the 90s and the players gotten together for a charity match.
Except for a few things.
Curtly Ambrose.
Curtly Ambrose in my memories was a fearsome, frightful bowler. One who took no bullshit, and gave back in good measure.
Over the years, something happened. I am guessing Ganja.
Curtly Ambrose has metamorphosed into a smiling, swinging guy who doesn’t give a fuck. There must be some greens involved there. Probably because he joined a reggae band after retirement. Probably because his favourite musicians are Bob Marley and Peter Tosh.
But here’s my biggest take-home from the league.
Indians love Pakistani cricketers.
No matter what the Shiv Sena wants you to believe, and no matter how many Pakistanis they ban from playing or performing, the roar you heard when Akhtar came on to bowl, proved that Indians like the guy. The applause that Wasim Akram got when he came on to bowl was further proof of that fact.
I assume if Sachin went to Pakistan, he’d receive the same kind of treatment. It is because we Indians love cricket.
We will play cricket outdoors and indoors. We love Tests, One Days, and T20s.
We will play cricket with cricket balls and tennis balls. When there are no balls, we’ll roll up papers and crunch them into balls.
When there are no papers to tear, we will play book cricket.
The All Stars league was just a way of letting people of my generation revisit their nostalgia once again.
It wasn’t really serious cricket. But who cares?
At least it wasn’t like the IPL, where there is a fake sense of seriousness over trumpets and painted faces.
This was like the cricket matches you play on a team outing with your office colleagues. Nobody cares. It is about playing the game. It is about revelling in it.
A few days ago, I saw my News Feed flooded with posts with Oriya people, about something that happened in Orissa.
Now, this is rare.
If I had to draw a venn diagram of my life, social networking and youtube and internet would be three coinciding circles. If I turn the page over, my home state Orissa would be sitting idle.
It’s like a double life I’m leading.
And it is something that I have felt right from childhood. Since I didn’t study in Orissa, I realised it is never mentioned anywhere. It was almost a Hogwarts-ish place that only appeared during Summer Holidays. Or if a teacher found two of us Oriya guys pinching each other during the prayer session and resorted to a lazy comment such as ‘Aye, you Oriya rowdies. Shut up and keep quiet!’.
However, the last two days have been different. Thanks to Sona Mohapatra’s rendition of ‘Rangabati O Rangabati’ on Coke Studio.
*
Now, let me set a little context here.
Rangabati is not just another song. It has folk roots. But most of my generation in Orissa came across the song during drunken nights on a baaraat.
For someone who is very conscious of how he dances, Baaraats opened the floodgates into the world of wet streets and slithery naagins. Of a random stranger tapping me on the shoulder and communicating in that unique code that only another drunk can understand, the words ‘Kaho Na Pyar Hai’. And then, with gay abandon, I turn around and return the compliment with that step that the Bournvita-drinking superhero immortalised – ‘Kaha Na Pyar Hai’.
Baaraats made me realise that it is all OK.
It is OK to slip and fall. There’ll always be someone to lend you a hand to stand back up on your feet. (Else, you better do it quickly, or else those guys carrying tube lights on their heads will walk around you).
Baaraats taught me that there is no such thing as ‘I’ve had enough’. Even if your liver is overflowing, a little nudge from a friend settles everything in place.
Baaraats taught me that there was no point trying to act decent and Shareef when everybody around you was being Musharaff and Taliban. To let insanity take over.
Rangabati is one of the top Oriya baaraat songs.
Now, if you have any acquaintance with Baaraat songs, you’ll know that there is no scope for frivalities like Political Correctness in that particular genre.
Some of the other songs I remember from baaraats are – ‘Nabama sreni jhiata, chaati ku mo hot karuchi’. (That 9th standard girl, is making my chest hot).
Then, there’s the poetic trick that singers use – when you don’t know if he’s singing ‘hot’ or ‘hurt’ – since they both sound the same in the Oriya accent.
Then, there are philosophical musings – ‘Tu aagaru dekhila jenta, tu pachharu dekhile senta” (How you look from the front, the same you look from the back. A throwback to the ancient dual – Dwaita philosophy in Hinduism).
Then, there are those that cater to purely carnal needs. Those that invoke the importance of alcohol in a person’s life – Daaru daaru daaru daaru de daaru. Those that call out to people from other communities – Ekkada Ekkada Ra. Then, the completely surreal and abstract – Kau to bou ku nou (‘May the Crow Take Away Your Mother’).
In the beginning, I was conscious of what people might think. Worried that someone might take offence to such blatantly offensive songs being played at full blast outside people’s houses.
It was only later that I realised that people had developed internal antennae that helped them to tune out of the proceedings.
Since then, for me, there was no looking back (Unless the guy who was mixing the drinks was at the back of the baaraat!).
Among all these songs, Rangabati was one of the saner tunes. Just a folk song that people recognised and would raise their hands, and woot, and go back to dancing to.
Some of them said she had corrupted the song. Some others said they preferred the older version of the song. Still others said they had problems with her pronunciation of the words (even though the lyrics are not mainstream Oriya, but a dialect called Sambalpuri).
I don’t get this.
I mean, Coke Studio has historically been a platform for songs to mate with other genres and styles. It’s not Folk Studio, for heaven’s sake. And yes, those two Tamil rappers seemed to have zapped in from nowhere, and were rather annoying, but hey, it’s just a song, man.
It’s somebody’s interpretation of the song. Something the person thought might sound good.
If you don’t like it, skip it. Watch something else on YouTube. Why spread venom and hate in the Comments section?
Also, in Syria, Islamic State is beheading men, women and children. In Pakistan, children are being shot while taking classes in school.
The World Cup that begins today feels like a birthday that comes close on the heels of a wedding.
I do not feel the surge of excitement that I did for the earlier World Cups.
It’s strange how World Cups have acted as pegs to hang my memories on. Any particular year I think of, its association is deeply embedded with the nearest world cup. World Cups have acted as bookmarks in my mind, sorting things out, giving me a quick recap of what was what.
I began following cricket from the 1996 World Cup.
Before the Wills World Cup, memories of cricket are hazy. Cricketers dressed in white, playing cricket on a hot afternoon – Shastri and Kapil and Srikkanth. A few television ads for Dinesh Suitings and Palmolive Shaving Cream.
The Wills World Cup got me hooked to the game.
I was in Primary School, and didn’t watch a single match in the entire tournament. Yet I got my information from two sources – letters from home with updates about India’s matches. And a teacher named Shruti Raja.
She taught us Maths, and was one of those rare Maths teachers who didn’t try to pull out your appendix if you didn’t know 7 Table. She regaled us with stories of her trips to Paris, and bubble-baths that she enjoyed, and other colourful tales that caused mayhem in my mind.
During the World Cup, she would give us updates about the matches. It was the first time I heard the names Azhar, Tendulkar, Jadeja – my first heroes. The passing of information was very basic. She would walk into the class and announce – “Boys, India won the match”.
Yay!! An eruption of cheers followed, even if the only thing we knew about the situation was that we belonged to India.
She would then add some frugal details, like “Srinath took four wickets”, or “Jadeja scored a fifty”, which was followed by more cheers.
But I had no idea about the format, the counties that played in the tournament, or what the World Cup actually was. It was when I went home that year and found an Outlook 96 World Cup special that my interest in cricket was born.
It was a beautiful edition – pictures and articles and team profiles and opinion pieces. I remember going through each and every team profile, and I could tell you all the players from all the teams. It was like a magical Hogwarts book, a world I could dive into when I wanted.
I brought the magazine back with me to school. I began playing cricket, following it through The Hindu, and generally fantasising about sharing the dressing room with Sachin Tendulkar one day.
That time when Bengalis behaved like Khap Panchayats.
1999 World Cup : Teenage was arriving at the horizon. Along with pimples, sly thoughts of the sexual kind, and a generally more holistic knowledge of cricket, the 1999 world cup gave me a glimpse of what cricket meant to Indians.
It was the time of Indipop music. Of Come On India, Dikhado…duniya ko hilado. It was also the time when Britannia ran its extensive Britannia Khao World Cup Jao (Passport kya tera baap dega) Offer.
The company from Hungerford Street had decided to tempt gullible young cricket fanatics like me into gulping down packets after packets of biscuits and cakes with the hope of going to England to watch the world cup.
Like an idiot, I fell for it. Any money I saved was spent on Tiger biscuits. I’d eat those shitty biscuits, telling myself it would all be worth it when I meet Deba in London and discuss the nuances of cricket with him.
The 99 World Cup was also the first time I learnt that sports was not just about following a team playing a sport. It was about pain and anguish and hurt and disappointment. Shortly after the world cup, the match fixing scandal broke out. Azhar, my hero, was shamed in front of the entire world. I remember shedding a few tears in a particularly delicate moment. I remember feeling aghast, wondering what sort of a person would do something like that.
The 99 World Cup also taught me that we take cricket very seriously. But teenage was knocking on the door, and I pushed cricket out of my mind, and rushed to open the door.
A picture of the Australian team with the World Cup.
2003 World Cup: This was my Angry Young Kid phase. I think the phase is called Intermediate because at that age, all of us are intermediaries between donkeys and real, thinking adolescents.
I had issues with people, ran away from home, and took up work and residence at a small PCO booth cum travel agency in the outskirts of Bhubaneswar. The PCO booth was located in front of a leprosy colony, and a shady basti called Prem Nagar where eloped love birds built their nests.
Which meant a strange motley crew of people who came in to watch the match on the tiny black and white television. Drunkards, children with fingers missing, teenage mothers holding children with permanently running noses, drunkards, alms-seekers, drivers, and drunkards.
I’d finish school, go back by the school bus, take off my uniform and sneak into my secret dual life. I watched each and every match of that tournament (except Scotland vs UAE sort of matches, for which the guy would never lend his TV).
During the final, I watched with horror as Ganguly chose to bowl after winning the toss. I looked away as tears welled up in my eyes when Sachin lofted a mishit shot off McGrath. I played fervently as rain poured in briefly in the middle overs. I went to bed that night, Sachin’s words ringing in my ears like gigantic cymbals – “I’m happy to receive this award, but I’d have been happier had we won the tournament.”
Another picture of the Australian team with the World Cup.
2007 World Cup: By this time, cynicism had creeped into my system like a virus that originates in Africa and spreads its tentacles to Switzerland. Hurt as I was from India’s disheartening show in the previous outing, I was too scared to invest any emotions into this edition.
Somehow, my feelings seemed to resonate with the Indian cricket team as well. Most of the stars seemed drugged, we lost matches to smaller teams, and didn’t even qualify for the India-Pakistan match in the second round.
Between shitty jobs and scabby relationships, I spent a few hours every day watching the matches, but my heart was looking forward to the sun sinking. And then, when the clock struck 6, I’d rush out to have Bhang. And as the hostel swam in a slow, steady motion, I sat on the cot and looked at the world and smiled.
The 2007 World Cup had nothing going for it. The matches seemed like they were being played in a local park. The commentary was drab, the matches seemed like friendly encounters, a coach was killed mysteriously in the middle of the tournament. It was almost as if the World Cup itself was embarrassed by what was going on.
I couldn’t care less.
2011 World Cup: There has been enough said about the 2011 World Cup. Of how the stage was set to perfection. India matches on weekends, an India-Pakistan semi-final where 5 catches were dropped off a single batsman by the name of Sachin Tendulkar. A final at Mumbai, a six to finish the match.
Much of the World Cup passed by in a drunken, smoky stupor. Old Monk from the local store (you could still find it in Hyderabad at the time), and top notch pot from Dhoolpet, friends with flats where you could drink like Ravana and pass out like Kumbhakarna.
This time, I fell for the blitz. I hummed the tournament’s catchy tune, created my Fantasy team and rooted for them. On the day of the semi-final, I had to drop off my ex-girlfriend at the airport. I was getting messages from friends about Sehwag taking on the Pakistani bowlers, and the trip to the airport and back would take a good two hours.
As she looked at me with her lovely doe eyes, I told her I couldn’t do it. I asked her to go to the airport by herself. I have often questioned myself if I did the right thing. If I was a selfish bastard. If things would have turned out otherwise…
But when I reached the room and saw Sehwag belt five fours off an Umar Gul over, I forgot about everything and settled in front of the television.
When Dhoni hit the final six, I felt a sense of calm. I felt vindicated for all the years I had invested in the sport. All the hours defending Sachin Tendulkar against morons who considered Ganguly to be the greatest Indian cricketer. The hours spent hunting for the score, the awkward hanging around paan shops to watch the match after buying a packet of Tiger biscuits for three rupees.
I had invested so much in the sport, and it all came together beautifully when Sachin was hoisted on top of his teammates’ shoulders. I ran downstairs to the streets and found people dancing. I joined them and danced, in spite of my two left Jeetendra feet.
I watched as a crazy fan waving an India flag jumped on to the back of an APSRTC bus. But time, tide, and APSRTC buses wait for none, and the man had to come walking back an hour later, the spring in his step lost somewhere near Jubilee Hills.
I drank myself to sleep and crashed some time in the night. Cricket had given me back everything I had given it.
Sreesanth be like ‘Eeeeee, now let me fix matches in the IPL heeheehee’. Gandu saala!
2015 World Cup: This time around, I am too old to do it.
I can’t take the glossy advertising campaigns, the stupid jingoism associated with every cricket world cup. I can’t take the Pakistan-bashing, the lame jokes, the waking up early and sleeping late to catch each and every match. I can’t take two nine-hour matches everyday, and the gigantic dhobi-bundle of statistics that every World Cup dumps on my head.
I am too old for that shit.
This year, I’ll be watching cricket for the sake of the game. I will pick and choose games that I like, irrespective of whether India is playing in them or not.
I love tournaments played in Australia. The commentary is better, the stadiums are beautiful, the ball bounces up to a good level. There are spectators lazing about, drinking beer, running to catch the ball, laughing heartily when it slips right through their hands.
I am going to watch the tournament like that pot-bellied Australian you see on the screen – sipping his beer, waving his hand, drunk out of his wits.
I am going to support South Africa and New Zealand. If India wins, good. If it doesn’t, too bad.
I remember this one particular man who would walk in to watch the matches in Munna Travels (where I watched the 2003 World Cup). He would sit at the back, stoic and composed, indulging in a smile every once in a while when he saw us go berserk. I would wonder how he could watch the match so passively.
I am that guy now. I will sit back and smile.
You are free to go crazy.
I have retired as a cricket fan. Let the youngsters have their fun.
Long long ago, before television became about quarreling women and fake reality stars, television was a much saner experience. Adding most of the sanity to the hallowed rectangular box was a programme called Amul Surabhi.
From 1993 – 2001, Amul Surabhi acted as the window to the world for middle class Indians. Presented by Siddharth Kak and Renuka Sahane, the show presented well-researched segments on history, cultures, science, sports and music. It was a show that the elders of the house wouldn’t miss for anything in the world, and sitting down to watch the show would earn children some brownie points for the immediate future.
This was the age before SMS, call, like, share and subscribe. The only way to reach out to Surabhi was through post, by writing a letter to the show. There was a sense of belonging that Amul Surabhi brought in to television viewing. People would send in artefacts created by them. Sometimes, letters of appreciation would be read out, while at other times, errors pointed out by viewers would be graciously acknowledged.
I was watching one episode where a girl named Shazia writes to the show. So inspired was she by their section on underwater life, that she had decided to research on it. Renuka Sahane immediately announced that all the research material that the show had collected on underwater life, along with the footage, was being shipped to Shazia!
While such moments brought warmth to the heart, there was another reason for which I watched the show. Surabhi being among the most popular shows of the time, their weekly contest was much coveted for. And what prizes they were!
Trips aboard the Orient Express – the luxury on wheels train, stays at premium hotels in travel destinations from Rajasthan to Kerala, goodies worth 1000 rupees (in 1993, mind you) from Amul. And in case of the bumber prize, a fully paid trip to South Africa, Greece, and other such exotic locations!
You can imagine the dreams they triggered in us. Every week, someone in the family would be allotted the responsibility of noting down the question (‘No, you give it to her. She can write fast, na’). While there was general excitement about the question, I had been possessed by dreams of my own. My hopes were pinned on the one item –
Kinetic Luna.
Kinetic Luna was generally the 3rd prize, but it had captured my mind in a way that the magnificient palaces of Rajasthan, or the lush backwaters of Kerala coudn’t.
I had seen advertisements for Luna on television, and had been suitably impressed. It didn’t seem intimidating (like the Rajdoot and Bullet), appealing to the slim and let’s just say, agile like me. I had also seen a number of Lunas on the road, and the humble moped had acquired decent street rep in quick time. It was supposed to give you good mileage, and it was easy to ride. It had pedals, so if you ran out of petrol, lalalala you could always cycle your way back home. And then, it was very handy for carrying luggage. In fact, if you loaded up a Luna to its maximum capacity, people might mistake you for Nadir Shah, returning home after ransacking Agra.
Also, I knew some relatives who had not one, but three-three Lunas at their home. What freedom, what joy! I envied them as they rode by themselves on Thursday evenings for bhajans – the wind in their hair, vibhuti applied over the forehead – coolness was made of stuff like this!
Having decided that it was the Luna that I aspired for, I had my task cut out. I had to find the answer to the weekly question. The only problem was that the questions weren’t dumb, like the contest questions of today: What do you need to score a girl? A: Axe Effect B: Tax Effect C: Wax Effect. Screw you.
Amul Surabhi’s questions were dug out from the deep pot of knowledge that appeared in the promos. Unearthed from this great treasure, was a question that required you to run around, to pursue its answer with passion and perseverance.
There was no Wikipedia, no internet. One had to remember the question, and spend the next few days hunting for the answer, a knicker-clad Indiana Jones bustling about in every home. One had to request to be taken to a library, or heckle a knowledgable relative, or go to a Book Fair in quest for the answer. You had one week to send in your answer, and parents were lending their support like typical 90s parents. “Arey, you can’t trust this postman-vostman fellows. You better send it in 2-3 days, what if there is a strike?”
After spending a few days finding the solution, one had to scribble down neatly write down the answer on the yellow Competition Post Card (sold at the nearest post office), and send it to Sawaal Jawaab, Amul Surabhi, Post Box No. 2453, New Delhi – 11.
Having gingerly dropped the post card in the shiny red box, the rest of the days were spent in flights of fantasy. My Luna!
My green, shiny Luna that I would ride on. Zipping through the streets like Jackie Shroff in his youth, charming one and all with my daredevilry. Riding on it into the sunset like Alexander the Great, my faithful Luna, that I would use to rescue people in distress. And sometimes, if my friends requested, I would even let them ride pillion behind me (but not all the time, for one doesn’t want them to get used to the luxury).
And then, in two weeks, it was time for the results to be declared!
The lights would be switched off, and the melancholic signature tune would float out of the magic box. Renuka Sahane and Siddharth Kak would smile, and inform us of all the wonderful things they would tell us about on today’s show. Interesting snippets from history, an exciting new excavation that sheds light on our glorious ancestors, and the beautiful apple gardens in Himachal Pradesh. And all the while, I’m fidgeting on the floor, thinking ‘Yeah yeah, India is a beautiful country, now let’s talk about the prizes’. And three rounds of advertisements, and a good number of nails on my fingers bitten off, Renuka Sahane would smile and say, ‘Now it is time for the weekly contest’. My back would stiffen.
Voiceover: This week, we received 48,986 letters in total (accompanied by footage of men carrying letters in suitcases). ‘Out of which, the number of correct replies were 4,756’ – shot of the letters being sorted out, cut to Siddharth Kak and Renuka Sahane sitting in front of a huge pile of yellow, 15 paise post cards, with names, addresses, and middle class dreams scrawled on the back.
‘We will choose four lucky winners for this week…’ and as Renuka Sahane slipped a delicate hand into the heap of letters, I handed over a quick mental prayer to all my favourite gods. My Luna was the third prize, so I waited with bated breath…
And the winner is, (Renuka Sahane would pick a post card, show it to the camera, the camera would zoom in…)
“…Random Kumar, from Nashik”.
My heart sank, but not for too long.
“…cos now it’s time for this week’s contest question…”
I would run to grab the notepad and Reynold 045 Fine Carbure. Another question, another expedition for knowledge, another date with the Luna.
*
I never won the Kinetic Luna.
In fact, I learnt to ride the bicycle quite late in life. In Class 3, while my classmates were zipping around in sleek, red BSA Mongoose bicycles for the annual cultural event, I was put in a dumb drill called ‘Horse and Stars’. Which involved running around with a plastic horse head attached to a stick, in between one’s legs (10/10 for symbolism), AND gigantic golden stars stuck on both of one’s palms.
Even today, when I see a Kinetic Luna zipping about carelessly on the road, laden with bags, vegetables, and fruits, I feel a tinge of pain. But then, I notice the cop whistling at the Luna and asking him to pull over, and I feel alright.
*
Amul Surabhi. Kinetic Luna. Simpler days with simpler daydreams.
Even now when I watch episodes of Amul Surabhi on YouTube, nostalgia often gives way to some pain, hidden in remote corners of the heart. I put my faith in you, Amul Surabhi, and you never returned my love.
You never chose my letter, Renuka Sahane. And Siddharth, you can suck my Kak.
*
(Crass jokes such as the above would never feature on Amul Surabhi. It was a classy show. Just saying)
We all have skeletons in our closets – big, small, heavy, or inconsequential.
I have a giant Smriti Irani-sized skeleton in mine. Why?
Because I used to watch saas-bahu serials as a kid.
Yeah, go ahead. Snigger.
*
Around the time when the saas-bahu genre was at its zenith (the late 90s, early 2000s), I was among its billions of consumers who stayed up waiting to watch what would happen the next day. I watched Kkusum, Kahaani Ghar Ghar Ki, and Kyunki Saas Bahu Thi (in that order, not as if I had a choice in the matter).
With the school’s subtle hints at avoiding TV and films during holidays, my folks ensured I was insulated from all sorts of bad in the world by locking up the TV in an almirah. But they couldn’t do the same with my relatives and so during summers, I stayed at their place and got a glimpse of the evil world that lay in store for me.
It began in a very inconsequential manner – I would be reading the newspaper in the same room, and look up every now and then to see what was going on. Gradually, they expect you to be there when the show starts. On a good day, they even call you into the room when the tunes of the title song begin playing.
On days when I had done something evil (like not going to a temple to attend bhajans), I did not have the license to watch the serials unabashedly. I would lie down on the cot and squint out of the corner of the eye. Or pretend to be asleep, my ears eagerly soaking in every word that the television offered.
And on a good day, I would sit bang in front of the television and gape right at it.
The stories affected me.
When Kkusum faced problems at work, I rooted for her success. If only that smug asshole boss of hers would appreciate the problems she faced back at home. And why were Om’s and Parvati’s children being such nutcases? Why couldn’t they see that their parents had their best wishes in mind? And poor Tulsi. Why wouldn’t Gomzee just see that his mother is only looking out for his best interests? That Ganga might not be as innocent as she plays herself out to be? Why do they not understand? Why? Why??
But cruel as life is, just when I was comfortable with the storylines and the characters – Bam! –summer holidays would end. Come June, and I had to return to the school. There was just one another guy in the class who watched TV serials (or at least admitted to it). I discussed as much as I could with him, informing him of my theories, and listening to his justifications.
In the next ten months, I would think of the shows fondly, wondering what was going on. I thought of the characters and their lives. The songs ran in my head every once in a while, and after carefully ensuring there was nobody around, I would hum the tunes under my breath.
There was simply no information about my favourite shows anywhere, it was like Azkaban in a way. Normally, newspapers have an entire page devoted to TV shows, some of them even venturing into broad summaries of the week’s proceedings. But The Hindu being The Hindu, it chose instead to regale us with the latest figures of buffalo vaccinations in the state, leaving banalities of TV shows to lesser newspapers.
But when you are a teenager, you have other things on your mind, you move on with life, stumbling through your obstacles. And just like that, the ten months of school would be over, and I would be back again, at home.
Now, going back to a TV show was tricky as hell.
Firstly, I couldn’t simply plop myself in front of the television and start watching the shows. I had to prove that I had better things to do, and was watching the shows only because I had no other option.
So I would spend the afternoons doing the stupid homework that the school gave, reading novels on the sly, or cycling like a maniac out on the roads. Afternoons seemed like molten wax flowing down a slide at an agonizing pace. Evenings sped past a little faster, and when it was night, the theme songs would waft into the room, I would pick up the newspaper, and walk into the TV room innocuously.
But that wasn’t the end of the complications. Half the characters from last year would have simply vanished from the show. Some of them were dead, some had come back from the dead, others had gone through a plastic surgery, or leaped 20 years ahead in time.
And it wasn’t as if I could simply turn around and ask, ‘Mother dearest, what happened to Tulsi’s nephew, that Sahil fellow?’
So the first week back at home involved stock-taking. I had to deduce what was happening, grasping at strings of hints that the show offered me, drawing links and analyzing family relations. In the absence of a Wikia or the internet, I had to use my superb deduction skills to understand the characters.
And just when I got comfortable and involved in the lives of others – Bam! – back to school again.
*
And so the cycle went on and on.
But when you reach your late teens, you have other issues at hand. Pimples, shitty jobs, and a girlfriend.
I stopped watching home-grown TV shows, opting instead for F.R.I.E.N.D.S because a girl I had the hots for in college kept raving about it. A friend of mine had a ten DVD set of the series, and I simply had to slide the colourful chapathi into the machine and watch all the episodes one after the other.
The only TV show that I began watching earnestly on cable television was Kyle XY, which I later learnt had gotten horrible reviews and was stopped after two seasons.
Somehow, I did not have the same connection with angrez shows. Yes, they were funny, and moving, and stirred parts of my body that Tulsi and Parvati would not dare consider, but they weren’t my own. They belonged to a different culture, a different universe.
And then, came Game of Thrones.
Having first heard of it across a bonfire with Old Monk in my hand, I had stayed away from the show since I had never felt a connect with the fantasy genre. But the raves got too much to handle last year, and I finally decided to give the show a chance.
So hooked was I, that I began reading the books, and having finished all of them, am one of the legions of fans who prays for the long life of George RR Martin on a daily basis.
Even if I know what’s going to happen in the next episode, I wait for it with bated breath. In spite of torrents, I still whip up imaginary scenes in my head, wondering how this line will be said, and how that character will be slashed at the neck.
In spite of all the TV shows and films that are floating around in the clouds for me to pick off and enjoy, I still long for Monday, for the next episode of the show.
In a way, it is a revisiting of the days of saas-bahu shows. Of afternoons spent thinking of what had happened, of speculating what is going to happen. Of passing time doing inconsequential things, with a TV show running at the back of my mind.
*
I am seated across a friend, telling him of my thoughts.
‘But you do realise that this is true of every show, right?’
‘As in?’
‘As in, everybody who watches a show waits with baited breath for the next episode…?’
‘Yeah, but…’
‘It’s just that you haven’t watched a TV show in decades, and now that you have, you keep romanticising the fuck out of it.’
The woman walks up to the phone and picks up the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Tisca?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Haha…jhakaaaas. It’s me.’
‘Hey! Anil. Long time.’
‘Hey, Tisca. You want to act in a serial? I’m also in it.’
‘Uhm…no, Anil. Ab woh din kahaan rahe?’
‘Hey come, no? It’ll be fun. Mandira is also there. And Anita Raj also. It’ll be like the old days..’
‘Oh…ok. But what about the producers and all…?’
‘Haha..I’m the producer…haha jhakaaaAASSSS !!!!’
*
For those who generally have lives, I would like to bring to your attention that the television show 24 recently concluded on Colors TV.
I have always maintained that it is impossible to watch Indian television for more than on hour. But since each episode of 24 is 45 minutes, I watched it.
Based on the American franchise of the same name, each season of the show has 24 episodes, depicting 24 hours in the life of a cop. Anil Kapoor, who acted in one of the seasons of the American version, brought the show to India.
I began watching the show, and interestingly, during the promotion, Anil Kapoor spoke about how the technicians on the show are from America and its all being done professionally and it will be something that hasn’t been seen on Indian televisions yet.
I was curious to see how the story would be adapted to an Indian context.
And boy, did they adapt!
*
Let me begin with a brief introduction of the characters in the show.
The show is about Anil Kapoor who plays an officer in the Anti Terrorist Unit, who has to protect the life of a young politician who’s to take oath the next day as the Prime Minister of the nation.
Aditya Singhania: A Prime Minister in waiting. This person belongs to a family that has been involved in politics for years, and looks like a 40 year old, moderately good looking person. He’s always dressed in khadi jackets and has a somber expression on his face, which could be due to the fact that his father was assassinated in a conspiracy.
Naina Singhania: Is Aditya’s mother. She controls the party and is a sharp, shrewd woman.
Divya Singhania: Is Aditya’s sister, who is married to a businessman. She is a wise person, and is often the voice of reason for Aditya.
Prithvi Singhania: Is Aditya’s cousin. He is a loudmouth, someone who schemes against Aditya.
Rahul Singh: Aditya’s brother in law, doesn’t do much on the show. Appears once in a while, but is generally shown as a useless guy with some shady deals.
Ravinder: Is an outlaw militant leader, who is dark, has a thick moustache, and speaks with a Tamil accent. He leads an outfit called LTFE, and they’re trying to assassinate the Prime Minister in waiting.
Well played, guys. Very subtle. Take a bow-wow.
*
But then, if they were going the whole hog, why couldn’t they go all the way? Why take half measures?
You know what would have hooked me on to the show?
If they had someone play Sanjay Gandhi.
‘Cos if they did, the show would have to be rechristened 48.
For Sanjay Gandhi was the most colourful personality in the most celebrated family of the most densely populated nation in the world.
*
While most in our generation wouldn’t know much about Sanjay Gandhi, reading up on him is a fascinating exercise. It’s a life that’s straight out of a Darren Arofonsky movie.
The eldest son of Indira Gandhi, Sanjay was very comfortable in his skin as the scion of the family.
Having an interest in automobiles, fast cars, and airplanes from childhood, Sanjay Gandhi was given a three year internship with Rolls Royce, without even a college degree. He decided to skip in the second year and returned to India.
In 1971, Sanjay Gandhi was allowed to found Maruti Udyog, the company which partnered with Suzuki to produce a ‘People’s Car’. The once ubiquitous Maruti 800 was born from the project, but while Sanjay was alive, not a single car was produced. The one singular car that was exhibited stopped running after a distance.
With the declaration of the Emergency, Sanjay Gandhi was touted to be the most powerful person in the nation. Without so much as an official position of power in the country, he transferred officers, set up offices, dismissed people – as and when it pleased him.
After a trip to Europe, he found the slums of Delhi too dirty for his taste, and had over 70,000 people evacuated to the other side of the Yamuna. In the protests, over 150 people died. When Kishore Kumar refused to perform at an event, his songs were banned from the All India Radio.
With desires like wanting to open casinos in the Himalayas, Sanjay Gandhi started a number of programmes and initiatives. Like the one thing that people associate with him even today – the Compulsory Sterelization programme. Since the population of the country was increasing at an astonishing rate, people were offered gifts to voluntarily sterilize themselves. When that didn’t work out, the programme turned into a bizarre scenario where government doctors were given targets to sterilize people. Thousands were sterilized, many of them involuntarily.
Sanjay Gandhi’s death was as eventful as his life. He was flying an aircraft, trying to perform a loop over his office. The plane crashed and an Air Force captain died with him.
*
Now, my dear writer brothers and sisters, if you are portraying the entire family anyway, why not go the whole hog?
It’d be so cool to have a total badass on the show.
A guy who does whatever he wants to do. And they should have cast Asrani to essay the role. Or Sanjay Kapoor.
The character should have gone batshit crazy on the show. Like getting Shweta Tiwari to do an item number in the middle of show. Just because.
Or show him shooting some cops, paragliding from the Parliament, and then becoming Monkey Man in the night to terrorise innocent residents.
Now that, would have gotten my attention.
*
Sadly, creative thoughts are seldom appreciated in our world.
So the show went about its motions. Anil Kapoor ran around and looked serious. And in the 24 most important hours in the life of the top ATU officer, his wife confronts his colleague about their past relationship.
You know, kyunki wife bhi kabhi girlfriend thi.
*
*Tring tring*
The man looks a little fat, but his good looks can melt wood and metal alike. He walks to the phone and answers it.
‘Hello? Kaun hai be?’
‘Haha. Kaisa hai boss?’
‘Oye, bidu. Bata, kaisa hai?’
‘Oye, Jackie. Acting karega? Mera show hai. Second season aa raha hai.’
It was inevitable that Indians would love Coke Studio.
The concept that began in Brazil, attempted to bring musicians of two genres together, as a fusion. It then moved to Pakistan, and thanks to YouTube, millions of Indians watched the Coke Studio productions.
Why would Indians lap up Coke Studio?
Because saar, we have no music industry only. Indipop is dead, and classical music and rock belong to very small segments. Most of the music we listen to is film music. In fact, everything is film music.
And till a few years back, all our film music would be the same set – lead singers, drums, some synthesiser, and chorus. Of course, the last few years have been slightly better, but essentially all the music we listen to is made for films. Which means that there is an image we have in mind, there is a context in which the songs appear. Which doesn’t make it music in the true sense. There is nothing to interpret or make out of it. It’s an accompaniment to some moronic film.
Coke Studio Pakistan, under the guidance of Rohail Hyatt as Producer, churned out one beauty after another. Whether it was the stranglehold on your senses by Rahat Fateh Ali Khan in Garaj Baras, or the rustic sound of Jugnoo, every song had it’s own personality. It told a story.
Also, I think, when something is nice in Pakistan, Indians immediately feel a certain connect. I mean, the guys look like us, we use the same words in our songs, and even the instruments are the same. They have Wasim Akram, and we have Sanjay Manjrekar. They are our brothers, only.
And when it was announced that MTV and Coca Cola were bringing Coke Studio to India, I was anticipating it eagerly.
**************************************
The first trailers of the Indian series appeared one evening on MTV. It had Kailash Kher and a woman singing together.
Even though it was a Friday, I sat in front of the TV at 7 PM to watch it. I was watching it for Kailash Kher, and the whole novelty of it. But after the song was over, it actually felt calm. The song was more noise than anything else.
One after the other, every Friday, MTV spat out one disappointing episode after another. The main problem was that we had heard all the artists earlier. And half of them were singing film songs. Film songs, for fuck’s sake!
In the Pakistan version, relatively unknown artists became heroes – Aik Alif, Alif Lohar, Noori to some extent. Here, the singers were KK, Shaan, Kailash Kher, Shankar Mahadevan.
And then, I realised who the producer was. Leslie Lewis.
Leslie Lewis: Hariharan’s Worse Half
I liked his work in Colonial Cousins, and this time there wasn’t even Hariharan with his honey voice. Leslie Lewis was the guy who had started the Remix trend, ruining my teenage years, and in a way causing the death of Indipop.
Most of the songs were remakes of Hindi films songs. Some of them simply atrocious – like ‘Tum Jo Mil Gaye Ho’, where you start frantically looking for a chainsaw after the first two minutes. Why would you do that?
Why would you show us these guys who we have been listening to for decades? And how was this fusion of any sort?
I stopped watching after the first three episodes, I guess. The guys at Coke Studio even invited Shafqat Amanat Ali to sing for one of the episodes. Things must have been really bad.
The worst wars, of course, were fought on YouTube.
While earlier Indians would comment – “I’m frm India bt I luv Pakistani muziq. You guys rawks!’ on their videos, you now had Pakistani guys replying with “Hey, I’m from Pakistan. This is a good attempt, it is not so bad. I am sure in a few seasons, things will good. Love from Pakistan.”
It was humiliating, in a way. Stale music that should have been called Campa Cola Studio.
I forgot about the entire season till I saw the trailers for the second season on MTV again. I was as excited as a Kaurava soldier going to battle on the seventeenth day of war.
****************************************
The first trailer was a clip of Vishal Dadlani singing with a girl.
The guys at MTV must have realised what a shitfest they had created the last time, so the trailers clearly mentioned that the producers were different for every episode – from Clinton Cerejo to Hitesh Sonik.
I watched the first episode cursorily. But boy, was I pleased!
Clinton Cerejo brought his years of experience in Bollywood and thankfully used none of it on the episode. The episode contained a mix of genres. Nothing was epic, but it sounded good on the ears.
The second episode had Amit Trivedi. Having acquired a cult status for his films, I was a little skeptical. But Trivedi saab managed to surprise me all over again.
There was something different about this season. For one, the musicians seemed to be having fun doing what they were doing. I know all that is just camera work, but the sound was new, and fresh. It managed to surprise me in small, little ways.
I know this is a little late in the day, but I present below my Top 5 songs from the second season:
Punjabi meets jazz in this number that packs a neat little surprise with Shankar Tucker blowing away on his clarinet. Easy tunes accompanied by Trivedi’s trademark backing vocals and sublime interludes. This one was a surprise after Harshdeep Kaur fucked up Tum Jo Mil Gaye Ho last year.
This one is dark and brooding. The slicing voice of the female lead only made the cuts, and when Shadab sprinkled some vintage Indian angst into the song, it was a frothing, bubbling song of anger. This one made the list for the mood it creates on the listener.
3. Chaudhary (Amit Trivedi feat. Meme Khan)
The last time I heard the two collaborate, it was on ‘Aitbaar‘ on ‘No one Killed Jessica’, with explosive results. This time, Meme Khan sings to words written by Shelley. A song that talks about a hapless middle aged zamindar of the village who is smitten by a young girl. I could imagine Khap Panchayats enjoying this song a lot.
But that tasteless joke aside, this song leaves a sweet aftertaste long after it is over.
2. Madari (Clinton Cerejo feat. Vishal Dadlani and Neha Kakkar)
This was the first song I heard of the season and it remains my favourite. Vishal Dadlani would be the last person I would approach to sing a song that has classical touches in it, but the gamble paid off, and how!
Along with Dadlani, was this diminutive singer I had never seen, but definitely heard. A Google search led me to her page. It’s sad that someone as gifted as her should be known as the singer of ‘Babuji Zara Dheere Chalo’.
The song shifts gears when you least expect it, reaching a crescendo in the final lap, a song that is not brazenly clear in the mood it is creating. You could make whatever you wanted of it, and it is this aspect that makes this my favourite among the songs of the second season.
1. Husna (Hitesh Sonik feat. Piyush Mishra)
Having worked under Vishal Bharadwaj for years, Hitesh Sonik is the guy who has produced the music for films like No Smoking, Gulaal, and Omkara. Apart from composing fantastic background scores, Hitesh Sonik also happens to be married to Sunidhi Chauhan.
In this song, the sublime Piyush Mishra – actor, singer, composer, sidekick to Sardar Khan in the GoW movies – performs Husna, a heart-wrenching song about partition. His magical vocals, combined with the subtle but powerful music of the house band, ranks on top of my favourites of the season.
Interestingly, all these guys – Trivedi, Cerejo, Sonik, were all people who had worked in Bollywood for years. And yet, nothing of what they made sounded like it was from a film. For once, I felt happy that there was Indian music that I could listen to when I was high.
Ghar ki murgi tasted better than pardesi daal.
******************************************
But the good things didn’t just end there.
A few days back, Rahman’s first song for Coke Studio Season 3 premiered on YouTube.
If his MTV Unplugged episode was anything to go by, Rahman established that he could give goosebumps to the average Indian once every five minutes. Even better, while the concept of Unplugged is not to use electric instruments, Coke Studio is a compilation of original scores.
I can’t wait for the third season, but I have only one worry.
I have written earlier about my theory – ‘Rahman Knows‘. He always does.
He knows if what you are producing is sincere and from the heart, or you’re just whoring out and signing him for his fame. Anu Malik fusion. Himesh Nose. Rahman Knows.
And I sincerely hope he watched the Second Season of Coke Studio India, and not the first.
Back in my childhood, we had an old, black and white television. Konark was the company, and Gitanjali was the brand.
Like a high school romance, the television was not the best around. But it belonged to me, and my heart belonged to it. It had a knob that you could turn to access 12 channels – a cruel mockery that the government only allowed it one. Under the knob, were three buttons – On/Off and Volume, Brightness, and Contrast. It had a red box, but that was all the colour it had.
I was used to it. To its timings, and to its tantrums. I knew what to do if the picture was blurred (run up to the balcony and shoo away the crow on the antenna), and what to do if it rained (pray to God and promise not to think about Juhi Chawla). We were cool friends – me and the television.
So imagine my surprise one day, when I randomly turned the knob, and found there was a second channel slowly appearing on the screen.
DD Metro.
My world opened up. No more did I have to endure the sober, sedated programs on National. This channel looked a lot cooler, the people wore dresses I could see on the streets, and a language I didn’t feel alienated by.
It was on this wonderful channel, DD Metro, that I saw a young girl sitting on a throne.
She was unlike any other actress I had seen. What right did she have to be singing a song if she wasn’t an actress? And what was with those crazy scenes? One moment it was a durbar, the next there was a snake crawling across the floor, then someone doing yoga.
I hated it. But I watched on like a man transfixed.
**************************
The 90’s are often seen as the years when the floodgates were being opened for the rest of the world. But for us who were too young to figure anything out, all the liberalisation and privatisation didn’t make any sense.
Our revolutions happened in our television sets.
Made in India, the song whose audacity I couldn’t take, but whose tunes I couldn’t wish away, was just the beginning. What followed was a hurricane – Baba Sehgal appeared in the Jumpin ad, Daler Mehndi was making the entire country blabber Punjabi, and a young boy with long hair was singing about the pangs of a lonely heart.
Indipop not only changed the way we listened to music. It also changed the way we watched television.
For the first time, there was no heroine gyrating in the rain, or singing out songs of pain about her love. The tone was spunky, the tunes funky. While television was slotted earlier – the mornings and evenings for news, the afternoon for soap operas, Sundays for films – indipop meant you could watch anything you want. And the earth didn’t come crashing down on you if you walked out of the room and came back ten minutes later.
I remember watching television those days with a sense of awe. I never knew what was going to come up. Since these were not films, no one knew the artists, or the genres they were going to play. What resulted was a heady mix of genres and styles.
If there was Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan singing about Lisa Ray in a bad blouse, there was a gawky Shahid Kapoor saving money to buy Hrishita Bhatt a dress. Dooba Dooba had a band that was slowly sinking into water to symbolise that the singer was drowning in her eyes – tacky now, earth shatteringly profound back then.
And Lucky Ali! That man with the husky voice, and dreamy lyrics, and those crazy, beautiful videos that were shot in locations that made our televisions look really posh.
If there was something about Indipop that made it such a rage, it was that it catered to every category. Tunak Tunak Tun would be followed by Tanha Dil, which would be followed by Ab Ke Saawan. My ears and brain had multiple orgasms on a daily basis.
It also changed the way I listened to music. Belonging to a family that would make a Khap panchayat beam with pride, I had no access to any films or film music. Which meant that I had to wait for someone to get married in my lane so I could listen to songs being played and mug them up. Or go to a friend’s place to watch television or music. Or wait till a kind uncle gave me some money so I could go to a cassette shop.
Oh, those cassette shops!
Side A would have one film, and Side B would have another. You listened to all the songs on one side, and flipped the cassette over. God forbid you left the cassette lying around, and the tape would come out like a snake from Pandora’s Box, and the next few days were spent in screwing the cassette with a Reynold 045 Fine Carbure jammed into it. All this trouble for listening to an Anu Malik song that sounded like two mules mating.
But with Indipop, there was no such trouble. Neelam, or Malaika decided the songs for you, spoke in English, and kept you glued till the song came on. And how they came on!
But obviously, everything couldn’t be so smooth.
For Bollywood, that hydra headed monster was watching. Very soon, it would plan its deadly attack.
**********************
While the Bollywood of the early 90s was an outdated, embarrassingly loud rogue, the Bollywood of the mid and late 90s tried to win back the hearts of the nation.
DDLJ had happened, and India had a hero who did not bash three Pakistanis per second. DDLJ was followed by KKHH, and then DTPH. If the bonfire was slowly dying out, these three films, in one go, put the wood back in Bollywood.
From then on, Bollywood went out of its way to woo the audience everywhere. Songs began to be shot in locations abroad, and the youth reconnected with the films.
Slowly, everybody who was anybody in Indipop started drifting to Bollywood. Shaan, KK, and Sonu Nigam became a part of the Bollywood stable. Baba Sehgal, who had inspired a generation of rappers (even though the elders felt it was gangrap of their music aesthetics), stopped cutting albums.
Hariharan, one half of the beautiful Colonial Cousins, started singing in films. Lucky Ali smoked a lot of pot and moved to New Zealand and married thrice. Palash Sen acted in a film with Sushmita Sen and Daler Mehndi would pave way for his younger brother, someone with such an appreciation of beauty that he had to forcibly kiss Rakhi Sawant at a party.
Slowly but surely, like an octopus patrolling a sea, Bollywood ate up everything that came in its way.
What was a delight on television, slowly became a pain.
Indipop gave way to the Remix Scene. Crappy remakes of crappy songs. With 25 year old girls wearing the clothes of 15 year olds and dancing like 65 year olds.
Magnasound, that record label that started it all, got sued by Asha Bhonsle and filed for bankruptcy. Bollywood started making snazzy videos to entice the youth, who had already been dumbed down when Bournvita Quiz Contest was pulled off air and Derek O Brain went to join Mamta Banerjee’s political party.
Just like that, the dream was shattered.
************************
So today, when I watch a Coke Studio or MTV Unplugged, I watch it with cynicism. I know that the monster is watching too, with bated breath. It just has to stretch its hands out, and the guy will be lost forever – singing songs for 45 year old heroes chasing their daughters’ friends – till there is life.
Music today is film music.
Alisha Chinai is a judge on a fucked up reality show.
Baba Sehgal is the Snake God in a Telugu film called Rudhramadevi.
If you grew up in the era of Doordarshan, ‘Surabhi’, ‘Subah Savere’ and ‘Good Morning India’ will ring gigantic, creaky bells in your head.
I remember watching everything on television – from the time the transmission began at 5 in the morning, to the time it ended at 11 pm. From the friendly aunty giving out the deaf and dumb news, the ascetic professor teaching physics formulae in Gyan darshan, to the middle aged scientist giving agricultural tips in Krishi Darshan. If there was something on TV, I was standing in front of it – watching in awe as the shapes formed themselves and the sounds appeared to jump out of the box.
A few years down the line, the cable television revolution happened. I clearly remember how I heard about it. I used to play cricket in front of our house. One such day, a kid came up to me and said, “How many channels do you get on your tv?”
I looked at him as if he had asked me how many testicles kidneys I had. “Two”.
“We get more then 20 channels”, he said. I am generally sceptical of people, and I took time to believe him as well. I later went to his house, and was amazed to see it on television – in colour. He explained to me that there were channels that showed films all day. Only films. All day. I was shocked.
What about the Sunday evening 4.30 slot? If they showed films all day, how did the family do any work? Didn’t they all just sit as a family and watch all the films day in and day out? And what about those channels that showed news all day? Who watched that channel? Who would watch a channel that showed news all day when there was a channel that was showing films all day? I felt lost, amidst the choices the remote offered, and the questions my brain posed.
In a few years, I was comfortable with cable television. Of course, we had only Doordarshan at home, but my friends at school spoke to me about the marvels of cable television. About Zee Horror show episodes, of MTV albums, of Cartoon Network shows. Eventually, we jumped on to the cable television bandwagon too.
And since I used to watch Subah Savere and Krishi Darshan, when I watched Movers and Shakers for the first time, I was charmed.
I had seen Shekhar Suman in Dekh Bhai Dekh and other shows on DD. Amidst the loud, caricaturish shows on television, his show came as a breath of fresh air.
Firstly, he openly took potshots at ministers, cricketers, and film stars – the holy trinity of our country. I marvelled at the balls of the guy who could mimic Vajpayee, Laloo, Javagal Srinath on national television and get away with it. The jokes were funny, but not insulting.
And then the choice of guests – from artists, to sportsmen, to writers, to musicians, to ad-guys, to poets. For the first time, I felt that we had more than just film stars in our country. And Shekhar Suman had this way of bringing out the best from the guest.
He was cheeky with the younger ones, but reverential to the older ones. I remember watching Pandit Jasraj’s episode. Who would have thought that the man was utterly hilarious? That the man who could churn outsargamslike a cursing rishi, could also be a chivalrous flirt when there was a woman in front of him? Or the episode with Ratna Pathak Shah, or the one with Laloo himself?
Switching between Hindi and English, cheeky and inquisitive, Shekhar Suman managed a certain freshness into the show that kept me glued.
And even though the format was the same as the American talk shows, I found his show much better. I can’t stand the smugness that David Letterman brings into his shows, the whole ‘I’m so funny, you could choke on my dick’ smugness with which he says his jokes. Jay Leno is fine, but repeatitive after a point. But Shekhar Suman mixed the Indian cynicism with a certainAtithi Devo Bhavarespect that seemed to be perfect for the audience.
Apart from Sonu Nigam’sSa Re Ga Ma,this was the only show I would watch religiously.
And then I grew up.
A few days back, I heard that the show was being rebooted.
Shekhar Suman was still there, the format was the same, even the band was the same.
The Curious Case of Shekhar Suman – Age is just a decimal point.
He seems to be getting younger by the years. He somehow looked prosthetic, and the jokes seemed the same, and criticising a politician didn’t seem so sacrilegious anymore.
After 15 minutes, I changed the channel. Probably because it was because I knew there was a hundred other things I could watch. Or probably because he didnt seem like the genuine, cheeky Shekhar Suman anymore.
Or probably because I knew that I could always log into the internet, I could watch a film, play a game, talk to a friend, or stalk someone on Facebook. I dont know what it was, but I just couldn’t connect to the show this time around.
Or may be some feelings are meant for a particular era, not meant to be felt again.
I have never been able to figure Aamir Khan out. One of the other Khan is a money-making machine, and the other is busy being human by killing blackbucks, running over people on the streets, and getting into catfights in the industry.
But Aamir Khan has always been a puzzle. Is he really what he is cranked up to be – a sensitive star, a star with a heart and a brain? Or is it just part of a carefully created image that he painstakingly etches out for himself ? In any case, I have no problems with the films he makes.
When I heard that he has spent 7 crores on the promotion of the TV show Satyameva Jayate, I smiled. A cynical, intellectual smile that hides more than it reveals. I was waiting for the first episode so that I could rip it to shreds and put up a funny post on my blog. I am highly skeptical of people who try to change the country through mass movements.
It’s been a week now, and I can’t think of much to criticise. I watched with a cynical eye, waiting to pounce on anything that I didn’t agree with. I was expecting a sentimental, sensational, tearjerker of a show with lots of slow motion and background music.
Thankfully, I was disappointed. The show is a well-researched show that relies on more than just publicity and the existence of a star as a host to drive home the point. It is also an honest show, and does not resort to gimmickry and manipulation of emotions.
Take the first episode for example. The shot of the boys who did not have any girls to marry was an outstanding point to show the repercussions of what will happen if female foeticide continues at current rates. Dispelling the myth that it is a problem in rural India was another clincher. Over all, it was a show that relied on facts, different perspectives, and knew exactly where to draw the line.
The best part was that the solutions he provided were democratic, fully plausible solutions that could actually do something about the problem. Khan also says that all of us should personally avoid killing a girl child. My main grudge against the Anna Hazare movement was that it was led by a man who has no idea of how things work in a democracy. “Abhishek Singhvi should be hanged if found guilty”. Kyun, bhai? On what grounds?? And no one spoke about how all of us pay off a cop on the road to escape a fine. A nation is its people. If the people do not change, what are you trying to change?
The fact that the show has been dubbed into various languages and is being aired on Doordarshan is commendable. I doubt anyone has had the balls to do something like that earlier.
There will always be critics. Like this intellectual who had problems with the fact that Coke and Reliance were sponsors for the show. One has to understand that a TV programme is a commercial product at the end of the day. The maximum that Khan could do was to request the companies not to feature ads with him, as that would dilute the message of the programme. How does one really have any control over what the advertisers say?
He also says that Khan shouldn’t have called one of the victims on to the show as she was a Muslim and this would give right-wing organisations further points to diss the minorities. For a secular nation, it is ironic that we cannot discuss a single topic without bringing religion into the picture. What a shame!
Then there are those who say that Aamir Khan is paid 3 crores per episode. He should donate that amount first. This is exactly the kind of thing I’d imagine Anna Hazare saying. Are you shitting me? SRK was paid 2.5 crores for hosting a show where people slip and fall into water. Hrithik Roshan was paid 3 crores per episode for a show where people dance to choreographed songs. If he has produced the show, he has the right to take the amount he deems fit, man. What’s the huge, fucking deal? And how profitable do you think it is to air something on Doordarshan? Or dub it into regional languages??
There will always be critics, picking holes and constructing theories. And then there will be those brainless Smart Alecs who claim on Facebook that they haven’t watched the show and somehow feel proud of it. Ignore them.
The show will not change the country. It will not end problems with a magic wand. If anything, it will increase your awareness about some issues in the country.
It was a lazy evening. The sun was setting, and we were sitting on the rocks, and two of my friends were debating on who was the greatest superhero – Superman or Batman?
I just sat back and smiled at their ignorance. These fellows were lightyears away from the truth. The greatest Superhero of all time was not some Marvel of the West. DC ki AC ki taisi.
The greatest superhero was right here. Homegrown, and our very own.
Now wait, all you snobs who read this and sniggered, just you wait. In the next ten minutes, I am going to wipe that smirk off your face.
Here are some of the reasons why Shaktimaan can beat any of the others with his left hand (he is right handed):
Powers: What differentiates a Superhero from a hero? Quite simply the superpowers they have.
The conventional superheroes have a limited set of powers that they exercise when they get an opportunity. Most of these powers are related to strength, speed, agility, or a special weapon. And here is where Shaktimaan beats the others hollow.
HE HAS GOT INFINITE POWERS.
Being a wise man, Gandalf never shows his backside to Shaktimaan.
Every episode of Shaktimaan revealed a new power. He could fly, burn metal with his gaze, crush rocks with his bare hands, among many other awesome things. Now, suppose Superman is flying to Canada to save someone. You construct a huge wall in middle. What does the Man of Steel do? Turn around and risk flying over the Bermuda Triangle. What does Shaktimaan do? He just appears there!
AWESOMENESS TEST #1: DIFFUSE A NUCLEAR MISSILE
How Iron Man does it: Check for speed, velocity, trajectory, impact, and target.How Shaktimaan does it: Bicycle kick
You see, in the 21st century, you cannot fall back on your limited set of powers. You have to innovate and use your mind to work out of problems. And Shaktimaan? Unlimited powers, mofos! Eat that!!
Shaktimaan propogates Indian culture:
As your parents, elders, neighbours, their elders, politicians, TV shows, films, and anyone else will tell you, what makes us the greatest nation in the world in spite of our poverty, illiteracy, unemployment, and corruption, is our culture.
Now, Shaktimaan upholds Indian culture. He never does vulgar stuff (like that Superman fellow flying around in his inners) or He-Man (whose costume and bob-cut blond hair make you wonder – “Is He Man?”)
Shaktimaan was born out of the rays that came out of the foreheads of seven rishis, and hence Indian culture is inherently there inside him. He regularly chants Gayatri mantra, Om, and other such prayers on the show.
Shaktimaan does not have sidekicks and lady loves:
Even though Superman has been around for more than 50 years, the charms of a woman still make him go weak in the knees. Spiderman fellow toh is a big pansy fuck, peeping into a girl’s window in the night. Which superhero does that, man?
A superhero’s life may be awesome, but the one curse they share is that they cannot marry, start a family, and go shopping – maximum they get to kiss the girl in the end of the film, that’s all. Even though they know this, all the superheroes cannot resist the charms of a woman.
Shaktimaan? Hah! He has resisted Geeta’s charms for more than a decade now. He doesn’t indulge in love-shove bullshit (also it’s not Indian culture, ya).
Another thing superheroes suffer is sidekicks. Now tell me, if you are a superhero, why do you need a sidekick? Why not create an army then? Losers! No wonder Batman’s sidekick is called Dick! Shaktimaan is enough by himself, ok? He doesn’t need these daisydicks sidekicks and other distractions.
Shaktimaan has a paunch:
In India, everyone has a paunch. We are a country of extremes when it comes to body shapes – an Indian will either be stick thin, or have a paunch. Shaktimaan, who understands market dynamics (plus the whole rishi forehead – centre of knowledge thing), has a paunch, and has no qualms showing it off.
Shaktimaan packing a paunch
In this way, he gives hope to millions of Indians to aspire to become better, super versions of themselves. And what is this need to have abs and all, man? If you are a superhero, you anyway have superpowers. Why do you need to wake up in the morning and do pushups and crunches? Dumb fellows!
Shaktimaan is concerned about the future of the country:
Shaktimaan has a humane side. After every episode, he advices children on different subjects – like switching off fans and lights before leaving the room. His sole purpose of existence is not just victory of good over evil. He is not avenging his father’s death. He is concerned in creating good citizens for the country.
Also, in the 21st century, one cannot go about breaking bridges and buildings. One needs to think about the environment, sustainable superheroism, and limited resources. This is where Shaktimaan scores over others by a large distance.
Sl. No.
Superman
Spiderman
Batman
Ironman
Shaktimaan
Can fly
Yes
No
No
Yes
Yes
X- Ray vision
Yes
No
No
Yes
Yes
Concerned about Society
Yes
No
No
No
Yes
Free from female distraction
No
No
No
No
Yes
Can you walk around in his costume?
No
No
Yes
No
Yes
Can deal with nuclear attacks
Yes
No
No
Yes
Yes
Loves kids
Yes
Yes
No
NA
Yes
Emit Fire, Water, and use other elements?
No
No
No
No
Yes
Yeah, fuckers! Who is laughing now?
Unfortunately, for all his awesomeness, Shaktimaan was given a raw deal. If it was aired on BBC, we would have had aliens sitting in a dharna demanding him for themselves. Unfortunately, he was on Doordarshan.
And the world forgot about him – the Messiah of the Good, the hero with a heart, fists of steel, and at the same time a khata-peeta khaandan ka ladka.
You were not meant for this age. Your time did not respect you. On behalf of the world, the era, and all the homo sapiens of the earth, all I can say is:
This week saw yet another reality show coming to an end.
There are reality shows created to attract family audiences. There are some that aim to pull at your heartstrings to send SMS. There are some that are mere clones of international shows.
And then there are those that are created so that you can laugh and have a good time. A show with so many morons, you are spoilt for choice. Swayamwar is that one show.
I try to catch it whenever I have the time, it’s that good. So, here’s the concept. There is one celebrity, and he/she/it is wooed by suitors, who get eliminated week after week, till the celebrity chooses her life partner. It began with Rakhi Sawant.
Are you kidding me? Rakhi Sawant and marriage are parallel lines. However, I was surprised that the channel found enough such guys, to make a reality show of. I didn’t expect much from the contestants. If you are on a show wooing to marry Rakhi, I wouldn’t expect you to be a Noble laurete. They did their bit, sang and danced for her, and ran errands and did cute things, and finally she chose this bald guy called Eelesh. This Eelesh guy had a business in Canada, and probably loads of cash. After marriage, there were reports that the dude had defrauded loans in Canada. To the shock of the entire nation, the two of them split.
Then came Rahul Mahajan. Whose claim to fame was being caught with cocaine, beating up his ex-wife, and featuring on Big Boss. I was not very surprised that there were women wanting to marry him – rich, dumb guys are a lucrative lot. Rahul Mahajan clearly loved every minute of it, his smile betraying the sheer joy he received in seeing ten girls woo him. He finally married some chick called Dimpy. A few months later, there were these totally shocking reports of Rahul beating her up and kicking her out of his house.
This time, there was Ratan. I don’t know who she is, apparently some famous TV actress. She is not hot, not even close. Dressed awkwardly and blessed with histrionic abilities of a peepal tree, she looks like the last person one would want to marry. But then, there are the suitors.
All of them from UP and Bihar, each of them looking like pedophiles or closet serial killers. They went about the motions, singing for her, and dancing for her, and digging new depths of tackiness with every episode. There is so much dumbness flying around, it is impossible to miss. Finally, she chose one of the guys, and they smiled as flowers fell from above.
I wonder who they will take next season (Oh yes, there will be another season). Barely being able to conceal my anticipation, I have made a list of eligible bachelors for the next season, and duly mentioned why their candidature deems your kind consideration.
Baba Ramdev: Firstly, there is the R factor (Rakhi, Rahul, Ratan, Ramdev) that works in his favour. There is no doubt left in anyone’s mind that Baba Ramdev is in for the big things in Indian politics. A teetotaler devoid of any bad habits, Baba Ramdev is an ideal candidate, a person deeply rooted in our rich culture. The girl marrying him is ensured of a long, fertile life, thanks to the cures Baba has for cancer, AIDS, homosexuality etc. There’s no need to cook regularly as well, as Baba has shown he prefers ‘fast’ food. The recently purchased island in Scotland is yet another clincher.
Ravinder Jadeja: In the dowry market, a cricketer is a BMW. The bride is ensured of lot of time spent together, as the groom will be busy for only a month a year (and max two months, if the team qualifies for the Champions’ League). He has shown he has a keen head over his shoulders, as the bargaining for higher pay episode showed. Firmly committed and grounded, Jadeja is not the kind to run away from responsibilities. He never runs. Not even when there are three fucking runs needed when India is chasing Australia.
Rahul Gandhi: A few weeks back, just while Manmohan Singh convinced the nation through a press interview that he was not a lameduck PM, Digvijay Singh announced that Rahul is ready to become the PM. If being a cricketer is a BMW in the marriage market, being a Gandhi family son is Ravana’s Pushpa Vimana itself. Impeccably dressed in white, Rahul is no stranger to the camera. He is on the TV everyday, entering homes of the poor, wiping their tears and hugging them – a reality show producer’s wet dream. It could also be the perfect platform for the 2014 Prime Ministerial candidature, and the Congress party could sponsor the show, changing their election symbol – to make it a hand, with mehendi applied to it.
Santhakumaran Psychopanth: Our own Sreesanth needs a homely girl from God’s own country. He needs someone to tell him to relax, someone to tell him that sledging at the batsman, even if he is from Bangladesh, could result in 24 runs an over. He needs a calming influence so that he doesn’t blow away matches with his weird antics. As a person, he is first rate, albeit a little over-enthusiastic. But that can be controlled, as there have been instances when players got irritated with him, slapped him, and then called him their brother the next week. Nothing serious.
Mukesh Khanna: Way back in 1989, a 27 year old Mukesh Khanna stormed into the lives of Indians as the 137 year old Bheeshm Pitamah. While in the serial Bheeshm swore to the heavens never to marry, Mukesh Khanna, known to be an actor who took his roles seriously, did not marry in real life. It would be the ultimate scoop if the channel could get Bheeshm himself to a Swayamwar. They could get him to dress up in his Bheeshm attire as well, for that added effect. Here, one must not forget that Khanna is more than just Bheeshm – he is Shaktimaan. India’s first superhero, and the world’s first Superhero with a paunch. As Shaktimaan, Khanna protected the nation from missiles, evil emperors, and natural disasters every Saturday at 11 AM. Surely the man needs to settle down with a homely wife, it’s about time.
Lalit Modi: Lalit Modi is a total dude. He floated the IPL singlehandedly, earned billions, and when caught, flew to another country, and sent a 10,000 page reply that was carried in four huge cartons. From there, he formed the Sri Lankan Premier League, forcing the BCCI to piss in its pants, and ban the tournament from taking place. Modi guarantees a life of extravagance, and his love for fast cars and exotic ties makes him a valuable candidate. But more than everything, if he is signed for the show, he could do the organizing himself. Get each suitor sponsored by a corporate houses, and introduce Karbonn Kamaal Catch and DLF Maximums in the show.
Kamaal R. Khan: (Link to video) Having nothing else to say, I rest my case.
This week saw another season of Roadies come to an end. I thought people had gotten tired of the show by now, but I had underestimated the tolerance to bullshit that we Indians have. Year after year, Roadies has come up with new concepts. Hell Down Under, Seven Sins, Hell in Africa, and what not. I am waiting for the 10th season when they’ll call it Roadies Dashavatar and call Kamal Hasan as a judge. Kamal Hasan of course, will use prosthetic make up and look like Raghu, Rajeev, Ranvijay, and three of the contestants – two boys and a girl.
And people will still watch it.
Over the years, Roadies has become a phenomenon among the youth of the country. Raghu is no idiot. A pass out from IIM Ahmedabad, Raghu has packaged and marketed the most fashionable item to the youth of the country – coolness.
The youth of India are as such a confused lot. We are confused about whether we are proud or ashamed of our country. We are as confused about our future as about our past, confused about the wide vista of options that liberalisation has laid down in front of us. For such a generation, anything that sets standards of coolness is immediately lapped up. After all, nothing is cooler than cool. And this is where Roadies comes into the picture.
The contestants on the show, are a disillusioned lot. The constant references to the entire country watching the show, and dying to be a part of it, is something I find laughable. I have found this with other shows as well. There are shows called ‘Indian’ Idol and ‘Voice of India’ that do not have auditions in the South of India. Which is understandable, considering they are not a part of your target audience. But stop saying things like the ‘entire country’ and crap. You think the college going Mallu gives a fuck about Roadies when he can ask his friend to hide in a cupboard to shoot steamy MMS with his girlfriend? He doesn’t.
I remember watching a few parts of the first season on the TV and there was nothing special about it. It was just a show about a group of guys on a Karizma who seemed to be running around as if the sky was falling on their heads. Over the years, Roadies grew more and more popular, and very soon became the coolest thing on television.
It’s not that I have a complaint against the show (apart from the fact that it is a brain-dead), but the fact that once there is a Roadies show, there is nothing else on MTV for the following month. There will be reruns, and reunion shows, and chat shows, and remembrance shows, and what not.
But without doubt, I have to admit I watch the auditions when I can. I feel like Rajat Kapoor in Bheja Fry, but it is an enjoyable indulgence for me. Over the years, idiots of different sizes, shapes, and ages have landed up at the auditions and gotten spanked. The auditions have been given the feel of a NASA mission, or like a viva-voce to marry Osama’s daughter. I have had friends who have asked me to fill their Roadies forms. When I have had discussions with people, I have been told, “Saale, hum pe itna chilla raha hai. Jaake Roadies ke auditions deke dikha, phir maanenge ki dum hai.” I think he meant dumb.
Roadies auditions are considered the baap of interviews. I am sure IMS and TIME will start Roadies coaching in a few years. Youngsters around the country line up for days in advance, so they can come on the auditions. Once inside the room, they go to any extent. From dressing up as a girl, to singing and dancing, to acting like animals, just to prove that they have ‘it’.
There may be only seven people in the world who know what is the formula for Coke, but there are only two people who know what is this ‘it’ – Raghu and Ranvijay. ( I know there is Rajiv, but I am talking about individual brains).
I mean, if someone asks you to act like a monkey, and you do it, how does it show that you are tough? How does singing a song show that you are tough? And prepared? Or whatever??
All the contestants are the same. The guys are called Nikhil, or Mohit. They are all Jats who are adept in Hindi and English but choose to communicate in beep language. They look like Salman Khan and sound like him. The dialogues sound the same too: “Usne mere saath game khela. Main beep nahi hoon, maine bhi uska beep maara. Yeh game hai, aur main yahaan rehne ke liye kuchh bhi karoonga.”
The girls are from Delhi or Chandigarh, and all of them are fair and thin. All of them wear huge sunglasses and sound similar. They all talk about the others’ aukaat and izzat and beep each other whenever they open their mouth.
And then there is the stud – Raghu. After eight years, Raghu reminds of those Navketan movies that Dev Anand made till the mid-90s. Most of them had Dev Anand in them, proving that he was still young, and that he was cool. Raghu is the Dev Anand of television and Roadies is his Navketan.
Raghu is so annoying, if he was made to sit on the LOC, Pakistan would surrender and start bombing Afghanistan in frustration. The motherfucker doesn’t know when to shut up, and keeps raising his voice to make his point. Of course, his point is the point – it’s his goddamn show.
As if one bald idiot wasn’t enough, there are two of them. OK, so he has an identical twin. But what is the point of bringing him into the show? And do the two of them have to wear similar clothes and shades and talk in a similar manner? I mean, who the fuck are you? Ramu-Shamu? Seeta-Geeta?? Now they are like Gods, who waltz into the show in slow motion, and blast the contestants, lecturing them about integrity and commitment.
Though much cannot be expected from the viewers of the show, you can always make out a Roadie aspirant. They talk in the kewl language, with status updates like ‘Mohit rawx! OMG, he is so hawt’. Roadies aspirants also think that the entire world watches Roadies. I have met random people who have asked me if I thought it was right that Sonam was asked to leave the show? I have resisted the urge to bang their heads on the ground and run over it with a Karizma ZMR – Above all.
Well, sorry to break the news, morons. Watching Roadies is not going to make you cool. Watching it is not going to teach you how to clear an interview, nor is it going to make you tough in life. It is just a show where two bald pervert guys have fun at your expense. While you sing and dance and do push ups, they jack each other off under the table, laughing at morons like you, who watch it on TV, making them rich with your stupidity.
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