Crap coverage

My favourite whipping boys NDTV did not disappoint. It was pathetic in its coverage, actually angering me even more. If Barkha Dutt wants to emote in front of the camera she needs to take lessons from CNN’s Richard Quest. She reminded me of Shah Rukh Khan in the 90s. I did not watch CNN IBN, but I hope Rajdeep was better. The best anchor-on-the-field team is Sreenivas Jain at ground zero and Prannoy Roy in studio. But there were a bunch of people who managed to piss me off even more than NDTV did. Non resident ‘passport’ Indians.

Me Mumbaikar, not

Forgive me if I am not a Mumbaikar, as the zeitgeist suddenly suggests we are supposed to be. I never was, and unless can afford to stay on top of Leopold’s or opposite The Taj, it’s unlikely I will ever be. I am from Pune, which means it is impossible to like Mumbai for all the very reasons that make Mumbai what it is. But I can share the fear and the rage and the pain without becoming a faux Mumbaikar. Speaking of faux, I know it’s not a time to split hairs, but can’t help it but, well…

2 in a million

Finally, what were the chances of me knowing two of the people killed at The Taj? Conservatively, two in a million. Those 2 are dead.
First, Sabina Saikia Sehgal, Consulting Editor, The Times of India. She impacted my career more than she will ever know, now. I also did a training under her and for some time anchored the Pune edition of the Times food guide (I left before it was published).
Next Kaizad Kamdin, a chef at the Taj. His parents are very close family friends. Knowing people who died throws all socio-psychological-political observations out the window.

Urban legend

Most other attacks in India were either far away (North-East) or affected lower-middle class or poor people (Malegaon). This one impacted the yuppies because it hit targets that are visual icons of what urban success is about. It hit one of the holy sites of India’s consumerist religion – The Taj.
Ironically, even the attackers were urban, unlike the backward, tribal, uneducated image of terrorists we have in our mind when we hear ‘terror attack in India’. By hitting these nerve centres of Urban India, the attackers’ message also hit home – literally, into your living room and mine.

Impotent with rage

Not blogging on my weekend has helped me stay away from a knee-jerk or naively nationalistic reaction to the attack on Mumbai. So I’ve tried to sift through my several thoughts and feelings and observations on the issue and narrow it down to a few that might be worth reading for those who stop by.
‘Impotent rage’ is how I captioned what most urban Indians, at home and abroad, have expressed. And despite my best efforts not to feel too impassioned, I felt the same. Unlike other terror attacks, this one has affected the urban populace. Has moved us.

Be aware

I generalize. If you don’t like Man Utd, you’re a loser. And so with kids.
You cannot love all the same. Not for wanting or trying, but just because the human in you will tend towards one. The preference may keep changing with time. As you age, you will achieve an average median that will ensure, hopefully, your choice does not wreck the life of the lesser loved. But, I think, if you are aware of this, you may in fact work harder to love the one you love less. Makes sense? It’s not supposed to. It’s called parenting.

Kids

Parenthood if for nothing else, exists to showcase the total frailty of the human being and of course, the total pointlessness of reason. You must try it sometime. Not often have I looked at my offspring and wondered: did I procreate merely to prove that I could? And then, couch that very base need in the religious-social-romantic notion of being a dad. I hope not. But while I am not averse to asking such questions I also delight in watching myself interact with my kids. And I have discovered that a parent cannot love all his/her kids equally. Contd…

Not ours

I have been of the opinion that India always sends the wrong film to the Oscars as its representation in the foreign film category. The selection process is Bollywood-skewed and hence, we have never had our moment of glory at the Shrine or the Kodak. Most Indians will claim Gandhi as our own, but it belongs to Kingsley and Attenborough. Now the buzz is about Slumdog Millionaire being a serious Oscar contender. Should it win, again we will claim it as our own. Again, it is not. It belongs to Danny Boyle. Unless Anil Kapoor is nominated and wins.

Bad news

I have never experienced a global economic crisis. Not one like this. Being in the employ of a business daily has only served to heighten the awareness of the destruction of business. I may have mentioned in this space that I do not have a business background. In fact, numbers of any sort scare the bejesus out of me.
But if you are going to be a business journalist I cannot imagine a more exciting time to be on the front lines. The scent of bad news to a journalist is like the taste of blood to a shark.

Power

At work, there is one at the top and then two of us, and then, the rest. Each of us top three have specific tasks. Once in a way though, the other two will not be there and it’s just me. I assume responsibility for the tasks all three are supposed to perform. And I assume the power as well. That morning, I actually hate going to work because the burden of being solely responsible seems too much. But once I’m in, the power kicks in. And that power is addictive. And I don’t want the day to end.

Just not on

The front page of the Times of India has an Israeli gay couple with a baby. They, legally, got an Indian surrogate mother to have the baby and it’s now their’s.
I don’t know what to feel? They look decent, the baby looks amazingly cute with them and yet, some part of me is angry… incensed!
How much of a chance does that baby have of growing up normal? Is homosexuality normal? I am most angry with Indian law though - that has it as a crime to engage in anal sex, but gives a baby to two gay men.

Paul Rodgers

To be fair to Paul Rodgers, he did front Bad Company in the 70s and to be honest, Bad Company was definitely playing more on the sound track to my youth than Queen. So while he may have struggled doing a Freddie (though he really held it together for Bohemian Rhapsody), when they did do a Bad Company song (Bad Company) he absolutely rocked. In fact they gave him a grand piano in the middle of the stage, which he played standing up, a la Jerry Lee, and reminded me why Bad Company had rocked my world so much.

The Anthem band

Radio Ga, Ga and Bohemian Rhapsody and We Are the Champions brought the house down, literally.
As I walked away from the show, my heart pounding and head buzzing the thing that struck me the most, beyond May’s brilliant guitar playing and Taylor’s amazing drumming was that Queen did not write songs. They wrote anthems. Anthems to go with possibly every stage of life for every kind of person. I mean there is scarcely a song of their’s that cannot get a small crowd or a packed stadium clapping and singing in unison. And that is just, just brilliant.

Roger Taylor - II

And you figure ok, they are going to set up his kit on the ramp and he will do a drum solo. They do. Only it’s not a drum solo he does. It’s a song. They bring a microphone on. And the Queen drummer sings It’s a Kind of Magic. On his count of three, the entire stage bursts into light and the band backs him from there. It was amazing to see a drummer sing from upfront like that. And Taylor rocked.
From then on they could do no wrong. Freddie was remembered more than he was missed.

Roger Taylor - I

Together they do another acoustic song and before you know it, the big rock show is forgotten and the whole band (accordion, double bass, rhythm) is upfront doing acoustic. The crowd was simply ecstatic.
Then, they all go away, leaving just Taylor, bass drum and bassist up front. Taylor showboats, playing out Under Pressure on the bass guitar with his sticks. Then, the bassisst disappears and its just Taylor on his bass drum. At the top of the ramp.
Someone then brings a snare. And then a tom. And then a cymbal. And he is playing all the time.

Queen - II

In that setting once the tempo has been set, to drop it is risky.
And yet, the manner in which May turned an arena setting into an intimate one, was magical. I always have VIP tickets and I never stand by the ramp. Because I was alone at this show, I took a spot within touching distance of head ramp. A smart move.
Once May had the crowd in the palm of hand and hanging on to the lilt of his voice, he brought on Paul Taylor, who sat next to him with just the bass drum and hi-hat.

Queen - I

So there I was, among 5,000 fans, as Paul Rodgers warmed us up belting out Fat Bottomed Girls and Tie Your Mother Down. Just as the crowd was getting over the euphoria of hearing these songs played live, and beginning to cotton on to Paul’s lack of intensity and suitability, the stage went dark.
Brian May then came onto the edge of the ramp, sat on a stool and sang an acoustic love song. To appreciate the risk of this (and the confidence of May), you have to keep in mind a huge crowd, a massive stage, et al.

Cool geniuses

Queen was fronted at the show in Dubai by Paul Rodgers, lead singer of 70s rock band Bad Company. Rodgers looked uncomfortable and at times, forced, handling anthems like Another One bites the Dust and I Want It All. It was only when Brian May and Paul Taylor took the vocals that the real Queen shone through – one that even the vocal maverick Freddie would have been proud of. The thing about legends, and May and Taylor make the grade in my book, is they wear their genius lightly on their sleeves. And these two oldies exemplify that.

Are you ready to rock?

I skipped The Wailers, since there was no Bob Marley, last week. This week though, I could not resist Queen, even though The Queen was missing. Between now and December 15, I will also see Arrested Development, Maroon 5, Kylie Minogue, Alicia Keys and George Michael. So unless Obama really messes up, or my kids do something life-changing, music will dominate this space.
What is Queen without The Queen? Aapro Freddie was such a presence on and off stage that it is easy to forget what Brian May and Roger Taylor were about. So I went to find out.

Back on track

I have stoically stayed away from Facebook (and Orkut), as everyone, from uncles to nieces have fallen prey to its online social networking charm. Like an addict who falls off the wagon though, over the last few days I found myself (re)activating my Facebook account and before I knew it, I was clicking away. A foul-mouthed angel shook me out of my stupor and I am now back on track.
I don’t do online networking. If you want to connect with me, call me, or at the very most, drop me an email. I do people. In the flesh.

What if?

What if?, can be a potent weapon of self-introspection and, as I have discovered in my fight against insomnia, the creative man’s way of ‘counting sheep’.
I have cut back my hour of going to sleep from 5 am to 2 am now. Not drinking is a key, but the ‘what if’ question might well steal the thunder from my noble giving up of bacchanalia. I simply imagine a scenario – What if I won $5 million dollars - is my favourite. And then, close my eyes to construct an entire life. I am usually asleep in an hour.

White Cliffs of Dover

The White Cliffs of Dover, hung over me like an ogre,
But only in my dreams, thankfully,
Had I traveled to see:

A scraggly face of rock
Peeking out of wisps of clouds,
Invitingly grim, thrillingly grey;
As far below its gaze the sea thrashed against its bulk

With each sure step, I assiduously climbed,
Crack over rock, rock soaked in brine;
The White Cliffs of Dover I steadily stalked
Until at last, I was atop,
At the breach of the peak,
World far below, sky at my feet,
And then…
I jumped…
But thankfully, only in my dreams.

Bhagat is crap

I must first confess: I have not read Chetan Bhagat’s ‘One Night @ A Call Centre’. I bought his ‘Three Biggest Mistakes of My Life’ simply because the cover screamed: “India’s largest read English author.” That’s a bit like saying ‘Jenna Jameson most searched woman on the net’. So I had to read and see. Again, I must confess I read Bhagat in between Ken Follet and John Grisham.
Bhagat is crap. I can’t understand why people read him. It’s a bit like your grandma telling you a story. Amateur, simple, warm, clichéd, but as writing goes – crap.

Bas jhala, Tendlya

There is an insufferable exhaustion about watching Sachin Tendulkar bat nowadays. There is no thrill, or zip or anticipation. Every world record he now conquers has that painful inevitability that one sees in geriatric wards; on the face of the grim reaper hanging in the shadows.
I hope he is done and retires now, because I’m pretty much done watching him plod along from record to record. Make no mistake, for a long time I only watched a game when he was batting. And that’s only how I’d like to remember him.
Bas jhala, Tendlya. Chala, ghari basa atta.

Welcome Obama

You have not so much created history as initiated it. A historical moment is defined by context. Black America’s past has presented you the moment. What you do from hereon will define it.
Let not race and colour drench your canvas of change, painted now by the exhilarating brush strokes of Black America’s greatest moment of the modern era.
Instead, let thought, word and deed be the trinity that keeps you at the pulpit of success.
You inspire, President Obama. Eloquence (attempted) in this case.
But to go the Straight Talk express route: screw up and I’ll be waiting.

Goodbye Bush

The average urban Indian loves to make fun of George W Bush. When I pointed out to a group of peers that Bush gave India its current nuke status, they seemed stumped for a second, then continued to lambast him. I’m pretty sure the average urban Indian wants Obama in the White House. And it looks like they will get their wish.
What they don’t realize is that he will be disastrous for Indian business, if he sticks to his election policies. Bush may have appeared a fool, but he did more for India than any other US President.

Black times

Black is in. The USA’s first half black President. Though I have wagered at 5-1 odds that McCain will win. If I was a US citizen I would be a card-holding, gun-toting, Republican. Formula 1 has its first black champion. Though Lewis Hamilton looks more chocolate mousse than black.
I watched the race and then watched a hundred reruns of the last corner on the last lap and am convinced that Timo Glock let Hamilton pass. I don’t like Hamilton. More because of last year than anything else. He had everything in F1 handed to him on a platter.

Confederation of Indian states

Some moons ago I had touted the idea of India breaking up into a Confederation of States, with a common army. Raj Thackeray’s actions seem to sort of vindicate that view. What has appalled me is everyone kowtowing to the idea that assimilating into the local culture was actually necessary and therefore, at heart, the MNS demand was right. Only their means of implementation was wrong. That is bullshit. If I am an Indian my constituitional rights guarantee I don’t need to speak a particular language to live anywhere in India. And that’s it. Fuck you and your Marathi.

My perfect city

It’s been a long time. And I’m finding it hard to find a good comeback 99 to kickstart, if not the blog, then at least me, again.
But something that’s been on my mind is: what makes a beautiful city? In my perfect Utopia, there has to be a racecourse. And there has to be no, not a single flyover. Also you can have a railway station, but no Metros or Monorails. Ideally, a river should run through it.
My beloved Pune had the chance to be a perfect city, once it had stopped being a town. If only…