50, 42, whatever…

Ok…what is fast? Think about it… is driving at 20 kmph fast? Most people would say no… but if you ask the poor old man who, if knocked over by a car at that speed, would certainly suffer grave injury – he would say that 20 is indeed fast. So as it turns out – fast lies in the the wounds of the hit. Or at least those who are preventing more hits. Take BMC for example. (For non-Mumbaikars, BMC is the city’s local governing organization.) The BMC, along with the expert help of the Mumbai Traffic Police has the unenviable job of defining city speed limits. It would be only logical that the BMC would have applied statistical analysis and traffic science to define city speed limits, for example:

• at 32.19 Kmph there is about a 1 in 40 (2.5 %) chance of being killed or 97% chance of survival
• at 48.28 kmph there is about a 1 in 5 (20%) chance of being killed or 80% chance of survival
• at 56.33 kmph there is a 50/50 chance of being killed
• at 64.37 kmph there is about a 9 in 10 (90%) chance of being killed or 10% chance of survival

(official figures by the Dept. of Transport in the U.K. based on 4 decades of accident history)

With this kind of data at their fingertips, one would think that the BMC would have it easy – all they would have to do is predict to some degree of accuracy the typical pedestrian traffic on a particular road, take into consideration schools/parks/bhelpuri stands etc and apply the wisdom of the Brits. Think again, because there is no science in the world which can create a mathematical equation which could model the sheer randomness of pedestrian traffic on Mumbai roads. So what if John Nash could create a mathematical equation based on the feeding patterns of birds. Mr. Nash (and his imaginary friend) would eat dirt in Mumbai – especially when hit by a speeding Auto-Rickshaw that miraculously appears from behind a cow chewing cud next to a stationary hand-cart.

So, as you can see, BMC has no choice but to err (and that they will) on the side of caution. The two-fold solution that worked for almost two decades (starting from the point when internal-combustion powered vehicles started outnumbering bicycles and bovine mammals on the roads) was deceptively simple and elegant – highlighting all that is beautiful about India.

First – hide the concept of speed limits from the public and let people manage their own speed. Like there is divine law in the wild nature of the African Savannah – traffic management will miraculously happen in our urban jungle. Sure a few will  be run over – but really who will miss them in a billion! Punish the perpetrators and they will never do it again. Simple.

Second – and this one is truly brilliant – don’t give the poor sods behind the wheel a chance to speed up! Don’t repair potholes until there are new ones to replace them, design roads which converge from 4 lanes to one, construct regular and random vertebrae-crunching speed breakers that can only be successfully maneuvered by tractors, install traffic lights which do not work during rush hour … the list goes on. No speed… no problem.

The national government also played their part by successfully barring foreign car companies from speeding up our roads with their obscene V6s – and if they were allowed in, such heavy taxes were levied on any engine capable of generating grin-inducing acceleration that they remained the folly of the rich. All this worked like a charm and our road-accident fatality numbers (assuming one could calculate such a statistic in India) were among the best. But even India is not immune to change – and boy did things change fast!  (pun)

Somewhere early in this millennium, the driving enthusiast was born in India. Cars like the Hyundai Accent and the Suzuki Swift (though slow by international standards) started introducing the alien concept of “0-60Kmph in less than 10 seconds” to even middle-class drivers like me. Sure enough, better roads were put in place, like the Western and the Eastern Express Highways in Mumbai with almost no traffic lights, smooth roads and delicious curvy flyovers. Seeing an alarming rise in speeding deaths, the BMC realized that the first part of their plan had stopped working. Suddenly Mumbai with its fancy roads and fancier  cars needed the dreaded speed limit.

I am sure various meetings were held and international experts were consulted. Whatever happened, at some point two years ago unidentified signs started appearing on the side of our major roads. They simply said “50″. Hmm. Confounding – this random number! Is it supposed to mean something profound – like Douglas Adam’s 42 or Aryabhatta’s 0? There were no other numbers anywhere else. All boards only said “50″ – there were no 35’s or 80’s… just the ubiquitous half century.

Having lived and driven abroad I soon realized this meant some kind of a speed limit sign. But many didn’t – and even more ignored it. Because in India we are not taught what a speed limit is when we learn driving. “Keep your eyes on the road and look out for stray dogs” I was told. There was no mention of a sign with a number on it. So there were accidents every day. Bad bloody ones with heads smashed and families destroyed.

Then came the first truly world-class piece of tarmac in Mumbai – the Bandra-Worli Sea Link. A gorgeous piece of engineering, four lanes were open only to cars (as the sign at the tool booth says – “No Three-wheelers, No Two-Wheelers, No Bullock Carts”) with four wheels. I travel on it everyday to and fro from work – and I have to admit that it brings back memories of the Autobahn. It was obvious that the BMC needed to put a speed limit on this speed-magnet. Guess what they came up with after a great deal of deliberation? You guessed it – “50″.

I might get booked for this, but I have not yet seen a vehicle (and that includes the police vehicles) that drives at 50 Kmph. The average speed is 80 – and I have seen many doing well over a hundred – and if anyone in the BMC was keeping their eyes open, they would change the speed limit to a more reasonable number. So that it means something. A couple of days ago, the sea-link saw its first fatality. A state-of-the-art Skoda Fabia lost control and hit an oncoming taxi. A 14 year old being driven to school, died. And I could see that today, there was already a marked decrease in the number of 100kmph+ drivers on the road.

What BMC needs to understand that drivers in Mumbai (and their cars) have evolved. Most cars today in India will still be in the mid-range of their 3rd gear at 50kmph. The worldwide standard speed limit for non-pedestrian roads is a minimum of around 90kmph. Only when the public perceive that the authorities have put some thought behind assigning speed limits – will they start to respect it. Otherwise really “50″ could as well be the meaning of life, the universe and everything*.

(*- from “The hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy”)

Five Bands that you must know about

Grimescene has been tripping on the alternative music scene a bit. It is not so much about the “Alternative” genre… but about bands/artistes one wouldn’t have normally heard (atleast in India). In fact I am willing to bet the strings on Gilmour’s guitar that you wouldn’t have even hear of these. Which is a pity, considering we are talking about top notch musicians here. Well – here is a list of 5 bands you should hear as soon as you get the chance. And yeah… one of them is even Indian!

1) Phoenix (France)

Founded in 1996, Phoenix released their fourth studio album “Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix” in 2009. It is hard to categorize Phoenix into a genre. Rock-Techno-Funk could be a way. Ranging from the sparse guitar feel of modern Alternative rock to over-indulgent keyboard hooks and programmed drums – Phoenix create their music as a bunch of stimulant-fueled young artists would swing  paint brushes wildly and create a miraculously beautiful painting. But beneath the wild ways, is solid song writing and an uncanny feel of rhythm and melody. Don’t believe me? Check out the sublime (and 8 min long) “Love like a Sunset”. I don’t believe I have heard a song so goddamn powerful in long long time – Daft Punk meets Alan Parsons meets Oasis meets…. oh forget it! Just listen… (hint: put on good earphones, and turn the volume UP and resist the temptation to reduce it as the crescendo hits…)

2) The Mars Volta (Mexico)

Ok… these guys aren’t exactly unknown. After all they won a grammy for Best Hard Rock performance in 2008 and were named as the “Best Prog Rock” band by the Rolling Stone magazine. But try to find a CD of theirs in India and you will be met with blank stares. Their music is closest to veteran prog-rockers Rush…but much richer in terms of soundstage and instruments used. Also heavier and edgier… but their last album “Octahedron” was a turn towards the calmer. Complex melodies and with song names such as “Halo of Nembutals” and “Cotopaxi” – this Mexico based band effortlessly mixes hard rock and jazz to create a music blend that is, well, unique and cerebral. Here is “Since we’ve been wrong” – the opening track from Octahedron. Tell me they aren’t awesome… (the music starts after 1:10 – so jump to that)

3) Elbow (UK)

Elbow, based out of Ramsbottom near Manchester, released their first album in 2001. Called “Asleep in the back” – it hit critics and discerning fans like a ton of … well… awesome music. Their music is again (like the rest of this list) a bit hard to desribe… Radio friendly alternative rock-jazz could be a vague description. They are so much more than that… Guy Garvey’s singing voice stands out in today’s music scene and his lyrics are provocative and very real. Their last album “The Seldom Seen Kid” finally saw them getting the commercial success that their innovative music deserved. In fact “Grounds for Divorce” from this album was featured in the Coen Brothers’ movie Burn After Reading. They are also the most accessible band in the list… and you should hear them if you get the chance. (impossible getting their CDs in India though…) Here is Elbow playing ”Mirrorball” live from The Seldom Seen Kid…

4) Poets of the Fall (Finland)

My absolute favorite in this list. The world is a poorer place because most haven’t recognized the sheer virtuosity of this band. And I am ranting.

Seriously… POTF (as they are known on the internet) has a rabid fan following, most of it from Europe. Just three albums old, they are already legendary in their native Finland. Their CDs sell online for ridiculous amounts of money. Their tours to obscure places in Russia are sold out months in advance. And guess what – they played at the IIT Kanpur culfest. (can you believe it?) Their music is shamelessly hard rock-pop. Frontman Marko Saaresto has one of the most versatile (and heart breakingly mellifluous) voices I have ever heard. Each of their albums is a gem and they have been progressively improving and sounding more mature. Their last, Revolution Roulette, is a tour-de-force of modern rock music. And if you have not heard them – beg, borrow, steal but hear them. Not convinced? Here is the title track from their second album “Carnival of Rust”:

5) Contra Band (India) 

Contra Band peforming in Delhi

Well, this band is a bit closer to heart than most. I almost saw it being built. Comprised of working professionals from the city of Delhi – Contra Band is a bit more than just a manifestation of the band members’ love (and talent) for music. They have around 7 original compositions so far – and each one is unique and carefully constructed. The frontman, Krishnan, has a voice that is made for rock and is perfectly complemented by Avik on the keyboards, Raja on the guitar, Tony on the bass and KK on the drums. They recently played live to a packed audience at Cafe Morrison in Delhi. Their sound is modern, with an infusion of a healthy dose of good ol’ rock n’ roll. There is also a sense of grandeur in their sound and lyrics, making Contra Band “anthemic”. Take “The Contra Band Song” for instance – catchy and perfect for a live arena. Or the beautiful Ephemer and the classic “Holiday”. Listening to them play these songs it is hard to imagine that these guys have full-time day jobs. They have a facebook page

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Contra-Band/88009138541 

where you can hear their music, read the lyrics and also watch some video clips of them performing live. Go ahead, sign up and become a fan. When the latent greatness is realized… just remember you heard about them first at Grimescene. Update 2nd Dec: New Contra Band pic.

Holes

God bless the media.

If it weren’t for them, we would have gone about this day as if it was any other. It’s been a month now since the leading dailies have been falling over each other trying to cover the one-year-aftermath of the Mumbai attacks. Rivetting re-accounts of the heroism and terrorism on display that day an year ago. Harrowing accounts of broken dreams, wounded minds and lost hearts a year hence. The blood scrawl on the wall is clear. We shouldn’t forget even if we do not do anything about it.

Our media has stepped in to fill the vacuum left by our fleeing conscience. We owe them gratitude. After all, what better than a full black and white version of the Times of India to remind us that a year ago blood was spilt in our city. Sure the blood belonged to Hindus, Muslims, Christians and Jews – but it all looks the same in black and white.

Even if we go about 26/11 as though nothing happened, replacing the color of fear and terror from our minds with saffron or gray, there are a few who will not. These are those who don’t need the media’s excellent and free reminder service. The birds which escaped into the sky from the fire and smoke below - would have found other spots to nest. I know they have bird-brains and all… but I wonder if they would be the same today. The hundredyearold walls of an institution which had only witnessed heads of state and washed out celebrities a year ago, would now be searching for terrorists. The freshly swept floor of one of the most beautiful and historic train stations in the world,  covered in blood then – swathed in gray fear today, would try to hide under the millions of feet. The million dancing lights in a cheery, vibrant and ecelectic street in Mumbai would try to forget what they lit that day. The inviting interiors and ever-ready beer mugs of a venerable institution of bacchanalia would now be standing with crossed-arms, sizing up anyone who tries to enter or pass by.

Because you see, the people of Mumbai might wear their hubris on their chest. It is what we Mumbaikars are so proud of. We go on, come hell, high water or LeT. But it was not the people on whom the attacks were aimed at on 26/11/2008. It was a living breathing historic gorgeous crazy city, like none other in the known universe, that the terrorists attempted to maim. The terrorists knew that. And so does the city.

People might move on. The bulletholes in the windows might have been sewed shut. Golden Dragon might have opened again. But the holes in the very fabric of what was Bombay are far more difficult to repair. This is the thing about terrorism. One can try to move on, but one can never go back.

Sa Re Ga Ma Do Co Mo

Two kinds of people exist in India today. One who just love the new Tata DoCoMo jingle and the second who lie about it and say they don’t. (There might be a marginal third lot who genuinely dislikes the tune – as I am sure I will soon discover in the comments section of this post – but I think those guys are lying…;)) I myself belonged to the latter category… before I realised that I was really lying.

Consumer oriented brands have long relied on the aural medium to create memorable brands… a highly evolved branch of branding known as “Sound Mnemonics”. I will take a few names and see if the tune pops into your head:

Intel

Nokia

Nirma (?)

Reliance Telecom

Airtel

Microsoft Windows

Motorola

THX

McDonalds

Philips

Samsung

LG

Titan Watches

I am sure you know more than half of those tunes… I know I did. To find the true power of audio branding I quizzed a the toughest customer of all – my 5 1/2 year old son. Here is how the interview went (more or less)

Grimescene: Dhruv, do you know what DoCoMo is?
Dhruv (without taking his eyes off a former GI Joe, he was in the middle of performing a lobotomy on): Hmmm, I think so…
Grimescene: What is it?
Dhruv (irritably abandoning his brain surgery): “Tu Du Du…”?
Grimescene: Pardon?
Dhruv (probably questioning his genes): “Tu Du Du… Tu Du Du…” (following it up with the entire milieu of Tu’s and Du’s)
Grimescene: Ok…that is the DoCoMo song…but what is it?
Dhruv (getting ready to wield the imaginary scalpel again): A Train.
Grimescene: Ok…do you know what Reliance is?
Dhruv: No
Grimescene: Airtel?
Dhruv (eyes turn upwards for a couple of seconds): No
Grimescene (trying a different tact) starts humming the Reliance tune. (atleast his version of it)
Dhruv (eyes widen with instant recognition): That is Airtel.
Grimescene (suddenly confused): I thought that was Reliance.
Dhruv: No Dad! It is Airtel. (proceeding to hum the tune to its entirety – including the SMS beeps at the end.)
Grimescene (not trusting his failing memory – and because he couldn’t on his life remember the Airtel tune) opens up the internet and searches for the Airtel tune. And finally when both listened to the (beautiful) Airtel tune – all confusion was cleared.

End Result for Tunes: Docomo – 3 points, Reliance – 2 points and Airtel (inspite of being the most beautiful tune) – 1 point. But if the brands were to be stacked up in the eyes of a 5 year old – Airtel would probably trump Reliance. (Hope the Telecom guys are listening – today’s 5 year olds are tomorrow’s 8 year olds with a mobile provider preference.)

So what is the power that a few notes can have on us? First of all, I think that sound is probably a more primitive (and hence more primal) medium for humans. Second, the visual medium, because of shorter pathways to the brain and memory, has been slightly over used since the advent of mass media. Our poor brains are constantly processing images, colours, designs etc… so much so that companies will find it easier to wedge their way into our memories through a few simple notes – as is the case with DoCoMo.

This gives me a vision of the future where each of us will carry our own unique audio tune… where whenever we would introduce ourselves, it would follow with a small jingle through embedded speakers in our watch/bag/spectacle. How’s that for a future business area for aspiring musicians? Hurry! Book your tune now!

Meanwhile, for jobless readers who want to know more about Sonic Mnemonics… watch this!

Fairytale

There is not much that can replace a weekend with my son. So when I was called to make a choice between going to my hometown – Mysore – for my cousin’s wedding, and spending those precious hours with Dhruv, I was sufficiently torn. Of course there was the option of taking the little hyperactive gremlin to the wedding…but my mind was flooded with images of a similar path taken a couple of years ago, where all I remember is the disappearing shirttail of a fleet-footed child. To summarize, bored child running – harried father chasing.

So I did what any fair parent would do. I asked him. After staring for a few seconds at an imaginary magic 8 ball on the ceiling – he laid an understanding hand on my knee and said, “Papa, you go alone. I will stay here.” Apparently his own memories from last time didn’t exactly scream “fun!” either.

So I went. Joined by my brother – who is down here from the US – and my parents, this was going to be my first Iyengar wedding in more than 25 years – barring the blur two years back. Most of my relatives were going to be there – and considering I have spent most of my life eating loving meat, listening to heavy metal, marrying “North Indians”, speaking Gujarati and doing all kinds of “uniyengar” things – this could be seen as something as an re-initiation into my community.

At this point I should mention that my extended family isn’t exactly hard-boiled Iyengar. In my generation only one had married within the community, and this upcoming event was the second one. (For people who are wondering by now whether Iyengars are a minority from the planet Vulcan – read this: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iyengar) But having said that, when everyone got together for such an event – normally dormant Iyengar genes jump up to be noticed like a dull school boy who finally got the answer to a question. And I, basically with a well defined lineage but undefined heritage, feel a weird cocktail of excitement, vicariousness and alienation. It is as if there is this Iyengar magnum opus, where I have a special guest appearance. While the screenplay goes on with the other characters – I spend most of my life outside the movie. This sort of gives me celebrity status – Hail! King Arthur Iyengar of Cameo-a-lot has arrived on his noble steed. Bizarre.

So, I was faced with a bit of trepidation as I descended upon the beautiful city of Mysore. Really, all the Baristas, Infosys campuses and Levis showrooms in the world cannot steal the sleepy town charm from this Palace City. When we arrived at the family home, most of the relatives where there already – and I was immediate embraced in a kind of softness and warmth that would put the most expensive Pashmina to shame. There was nothing threatening or alienating about this family. It was a modern setting with traditional warmth. All decent hard-working folks with genuine love for each other – in spite of the geographic distance. We were the Skypengars.

But the wedding itself was different. As I busied myself in helping with the preparations, putting my superior education to good use by carrying bags and boxes, driving people back and forth in a decorated car and generally being a handyman with the rest of the boys – guests from each side started pouring in for the first ceremony – “Varpuja” – where we from the girl’s side welcome the groom and his family. The atmosphere in the hall was unique, though very familiar to anyone who has been to a Hindu wedding. Scores of women in colorful silk sarees and with flowers in their hair – accompanied by hirsute men in “pant shirt” or the more traditional dhoti shirt. Young girls and boys, dressed now in more modern attire, were hanging around, trying not to pay obvious attention to the other – yet hoping to catch someone’s eye. But no Iyengar wedding would be complete without the clamorous quintet. Five musicians with Indian instruments – three wind and two percussion – giving the background score to the scene in front of them. Playing traditional wedding tunes, their din bounced like a thousand sonic crazy-balls from the walls of the hall, which were obviously not made with concert acoustics in mind. The result was an impenetrable wall of sound, which drowned all but the sound of anyone trying to scream directly in your ear. I am sure that by night they rock the Mysore metal scene as the raucous Metallikeshavam.

But the people in the hall went on with their parts, oblivious to the cacophony. Maybe this was music to their ears. But one section of the audience especially seemed to draw their energy from the music. Kids, bored to patricide by the soporific proceedings on stage, were darting in and around people and chairs like galvanized electrons. Maybe Dhruv wouldn’t have been so out of place after all. Anyway, I watched interestedly as the proceedings at the ornate “mandapam” carried on. Vedic chants, burning ghee, smoke and cowdung… all made for a very exotic Hindu feeling. Something that I could never relate to (partly because I do not know what those chants mean…and I find it very hard to reconcile with that. And learning Sanskrit is not an option!), even if I have been through such ceremonies a few times.

The same scene continued the next morning during the actual wedding… even more people, more smoke and more din. Even though the leading actors were looking absolutely gorgeous/handsome, the play was getting a bit monotonous. But things looked up a bit when the plot called for the groom to decide to go to Kashi instead of getting married, which prompted the bride and her family (and the clamorous quintet) to go running after him and reason with him to stop the nonsense. Droll…but made me smile. And then when finally the groom tied the “Mangal Sutra” on the bride’s neck, the quintet changed their tempo and the entire hall rose in celebration. Another Iyengar couple had tied the knot, ensuring that the community would continue to thrive for atleast another generation.

All the while I was there, my senses were in a heightened state – taking everything in – trying to learn more about my so called heritage and trying desperately to feel some kind of connection. But in the end, all I remembered were the tired/excited/happy faces of my large and lovely family. I suddenly realized that it did not matter if I wasn’t exactly fashioned in the traditional mould, or that these rituals and customs were as alien to me as bicycle to a fish. They didn’t define me. What does define my heritage for me, is my family – who don’t judge me and love me for who I am. They accept me despite the fact that I don’t speak in their tongue or eat things that do not grow out of the ground. Dhruv will be of an even more confused heritage, and I hope he recognizes the things which really matter in life and does not feel alienated in any way.

There are at least 7 more cousins in my generation left to be married – and I hope I get to be a part of all of them! After all, who doesn’t love fairytales with happy endings? May Lord Vishnu bless the newly married couple with a thousand sons…(or something like that!) with as many sons (or daughters) as they want…. (politically corrected on popular demand)

Snappy Diwali

Is it only me, or did Deepavali 2009 resemble an imitation firecracker stored in a damp warehouse for two years?

As this year’s celebrations fizzled to an end with a feeble pop, even the typically ostentatious leanings of the high net worth residents of Hiranandani gardens in Powai seemed to be whittled down to a fraction of their former self. And I thought the recession was over.

When we went down at around eight in the evening with our contribution to the diwali spectacle (two packets of sparklers, one of anaars and one of chakras) – we were greeted with silence. For heaven’s sake, just the traffic on the streets on a normal day would create more light and sound that what we were seeing! Where was everyone? As we roamed around the complex, searching in vain for some signs of good old hindu excess, I felt a smog of change descending upon us. Maybe, urban educated Indians were finally realizing what has been amply clear to me since a decade - that burning money in the form of fireworks is a vulgar display of wealth in a predominantly poor country. (Some of those fancy rockets cost more than Rs.5000 a piece!) Not to mention, they pollute an already terminally ill environment and scare dogs and babies. When the celebrations finally limped to a start post 9PM, it lasted for not more than 90 minutes – during which we decided to have a traditional Deepavali feast at Pizza Hut (?!). And yes, the place was full of good traditional hindu families gorging on America’s produce.

So does this mean that Indians have forgotten what it means to enjoy Lord Ram’s return? Does this mean that (reducing to a whisper) God is dead?

Or maybe the usually smart Indians are realizing that the celebrations do not a festival make. Maybe festivals are for friends, family and relatives to come together for spiritual harmony. Maybe the rituals of these festivals are meant to be unpronounced and even personal. Maybe the Diyas of Deepavali are meant to be markers on a path to higher self-realization, community spirit without excess and the greater common good. Maybe the Mono-Sodium Glutamate in the pizza I had last night is playing tricks with my head and rendered me cuckoo.

Well, whatever it may be, the change was pleasant. The morning after Deepavali, which is usually marked with the truimphant return of leftover fireworks, was more or less quiet. The birds were chirping, dogs were pooping and senior citizens where back on their morning walks amongst scattered debris of exploded cracker shells. Looking back at Deepavali 2009 – I hope this change is here to stay. Because we all have now seen times where economic progress has been humbled by the very thing responsible for it – greed and excess. Maybe, we all can light a candle to the fact that a Snappy Diwali is indeed a Happy Diwali.

Seasons Greetings to all Grimescene readers!

(Updated – 21/9 – I have now heard enough reports that mine was an outlier experience. More than Rs.1.8 crore of money was burnt in Mumbai itself – a quarter of the national total. Sigh. MSG can play tricks.)

Looming Glouriousness

Many terms spring to mind while describing a particularly potent force of cinematic nature called Quentin Tarantino – subtle isn’t one of them. So when I was subject to a 20 min conversation between a french farmer and a SS jew hunter at the start of Inglourious Basterds, I was keenly surprised. It was just a conversation between two pipe smoking men… yet not a whisper was uttered in the packed hall, not one bum shifted to a more comfortable position. I am guessing, like me, everyone else knew that something was looming. Something violent and Tarantino-like. And when it finally came, it was accompanied with a kind of flinching relief – like when a 20 minute stint in the waiting room ends with a root canal.

Quentin Tarantino is a rare phenomenon. He chooses the mundane, and elevates it to greatness through sheer visceral brilliance. His non-linear story-telling technique is an acquired taste. His movies are misunderstood as being violent – but really, they are more about the lead up to the acts of violence. (Remember how Travolta’s character dies in Pulp Fiction?) Even Kill Bill, was more choreography than violence, where the copious amounts of blood and multitude of severed limbs just made the violence comical, art-like. And even though Tarantino defies categorization and each piece is a carefully fashioned sculpture which stands alone as a unique experience; one can detect elements which are unmistakably the work of the genius. This evidence is scattered around Inglourious like carved-out scalps in a hair-cemetery. For example the juxtaposition of a western-score with the hills of the Alsace – like Mozart meeting Ennio Morricone. (In fact, most of Inglourious’ soundtrack has been referenced from what appears to be Tarantino’s video store collection.) Another example of Tarantino’s handywork is up close and intimate camerawork, keeping a reverential distance from the actors, but still capturing the electricity of each conversation – long single shots, moving gently from speaker to listener – just in time to catch the reaction and the response. Previously – especially in Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction – Tarantino’s characters have been loud and brash and extremely talkative, resulting in seemingly meaningless conversation. But in Inglourious, throughout the 120 minutes of talk (the movie is 150 min long – 30 min is the non-talk stuff…you know what I mean…), there is not one word that is uttered without meaning. Even the most harmless dialogue carries the weight the speaker’s intentions, good or bad (mostly bad). Every conversation in Inglourious is a duel – a little battle in the mother of all wars – WWII. Because that is what the movie is all about. People on different sides of the fence, carrying their own agenda, and adding their own spark to the fire that rearranged the world.

To many this will be Tarantino’s return to glourious form. The master of violence and the absurd has deftly created a homage to the real battles in most wars. The battles of polarised minds and egos, emotional politics if you will. This is Tarantino recasting a transformational time in our history from a battle of machines to a battle of intellect. And all this with prodiguous filmmaking talent and technique, which should serve as a reference to generations of aspiring filmmakers.

But no review of Inglourious Basterds would be complete without a glowing tribute to Christoph Waltz, who plays Col. Landa, the incredibly suave and spine-chillingly menacing German SS officer nicknamed “The Jew Hunter”. Tarantino himself has admitted on numerous occassions that Col. Landa is one of the best characters he has ever written – a man with superior intellect, a bigger ego than Hitler himself and a completely unpredictable demeanour. Switching effortlessly between German, French, English and even Italian (a language he doesn’t actually speak) – he owns every scene he is in, getting the better of every opponent in every conversation. He is the Heath Ledger of this movie. (Villianous characters are so much more interesting that good ones!) Sure enough, he already won the Best Actor Award at this year’s Cannes festival… the Oscars should be rolling out too. Even if you are not a Tarantino fan, watch the movie for Landa’s character.

Inglourious Basterds is a cinematic tour-de-force which will certainly place Quentin Tarantino in the pantheon of visionary auteurs. If he is already not there. 4 Stars. Watch it.

Beginnings

Someone great once said: a man should not count the number of years he has lived, but the number of times he has had new beginnings. (Or something to that effect.) In any case, if that was true, I would be drawing pension by now. I have been lucky (or not) to have had opportunities at regular intervals that exposed my senses to completely new environments, forcing me to rethink preconceived notions and adapt my behavior and response mechanisms.

Like yesterday.

The first day at a new job is not too different from coming to a new country for the first time. The surroundings are unfamiliar. The coffee tastes different. The toilet flushes in a different way. Your place of stay is immediately uncomfortable (thought that improves with time). The rituals are from another world – like the way meetings are set up, or coffee breaks are taken or team lunches are organized…. and of course, headlining the foreign environment are the locals. They look at you funnily and hurriedly look away as soon as you turn towards them. You can almost imagine some sizing you up and giggling behind your back about the way you are dressed. Their cultural nuances are sometimes in your face – like the way they greet each other or superiors - but sometimes there are tremendously complex social transactions happening right under your nose and you are not even aware of them! But, as is the typical attitude towards foreigners, unless you are travelling to Russia, most locals are extremely courteous and show a lot of teeth.

I know all this, because I have been through this a few times before. So I landed at my new workplace, dressed in new shirt and hairless cheek, with my adaptive sensors tuned to maximum sensitivity. They were not of much help when I realized that there was no one there. A bored looking guard looked at me as one looks at a giraffe wearing purple shoes and yellow sunglasses, and plainly informed me that there was no one here. After checking and rechecking the address, I decided not ask him if the company had folded or if the entire interview process had been a sick episode of MTV Bakra. Buoyed by the fact that no Cyrus jumped at me from behind with a camera crew, I searched for some more locals – and when I couldn’t find any, I sat down in the lobby and started flipping through the newspapers. It was 9:30 for Christ’s sake! Where was everyone?

I was almost done counting the number of words on page 5 of the Mumbai mirror classifieds, when a nice gentleman approached me and asked me if I was who he thought I was. I said, I was. Profusely apologizing on behalf of the rest of organization, he told me that he had done the same thing on his first day. Ok…. not the reception I was expecting but hey…. this was like a foreign country, where I had the added disadvantage of not having a “Lonely Planet’s Guide” to get me started.

Well – I am happy to report – that the others did arrive at some point – and yes, I was subjected to beaming smiles and excited handshakes and even the sacred “Team Lunch” – where everyone except me somehow knew where we were going. Unseen complex social rituals apart – I realized that the coffee does taste different and that the toilets did flush in a different way. I have lots to learn about the local customs, habits, email clients (Notes) and peculiarities (like – everyone comes in at 11). But, one thing is certain – being the chameleon that I am – it won’t take me long to become a local myself. And judging by just two days of intense interaction, this is a bunch I wouldn’t really mind becoming a part of.

 Oh…how I love new beginnings!

Fecal Matter Disposal Aperture

It all began at seven thirty in the morning, as I stood – stooped to one side by the weight of my laptop bag – in a long line of similarly dressed and contorted men and women, before the hallowed ground dominated by large hulking voyeuristic machines and khakhi colored sentries armed with dongles which went beep, everytime they hit a steel kneecap. Welcome to security check  at Mumbai Airport’s Terminal 1B. When I wasn’t shifting from one foot to the other, or moving my burden from one shoulder to the other, I was glancing at my watch in disbelief. 22 minutes and 37 seconds. This was like watching sludge move in slow motion. And I am a patient man… so I could only imagine the plight of my fellow laptop shifters who aren’t endowed with an adrenalin valve. So we have the

1) Quarterbacks: Offensive humans who make it a point, every five minutes, to break the line and walk indignantly down the serpentine queue till the end, trying to figure out what the blasted problem is. And then trying very surreptitiously to insert themselves in the queue several paces ahead of where they had left it. These people are brash and brazen – stopping every body in an airline suit and expecting them to provide an answer to the question “Why me?”

2) Linebackers: Defensive humans whose job is to detect, block, tackle and if necessary pummel-to-death quarterbacks trying to cheat with the actual number of yards traveled. This tussle could end with either side winning, depending on who is larger, or louder or who doesn’t have testicles. Linebackers are often joined by other linemen in the tackle - and then typically the quarterback has to slink away with his laptop bag strap between his legs.

3) Coaches: These are the modern day spiritual gurus. Having achieved fame and fortune, these people are wise and charismatic. They are usually flanked by a loud starry-eyed bevy of fans who hang on to every loud, pretentious and totally unnecessary word that comes out of the coach’s mouth, paying their unabashed respect with loud shrill laughter that sends the quarterbacks running again. The coaches have an opinion about everything, from an accurate analysis of the reason for the delays to how swine flu can never affect them as they have the B+ blood type. (It’s true… I heard this!) Coaches enjoy the queue and feed on the human detritus around them – intervening tackles and dispensing with nerve-wracking advice on patience and superior human values – completely missing the fact that it is because of them that the queue is unbearable.

4) Sulkers: These guys never amounted to much in life. They don’t amount to much in the queue either. Standing anonymously like a bead in a string of sweaty beads, they shake their heads in silence at the unfairness of it all. They create vivid mental pictures of how they would jump in the air and decapitate the obnoxious coach behind them, in a Matrix-style kick to his empty head – but all they end up doing is burn a hole by staring at the nape of the neck belonging to the guy in front. Sometimes, one of these sulkers can explode like a soda bottle which is shaken a bit too much. Sulkers are serial killers in their heads. Brrrrr….

… and then there are the FMDAs (see title). Quarterbacks I can deal with, Linebackers I admire, Coaches I can blank out – but FMDAs – I feel like decapitating their foul heads with a matrix style kick. And there are so many of them.

And the unusually long and useless segue was for this particular FMDA who was two paces in front of me in the queue. For the entire 28 minutes that it took to reach the x-ray machines, he talked loudly on the phone, left the line twice – once for coffee and once to wet his shoes and generally made it clear to everyone around him that he was the king of the universe. As my heart leapt in silent celebration for reaching the end of my tiresome vigil – I heard FMDA loudly announce the meaning of his life.

“Shit!”

He turned around and started waving his boarding pass printout wildly, possibly showing the rest of the losers in the line how smart he was to have done a web check in. I soon realized, as I saw the white sheet of paper in his hands, what the problem was. FMDA had found the limit to his smartness and forgotten to get it stamped at the check in counter.

“Hey! Jet Airways!”

Everybody in earshot turned around, half expecting a man dressed like an airplane (like the life-like Mickey Mouse at Disneyland) to come prancing by and give him a wet towel to wipe his ass. But he was shouting at a poor line usher with a lanyard who, on not finding the prancing airline-man like the rest of us, realized, it was he who was being hollered at. Humbly he came closer to the barricade and FMDA shoved his virgin boarding pass into his face.

“Can you please get this stamped?” (just because he said please doesn’t mean he isn’t a jerk) Born into subservience, the poor usher, trembling under the hot gaze of his master, managed to mumble “Si..uh..uh..r… I cannot get this stamped…”

“What?? If you cannot get this stamped – why the hell are you standing here?”

Not to wipe your ass for sure.

“I-I… am so… sorry sir” The usher was visibly terrified now and looked like he would soon need a wet-wipe himself. And all this while the line had stopped moving. But, FMDA didn’t care. He just stood there like a defiant prince who just found out that the sun was the center of the solar system.

“Call your superior! I will lodge an official complaint!” Hearing the dreaded “C”-word, the jellyfish-usher, gathered his imaginary skirts and ran like Julie Andrews jumping over bushels of imaginary edelweiss. Meanwhile the linebackers were shouting from the back with self-righteous anger - “Hey! We have been waiting for so long blah blah…”  But FMDA stood his ground. “These airline people take us for a ride. I will lodge an official complaint!” Your mother should have lodged an official complaint with the creator for giving her a monkey instead of a boy.

Meanwhile, people started stepping around him and queue started moving again. But I kept my sights on this developing situation. The usher’s “Superior” – basically a better dressed guy who spoke better english – came bounding, “Sir, can I help you?”

“This idiot refuses to stamp my boarding pass! Now I might miss my flight becauses of him!” Because of him???? He wasnt the one who was stupid enough not to follow a simple well articulated process.

Though his eyes said “Inshallah!” – the official said “Sir, you have to get it stamped at the check-in counter with identity proof.”

“YOU MEAN I HAVE TO GO ALL THE WAY THERE TO GET THIS STUPID STAMP? WHAT KIND OF SERVICE IS THIS?? CALL YOUR SUPERIOR!!”

All our hopes of seeing Naresh Goyal in the flesh were dashed, when the Jet Airways official buckled under the constant bayonetting by the FMDA and swore on his mother that he will do everything for the prince including licking the lint between his highness’ toes. The poor guy ran like the wind, (powered by images of smelly feet I am sure), to get the print-out stamped – and the FMDA stood tall – chest out in triumph. Another victory for the glorious and all-powerful FMDA. All say hail!

I wonder what they were thinking when they wrote in the bible “The meek shall inherit the earth.” No sir. It is definitely more effective being a Fecal Matter Disposal Aperture.

Birdsong

Dear Loved One,

i am writing this because I can sense you are unhappy. If I was Deepak Chopra, I would have probably written a book for you, which would guide you to your “inner spiritual well” or something like that. But as I am poor working professional, a letter is all I can spare.

You are a special and rare person in many ways. You have tried very hard to live life beyond its boundaries, like a bird which enjoys every second its time in the sky and wants to drink the nectar from every flower, dull or colorful, and wants to sing its song in every orchard, ripe or barren. Humans, owing to the fact that they aren’t birds, are not built out-of-the-box to do that. Only special and rare humans, like you, can live the life of birds and launch themselves in flight, weightless and free.

But, my loved one, I see that flight has stopped being second nature to you. And it hurts me.

Maybe, every human-bird, has to eventually give in to the inadequacies of the human form. Maybe, you fought too hard against the winds, dust and debris and you are tired. Maybe, the world has coerced and manipulated you into believing that you are earth-bound like the rest of us, and now, surrounded by the faux-comfort of fellow humans – you are afraid to fly again. When in reality you are different from the rest of us. You are rare in that your words and actions spring forth, unencumbered by human selfishness, like a birdsong which spreads joy and forgiveness. You are special in that your desires are small and simple – you want to fly and you want to keep singing your songs.

This is what I love in you. I have always believed that you have spiritual clarity – way more than I can ever imagine of possessing. So why are you lost in the mire of dos and don’ts, rules and dogmas – when such man-made cages cannot hope to ever imprison your birdsong? Why are  you afraid to give things up – when these things were never really ours to own? Why are you afraid of losing your cage, when in truth, you had flown from it, a long time ago? Why are you afraid to leave the ground, when all you have ever wanted in your life, is to breathe the open air of the skies?

If I am an object of your desires and a recipient of your love, I am very fortunate for that. But, if you think this love will give you wings to fly again, you may be mistaken. Because I cannot give you something you already possess. I cannot put the song back on your lips, because the tune has always been in you. And it is because the birdsong is silent and unheard, that the cage around you is starker than ever and the sky is darker than ever.

I need you to fly again. Not because you need to escape the cage but because you need to find the bird within you again. Because the world is a more beautiful place because of your song. All I will do is protect you and shelter you from the human world. Once you discover your flight, my loved one, you will discover that cages have no place in your world, and all the humans who love you and cherish you, will look up to you in awe and admiration. Because that’s when your true beauty will shine and your true happiness will manifest. Like a Birdsong from the skies.

Yours Always

A.