Happy New Year

Wherever you are, know that I will always love you
Wherever you go, know that my spirit soars over the land to protect you
However you live, I will always have a prayer for you
No matter the moment, or the day, or the year…
Time will always stand still when I think of you.
As hairs grey, and spines stoop, as wisdom wanes and passion thins
As darkness falls and life fades…
I wait not for the dawn of hope… for it will come as surely as each New Year… let it come for you, and you alone

Good Auld Pune

Christmas in Pune is like getting sucked into the vortex of a whirlpool. I’ve come up for a breath and a quick post before I get sucked in again, not surfacing till the fourth day of the New Year… at least.
At times it is like a never-ending party. At times, a moment of zen, and at times, like good ‘ol Pune.
The city is growing at the speed of thought, changing in ways that are more than noticeable. Yet beneath it all lies the heart and soul of a town that just refuses to grow up. Thank God.

Missing Messi

Lionel Messi is playing not more than 90 minutes away from me and I am here stuck at work. That is a sacrifice worthy of Christmas. Yes, I know, it’s Christmas this and Christmas that, but forgive me.
Christians mourn the period before Good Friday because that is the day Christ died for all. The period to mourn is advent – before Christmas. We messed it up so badly, that God had to send his Son to die to rescue us. So I don’t feel so bad about Messi. And once you listen to this carol, neither will you:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LtWSR89UhRg&feature=related

A Pune Christmas

Pune Camp was as cosmopolitan as it got till the 1990s. You had Muslim butchers who openly supported the Pakistani cricket team. You had Iranians, Palestinians and Africans who claimed streets for their own. You had the Brahmins who sneered at cow-eaters and cheered during Ganpati. You had Parsis, who baked bread and ran restaurants. And you had the Christians. Who went carol singing during Christmas like it was the most natural thing to do. The thing was… it was.
That’s what made a Pune Christmas beautiful.
And every carol singing troupe must surely start with this one:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=stEjTFMb940

Journalism beaten, but alive

Sycophantic journalism finds it full oeuvre in the Gulf. I have a simple test for the only journalism that I respect – the one that makes life hell for those who are entrusted with the lives of society. If you have not been arrested, beaten, threatened, or in India had your face blackened, been garlanded with slippers, you’ve failed as a journalist.
Two Sakal journalists getting beaten for trying to expose a construction scam in Pune was a reassuring reminder that in some places that type of journalism still exists.

Like this classic is a reassuring Christmas must:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s_W7p35SzuI&feature=related

Breaking up is hard to do

The modus operandi is frustratingly simple. Frustrating for the government who has to deal with someone on a fast to death. Simple for the faster.
If Andhra is broken up, before long, the other states will follow with their own fasts unto deaths.
I have long propagated the breaking up of India into a confederation of states. However, by holding a nation to ransom, is not the way to do it. I would let a few fasters die. Either that, or a few states will die.

So, today, a carol that offers the drumbeat to a new age:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mb0hAPimGrU&feature=related

Biased pricks

Gary Lineker (Spurs) anchored last night’s Champions League coverage with Graeme Souness (Liverpool), Steve McManaman (Real Madrid) and Trevor Francis (Nottingham Forest) on Al Jazeera Sport.
Even then, I did not expect the bias against Manchester United that I heard.
All they did, all night, was write off Manchester United. Their biggest faux pas was ignoring Gabriel Obertan’s dazzling skill to set up Owen’s second. Not even a passing reference to him leaving three Wolfsburg players for dead.
Which is why today’s Christmas tune is a healing one – the original Band Aid, when Africa was in vogue:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8jEnTSQStGE

The Katlics have arrived

The D’silvas (Rensil) and D’souzas (Genelia) are leading a Manglorean-East Indian-Goan renaissance in Bollywood. Can a Fernandes and Lobo be far behind?
Their parents are unlikely to have been able to converse in pure Hindi, and neither was it a priority.
For that generation, getting out of India - to Australia, Canada, US or UK was the goal. This generation has realized that they are Indian and India has it all to offer.
Importantly, these desi Katlics have broken into the mainstream. Which brings me to today’s Christmas tune from one of the greatest - The Boss:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iSgEDKjmT5o&feature=related

My Christmas treat for you

Here is a special Christmas treat for all who stop by. I will post a link to a video every time I post a 99. It will feature my favourite Christmas carols as performed by the stars… and a few others also. Of course, they are MY favourites, but as you have come to know if you stop by every other week – my judgement in these matters is to be trusted.
The only time divas are any good is at funerals and Christmas. So 99 kicks off the yuletide party season with the sexiest of them all….

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MBagqdscIdQ&feature=related

Headline headlines

Three days on the trot for Tiegah. Beggars belief, even for a sports maniac like me. I hate golf.
Nevertheless, the combination of a name like Tiger and bird-lenient golf jargon is a headline writer’s dream.
The one that has been mentioned most by newspaper columnists (the ultimate accolade for a journo is when a fellow scribe praises you, yeah, screw the reader!) has been the New York Post’s – Tiger admits he’s a Cheetah.
My favourite this week is from The Sun – Best English Group Since The Beatles – for the World Cup group England were drawn into.

One for the sist’aa-hood

All of Tiger Woods’ women are white. Wonder what the black sist’aas feel about that. Them booty not good enough for Tiegah!
Actually, I remember Denis Rodman on a talk show saying he never bonks black women because when he was a nobody, them black women gave him the go by, but after he got rich, they flocked to him; as against white women who recognised him for who he was - a nigga with a giant cock! These by the way included Madonna and Carmen Electra.
Watch you gotta say sist’aas? Are you really just the money honeys?

Of humanity and idols

I no more support adultery than I do Tiger Woods’ philandering (and the birdie jokes are too obvious to be funny). Tiger is a serial philanderer, Agassi did drugs… I’m relieved that these guys are human, after all.
The big money bandwagon has squeezed the humanity out of geniuses, forcing them to live ‘perfect’ lives not for themselves, but for the masses that idiolise them.
If you’re not going to cheat on your wife, then do it because YOU choose not to… not because of your image. My favourite stars are all ‘human’ geniuses – especially the Brazilian Socrates.

All together now: It's Christmas time!

There is just something about Christmas.
It’s like good times on acid without the hangover, dehydration or guilt. Though all three are liable to find life in January, when the December madness has passed.
But for the moment, let’s just sink in to the season of good cheer and giving – like drowning in sinking sand, except its chocolate.
I could be dead broke, heading for jail, not a single joy in the world, a deadbeat job, and yet, on December 2, when I hear that first Christmas carol…. hope springs eternal… like a fountain of scotch. Seasons greetings!

Deserving Dubai - Part Trez

…is enough. Palestinians, some Egyptians, Bangladeshis, Yemenis, migrant labour from the Indian subcontinent, Iraqis, some Iranians, etc.
For anyone else it is a choice made purely for money. And like all monetary-dominant choices, the true price it extracts from you is very, very high. And not worth it.
I now fear if I am in Dubai any longer I will lose the ability to function like an evolved human being. Worse still, I fear one day my kids will say to me: did we really deserve Dubai?
The truth is: they deserve, for better or worse, their own country.

Deserving Dubai - Part Duh!?

In Dubai, or anywhere in the Gulf, one must every day look into the mirror first thing in the morning and say: ‘I am here for the money.’
That is the only way one can get through the day.
For the work day will expose you to racism, ask you to curb your intelligence, require you to numb your conscience and most of all, take away your freedom.
Of course there are many peoples for whom none of the above matter at all. For them just living a life where death and crime do not stalk your every breath...

Deserving Dubai

What’s the fuss about Dubai, then?
The US has trillions of debt. As does the UK. Yet, they don’t seem to draw out such a brouhaha in the international press.
In fact, for a change, Dubai has been upfront and frank about its problems… a departure from its opaque PR manner.
Much of this has to do with the sheer glee at seeing a brash, noveau riche bully get taken down. And the incentive that drives that kind of media coverage is always so deeply rooted in our psyche that there always is a ‘deserving’ reason for the story.

Traitors in the family

My son came home from school and told me he was now a Chelsea supporter. It was one of those moments where the choice was: snap his neck or laugh it off.
I laughed it off. His sister, who sleeps in her Man U tee, later explained that some of the elder boys in his bus are Chelsea supporters and he has been feeling the peer pressure.
However, not to risk further damage I asked his mother to brainwash him, just in case. She says he should be free to choose. Now I will have to snap two necks.

Death, be not surprised

Sometimes, I can sense death out there.
Not yours or anybody else’s, but my own.
I close my eyes and like a figure emerging from the mist still some way off, I sense its presence.
If I close my eyes and breathe deeply for long enough I can almost paint the sketch, or write up the first draft of events leading up to my demise.
I would have to change my life drastically to make the eventuality of death something of a surprise for myself.
Other than that, the reaper does not look so grim.
But I certainly do.

Don't kill our Beautiful Game

I love football too much to let the Henry incident pass by with just a smart quip. And it has really upset me. After a week I can’t let it go.
Of course, I have a history of not being able to let go, but nevertheless; Fifa have to replay the game.
Of course Thierry Henry is not a cheat. But, he will be if they don’t act.
The message that is going to go out to millions of aspiring footballers, my son included is: it’s ok to cheat as long as you don’t get caught. And that’s bullshit.

Stuff..

* Thierry Henry has gone from football’s elite to football’s cheat. France will be doomed if they don’t replay their match with Ireland.

* Is it just me, or has no one else found it maddeningly ironic that David Headley, the suspect in the Mumbai terror attack, stayed at the Jewish Chabad house in Pune.

* Ali Campbell and UB40 are so simply wonderful that I danced and sang along more for those 60 minutes of watching them live than I have for any other band. Which makes you wonder why reggae is a dead genre. Have ska and hip-hop hijacked it?

Re-Union Jack

Inevitably, it has happened.
I’ve watched for the better part of five years now how the internet (social networking sites in particular), has spawned school reunions.
I have had to suffer old school pictures of friends as ugly bugs, and then the ususal too-smart-for-their-own-good and suffocatingly indulgent captions that accompany the reunion pics as well.
Facebook has finally snaked a whole bunch of school buddies back into my life.
I organised everything in school. From the devious, to the defiant, to the downright disastrous.
They want me to do it again. Bring them all together. I can’t wait.

Who can knock-down the Pacman?

Over the years the more I watched of Ali’s boxing matches the more I was convinced that the secret to his success lay as much in giving a beating as it did in taking one. He could absorb punishment and there is nothing more defeating for a boxing opponent than to see that your punches don’t matter.
Manny Pacquiao is the same. I’ve watched the last four of his fights and nobody hit him as much as Miguel Coutto the other day. And Manny looked as fresh as roses.
Floyd Mayweather Jr do you have the balls? Manny does.

The same Ramakant Achrekar drivel

As the media try to get a collective orgasm going over Sachin Tendulkar’s 20 years in cricket, I am dismayed.
No article on how the man who holds every cricket record failed to propel India to any.
Or, how Hansie Cronje worked out how to get him out inside his first 15 runs.
Or, how Tendulkar is the most boring person to watch when he does not have the bat in his hand.
A tribute is about finding the flaw despite the genius and then using that to flesh out the reality of this person’s private-public existence and contribution.

Abu Dhabi makes Dubai another Sharjah

Back in the day, when Dubai was booming, the whites would mock the Indians for living in Sharjah and working in Dubai, putting up with an hour and a half of traffic, one way. Now as Dubai dusts the effects of the bust off, the money has moved to Abu Dhabi, and so have the goras.
However, Abu Dhabi is now even costlier to live in than Dubai was. So the goras, and whoever else cares to, travel an hour and a half, one way, to work there.
Sum result: Abu Dhabi has made Dubai another Sharjah. Fancy that!

How dare they!?

At Mumbai international airport I nearly dropped dead at the bookstore. The shelves were filled with Indians writing English novels. So intimidated was I, that I nearly fainted.
What were all these Indians doing writing English novels? And who was publishing them? And who would read my first (Booker-winning, no less) book if there was such a crowd out there? Indians were not supposed to be so prolific about writing in English. And publishers were only supposed to pick those that had genius potential (ahem!). I did not buy any of these new writers. I just turned and ran.

Seeking God in money

Two Lords of Mammon have spoken seeking an association with the Lord of Mammals (and pretty much everything else).
Lloyd Blankfein, CEO of Goldman Sachs, believes banks serve a social purpose and are doing "God's work".
Barclays CEO John Varley took it one step further and spoke at the lectern in St. Martin-in-the-Fields. “Profit is not satanic,” he said.
Evidence of the fact that no market or socio-political system is truly ‘free’ of morality.
Of course, any true spiritual seeker knows, the soul and money are mutually exclusive – leave alone wealth.
Make money boys, but don’t spiritualise it.

Be patient... genius at work

It does not bother me when Manchester United play well and lose (like against Chelsea), but it upsets when they play crap and lose (like against Liverpool).
This season I have no problem not winning anything. The more intriguing aspect is watching the creation of a new world-class team. The development of Anderson, Fletcher and Carrick. The coming of age of Johnny Evans. The breaking in of Valencia, Obertan, Macheda and Wellbeck. And finally, the genius of the old guard. I just can’t see Sir Alex retiring. Though it’s more likely his ref-rants will get him banned first.

Chips and nickers

The Brits already impressed me no end with how seriously they took their fries. Now it’s time to doff the hat to their obsession with ‘nickers’, as in nick names. They will reduce any moniker to make up a nicker. And it must end with a ‘z’.
Bartholomew will be Baz! I have a colleague Gary who is Gaz, and Darrent Bent is evidently Daz. Shakespeare would have been Shaz. Of course, nevermind that Gaz and Daz are miles away from Gary and Darren. I love these guys. Truly a breed unto themselves. Chips, nickers and all that jazz.

Cock a doodle do!

The average size of the erect Indian male penis was too small to fit the WHO-standard size condom. I’m not kidding. They had condoms resized for India. This was, of course, like a few years ago. However, I only discovered this now.
So, basically, we Indian males should really be humble about our cockiness and… perhaps use Viagra. Also we should pray our desi babes don’t get anywhere near those gaijin monsters.
Suddenly, my kids are more than kids. They are living proof of my virility and size and manliness. Or maybe their mother was the Goddess of Fertility.

Pune FC, here I come

I have been a Manchester United supporter, consciously, from about 1992. Now at last, my home town of Pune has its own professional football club Pune FC (for the uninitiated).
I have never wanted to own an apartment. I have always wanted to own land and build my home. Chances are, it will happen. I have always wanted to own a fantastic music system. And I do.
I have wanted to own a restaurant, but I’m not so sure about that.
Now I want to own Pune FC. Rohan Gavaskar, I’m told, is a majority owner. Not for long.

The media you deserve

A former boss recently wrote in his column on www.exchange4media.com last week that the media scene in India is bleak.
He, in his typically easy style simply stated why journalism had been reduced to mediocrity, bottom-line-serving drivel.
However, if people get the government they deserve, then they most certainly get the media they deserve.
The Indian consumer of English media is still extremely gullible and aspirational. The consumer needs to mature to see through the wafer-thin cloak of integrity that covers our news-gathering. From Bollywood, to music, cricket, and newspapers – Indians must demand substance. And truth.

The Goa sensibility

Colva used to be a quaint getaway from the commercial north beaches of Goa. Surrounded by Longhinos, Martin’s and Pedro’s, it seemed to not let go of the Goa of the 1970s – paradise found.
Now it’s a dump. There’s a very clear western sensibility to enjoying and preserving the Goa of my youth. Tourists from Karnataka, coastal Maharashtra and anyway MP and northwards just do not share it. The day I left, the Goa Assembly was to pass an anti-racism bill that would ban shacks from favouring Whites over Indians. Stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Love on two wheels

Sadly, my kids are unlikely to experience one of the great mating rituals of my time.
The ritual is peculiar to a city like Pune, where two-wheelers are the life-blood of commuting. Hence, to get a girl to ride pillion with you used to be a milestone. If, and when, she held you on that bike… it was huge – equivalent to like, say, what the Americans would call ‘second base’.
It represented a public display of affection (which generally translated into uninhibited private displays). It also marked you as her’s.
Beats the backseat of a car any day?

Goaaaah!

I’m in a Bill Cosby zone. Kids, kids, kids and they are making me say the darndest things.
Which is why I actually backed off from writing everyday.
That tide is about to change. I’m off to my motherland; from where all the women in my life come from. Whether they like it or not (that’s for being in my life).
Often, my only prayer is that Goa be in my future. It’s where I want to live... soon. Until then, I will simply enjoy doing these hits and runs. Live in Goa, die in Pune. That’s the future.

Me, and my views

The big debate is if IPL and T20 are hurting Indian cricket.
My view is: screw cricket, play football.

I was pretty nervous as Sania Mirza reached the semis of the Japan Open. Then she lost.
My view is: she should retire now while she is still the sexiest woman sportsperson out there.

I lined up Winehouse, Duffy, Lilly Allen and Corrine Bailey Rae. Then I lined up Norah Jones, Sade, Diana Krall and Dido.
My view is: I hate the divas (Whitney, Mariah, Dion and the like)

Finally, I can only be at peace with very little money.

Experiments with kids

I experiment quite a bit with my kids. Some go well. Some, well, time will tell.
Thing is, you can only afford to do this if you are present in their lives. I missed most of my son’s early years, which is why he doesn’t take too well to my suggestions nowadays.
Of course, you never experiment with your eldest (child no 1 is always too precious). But I did (never told the mother) and she survived. The third child though is just perfect for experimentation. So if you ever do have three kids (or more), gimme a buzz…

What is it about the Blues?

What is it about the Blues that makes it such an influential genre.
Listening to the Rolling Stones’ Shine A Light album, I was awed by the continous referencing to the Blues. Eric Clapton sounds best when he plays the blues. Even a wannabe band in Pune wants the Blues tag.
What did the Blues have? It was dark, depression, escapist music that offered no hope. The music was the escape and that was it. Elvis was soaked in the Blues. Now I listen to Amy Winehouse and I get the Blues. What is it about the Blues? Anybody?

Hi-tech education

A promethean interactive board. A laptop. An overhead projector. No chalk, blackboard or duster. It just did not seem like a classroom.
There was obviously a lot of razzle and dazzle going on in my son’s Grade 1 class, but I was also hoping that he was learning how to write neatly. If his teacher is not writing on a blackboard how is he going to learn? I was too intimidated to ask, but I’m just not sure hi-tech is always good for our lives. Maybe I’m resisting change. I don’t know. Unlike Facebook, which I’m sure is crap.

Don't bail out a system that has no values

I have been enriched today. Which is why I am going to share this pearl with you (as against dumping my own gems on here).
Joseph Stiglitz, (deserving) Nobel prize winner for Economics, wrote a wonderful column in which he argued that Norman Borlaug, the man who is responsible for millions of Indians not starving to death and the global green revolution, for which he got the (deserved) Nobel Peace, would probably have been a banker on Wall Street had he been brought up with today’s values. Instead, he was a genius whose value system demanded he serve others.

And the award goes to...

Every award I have aspired to has been mocked, spat at and pissed on. Arundhati Roy winning the Booker. Mockery! 420 Mafia gets an Oscar. Pssplastt! And now the Oh!Bummer gets the Nobel. Pissers!
I may not have written a word towards my eventual Booker victory, or the lyric that will get me both Oscar and Grammy, but, even I have done more for peace than Oh!Bummer.
So I gathered my kids and used this as an example to teach them that not always do awards go to the deserving. Sometimes you get an award you don’t even want.

As predictable as a cuppa coffee

I’m willing to wager the most oft-repeated line in Hollywood movies is: ‘Would you like to get a cuppa coffee?’
I have been tracking this for some time now (yes, I do have a life) across all genres of movies, as well as random channel surfing. I have been truly amazed at how often the line is used.
Obviously, you’re unlikely to hear the java jibe in a Rob Zombie or Tarantino flick, but any other film scene in which a guy and a girl are on an emotional collision course – you will hear the coffee line.

Crap o'nine tales

Chetan Bhagat is a crap writer. In terms of you know, writing as an expression, intervention, discovery and creationary experience. He spins a good tale and has the manner of an after-dinner storyteller, but as an author – he is crap.
Read his piece in the Sunday Times of India on Gandhiji’s anniversary, if you don’t believe me.
Which brings me to the cricket Champions League in South Africa. New Zealand play Australia in the finals. What a bummer! Cricket is become a game of huff, puff and blow a lot of steam. And the Aussies will still win.

Camera shy

I have never been a big fan of photographs. I like to look at them, love to have mine taken, but hate to use a camera.
I don’t own a camera of any sort. When I travel I don’t use one either.
So, I don’t have a trail of snaps to chart the course of my eventful life until now.
I much rather enjoy the moment, totally immersed in its absurdity, perversity, joyousness, stupidity, grandiosity or whatever, rather than be capturing it from behind a lens.
The best memories are etched in the heart. And there they live forever.

A kindred spirit no more

I truly mourn William Safire’s passing away. His column on the English language, which the Gulf News reproduces here, was one of the highlights of my Friday mornings (afternoons, actually). I don’t know any other writer who had the ability to take the ‘intelligent’ word of the week and dissect its use, misuse and implications, with an eloquence and wit that always left the reader a better (informed) person.
While the world hurtles towards cultural de-evolution – tweeting being a watershed embarassment - Safire kept track of the seismic shifts and subtle tides that were linguistically changing our lives.

Downside of up yours

There’s no pop gesture more dated than ‘the middle finger’. I haven’t seen it used anywhere, in any context, for the last 12 years at least. Except for this guy at work, who does the ‘up yours’ with the same tour de force of an '80's Eddie Murphy.
This dude, at 50, has done pretty much everything to ensure his coolness has not been dented by middle age. Witty, intelligent, he even says ‘yo’ with the right impetus on the ‘o’. Then he will show you the finger and really, undo all the coolness. Not everything is always cool.

The pursuit of knowledge

There are two sides to our info-at-a-click internet age.
One is, people who like to appear intellectual are threatened (like me). Being knowledgeable for knowledge’s sake is no fun, let me assure you. But now, everyone can wiki-peddle (or google) the ‘informed’ image. So, opinion and thought has begun to matter.
On the other side, is the loss of mental skill and character composition that a trek to the library or talking to people who made that trek for most of their lives, brings to one’s persona.
So which is better?
Everyone knowing something, or someone knowing everything?

Rambo, dead

I have always gravitated towards bouncers. Some unresolved issues there I think. Being constantly not allowed into pubs and discos when they first opened in India may be responsible for my bouncer-affliction turning into an eventual affection. However, I now know a lot of bouncers. And one of them recently committed suicide. He has no family, was picked off the streets by shall we say ‘a benefactor’. He rose through the ranks of bouncerdom to rule in Mumbai and then Dubai. He had diabetes. And he had a gambling streak. He was anything but suicidal. His name is Rambo.

Dirty dancing

I never wanted to dance like Patrick Swayze. I believed I danced better than him. When Dirty Dancing broke onto the scene, it was the ’80s easing into the ’90s and I was 17, anything but easing into adult 18. The hormones were raging and dirty dancing was all we did. There are movies that define a period of one’s life. Dirty Dancing defined mine till I was about 22. That’s all I did. Danced.
Swayze was a better actor than dancer, but he did show us that the grind can be classy. For that he will be remembered.

Winning and losing

For some reason, when John McEnroe threw a tantrum it looked macho. He was my favourite in the Borg era.
When Serena Williams threw her’s, it looked downright ugly.
It looked aggressive ghetto black versus scared urban white. Her Amazonian build only added to the aura of a spoilt playground bully.
But, even she looked like an angel when compared to Emmanuel Adebayor. He behaved like a pig – and I mean that with every unholy, digusting association the Muslim world I live in associates with pig. Adebayor does not know how to win, and Serena how to lose.

*!#@$%&!%$

I fear impotent rage the most. It renders, for a brief moment, my life meaningless. The phirang fixation of Indians leaves me impotent with rage.
Goa is now cracking down on shacks that racially profile Indians. The very fact that they have to do that means shack owners are welcoming the druggie Russian and asking the ogling Indian to fuck off.
I have experienced this profiling. In the late 80s-early 90s anywhere in Koregaon Park, but especially at Prem’s you were treated like shit if you were not a KP groupie or white. Just thinking about it fills me with impotent rage.

Ode to love

Of all the things Raj Singh Dungarpur accomplished, it was his ode to love that I will always remember. The ode, which he lived out in his real-life love affair with Lata Mangeshkar, captured all the wondrous-ities that make love the delicious indulgence it is.
Raj Singh and Lataji showed us that love is timeless. You had to have seen them together to appreciate that cliché’s full meaning.
Coquettishness, with a touch of class, at the age of 70… it was something out of a Garcia-Marquez yarn. Only it was real.
I mush, and gush and blush… sigh, je’taime.

Always have a bachelor's

I do not regret much. Perhaps, because there is much to regret. One of the things I do regret, however, is not having a bachelor party before I married. The regret is, because I eventually end up doing everything I want to do. And I never ever imagined not having a bachelor’s. So, eventually I had one.
It was three years after the wedding, and as I look back now, only really ended recently – as in three years or so ago.
Moral of the story is: always have a bachelor’s. And always make sure it’s before the wedding.

Card talk

One guy on a card table is always chasing the game. He believes Lady Luck is his bitch and will blow him (away), every hand, with three Aces. He bets high and hates to see his cards, going blind for as long as he can, to up the bravado appeal. This guy of course, rarely wins, because he is always chasing the game. He does not mind. It’s a reflection of his personality and it’s the way he enjoys playing. However, if this player ever happens upon a table where ALL other players are his exact opposite, he’s screwed.

Rock off

Suddenly there seems to be an infusion of rock star parodies in Bollywood. Channel surfing, as I chance upon one of several sporting desi tunes, I notice every second song has someone with a guitar. In one, Sanjay Dutt, no less, plays the drums. And does so in a manner that would embarrass any person who has any idea of how the drums are played.
I didn’t see Rock On, but musical instruments and Bollywood have never really been in tune. And there is no sign that will change soon. Not even in Rock On does it look real.

Would you pay for an accurate prediction?

If there was some way I could have a predictometer running on this blog here it would be great. We could all see just how accurate my predictions are. And then perhaps, really spread the word about a new online soothsayer who can write a word or two.
For the times I get them wrong, which will be rare, we could actually charge a refund. Oh, did I neglect to mention that we could charge for site visits, given such accurate predictions.
Take this prediction made maybe a month ago: Sania needs to retire before she embarrasses herself anymore.

High hopes

I’m a good one for spotting global trends. So listen up. We are about 30 years away from personal use of drugs being completely decriminalised. The rumblings of an inevitable major shift in perception of drug use and abuse, are getting louder.
It will take a generation to move away from the ‘drugs are bad’ stance, to the one that society uses for alchohol – ‘don’t drink and drive.’
I completely support decriminilastion of personal use. I detest the ban on smoking. And I believe, most drugs – marijuana for sure – are not worse or better than alchohol.

Get your freak on

In the UAE exploitation is de rigeur. Because it’s 50 Deg in summer and it’s Ramadan, one of the country’s zoos has decided to stay open at night – 9 pm to 2 am. Supposedly the animals are much more active and awake because it’s cooler than the day.
I am a genuine night animal, so I went to check it out. Obviously nobody told the lions about this change in timings, so they were fast asleep. However, it was the giraffes that most freaked me out. They are definitely the freaks of evolution. Cute, mutated, freaks of nature.

... and Santa Claus does exist!

To judge how powerful a hold religious beliefs have over the human being, check this out. A top Islamic scholar comes to Dubai to give a Ramadan lecture. He draws a crowd of like 20,000-odd people. He is later asked a question about Adam and Eve. And he says, yes, all of humanity is born of their incestuous relationship. The media quotes him as saying, “In those times it was ok.”
For all the progress and the word I want to use here is ‘evolution’ of humanity, if that is a belief nowadays, then, wow, are we in trouble!

Fast for thought

This is my third Ramadan in Dubai. For the first time I am actually noticing the effect of fasting on those who choose to work regular hours. The first Ramadan here, the food blinded me to these subtle realities. The second Ramadan here, the food blinded me. This time though, Ramadan has coincided with me taking a dietary route to staying alive, which means, I can’t eat most iftar food. So it leaves me much more appreciative of the effort and faith it takes to fast. Especially of my Muslim buddies back home. Oh, how we gorged during Ramzan!

Aus-he-he-he

It’s not often English sports fans get to celebrate. Unless it’s cycling. As an ardent supporter of the English football team, I remember before an England-Brazil world cup game plastering the office with posters that had ‘10 reasons why Brazil would lose’. Michael Owen scored and I thought I was the cat’s whiskers. Then, Ronaldinho embarrassed David Seaman and my posters came back to bite me in the ass.
Now that England have won the Ashes, they can actually afford to have a laugh. And if you enjoy bullies being humbled then click here http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/features/2603081/Top-ten-Aussie-Ashes-jokes.html and laugh along

Divide and rule

I have for some time now been of the view that India should function as a federation of states with total fiscal autonomy, but a common army and an Interpol- type law and order mechanism.
It now turns out it’s not my original idea, but was originally proposed by Mohammed Ali Jinnah and Lord Mountbatten. Who should bring this to light (again, perhaps) but Jaswant Singh and his comments on Jinnah.
The beauty of India is the seamless manner in which it appears as a country inspite of more diversity than any nation on earth. The truth is harsher.

The devil may care... in fact he most certainly does

Watching Metallica ‘live’ is like watching the Devil put on a show. The electricity that courses through the crowd, and by that I mean 150,000-odd people, could light up Texas. When the first chord strikes, and Lars’ stick catches the snare for the first time in tandem with Trujillo’s bass – you want to jump out of your skin and scream, as in, death-defying-blood-curdling scream, as in, every-single-cell-of -your body-now-has-the-vocal-strength-of-a-jet-taking-off scream – FAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKK, YEAAAAHHHHH! Then Kirk and James begin. And you are in hell. And you never want to leave. Metallica is the best live act ever.

God knows? Is it time for U2?

Watching U2 ‘live’ is like watching God put on a show. The 360 degree tour is perhaps THE ‘live’ show to catch this year. Bono’s voice, for all his political-speak, defies age and convention to still sound like it did 20 years ago on Boy. The Edge’s brilliance as a musician strikes you as he effortlessly moves between guitar and keyboards, never playing one unnecessary note. And there is Larry and Adam, always overshadowed. However, ‘live’, you see exactly why U2 is a band.
Where now for them? Home. Musically, U2 have peaked and with their latest album, plateaued.

Reader's in-Digest-ion

If you went anywhere near the epithet of ‘English-reading book lover’ in the 1980s in India, Reader’s Digest, at some point, was a habit.
If the publication’s bankruptcy filing is going to be the last word on its future is not known.
I, for one, have watched its editorial demise over the past two decades. It is a classic case for media students – how to lose a global, niche, loyal readership.
Marketing issues aside, the digest went from a genuine human-interest, life-contributing, funny read to becoming a ‘self-help’ manual that over-sold the same type of ‘10-things-to-change-your-life’ products.

Like, Dislike, Agree, Disagree, Amazed

I like Shane Warne – he says 50-over cricket should be stopped now.
I dislike diabetes – especially having it.
I agree with the security personnel who detained Shah Rukh Khan – only I would have detained him because he has the gall to consider himself an actor.
I disagree with the expert opinion that the Indian media is blowing Swine Flu out of proportion – Indian media has no choice (or balls) but to mirror the sentiment of its readership.
I am amazed that the status quo the educated world has settled for is filled with so much of bullshit.

Oh God, have mercy on us

You don’t question God. And at Old Trafford Sir Alex Fergusson is God. If I had the chance though, I would ask God (the overall one), whether lizards were really needed in the world? Like if I ever got the chance I would ask Sir Alex, IF HAVING BERBATOV IN THE TEAM IS A GOOD IDEA!?
But you don’t (get to) question God, do you? You just have faith. And hope. And love. And of these, love is the greatest. Oh, but I digress…
It is going to be a long season for Manchester United fans. Nervous and long.

I'm dreaming of a fourth title in a row

Bookies, as I have discovered after 20 years of mostly-losing bets, are rarely wrong. Therefore, it must worry the pragmatic United faithful that bookmakers had Chelsea as favourites to win this year’s Premier League.
It’s a reminder that loyalty to a football club can never be based only on championships won.
To be truly humbled, visit Old Trafford.
The stadium, the changing rooms… are all devoid of grandeur. They call it the Theatre of Dreams. However, it’s a theatre that provides the stage to fulfill your dream. It does not provide the dream. It’s Manchester United’s secret for success.

When the chips are down(right) rude

Of all the compliments that I can pay England and Ireland, this is the most heartfelt, stomach-felt actually – These are a people that take their chips seriously.
French fries, or as they called in the UK, fries or just chips were not my favourite tid-bit by any stretch of a potato. But then I have only been exposed to assembly line wedges and fingers in India and even in Dubai. In the UK however, I did not come across a single place that did bad fries. When it comes to chips, it’s tongues out to the Brits.

I walked again

I grew up in a ‘walking’ town. As the town became a city, the autorickshaw became the basic mode of public transport. The rickshaw is a lot more convenient than a public bus, and more comfy than cycling or walking. As my family moved up the socio-economic ladder, the rickshaw became affordable. Add to the mix the motorized two-wheeler if you could not afford a car and you will see why, 15 years ago, I stopped walking or cycling.
Which is why I was amazed by the amount I had to walk in the UK just to get around.

Linkin Park

Of all the great bands I heard over the last couple of weeks it was Linkin Park that most impressed me. In a serendipitous stroke of good fortune, I caught a rockumentary on the band, flying in to the UK to hear them. So I wasn’t all at sea when they came on to a damp and cold opening night at the Sonisphere music festival at Knebworth. But boy, do they play music. A sophisticated sound that seamlessly merged the predominant genres of rock and rap with a myriad other musical hues. And most importantly, a great live act.

Piggy in the UK

I eat a lot of pork. Even though it is my third favourite meat, after wild boar (which is truly free- range pork) and beef. Yet, I hardly expected the quality of pork in the UK to be so good.
The meat is lean, fresh, tasty and sits as lightly in your belly as pork possibly can.
I’ve been told Scandinavian pork is better. The Chinese are pretty porky as well. But all I did in the UK was eat – sausages, bacon, ham and pork chops. With good pork sausage the hot dog becomes a dish to die for.

U2 - before, during and after

Well done Bono boy!
An old Dubliner at the U2 concert on August 27 at Croke Park in Dublin.

If you’re gonna sing, just fucking sing!
A Dublin taxi driver sharing his views on Bono trying to save the world.


They would come in scruffy for a pint, like teens that were not very well brought up.
A Dublin taxi driver who lived close to where the U2 boys went to school

I’d like to apologise to the residents around Croke Park.
Bono, during the show, reminding us that no band is too big for where they come from.

Where the streets have no name... but a lot else

Cobble stones, red brick houses, a canal running through it and 700-plus years of history.
Dublin had a lot going for it even before U2 wrote Where the streets have no name. Throw in some spectacular churches and a pub on every corner and you have a city i could be happy living in.
What strikes me most about Dublin is the sense of having existed for ages, that the city exudes. Of having witnessed the evolution of a nation. Of standing like a proud and true testament to the value of culture and heritage.
Pune could have been that.

99 reasons why I will not be blogging for the next 15 days... but who knows?!

U2, Metallica, Linkin Park, Limp Bizkit, Heaven and Hell, Nine Inch Nails, Coheed and Cambria, Anthrax, Taking Back Sunday, Alien Ant Farm, Bullet For My Valentine, Airbourne, The Used, Bjorn Again, Skindred, Soil, Lamb of God, Killing Joke, Buckcherry, Avenged, Sevenfold, Alice in Chains, Feeder, Mastodon, Saxon, Paradise Lost, Thunder, The Wildhearts, The Ataris, Hundred Reasons, Blakfish, Failsafe, Fact, Fighting With Fire, Architects, Attack! Attack!, Cancer Bats, Flood of Red, Fucked Up, Glamour of the Kill, Oceansize, Corey Taylor, Dead by April, Dirty Little Rabbits, Rolo Tomassi, Sylosis, Telegraphs, Twin Atlantic, Lauren Harris, Rise to Remain, Pepper, Zebrahead, Blackhole.

Point of no return

In every decision there is the point of no return. People say it is never too late to turn back. But, it is. Once you cross the point of no return.
At the very point, you actually do assess the implications. But, if the need, want, desire, necessity, inevitability of the decision outweighs the consequence – for whatever reason – you cross the point of no return.
To know where you are in life: from as far back as you can remember, on a time line, plot your points of no return. And remember, even the small ones matter.

Peak performace

Think about it. How far away are humans from peak performance?
Usain Bolt is running the 100 metres in 9.7-odd seconds. How much faster do you think man can go? I’d say at 9 seconds the human race would have peaked out.
Likewise with pole-vault, high jump and all the great track and field events. We are one generation away from not being able to go any faster or higher. You might get the odd super athlete, like Lance Armstrong or Michael Phelps, but that’s it. Humans are going to have come up with a completely new Olympics soon.

You matter, but only in the real world

Facebook offers a study in the height of presumption and the depths of human need. I am forever amazed that even people I allow to be my friends would presume that I would want to know when they get paid or laid, or what sort of rock star they are.
The impulse to share that information stems from the need to know that people care about when you are constipated. That you matter.
If online social networking is designed to keep you connected, it only guarantees loneliness in the end.
Much rather you than your profile, comment or picture.

In the parent 'hood

A manifestation of the Goddess Venus once told me, “Teach a child to love books and you give them a friend for life.”
Your kids are wired to only pick up the bad from you. If they do pick up any good, you will never see it. But, they will constantly remind you that they are your kids. And not because of their manners, discipline or genius. Once in a way though, they drop you a lifeline.
I think I did good by my eldest. For her ninth birthday I asked her what she wanted and she said, “Books.”

Marathi's Rape-unzel

Nilu Phule was the Marathi screen’s great rapist. He was a top draw drunk and an excellent lecherous villain. In his dying, another wisp of the monochrome age of Doordarshan in the 1980s gets blown away.
The great thing about Marathi actors, and Punekar ones in particular, is their strong theatre background. I was once exercising at the same gym as thespian Dr Shriram Lagoo and he said to me, “A city with a strong theatre culture will always be true to itself.” He then asked me not to disturb him. A toast to Nilu Phule then, aiee ghalya!

Mutant fruit king

So I was intrigued when a couple of Malays on the island of Penang told me they were going to introduce me to the king of fruits – the durian.
A round thorny outside, which when hammered and pried open, reveals a sliver of jackfruitish skin over a mash of custardy-creamy squish, which tastes weird, tangy and pungent all at the same time.
I realised why they call it the king. Twelve hours after eating durian, it still rules your senses. You sweat, smell, taste, fart and burp the crazy fruit. This is what a fruit mutant tastes like.

Ban the foghorns

I am warming to South Africa as the venue for the 2010 football World Cup. The recent Confederations Cup played there served up a surprisingly delicious aperitif of sublime skill and fierce competition.
And it was the microcosm of the real thing – one team got robbed by hookers (Egypt), tournament favourites got beaten (Spain), there was a darkhorse in the final (US), the host nation reached the semis, and Brazil won in the end.
All South Africa has to do now is - ban the foghorns. Seriously, the foghorns destroyed the tournament and the cacophony killed the TV experience.

R.I.P

I stayed away from the MJ memorial, precisely because I was unsure what the ceremony would be. By the time I got home, alas it was not over, and so, I had to endure the last 20 minutes of a vapid, pretence-ridden, farcical dribble. The Jackson family reminded me of loan-sharks at the funeral of a huge debtor – yellow ties, gloves and all.
Perhaps saddest was getting MJ’s daughter, Paris was it, to speak . It was unnecessary and disgustingly exhibitionist. Strangely she doesn’t even look like MJ – black or white. Truly, may he rest in peace.

What you should really learn from Federer

I have combed papers across the globe online today looking for an inspired Federer headline. I have not come across one. That is true greatness. When one makes headline writers struggle to capture the immensity of one’s achievement. That, and fitness.
Roger Federer did not beat Andy Roddick yesterday at Wimbledon because he played better. He beat him because he was fitter.
Fitness has nothing to do with talent, or genius, or opportunity, or privilege. It has 100 per cent to do with mind-numbing, body-destroying, resolve-busting hard, hard work. Federer showed that without super-fitness you cannot be a legend.

How to make a Jap flee

The new airport paranoia is swine flu. Masked lab technicians and thermal scanners have been added to racially-profiled security checks and not selling cocaine at dutyfree (except maybe at Tijuana International).
Step off a flight and you are scared to even clear your throat. God help you should an untimely cough come your way. Then there is the Japanese (there is always one no matter where you travel) in front of you with the mask on. In fact, all the fuss is guaranteed to make you sneeze. It’s worth it though, just to watch the Jap flee. Aah choo!

Big world, small me

My reluctance to travel has much to do with the need to remain king of my empire. To remain relevant in the universe. I temper that egoistic streak by reading National Geographic. I have yet to come across an issue that has not left me thinking… God, I’m small.
However, to really gain perspective on the minisculity of one’s life, surely it is traveling to another country that is tops.
In Malaysia I discovered an entire race (actually three) that have made Islam a religion of life and happiness, prosperity and peace. And they did it all without me.

The hook up

When you have spent the best part of your adult life in bars, you learn stuff.
You can, with one look, know if the bartender is under pouring. You can pick out, with one look, pimp, whore, addict, dealer and the DJs girlfriend. You can tell which girl the drummer is going to bang. And you learn to enjoy an entire movie with the sound off.
The one thing I haven’t learnt is being able to pick out the girl that is up for a hook up (not to be confused with the hooker). My friends say it's karma.

Michael Jackson

I waited to write about Michael Jackson because I needed to separate his suspected pedophilia from his genius.
I was to see him at the O2. One of life’s great regrets will be not having seen him when he toured India.
Jackson had a huge influence on my career as a music critic, my passion for dance and my love for the arts. Then he had sleepovers with kids.
For me, Michael Jackson died with Dangerous. After that it was a freak show dragging on till the inevitable.
The day he entered Neverland, is the day the music died.

I am fatal

I am not the tsunami that will destroy you.
I am not the accident that will maim you.
I am not the bad news that will shatter you.
I am not the twist of fate that will derange you.

I am an infection you catch, unnoticed.
Slowly, I will spread and before you know it, I will be fatal.
I am the addiction you indulge, unnoticed.
Slowly, I will consume you and before you know it, I will be fatal.
I am the curse of all things human – you never see me,
And, unnoticed, I will be fatal.

Glorious uncertainty

I used to gag every time Sunil Gavaskar went, “Cricket is a game of glorious uncertainties.” As if to say the rest of life is a game of inglorious certainties. However, after Pakistan’s victory at the 20/20 World Cup, I am going to have to accept – glorious uncertainty it is.
Never has a more ordinary team outperformed two near-perfect teams (South Africa and Sri Lanka) in cricket. Only India’s world cup winning team of 1983 comes close.
This Pakistan team will be thrashed in the Champions Trophy, but 20/20 offers instant redemption. And Pakistan have that for now.

Pathetic, pathetic

People do not always get the government they deserve, but they sure as hell get the newspaper they deserve. In the Gulf, general reportage is so pathetic, I am relieved to be not involved. In India, language press is powerful, robust, and often, rightly focused. Sure it has agendas. A good newspaper must. It must take a side. The English press in India, however, only looks decent because English news TV there is crap. One obsession they persist with is what a celebrity eats should s/he land in jail. Readers want it, they say. That’s a pathetic reader then.

All dagger, little cloak

The gloves are off. Paulo Coelho is no more cloaking the Christian message in mystical literature. He is standing on a pulpit and preaching, finally out of the closet with his latest book, The Winner Stands Alone.
What made Coelho intriguing was the Marian influence on his devotion to women (or vice versa), and the intelligent subterfuge in which the world’s hopelessness offered the perfect cloak for the dagger of the Cross to strike right to the heart of the reader. With the new book though, you might as well catch a Sunday sermon.
Check earlier posts for context

Angels and Devils

They say children are the most beautiful creatures in the world. Mine are pure mayhem. I guess if you are an anarchist you would find them beautiful.
Don’t get me wrong, they are all bloody good-looking, but boy (and girls), they could destroy a city with a pencil and a sheet of paper. The youngest could bring on armageddon with a bowl of porridge.
Which gives me great hope. You see I have this theory that devilish children make angelic adults. Better devilish when small, believe me. Or ask my mum.
So I am letting them be. For now.

The City, it grows on you

I had a Sex and the City moment. The series is as much about sex as it is about the city – New York.
I live in a city that tries its best to be a Manhattan clone. In Dubai, you are never far from a Cosmopolitan or a Starbucks. I don’t do Cos-politans, but I love coffee. Coming from a more My Name is Earl-type of hometown, I could never order at Starbucks. One coffee please? Uh, oh!
Last week I went in and said, “One latte, strong with skim milk, please.” Damn, I’m ready for New York.

Ass kissers

They say it’s a serious business. And I agree. Ass kissing is serious. So is public relations. I have yet to meet a PR professional who has not kissed my ass to get a press release published.
I realise that is a sweeping statement. Alas, it is true. In my newspaper career, I have been a sub, a chief sub, a news editor, an assistant editor, a night editor and an editor-in-chief. At every stage I have encountered PR professionals and all they have done is kiss my ass. Which is why I will never be in PR. Ever.

A champion

So Monsieur Nadal, welcome to the world of champions. It’s easier to chase them down then to fend of the chasers. Perhaps now you and the many detractors of Roger Federer will appreciate what it takes to stay on top consistently for so long.
Whenever Federer lost to you, it was not in the fourth round, or the quarterfinal, but in the finals. That’s the difference between a great player and a champion. You are certainly a great player. But, he is the champion. Maybe you will be a champion too. Until then, let’s enjoy the reign of Roger.

Footballers' graveyard

Real Madrid is a graveyard for footballing careers. As against Manchester United, Barcelona or even the Milans, to be a Galactico is never to win anything outside Spain.
All Real does is buy the best players from other clubs, mainly Manchester United and whoever is the best Brazilian playing in Europe. Once they go there, they don’t win anything.
So why would anyone go there? Is money such a motivating factor? Or is the lure of the Madrid life and fan following better than the thrill of holding the Champions League trophy? Cristiano Ronaldo is about to find out.

Thank you, Sania

Sania Mirza must retire. She turned us on, let us down, gave NDTV reason to exist, so now, must tie the knot and live happily ever after.
Don’t get me wrong. I applaud her for reaching the level she has – it’s commentators I blame for the hype. I applaud her for being an icon – it’s the youth I blame for settling for less than a world champion.
Most of all, I applaud her for reminding us that Indian women, when toned and in a micromini/shorts, are by far the sexiest. She gets all the blame for that.

Hit back

Indians abroad are too cultured for their own good. Which other nationality would take such a Gandhian route to protesting racial attacks in a country that belongs to all who live there (aboriginals apart).
Who is attacking the Indians? There are no Aussies. There are Brits, Irish, Chinese, Lebanese, Italians, Lankans, Vietnamese and kangaroos.
Australia is different from the US. There was a fight to claim that land. Those who won have every right to decide who gets to stay.
Oz was a prison. Now reformed, it belongs to everyone. So my suggestion is: Down Under, hit back. Literally.

Oh God!

Sir Alex Fergusson and Bob Dylan remind me of God. Especially in my world, where oxygen is two parts music, two parts sports.
Both are patronised and taken for granted simply because they have performed consistently forever.
As long as Dylan releases a new album every year and Manchester United win everything in sight, God is good.
When Man United lose, God is blamed for everything - typical human fickle reaction. Fergusson is not really bothered.
What about Dylan then? Well, I still have to check his latest album to see if this year is really a Godless one.

The future is shit - see it in the movies

Art imitates, validates, substantiates, and indicates – life. Even surrealist art references life. Films being the apogee of the modern sensory art medium, leave me very worried about our future.
Can you think of a single film that paints a good, nay, even half-decent picture of our future?
The world in all futuristic movies is basically a shit-hole. Technology is ultra, ultra developed. Almost inversely to that happening, is that the world itself, which in these movies, is a dump.
If that’s how some of the visionary artists of the film medium see the future, shouldn’t we be worried?

Bi-curious

Disclaimer:
The following post contains graphic sexual references. If you are my mother or father, or think of me as Saint Peter, do not read further

A decade ago, being bisexual for women was a big deal. Like, I have said before, wearing a ear-ring, getting a tattoo and doing cocaine.
Not any more.
Which is why, I have taken off my earrings and stopped the snow. The tattoos are with me for life. Which leaves being a bisexual woman. Impossible to change when you are hetro.
Now, I’ve been following the confessions of movie stars and singers off late and all the women are suddenly flaunting same-sex needs, desires and experiences. This must infuriate real lesbians. You can’t have cock and eat pussy too!

Recession dynamics of the Middle East workforce

Indians work best in a recession. My company (and if this gets traced to me, I’m screwed), when I first joined was a veritable United Nations, and like the real UN, with a clear pro-West tilt.
At the first sign of trouble, the goras fled. For a company to survive a recession, as we all know now, employees must work twice as hard often for less money.
Now in the teeth of a recession the company is filled with Indians. Which confirms the generalization: goras are in the Gulf for a good time; Indians will always sell themselves short.

An Afghan waterloo

Afghanistan will do to Barewreck Oh!Bummer what Iraq did to George W Bush. It will Waterloo him. American foreign policy states that Iraq is their war of choice, but Afghanistan is their war of necessity. They could not be farther from the truth. One was a war for oil, the other, the frightened reaction of a bully.
The Americans are not ruthless. Not like the Russians at least. And even the Russians could not win a war in Afghanistan.
Why are the US still there? To wipe out Al Qaeda? Not possible. To capture Osama? Pointless now. Then, why?

Word limit

After ages I have been called upon to write something for the paper that employs me. I would let management know that writing is my forte, but then, they would expect me to write often. And writing for a newspaper involves legwork.
I’m done with legwork. At least when it involves my own. However, when I have the opportunity to be nasty in print, I write.
The problem with this latest piece is, I have to write 2,000 words. And I’m struggling. Not because I don’t have enough to say. But, because I can say it in 99 words.

The racontuers

What is Jeffery Archer doing in Pune so often? Twice in six months is often enough. More intriguing, apart from the appalling interview the Times of India managed to conduct on both occasions, is why the former jailbird considers R K Narayan the best Indian writer in English.
I have read Narayan and Archie prefers Narayan to Rushdie and Naipaul because, like ol’ Jeffers, RK is first and foremost, a storyteller. In fact, that’s all RK really is. Language is merely and solely the means. There is no shame in that. A good storyteller is irresistible. Ask Lord Archer.

The TV effect

What do slum dwellers and farmers have in common? They both have access to cable TV.
What cable TV does, is, it gives you the feeling of being in the know. Of being empowered.
Suddenly, their conversation needn’t be about someone’s suicide. Rather, about what the Prime Minister of the country said about suicide.
Take into account the manner in which local language channels dramatise the news and essentially you have a voter ready to decide for him/herself who will run India. They did. And the Congress won because the ‘remaining 70 per cent of India’ now watch TV.

We are the champions, my friend!

Defensive generals, flying wingbacks, midfield marshalls and forward assassins.
That is what it takes to win a war. And 75,000 red devils inside Old Trafford, another 100,000 outside, me, Sir Alex Fergusson and God (not always in that order for the last two) will have to have got it wrong if Manchester United do not win the battle to be Premier League Champions today. Even if Arsenal win, victory will be delayed by a week. So let’s look ahead.
Sell Ronaldo, keep Tevez. Sell Berbatov, buy Benzema, or Kaka. Keep everyone else.
All together now… we are the champions…

Be-deviled

In the pentecostal strains of Christianity, the devil is personalised to the extent of him (yes, definitely male) becoming more real than the persona of God.
That religious experience pits you in a daily battle against the forces of evil. Forget, Reaper and Buffy… you can be part of a real life good versus evil war.
In that milieu, however, when plans go awry, the devil gets the blame.
I have long stopped battling the devil, ever since I realised I was more evil. Sometimes though, when things go wrong it does seems like it is beyond our control.

Live and let die

National Geographic’s April issue dealt with hundreds of frog species gone extinct. Then, scientists announced the discovery of 200 new frog species. In Madagascar alone.
Point is, we are interfering with the natural evolutionary process by trying to save species.
The human being continues to put him/herself at the centre of life on earth. I’m sure every species does that. So unless a bunch of frogs is working very hard on a cure for diabetes, I suggest we leave extinction of species to Darwin’s law. And save all money and energy for saving ourselves. Better me than a frog.

I may not be Don Juan, or DeMarco, but I am still DeMarquis... of nothing in particular

Every man deep down inside thinks he is Don Juan DeMarco (or whatever the cultural equivalent). If a man doesn’t, he is either gay (which means he thinks he’s George Michael) or missing out.
Some men, like me, actually believe they are, even though they may actually resemble a fat old Marlon Brando.
Either way, life sometimes sends along a young stud to remind you what being Don Juan was all about. At 18, this kid I met, is a national swimmer, was head-boy at school, beat me at pool, and played the guitar like a pro. Damn!

Who will end the Taliban?

Unless there's a grassroot movement within Islam, I mean madrasa KG upwards, the Taliban will never be wiped out.
It’s like the mentally deranged uncle who nobody wants at the wedding, but every one puts up with because he is blood. Mullahs preach an adherence to the letter of the Koranic law in terms much more filial than blood.
Which is why Pakistan’s offensive against the Taliban will eventually blowup in their face, literally.
Musharraf’s reign really ended because he attacked the Red Mosque.
After all, which Muslim will support the killing of another who interprets the Koran literally?

A little Ali, Manny

A world champion must speak and carry himself like one. Manny Pacquiao is one fight away from being boxing’s only current true world champion. I am still lost for words to describe his knockout of Ricky Hatton. It was, apart from Tyson’s KO of Michael Spinks and Sugar Ray’s marathon win over Marvin Hagler the best boxing match I have seen ‘live’.
The problem is Manny’s humility. When he opened his mouth to speak it was with the demeanour of a Filipino waiter. I greatly value humility, but for world champs, surely, a little after-match swagger is a must.

No twit, no way

If you want to avoid a website the only way is never to go to it. Type the URL out once and you will never let go. I am anti-online social networking. I have documented here, and in newspaper columns, how orkut did not work for me and why, for years, I resisted facebook.
However, the day I went to facebook.com I was doomed. I am now on it, if only to abuse people, ofcourse.
Which is why twitter.com will never be keyed on my comp (wait, it just has, aargh!). But, you know what I mean. Stay away.

Poor, but flu-less

I need write this in before the red spots on the world map you see in your newspapers begin to discolour Africa and Asia.
So far, it’s the developed world that has been left shivering and scared by swine flu. Isn’t that ironic. Disease and poverty-ridden swathes of Asia and Africa have been untouched (save that techie who brought back the flu from the US to India).
It means if you are not rich enough to holiday in Cancun, you will not catch this latest plague.
Life, of late, is making a very serious case for not being rich.

Anti recovery

Green shoots, bottoming out and bounces. The holy trinity of global economic recovery right now. I for one am against economic recovery. At least until we have a new path forward. A new way of life to bequeath to our children that is not based on greed and the principle of more. The quicker the economic recovery the less likely a new thought process will be out in place. The longer we are hurting and poor the greater the chance we will look at what really matters and question the basis for existence and development since World War II.

Don’t go to war, but if you must, win

I am against war. We should do everything possible to prevent two people, or two communities or two nations fighting against each other. However, once a decision has been taken to go to war – let’s not try and humanize it. It’s more sickening than going to war. Once you decide to go to war there is only one outcome that must matter – victory. Bomb, kill, maim, torture, capture (I stop at children and rape), ideally, do it in a manner that sets an example – war is not for the fainthearted so, don’t ever go to war.

Buy Man U, not Liverpool

This is a sports’ streak 99 is on right now, so be kind. News of the hour demands it. Besides, everything else I have to say – from economy to Oh!Bummer - is dour.
The GMR group, which owns the Delhi Daredevils IPL side, are in talks to buy Liverpool.
This will be a mistake. I estimate one out of every three Indian football fans is a Manchester United supporter. Man U need a sponsor after AIG pulled out. Also, Man U is a global club. Liverpool is more Brit than London and Indians will never be welcome there.

Sporting perspective

Great sporting moments created not by genius, but by error.
Useless media, in need of hype like a crack addict, orgasmic about the results.
The truth:
* Arsenal vs Liverpool, 4-4, lesson in defensive disasters. Saving grace: Andrei Aarshavin’s finishing.
* Stephen Hendry vs Ding Jun Hui, last 16 of the World Snooker Championship. Hendry wins 13-10, but Ding misses a pot I could have made blindfolded. Saving grace: Hendry’s masterful safety behind the black to end it.
* Kolkata vs Rajasthan in the IPL. Royals win. Ganguly does not disappoint. Saving grace: I warned you (see previous post)

Paradoxes

India is the land of paradox. Where else can the country’s worst cricket player boast of being its best captain? In Kolkata’s IPL team two great paradoxes meet. Saurav Ganguly and Shah Rukh Khan. SRK is of course the other paradox – I have never seen a bigger hamster in my life… and yet they afford him the title of King and he has made billions.
The two of them together will surely ensure that the team from Kolkata wins as little as possible on the pitch – but will rule the media scene with all sorts of antics.

Lewis busted

In a shitty car Lewis Hamilton is not the dog’s balls after all. I’ll tell you what though, it’s fun to watch the damned thing again. After years of suffering Michael Schumacher and Ferrari, it finally seems like a race now.
If all were given shitty cars and regular diffusers I still say Fernando Alonso is the best driver on the track out there.
Felipe Massa, Jenson Button, Sutil, anybody but the spoilt Hamilton, who, if he wants to win me over, is going to have drive his car, which is clearly crap, all the way to the podium.

EPL's player of the year

Manchester United have five players who make the shortlist (six total) for the Premier League’s player of the year. Happy? Not really. I have my own list. It does have a Man Utd player, but not from any on the official list.
My criteria, is, of course different. Ability to give 100 per cent even when team is floundering, ability to play every match like it’s a Champions League final and of course, talent.
My list is:
Aaron Lennon (Spurs)
Yossi Benayoun (Liverpool)
Tim Cahill (Everton)
Park Ji-Sung (Manchester United)
Shaun Wright-Philips (Manchester City)
Rory Delap (Stoke City)

Go, IPL, go!

The best thing about having the IPL in South Africa is we will be spared the self righteous bullshit from Indian political parties about cheerleaders.
Rather than have them all clad in various ugly-looking tights, we can have cheerleaders looking as they rightly should: scantily-clad and sexy.
It’s another 45-day slog fest then, and while India is cricket-crazy enough to sustain that kind of match fatigue, one wonders how the non-stop carnival will fare in South Africa.
Rest assured though, I plan to be there for the climax. And I hope the cheerleaders get sexier and the sixes bigger.

Eu tu, Mel

Is it just not possible to be a superstar and have a happily married life? Are Hollywood, happy and marriage all mutually exclusive? I’m a big Mel Gibson fan. The fact that he is devoutly Catholic and until now, was married to the same woman for 28 years and had seven children, had a lot to do with it. Mad Max with a life. That’s something worth emulating. Then, Robyn his wife, files for divorce today.
So who’s left happily married (first wife) in Hollywood? John Travolta, Will Smith, Denzel Washington, Tom Hanks, Sting (not strictly Hollywood).
Who’s next?

Me, poll pundit

Three tips on voting this election in India.

* Vote for a party that has a strong regional platform and a genuine regional progressive manifesto. Do not buy the ‘stability at the Centre’ argument. Strong regions make a strong nation.

* Vote for the candidate, not for the party. In India, candidates need parties because of the nature of politics. One cannot go it alone. However, a good candidate will put constituency above party and play the necessary politics to keep both happy. Vote for this person.

* Finally, vote. It’s one of the few populists agendas that’s kosher.

Whaddap nigga!

This blog generally sets the agenda. Impervious to prevalent sentiment, here nuggets of the future are distilled from chaos of the present.
But, you don’t have to take my word for it. There are veritable experts that unknowingly vindicate and irrefutable facts that underline why we should all be saying together: ‘You read it first on 99!’
* Look for a previous post on Oh!Bummer, then see M J Akbar’s piece in epaper.timesofindia.com, April 12.
* Look for a previous post on Indian hockey and join me in celebrating our first Azlan Shah Cup for 13 years, I believe.

A good question

Popular wisdom allows us to become intellectually lazy. A classic case of pop-wiz is the use of the phrase ‘That’s a very good question.’
Delivered in Q&A session, generally after the speaker has finished his/her speech, the phrase is blatant use of linguistic bribery to keep the audience in check.
It usually describes the dumbest question or, rather, the question the speaker most expects or is most ready answer.
A good question will leave the speaker confounded and expose hypocrisy or factual error, or ideally criminal intent. Remember, if they cut to a commercial, the question was good.

What if it's all free?

I tread carefully when talking about religion because as the great Bishop Fulton Sheen cautioned – no matter where you go, God has been there first.
Religions where the emphasis is on you performing deeds to earn your salvation are among the fastest growing in the world. This is because humans like that idea. The fact that I can do what I want and then do something else to negate it takes away the need for organic change from within. A religion which is based on free will, free love and free forgiveness is much harder to deal with.

Engage the Taliban? You gotta be kiddin’ me

Barewreck Oh!Bummer needs to understand the difference between engaging in peaceful negotiation and being taken for a ride.
Sure he’s suave and charming and speaks in a manner that makes Dubya seem like a bumbling idiot. But, when you deal with the Taliban, Iran and North Korea, none of the above matter. They are not NDTV viewers.
I don’t quite get ‘engaging the Taliban’. Unless it’s ok to have people ruled by the letter of a religious law interpreted in the same manner as it was over 400 years ago. Be careful Oh!Bummer who you engage and why.

Q1 ends

It will be Easter and a new liturgical year will begin.
Schools will begin a final push for the report-busting exam season. A pall of gloom will descend on students’ houses.
Companies will have closed books on the worst quarter in their history and have finalized a list of staff to be fired. There will be a sense of burning bridges and moving forward.
Leaders of the twenty most powerful nations will return home to save their economies.
India will elect a new government.
Manchester United will attempt to win five club titles.
And me,? I’ll still be here.

What do you want for your birthday?

I’m amazed that the older people get, the less likely they are to tell you what they want as a birthday present.
I always ask someone whose day of birth is in the offing, and 30 years ago, the birthday-boy-to-be would have sure as hell told me exactly what he wanted. Nowadays, I have to contend with a bland “nothing”, and then the perfunctory, “just show up” (at the party).
Why should age dull one of the most delightful creations of humankind – gift giving?
Ask me and I will not hesitate to tell you what I want.

Me, posh

Take my advice, if you ever go for a concert make sure you’re in the VIP seats (right in front). It will always be worth it. The sound is always good there, one has easy access to toilets and the bar area. And most importantly you get the feeling that the artiste in question is performing solely for you and the 40,000 screaming cheapos behind are just gate-crashing your party.
Last night I broke this cardinal rule of mine on the insistence of friends and had to watch Coldplay along with the hoi-polli. Never again. Coldplay were brilliant, though.

An intellectual bail out, anybody?

What’s really needed in today’s world? Some original thought. A new breed of philosopher. Where are the Nietzsche, Sartres or Gandhis of the 21st century? If they are out there and I haven’t heard of them, then they are not loud enough. We need a new philosophy to challenge and inspire us.
All the brains went to Harvard and economically destroyed the world. Nowadays, those at the helm of public opinion seem more intent on twittering than on thinking.
An ideological, intellectual bail out is the need of the hour. In fact, money is the last thing we need.

Once we were found, now we are lost

Some times others say it best.
This from a beautiful mind:

I think it’s a difficult cusp for our generation.
We were brought up bonding, caring and sharing amongst neighbours and extended family. Very Amol Palekar films-like.
But we've grown up into an isolationist era. Most people are quick to aspire to the American dream, adopting the same stringent routines, lifestyles and getting isolated.
There is no chance one would feel this lost 20 years ago. Hanging out in the balcony in a banian, reading the paper and gossipping with the neighbour about the berozgaari.

I totally agree.

Quantitative easing

Quantitative easing. I love this term. It has potential. Like ‘zeitgeist’ or ‘tango on my tastebuds’, it’s a phrase that goes above and beyond the ordinary linguistic needs of everyday communication.
In its current context it’s used to describe how the US is dry humping the global economy - it means America is printing money. It’s the only country in the world that can – without devaluing its currency (or so it thinks).
So what do I have in my life that I can simply produce or create to ease my problems quantitavely, in a crisis?
I figure, only love.

A case for a different point of view

* Bruce Springsteen’s latest album makes a case for plain ‘ol rock’n’roll - devoid of experimentation, justification or self-glorification.
* Wall Street bankers make a case for self-destruction as the inevitable end to amoral evolution of a species.
* My perfectly healthy children make a case for not banning smoking in public places. (Of course, they don’t smoke, only their parents do).
* The Associate makes a case for John Grisham books now being ghostwritten by someone else.
* Tata’s Nano makes a case for… I’m not sure… It’s on the fringe of my consciousness, yes… wasteful expenditure.

Red scare

Liverpool are looking scary. I always said, until now, that after Man Utd, if I had to choose a club to back to win the league, it would be Liverpool.
I said that often because at the back of my mind I knew they were never serious contenders. They just didn’t have the squad, the bottle or the mettle to last the Premiership campaign.
Now, I might have to eat my words. Man U is choking and Liverpool is going from strength to strength.
Brace for the closest finish the Premier League has experienced since its inception. And pray.

India’s American Idol

Now we have another American Idol hopeful with Indian lineage waiting to be lapped up by an urban India still only too keen to have the West define their cultural and social achievements.
And you can’t beat winning American Idol in that category.
From what I’ve heard, Anoop Desai does have a better chance of winning than Sanjay Malakar did.
If I could somehow manage to hear Van Halen and Led Zeppelin, I could proudly declare that I have heard every great rock band that I grew up on ‘live’. Yesterday, I ticked off Deep Purple from the list.

Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater

I believe there is now as strong a case for democracy being a seriously flawed socio-political ideology, as communism and socialism.
Can one be objective about communism’s noble ideals without in your heart believing it’s an evil ideology? The same with socialism, especially if you’ve been brought up on the thinking that democracy is the only way to exist happily. Democracy fuelled, fanned and fawned over the biggest economic disaster since 1929. So, should we ditch it? No. In the same way, we should not have thrown out communism and socialism, in totality. We need a new way forward.

This land is (not) your land

The Arabs from the Middle East have come to feel very threatened by the presence of the Indians in the Gulf. By Arabs, I mean Palestinians, Syrians, Jordanians, Iraqis, Egyptians, Lebanese, and to some extent the Turks. You see, they have much more in common with Arabs in the Gulf, religion and language, and hence, see Indians as outsiders. Especially the great swarm from the Malabar coast.
Why should fellow Arabs and Muslims share the oil wealth with Indians?
This was the feeling when the times were good. It’s only going to get more acute now in the recession.

Only human

I’ve stayed away from blogging about Manchester United because their form has been too good to describe.
Now they’ve been hammered at home by Liverpool. It takes pressure off fawning aficionados like me from having to come up with befitting soliloquies and thrusting them upon you.
Man United were reminded that they are only human. Nemanja Vidic was reminded that he too, is only human.
Frieda Pinto may need reminding as well. No, I’m not jealous as I have often been accused every time I point out that I can’t see what’s so special about her looks or acting.

Hey DJ, where's the music?

I am not a fan of electronic music. Fat Boy Slim is the closest a DJ comes to being a musician in my record. Alas, his show here had sound worse than anything I’ve ever heard at a major event, rendering the experience useless.
Last night I watched a bloke called Tiesto. What impressed me is that 5,000 people showed up to hear this music that is basically electronic sounds against varying drum rhythms and beat patterns. And seemed to enjoy it.
You either have to be on drugs, or if sober, then mentally unstable to like this music.

And that's why they call it the blues

On my last trip to Pune I heard a ‘local’ blues band. What struck me was, how pretentious and bad the music was. A blues chord progression and a harmonica section does not make you a blues band. I ran my assessments by some fellow musical hacks and one put it best: "Blues is a culture, something in your blood. You have to be born into the blues. Everybody isn't Clapton or Johnny Lang."
Indians make really good cover artistes. But guys, let’s not try going original on the blues, ok? If you do, try to be really good.

A rant

The Rating Agencies are certainly almost as guilty for the economic crisis as Pontius Pilate was of crucifying Jesus. They're now going to downgrade General Motors. Who gives a fcuk?! Somebody needs to tell the agencies and the entire US-UK-linked-and-bred financial system that there is a real world with billions of people out there who are hit by a mess they had no hand in creating.
And in the real world, nobody gives a flying copulation about the system and its incestuous rating agencies anymore.
These guys lived in a bubble that burst. They still don’t get it.

A new blood sport

The Ultimate Fighter Championship (UFC) is a league that brings together the world’s best mix martial artists (MMA) to compete. The UFC is an organisation in the making, though MMA has been around for some time now. You must be able to box, wrestle, kick-box and be a jiu-jutsu black-belt, at the very least. Fighters wear no headgear and box with gloves that leave fingers open to wrestle. It’s amazing and may soon dethrone boxing as the numero uno fight sport. Hatton versus Pacquiao may be the last really big boxing match. Boxing needs another Tyson or Ali.

Newspapers are closing down? Good!

Newspapers lost the plot the moment they stopped being the collective conscience and decided to be products.
I was with India’s largest English newspaper group when it went overboard trying to maximize profit. The Old Lady of Boribunder became the whore from Colaba.
I believe newspapers should not be for profit. To be a journalist is not a career, it’s a vocation. If you haven’t got beaten up, arrested, or at least threatened, don’t bother calling yourself a journo. Shut the papers.
Start anew. Return to the pursuit of truth and knowledge for the benefit of a better society.

Action and sex

A great author must be able to write a sex scene that leaves you turned on without being vulgar and a fight scene so real, your adrenaline is pumping.
I haven’t read them all, but in my book, Wilbur Smith is a master of the above. His African epics, among all other things, have the greatest action writing I have come across. And he is no slouch when putting his characters between the covers either.
In the same vein is Eric Van Lustbader and Louis L’amour, though there’s not much mating in the latter’s wild west. Any other suggestions?

Wisdom and stupidity

I have tried my best to stay away from obsessive posting. I see I might now have to keep tabs about going on and on about greed.

However, today words of wisdom and stupidity make headlines and deserve attention.
Bare-wreck Oh!Bummmer says: "We need access to credit.”
I say: No credit without a new fiscal value system.
Backing me up is Dubai’s chief of police, Dhahi Khalfan Tamim, who says: “The community needs to work together to improve quality of life for all. What is a reasonable profit?”
No profit is enough for capitalism and that is the problem.

I want to vote

I have voted in every Indian election since I was eligible to. This may be the first poll I will miss, unless they allow in-absentia voting. I am seriously considering flying down to cast my vote.
I have never wanted to migrate to Australia, New Zealand or Canada. I have a fondness for England, stemming from some Anglo blood far into the history of my mother’s side. I view the States with admiration and contempt, so I would love to visit. But, it’s India that is my home and India that I love and miss. I want to vote.

When bullies get beaten

Everybody loves to see a bully beaten. I noticed the general revelry over Australia’s series losses to India and South Africa in cricket. Especially with the Indian sports press, who cover cricket like a teenager having just discovered tits – with a permanent hard on. Australia’s demise as the No 1 cricketing nation was being celebrated.
In much the same vein, Dubai’s impending doom in the current scenario is being written up and reacted to with a certain glee that suggests an undercurrent of jealousy. Why, heaven knows.
Australia have just beaten South Africa at home, as for Dubai…

Legend and Blunt

I have now watched two immensely talented musicians live, and come away with the feeling that they sold out to pop. Alicia Keys, and now John Legend. When I first heard Legend he struck me as the next possible Lionel Richie.
As a producer, he may still be the next Quincy Jones, but as a performer, he is now a mish-mash of reggae, R’n’B and pop. No clear sound.
Unlike James Blunt, who has no pretension about being a legend and puts on a show that is full of the romantic angst he promises in his recordings. Simply beautiful.

An alternative

Mohammad Yunus totally agrees with me that greed has undone us and governments are making a mistake by bailing out the very systems that encouraged greed.
Microfinance offers a conceptual solution - common welfare. Everybody needs to benefit, or else, greed will set in and we know how that worked out.
Yunus, says, “The people put in the money, the people lend to each other and we don’t tap the international financial system. Today, we have no shortage of money and 99.6 per cent payback rate.” And his Grameen Bank is talking about a turnover of a billion US.

I have to thank my family and friends

When I was 15, my sister toured Australia. I remember asking her to bring me a Spyrogyra album. Not Michael Jackson or whoever was the flavour at the time, but Spyrogyra. Twenty years later, I am on the threshold of watching Spyrogyra live.
I’m trying to remember where exactly along the way did my musical upbringing imbibe the likes of Spyrogyra, Chic Correa and Manhattan Transfer.
At the risk of coming across as culturally pretentious or musically precocious, or both, I think I was really lucky to be exposed to such music by a combination of family and friends.

Dynamov Chelski

It’s a measure of the nationalistic sentiment that drives the Russian psyche right now. That, and money.
Roman Abramovich’s Chelsea needed a coach, so he pulls strings to get Gus Hiddink, the national coach of Russia to come in. That too, only till the end of the season, for now.
Hiddink, all kudos to him, at the press meet says, “I did this because of the Russian connection. Anyone else had asked and I would have said no.”
Well, mate, it’s a fookin’ cloob in Loondun, with a fookin’ Blighty following, ‘innit?
Now the Russians own and coach it.

Typical Rahman

So, what do you think about our Mr Rahman? My mind travels back to Roja and the breakthrough sound he pioneered, changing the rules for the, until then, heavily formulaic Indian music industry.
He came across as truly funky, with his variating time signatures and staccato off beats, threading a lyrical needle through it all to hold it together.
And then, I felt for some time, he made a formula of it himself.
Even with Slumdog, the typical Rahman drum-line drives Jai Ho. To put my comments into perspective, a prophet must always suffer stricter scrutiny by his own.

Sunday columnists

Sunday reading is all about newspaper columnists, a breakfast with enough bacon to give you a heart-attack, coffee and a mid-morning siesta. Unfortunately, in the Gulf, Sunday is a working day. So most of the above happens on a Friday, except for the columnists. They only write on Sunday.
I believe they call it a blogroll.
Vir Sanghvi (food), Jeremy Clarkson (cars), Swaminathan Anklesaria (economics), Bachchi Karkaria (spin and puns) and Shobhaa De (for how not to write). Then out of the blue De does a Bachchi. Check it on http://epaper.timesofindia.com/Default/Client.asp?Daily=TOIM&login=default&Enter=true&Skin=TOI&GZ=T
Even shitty writers can get it write, then.

Just go out and play

When I was a pre-teen, I’m pretty sure the only serious decision I presented my folks with was: can I go out to play or not?
Once I hit 12 or13, all hell may have broken loose, but that’s another story.
Today, I, as a parent, have to face myriad decisions regarding choices for my pre-teen daughter. She will be nine in June, but I’m already having to decide stuff like: Can she have a cellphone? Can she have an email account? Can she at least (her words) have a Facebook account? Whatever happened to going out and playing?

I love hockey

Is it just me, or is Indian hockey quietly going through a genuine renaissance? The Punjab Cup, which concluded recently, saw us hold our own against Germany and Holland, which until recently was unthinkable. When I was growing up, Zafar Iqbal was as big a star as Kapil Dev and Socrates (the footballer). And deservedly so. Now, the Indian team is touring Down Under and word is, hotter than a bush fire (no disrespect to the deceased in the recent blazes). I would be thrilled to see Indian hockey on par with cricket. It’s a better game for sure.

Grateful (they're not) Dead

It’s show time here in Dubai so forgive the incessant posts on music and bands and stuff. This is event season primarily because the summer is so prohibitively hot, and lasts for six to eight months at least, that organisers have to squeeze in as much as they can before April.
The latest to be added to the playlist here then is, believe it or not, Deep Purple. Yeah, even I thought they were all dead. It seems Ian Gillian and Ian Paice are still playing. That makes it worth going to see, especially since I’ve never seen Purple.

Sania sizzles

Sania Mirza gets a wild-card entry for the Dubai Open based purely on her popularity with the Indian expat community here. She always loses in the first round, but the stadium for that match is as packed as the men’s final. I try not to miss it either.
Apart from her sizzling forehand, she is sizzling, truly, truly hot in the flesh to watch.
It’s my ruling that Indian women are by far the sexiest when attired in shorts, short skirts and bikinis. I think it has to do with their under-exposure when using the above. Go Sania!

Mangalorean Catholics

I know 100 girls that look as good or better than Freida Pinto. This is not to take anything away from her acting or looks, it’s just that in the ‘Western’ Indian Catholic community of Maharashtra (my book will one day explain this social grouping in Booker-winning detail, inshallah), girls, generally, just have the Pinto look, or even better.
Freida is Mangalorean however, and that’s the difference within this social subset. The Mangalorean Catholics are the Jews of the Indian Catholic Community. Mainly for their herd-ish mentality and fiscal prudence. But as you can see, their women are beautiful.

A bad miss

Say what you like about Doordarshan in the age before cable TV conquered the Indian living room, they never missed the big events. Football world cup, champions league finals, Grammys and Oscars and the big boxing bouts. DD showed them all.
Now to watch any of the big events you may need a bouquet of networks and even then you may miss out. And so I missed this year’s Grammy night.
I will get a chance to make up for the miss by watching Coldplay live next month. Until then, I will have to make do with Fatboy Slim.

Bra burner scorches Dubai

Sometimes, you have to let other people say it. I haven’t read a lot of Germaine Greer, none of her books in fact.
However, this comment of her’s on Dubai, the marvel or hovel, depending on how you look at it, where I reside right now deserves to be shared. Not only because it’s written in the razor-sharp, extremely opinionated style of Greer. But, because it’s true. There are positives to Dubai, which Greer ignores. The fact is, if you have one ounce of heritage, cultural or non-material aesthetic in your blood, Dubai is not for you. Read:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2009/feb/09/dubai-architecture-greer

Of dingbats and knobs

Is it possible to be completely useless in one’s chosen sphere of expertise and be a wonderful person outside the office? Yes.
Is it possible to be brilliant at work, but a complete and total bum-hole outside the sphere of one’s chosen sphere of expertise? Yes.
Feel free to call in the firing squad to shoot me for stating what might be, the obvious. However, in the dynamic, crazy world of inter-personal relationships, the above makes it very difficult for me to deal with either kind of person. Why must a dingbat be nice and a knob a genius?

A true story

I went hunting as a child, was a sergeant in the National Cadet Corp in school and left home five times as a youth. However, as middle age beckons I find that the great outdoors are great as long as their outdoor and I’m in door.
So a recent office desert camp out found me accompanying some serious outdoorsmen to a mega hardware store. One turns to me and says, ‘This is the men’s version of a woman in the lingerie section’. I looked around – hammers, knives, tool-kits, axes, – ‘I prefer the women’s lingerie section’, I told him.

Comfort food

Indians will go on and on about dal (lentils) and rice being their comfort food. If you’re from the North the lentils will become rajma (beans) and if you go south, perhaps curds. This bemuses me. I grew up in a kitchen where to eat any of the above was a sacrifice. If at all, we ate the above only on Fridays, because it was a day of abstinence in the Catholic Church.
Comfort food for me is loin beef chops in a red curry, potato chops (beef mince and mashed potato merged in a patty) and a vegetable.

Better to be king at home, than king of the world

Maruti Suzuki posted record sales for January 2009. This is in the eye of the storm, mind you.
The West’s reportage of the recession is skewed towards China, because the West is screwed because of China and vice versa. One imported, one exported and both were rich.
India manufactured and sold at home, while it imported and exported. It has its own market first where its own banks are invested. As a result it has only imported the crisis to the extent to which it dealt with the world. And hardly exported any bad debts. Good on you, India

Better to be king at home, than king of the world

Maruti Suzuki posted record sales for January 2009. This is in the eye of the storm, mind you.
The West’s reportage of the recession is skewed towards China, because the West is screwed because of China and vice versa. One imported, one exported and both were rich.
India manufactured and sold at home, while it imported and exported. It has its own market first where its own banks are invested. As a result it has only imported the crisis to the extent to which it dealt with the world. And hardly exported any bad debts. Good on you, India

Truly awesome

I’ve waited a long time to let inspiration find its way into my being so that I can write something incisive or touching about Roger Federer’s epic loss to Rafael Nadal in the final of the Australian Open.
None is forthcoming. In fact, almost 24 hours later I find myself numb with the emotion of loss. As if I was playing Rafa.
I have boasted in these columns earlier how I have interviewed both, and even had dinner with Rafa. Federer is clearly my favourite. But, you can’t help but be awed by Rafa’s completeness of game. Truly awesome.

Time to withdraw

I clearly sense all is not right with the world. It was at times like this that mystics and hermits and sages throughout the ages simply withdrew from the world and sought refuge, clarity of thought and peace of being in the desert or mountains, away from all form of societal order that existed at the time.
I’m not a great one for the outdoors, so unless the desert or the mountain has 24-hour air-conditioning and room service, it’s going to be difficult for me.
The modern sage (or wannabe one) must withdraw then within the space he has.

Pro-choice, anti-abortion

At the point a person is about to commit murder, God has the power to stop him. God does not, instead, allowing the person the free will to choose, whether to kill or not.
This is a key part of the basic understanding of God for Christians.
Which got me thinking, God is pro-choice. We know, at least I do, that God is anti-murder. So, is it possible, using God as a template to be pro-choice, but anti-abortion?
I think so.
Bare-wreck Oh!Bummer’s move to free aid to NGOs involved with abortion is the context for this thought.

Too perfect

It doesn’t get much more perfect than Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Good looking beyond average, full-time parents, fiercely private about their kids, involved in humanitarian work and both find time to act in films and win Oscar nominations.
I don’t blame Pitt for dumping Jennifer Anniston. It must have felt like living in a constant rerun of series seven of Friends.
Generally, Hollywood marriages don’t seem to last. But these guys here seem to have the real thing going. Of course, I thought that about Madonna and Guy Ritchie too, and now see what has happened to them.

Dress sense

There’s formal work dressing and then there is overdoing the work dressing more than a wee bit.
In Dubai, especially the women, come dressed to work trying their best to look as sexy as is possible. And believe me, they pull out all the stops. In India, the professional attire scenario is different. I doubt I will ever see knee-high boots and a silk jacket hiding a low-cut blouse in corporate India. Not that I’m complaining, or being a prude, but it leaves me wondering, what do they wear to the disco, or an evening formal do?

Facebooked

I find myself being poked into submission, backed up against the wall, scribbles and all. Against the very fabric of my being, I am forced to operate my Facebook account.
God knows, I have poked more people than is good for me and my scribbling I do here. Yet, it’s a strange demograph that is forcing me to Facebook. A bunch of close friends who are all over the age of 40. These guys are clearly not of the online age and should be anti-online-socialising, like me. Yet, they seem inexplicably drawn to the concept. Dragging me with them.

French kissed Down Under

You might miss it, given all the Slumdog-Obama hypermania. But, a nation that adjectivised the kiss for erotic eternity, has three of its men in round four of the Australian Open Tennis Championship.
I remember guys like Henri Leconte and Yannick Noah existing to provide the pretty-boy quotient and quarter-final fodder for the aces in the 1980s.
Since then, the closest France have come to being taken seriously in the men’s game is in the form of Amelie Mauresmo.
Look out now for Jo-Wilifred Tsonga, Gilles Simon and Gaels Monfils. These Frenchies are ripped and ready to rip.

Where are you when shit happens

As a journalist and self-appointed commentator on, and prophet for, humanity, being “there” when epoch-defining events happen is a must. Yet strangely, I seem to miss out on them. When 9/11 happened, it was my day off at work. When Babri Masjid happened I was on holiday in Goa. Now, when the USA’s first Black President is sworn in, I am away from the newsroom (and from TV) because of a death in the family.
I soothe the frayed edges of my journalistic instinct with the hope that detachment will offer me the chance of a different perspective. Sigh!

Death, confusion

And just like that, I find myself in Pune. This time death brought me home. In fact, this is the first death I have experienced where the person in question was truly close to me. The first funeral where the burial of the person, and the vacuum thereafter, was truly tangible.
Only clichés swim around in my mind right now. That’s because they are all true, I guess. I tried to pinpoint the moment someone’s death sinks in – the call that comes to inform, the moments after, the grave being filled…
Death does this for sure – it confuses everything.

I remember when...

I was schooled in the art of housekeeping – call it urban husbandry actually. Going to the market, butcher, post-office, all require a certain ‘nous’ in a small city; especially if this is to be accomplished on a specific budget with no compromise on quality.
Now I find I can pretty much conduct my entire life via the internet. Though essential shopping online is nothing new, it has only recently entered the realm of my existence and therefore, bought into play the nostalgia of cycling around Poona getting home jobs done.
Online for convenience, but real time for experience.