Media Carnival

Courtesy Twitter.com

Most India media houses have stationed their top correspondents in the US to cover Narendra Modi’s maiden visit as the Prime Minister of India. NDTV’s Barkha Dutt talked to excited women playing garba, Rahul Kanwal from Headlines Today spoke to the students at Columbia University, Bhupendra Chaubey from CNN piqued our interest about Modi’s probable gift to President Obama and a nostalgic Maroof Raza from Times Now enlightened us about Muhammad Ali’s first bout against Joe Frazier at the Madison Square.
It is like a big social carnival bordering on hysteria with media men talking about everything except the strategic give and take. While we know what we want from the US, what was expected of India is not discussed enough. If India wants US to be stern with Pakistan on terror, is India ready to send soldiers to fight the war against ISIS? 

To read the entire article on The Hoot, click here.

Tape That

Object-ification?

Just when I was about to bury my old tape recorder, Aamir Khan resurrected the gadget in the trailer of Raju Hirani's yet to be released movie ‘PK’. Dismayed by its strategic presence, women and Karan Johar wanted to snatch the tape recorder from Aamir’s hands. To find the hidden truth. Why else? After all, there is something called scientific temper - the refusal to accept anything without examining. That’s why.
The last time a tape recorder captured our cinematic imagination was when the recorded voice of Rajesh Khanna stunned a grieving Amitabh - Babu Moshai, Zindagi aur Maut To Uparwale Ke Haath Hai.

Like other tools of popular culture, the tape recorder was a rage in the early eighties. Its demise compels me to play the somewhat broken record of my memories. I am not sure why, but the tape gets stuck around my red Sony Walkman - a birthday gift by my father. It was an era when Japanese gadgets from Aiwa, Sony, and Sanyo were synonymous with quality, whereas goods made in China, well, stayed in China. A Sony Walkman dangling around the neck was in tune with the times. It meant that all was well with the world. For the Apple fed generation, Sony Walkman was the grandfather of the present generation iPod. Given that street dancing became a popular trend in America those days, it was rightly called the Boom Box, a ghetto blaster or a jam box.
It was fascinating to be able to record your own favorites in one cassette that played in a loop for hours together. Of course, you could switch on the radio anytime, but listening to your favorite songs was pure delight. The only irritant was buying good quality cassettes. Those with ample pocket money would go for HMV or Sony cassettes, but the humble ones blessed Gulshan Kumar’s T series. Among other things, the tape recorder imparted an important lesson. Like warning me to never, ever sing in public. I remember recording a few lines in solitude. After listening to my own voice on tape, I realized that if I wanted to keep friends, I had to stay away from singing.
What amplified the fun was the fact that the tape recorder allowed the freedom to carry your own music on a road trip. You could tap your feet to the beat of George Michael’s ‘Faith’ or sing along ‘Walk like an Egyptian’ as the scenery flitted by. 

All in all, tape recorders were the coolest thing that happened to music until the arrival of the revolutionary IPods. Revolutionary, because you could store as many as 40,000 songs in your pocket with a storage capacity of 160GB. Like Sony, Apple changed the way we listened to music. Even as I write, fans are mourning the quiet death of iPod Classic, after a brief life span of seven years.

In a world dominated by technology where gadgets are becoming smaller and lighter – the demise of the tape recorder was expected. It is now time to listen to music on the Apple Wrist Watch - a ‘wearable device’ unlike the tape recorder or the iPod. Of course, the watch will tell the time among other things. Only, you can’t use it as an effective undergarment. Or maybe Aamir can. For all I know, or care, Aamir’s wife will be the right person to talk about it. 

This post is also on Huffington Post.

Full Circle

Short Story

26 July, 1980.

With scores of students living in the college hostel, a chance meeting in the nearby market was inevitable. Mahesh Thakur heard them mutter ‘Matty-Matty’ in hushed tones. Sharing puffs, they were idling near the corner paan shop. Waiting for his wife to complete the weekend ritual of vegetable shopping, Mahesh felt uneasy. Oblivious of her husband’s unease, Maya wiped drops of glistening sweat from her forehead with the free end of her sari. Unmindful of the stares, Maya fumbled with her purse even as her eyes exasperatingly looked for Mahesh. Spotting him in the corner, she asked, “Change for a hundred?” He passed on the soggy ten rupee notes to his wife and glanced around restlessly. “Hurry up. It’s getting late.”

Maya hurried towards the two-wheeler parked near the vegetable kiosk and the contrast was obvious. While an obese Mahesh struggled to balance his scooter, his lissome wife’s effortlessly perched on the pillion. Mahesh then kick started the Lambretta, which refused to buzz. When repeated attempts failed to ignite the engine, a student came forward and offered help. Mahesh smiled sheepishly and thanked the boy whose name he didn’t remember. And then it happened. One of the boys commented, “Beauty and the beast,” followed by stifles of laughter.

Living on the campus premises, Mahesh was a Professor of mathematics at The Benares Hindu University. A metaphor for his name, size and subject, Matty was the jocular term coined by his students. Lately, after his marriage and the birth of his younger daughter, Mahesh remained largely withdrawn - dour and uncommunicative.
Who cared if he was a brilliant mathematician? None of the problems in his life added up.
Returning to a quiet home, Mahesh found refuge in voluminous books adorning the wooden shelves of his study. Picking up a book randomly, he flipped the pages. When he tried to deliberate, words shimmered senselessly on white pages. He tossed the book on the table so hard that it fell on the ground. Unable to focus, he entered the kitchen and saw Maya storing vegetables in the vegetable basket.
"Where are the girls?"
“They are in the park,” replied Maya. 'Playing with friends."
Mahesh peered out of the window. Children were playing in the neighborhood park. A father and son were bonding over football. His heart cringed. Then he glanced at his wife. She appeared even more attractive, kneeling, sorting vegetables with a tendril of hair falling on her peaches and cream complexion.
What good is her beauty if she can’t give me a son?
On an impulse, he dragged Maya to the bedroom and forced himself on an unwilling wife.

*

Their third child this would be. A mother at forty-two, Maya’s mind hovered in hopeless circles. The tedium of changing diapers, sleepless nights and preparing gruels - all seemed daunting. With Mitali, fifteen and Naina, ten, her worst fear was most dreadful. What if it happened again?
Mahesh, on the other hand found himself liking his wife more when she was pregnant. During pregnancy the hour-glass figure made way for a more matched couple. Approaching full-term with a protruding belly, Maya waddled around the house and the girls. On purpose, Mahesh avoided accompanying her for the routine check-ups. The doctor echoed Maya’s thoughts, making him feel like a monster that had impregnated his wife for selfish reasons. “You have two lovely daughters. It's not wise to go in for a third caesarian. There are no guarantees……”
Mahesh had no patience or time for senseless sermons by another woman. He knew that his seemingly submissive wife rebelled secretively. Perhaps it was Maya, who prompted the doctor to sermonize, to make him see her own point of view. 

Mahesh was immersed in a book when Mitali knocked on the door.
“Daddy, I need help with the homework?” 
"Go ask your mother,” Mahesh said.
“She is at the doctor’s.”
"What is it?"
"This numerical, I dont know how to solve this, " said Mitali.
“This is simple. Why can’t you solve this?”
“I tried. I’m not getting it. My teacher taught us in a different manner.”
“Who’s your teacher?”
“Mrs. Sharma.”
“Your teacher is an idiot. Tell her, I said so."

These female teachers are useless.

Increasingly, Mahesh spent his days at his desk, correcting papers and reading books. Each night, he’d take a break from reading and imagine cradling his son, playing with him for hours at stretch. He felt at peace when he thought about someone who’d take care of him when he was frail and old. He could recall every day he’d spent with his own father during his last days. He had seen his father become a cripple before his very own eyes - lose hair, appetite, voice and finally the will to live. After his father’s demise Mahesh had become increasingly insecure about his own future.

  *

It could be any day, the doctor had said. With fifty percent attendance and students throwing chalk in all directions, he taught half-heartedly. When the chalk throwing and giggling continued unabated, he decided to leave.
This generation is hopeless, does not have any focus, direction or clue of their future.
 
Alighting from the rickshaw, Mahesh felt an urge to visit the ‘Kashi Vishwanath’ temple. Hundreds of devotees jostled for the sandhya aarti next to the sanctum-sanctorum where the chiseled marble idols smiled benevolently in bright satin outfits embellished with brocade and jewels. The evening prayers began with fervent chants by the priest clad in a saffron dhoti with multiple sacred threads of rudraksh around his neck. The blinking lights around quaint statues added to the aura and the mystique. The fragrance from the sandalwood incense wafted around - strong yet pleasing. The sound from the conch shell echoed in the air and the chants grew louder, reaching a fervent pitch. Mahesh stood there with folded hands. One amongst many.

Mahesh was lacing his shoes when he noticed a foreigner being accosted by a bunch of beggars near the temple. Tuesday being the holy day for Lord Hanuman, beggars, lepers and hawkers thronged the temple premises hoping to get free savories offered as prasaad. Spotting a soft target they pounced on the foreigner anticipating generous alms. The foreigner was visibly shaken by the sudden onslaught of grimy faces, poking and nudging him. So infuriated was Mahesh, that instinctively, he ran towards the aggressive louts with raised hands. With a menacing look, Mahesh hushed the motley group away and escorted the dazed foreigner. As they emerged after collecting their footwear, the tourist offered, “Smoke?”
Adjusting his thick glasses Mahesh said, “I don’t smoke.”
They continued walking through the narrow crowded lanes lined with several kiosks selling betel nuts, varieties of tobacco, supaari and paan. Carrying a book, ‘Benaras: City of Light’ by Diana Eck, he was from Spain, on a research visit to pen a book on various faiths. Absorbing every nuance and every detail, the foreigner trudged along.
“What does ‘Kashi’ mean?”
“The word ‘Kashi’ originated from the word ‘Kash’ meaning to shine. According to the mythological legacy, this is the place where Shiva and Parvati stood at the beginning of time. And ‘Vishwanath’ is referred to Lord Shiva, the Ruler of Universe,” Mahesh informed. Avoiding the stray cows lazing languorously, the foreigner asked, “So why do Hindus wish to spend their last days in this city?”
“According to the scriptures this holy land is capable of offering ‘moksha’. If your son performs the cremation rites, you are liberated from several cycles of rebirths.”
“What happens when you don’t have a son?”
“Then,” Mahesh shrugged his shoulders, “you continue to suffer the pain of repeated births and deaths.” 

*
It was like all hospitals. A place of hope and yet a place of hopelessness. Mahesh shuffled his legs frequently sitting on plastic vinyl chairs in the waiting area. A nurse in wimples swished past. When another seemingly young expectant father tried to initiate a conversation, Mahesh snubbed him. Anxious, he was in no mood for social niceties. When the silence grew deafening, Mahesh heaved himself up and went up to the nurse.
“How long will it take?”
“Please be seated sir. It could take several hours.”
“It’s been two hours?"
“Your wife has a history of caesarians and abortions. We are doing our best,” the nurse said in a firm voice.
History of abortions? I know about only one!
After prowling restlessly in the waiting room, he saw the lady doctor wiping her hands with a small hand towel.
“It’s a girl,” blurted the doctor in almost a rehearsed manner, “Your wife is sedated. But you can see the baby.”

He trudged out of the hospital for a breath of fresh air. It was stuffy. Thunder muttered at some distance, but not a leaf stirred. Hoping to feel the drops of rain, he spread out his hands. When none fell, he walked towards the corner shop. Asking for a pack of cigarettes, he lighted the cigarette and inhaled a deep puff.

*
As Mahesh trudged towards the lecture hall, he saw his students sitting on the staircase, idling behind the huge pillars.
This is place shouldn’t be called a university, it’s a fish market.
“Apna Matty is a daddy,” whispered one.
“Again? How does he do it?” said another. ‘I mean with that paunch?”
“With a wife like that, anyone would be tempted.”
There was a loud burst of laughter. They saw him approaching. Shameless duds. If I had a son, he would never behave like them.

Returning home, he found the infant alone in her crib. With a splitting head-ache, Mahesh entered the study, drew curtains, hoping to stop the mid-day sun from penetrating his thoughts. But the sun still hit the window with all its might. A note on his desk said, ‘Going to buy milk’. Mahesh decided to correct the answer sheets to distract his mind. His stooped silhouette was bathing in sunlight, as he corrected the answer papers. 
That is when he heard muffled sounds of the baby. The howling sustained, denting his concentration. When the howling continued, Mahesh heaved himself and reluctantly peered at the crib. It was the first time he saw her. Wailing with all the energy at her disposal, the frail bundle was throwing her clenched fists and delicate legs in the air. Briefly, he felt an urge to cradle. Somehow he couldn't bring himself to fuss over the baby, cuddle her or do anything about it. Clueless, Mahesh retraced his steps towards his study and closed the door.

*

A storm is lashing the city with all its might when Mahesh is  wheeled in the hospital.  Both his elder daughters got married and settled abroad after Maya passed away. Mahesh now lives with his youngest daughter. And just when all the years of silence were making way for some communication, Mahesh suffers from breathlessness due to blocked arteries.
Lying on a stretcher, he is sweating profusely in the emergency ward, next to the maternity ward where his daughter was born. Moments come back to him in swirls and glimpses - some connected, others disconnected. The universe hums with inane rush and murmur of voices but Mahesh is unable to grasp any.
She wields a stethoscope slung around her slender neck and holds her father’s case file. Later that evening, after the surgery, she plans to visit the temple her father had visited all these years.

Media Watch

While the print media was objective in its critique, most television channels indulged in cynical debates. The children of the nation gave a befitting reply to skeptical television  anchors and the crab mentality( If we couldn't do it, neither should you) of the opposition by turning out in huge numbers. Barring a few, majority of the teachers and children across the nation felt happy interacting with their PM for the first time.

In view of the above ground realities, what message did we give to our young television viewers by politicizing the interaction? Is President Obama criticized endlessly on national television when he talks to school children?

Read the entire article on the media watch website The Hoot.

The Games We Play

Entertainment Sites: PlayBuzz, QuizzDoo

Help me find a word for what I am feeling. It’s neither resentment nor annoyance. Not even embarrassment. Frankly, reading about the ten favorite books of all my friends has been hugely overwhelming. Who are these unknown authors with complicated names that I haven’t read? And why should non-fiction readers feel like an outsider in this tagging game? I know of folks who detest reading fiction but enjoy reading mythology, history and other books on ideas and idealism. Going by the somewhat pretentious social media tradition, everyone mentions Gabriel Garcia Marquez or Haruki Murakami, and I am having second thoughts about writing. At the risk of being sidelined by my writer friends, I publicly admit that I couldn’t go beyond the first chapter of ‘Love in the Time of Cholera’. 
There, I said it.
Wonder how Chetan became a bestseller when most image conscious folks on Facebook refuse to admit reading CB. They will admit reading TinTin or Champak, but reading Chetan is like alighting from a rickshaw in the foyer of a five star hotel. Tacky!
Anyway, now I know how Penny (The Big Bang Theory) feels when her scientist friends examine the perturbative amplitudes in super-symmetric theories, leading to a re-examination of the ultraviolet properties of multiloop super gravity using modern twister theory.
Since the tagging tide was threatening to drown my self-worth, it was best to admit that I belong to the low-brow intellectual club of 'Cha Cha Cha'. Champak, Chandamama, and Chacha Chaudhary. 

So, after going through the gratitude lists, book lists, videos of rice bucket challenge and bowel movements of my friends, I gravitate towards activities that make me feel better. Games on entertainment sites like QuizzDoo and PlayBuzz tug at my heart - begging me to click on options to find my real age, my past life boyfriend and my IQ.
Like the movies, the internet offers escape from the mundane, and I happily fall for the trap in order to run away from boredom and that feeling of Penny-ish inadequacy. Moreover, when your forty year old friend posts a status update saying, ‘I got 32, what about you?’ you are enticed. I have been avoiding such lame distractions, but  the kid in me wants to feel good. So I click on a few options and get Elvis Presley as a boyfriend in my previous life. I can visualize the dazed look on my mother's face, but the answer makes me feel like a rock star.
Then I move on to, ‘How would you look like when you are old?’ The adorable thing that the internet is, I get a picture of Salma Hayek. Considering the lady is almost my age, I am hooked.
Encouraged, I click on, ‘What is the first body part people notice about you?’
Now, this one plumbs the depths of stupidity. Anyway, logic is the last thing on the mind of the site developer. Why should people notice a body part? How about noticing the invisible - intellect or humility? Having lost faith in my intellect after reading the ‘top ten book list’ of my friends, I continued clicking on various options. Surprise. I get Angelina Jolie’s lips. Given that these sites are US based, I wasn’t exactly expecting Anushka Sharma’s lips, but this was a humongous lie by any stretch of imagination. Amazing how we delude ourselves in believing that beauty is goodness.

Coming back to the book business, someone at Amazon and Flipkart is laughing all the way to the bank. Next social media fad could be mentioning top ten movies that come to mind, and tagging ten friends to list the same. Kindly note, you can’t publicly mention any Govinda movie unless you wish to be ostracized on social media. Or wish to nurse a black eye and a broken jaw.