State of the Nation

Let us wait and pause for a second,
And give a thought as to where we as a Nation are heading.

The country which has a glorious past and royal history,
Is Today besieged by growing population and vicious circle of poverty.

A Nation takes pride in its people and socio-political-economic system,
But we as a country are still facing and fighting the monster of corruption.

A Nation makes progress with its citizens, industries and Infrastructural assets
And I am afraid that we are losing and lacking behind in all those important aspects.

Commonwealth Games is becoming big word of Pride for US the Indians,
But it is in real a shelter for all types of corruption, Inflation and manipulation.

The common man of our nation do not possess either food or a shelter,
The farmers are killing themselves and we are moving down the ladder.

The roads are in a bad shape so does the Infrastructure
People have forgotten the old but rich Indian Culture.

The Crime is increasing day by day like our population
It seems all of us need a centre for rehabilitation.

The language is another issue to speak of here,
Our mother tongue has no place but English is spread everywhere.

The young Indian mind thinks of changing the system all over
To reform the structure and to do an overall Indian make over.

The new rupee symbol seems to be a great start for young India
Being an Indian I also dream for a prosperous and healthy India

In the End would request all to come forward and take a step ahead
As it is never too late and we know it is better done than just said
Let us cross all boundaries and take our Nation to newer heights
And built a nation in which we all rest our national pride.

Ruchi Mehta

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Let the game begin

The focus of the sporting world has shifted to the continent of Africa which plays host to one of the biggest sporting extravaganzas of the planet – The FIFA World Cup 2010. It will be a coming-of-age event not only for the country of South Africa but for the whole of the African continent which has had its own share of miseries and misfortunes over long periods of time. It was way back in 1934 that Egypt became the first African nation to have qualified for the World Cup. Since then African football has come a long way – whether it be a Francois Omambique goal stunning defending champions Argentina in the 1990 World Cup or Senegal proving to be the star find of the 2002 World Cup. With almost all African players plying their trade in major European clubs nowadays, African football has truly become global. Hence South Africa hosting the World Cup is a cry of defiance coming from the continent of Africa to the traditional soccer power houses.

Almost all the major powerhouses of world football have descended on the Rainbow Nation for the most important tournament in football. They will have fans rooting for them from all across the globe. However, the World Cup is not only about the superpowers. It is also about the little-known footballing nations whose lesser-known players have toiled hard to qualify for the moment every aspiring footballer dreams to be. These players might not be household names but they carry the culture and tradition of their nation on the world stage and have done enough to be standing on the same platform with their more famous counterparts. These countries also deserve a little bit of our support so that they are not left out of the hype and hysteria surrounding the Messis, the Kakas and the Ronaldos.

Historically underdogs have scripted romance and thrill in many previous editions of the World Cup. We have witnessed the USA beating England in 1950, North Korea stunning Italy in 1966, East Germany beating West Germany in 1974 or Senegal beating France in 2002. It is time the underdogs and the new comers got some mention before they actually got on to do something. Let’s take a look at some of the underdogs who might cause some havoc in the pre-tournament calculations.

The host nation South Africa will lead African hopes from Group A. Coached by Carlos Alberto Perreira, the man who masterminded Brazil’s triumph in 1994, the hopes of the Rainbow Nation will hinge upon the performance of midfield maestro Everton Steven Piennar. With the whole of South Africa behind them, it should not come as a surprise to anyone if the Bafana Bafana defy their world ranking of 83 and usurp any one of France, Uruguay or Mexico to move to the round of 16.

One of the better teams of world football, Russia were sent crashing out of the World Cup qualifying by the relatively unknown Slovenian team after which the Slovenian coach echoed these immortal lines: “Slovenia have realized a dream”. In a group that has England, the USA and Algeria, Slovenia will bring a strategically steady blend of football into display. A team that plays compact organized football will be led by the charismatic Robert Koren whose vision and silken skills would be vital for them to progress to the next round.

The beauty of tournaments like the World Cup is that it is a great leveller. One of the stories of this year’s World Cup will be about the participation of a nation that in all probabilities will end up losing all their matches – North Korea. A disgruntled nation that is in the bad books of the international community, the North Koreans will be playing in the World Cup after a gap of 44 years. In 1966, they stunned the footballing world by knocking the Italians out. This time around, they have to deal with five-time winners Brazil, the supremely talented Portugal as well as a dangerous Ivory Coast side. No one expects miracles from them. However, even if they manage to win a single game, they might prepare the recipe of disaster for an early exit for any one of these top three teams from the first round itself.

With a world ranking of 38, the tiny country of Honduras is pitted against pre-tournament favourites Spain, Switzerland and South American attacking powerhouse Chile. Little is expected from them but if they are to spring a surprise they will need the man who inspired their qualification to be at his top form, Wilson Palaicos. Inter Milan’s David Suazo would spearhead the attack in a team built by Columbian Reinaldo Reina who has made Honduras his adopted country.

As the World Cup starts, we expect the big boys to sail through their group. However, the relatively unknown players from the smaller nations will also have their script to write. If they can topple the toppers, we are in for a mesmerizing spell of one month extravaganza. At this moment I have nothing more to say but “Let the game begin”.

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V-Day: Places to avoid

Couples know exactly where to head on Valentine’s Day. Anything from the Maidan to the Strand works for them. But if you’re chronically single, recently single, married, but wish you were single, and don’t want to be cooped up at home on a Sunday, these are the places to avoid…

Victoria Memorial, Nandan, Citizen’s Park, Vivekananda Park, Allen’s Park, and so on…

You’ll find them cooing in corners, stuck bumper to bumper with the next couple. PDA rules, with perhaps the only screen between curious spectators and the couple being an umbrella. You might even find next-door neighbour Mumpy with Bapi, sitting under one of the Maidan trees. Love is in the air, love is in the stare—Romeo and Juliet gazing into each others’ eyes, oblivious to the hawker’s cry, the sniggering passersby or the flies buzzing over mounds of horse dung.

The Strand

Don’t go to the Strand for the Sunday evening chaat or ice-cream. You’ll be greeted by a sea of amorous couples, with or without umbrellas.

So, you thought you’d take a ride across the sun bathed Hooghly—hire a tiny boat, feel the breeze in your hair, hear the boatman sing? Bunk the idea. In any case, you’ll be hard put to find a spare boat on 14 Feb. For the uninitiated, boats work as temporary love nests for many valentines.

The same logic extends to the nearby Princep Ghat—‘labh bards’ flock to it, occupying every nook and cranny of the structure. ‘Love and let love’ is the tag line for the day.

Coffee shops

They’ll stick pink hearts on their windows, hang heart-shaped balloons from the ceiling and hand you a V-Day menu that doesn’t state prices. So, you’re blissfully unaware of how much that heart-shaped pastry you’re digging in actually costs till the bill singes your pocket.

Movie theatre

There will be a lot more sound effect than you expected and in all probability you’ll make a dash for the door after half an hour. Film? What film? You actually thought they were there to watch a film?

City Centre

With labhars occupying every inch of space on the mall’s steps, singletons and those who’ve fallen out of love might have to be airdropped to the mall. In fact, if you’re one of those who’ve fallen out of love and still has to tow a partner along, avoid City Centre or you’ll never hear the end of ‘how things used to be’. Want to help out a recently single friend? Steer clear of all lovers’ points.

You could drop into a friend’s house, but he may be having a romantic dinner with his girl friend; you could go to a restaurant, but with couples all around being staunch supporters of PDA, you’d feel like an intruder; you could nurse your wounds at the ice-cream parlour, but they’ll serve you a heart shaped dessert. And the end of it, staying at home wouldn’t seem like such a bad option after all.

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Years of Sachin—A fan’s tribute

As Sachin Tendulkar enters his third decade in International cricket, praises and tributes are pouring in from all corners of the globe. As someone who has worshipped Sachin, I feel privileged to be able to voice my thoughts about someone who I feel has changed the face of Indian sports. This tribute is from a fan’s perspective who has watched his idol only through the 21 inches of a TV screen…. Read more »

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Wisdom can be contagious

Nobel Laureate Economist-Philosopher Amartya Sen’s latest book The Idea of Justice takes on the conventional notion of justice, or more distinctively, the intrinsic idea and aspirations for a ‘just state with just institutions’. The 3rd Penguin Annual Lecture presented him at Nandan to elaborate on his idea. Among the ones yet to read the book, I took a remote seat at the theatre, certain and disquieted about the imminent breakdown of a hack-writer’s throttled reason before Prof. Sen’s sublime wisdom and gigantic mental faculty.

I don’t claim to have digested all of his speech. Sitting in the corner I beat my brain out to decipher many technical words and phrases, but a number of people in the theatre probably knew better. They did all they could to do justice to the lecture—snoozing, snoring, craning their necks back and forth to see if others are also sleeping, popping up and finally walking out the theatre. But that’s what most of the Nandan regulars have always been—of all places they find it most suitable for a quick nap and they always manage to get invites.

My coming through, however, didn’t warrant me complete immunity. I were to prepare a report on the lecture, but my laptop conked out after allowing the first two paragraphs to be written—giving out thin wisps of smoke. It couldn’t stand the barrack-room lawyer in me anymore.

I never expected the hard disk to recover. But disasters are hardly dodged if you are so destined—my laptop was returned intact, with the unfinished article right on the desktop, beckoning mischievously. Following few paragraphs bear the signature of my pilfered wisdom— they are from the recovered version, read them at your own peril. Read more »

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Fusion confusion

There is this small thing about Kolkata audiences that draws musicians back from all over the world time and again – a willingness to keep their palms unjoined and their mouths shut while the act on stage, good or bad as it shows itself to be, unspools. I’d like to think that it was this congregational tranquillity– instead of the stormy handclap appreciation that characterises audiences in the north and the southwest – that made Anoushka Shankar choose this city to be the first stop for the Indian tour of The Anoushka Shankar Project.

So, when she says in an interview, “I felt the Kolkata show with Jethro Tull was probably the worst show of the tour. It was kind of like a rehearsal,” the immediate effect is on my choleric pride. Sitting at the Science City auditorium with an audience that obviously knew its music – even if it was an audience comprising partly of hundreds of fellow 1960s geezers with popping varicose veins and bursitis – there wasn’t the slightest feeling that the Jethro Tull end of the ‘The Piper and the Princess’ show was playing at anything less than its best. If anything, it was a time when nostalgia and memory came together in a rare and exceptional fit-and-finish.

The “good energy” that Ms Shankar speaks about came, in Science City, from knowing that Tull, in particular, would be entirely dependable when it came to belting out their own numbers. They’ve had masses of practice, and Anderson is nothing if not a polished showman who has every cue down to a half-beat. What seemed somewhat inexpert were the fusion bits that had Ms Shankar doing the thing she does with the sitar – which she does so wonderfully when the sitar is alone and unencumbered by the camaraderie of other, alien instruments. Then, again, expertise would leave fusion without much of its rough-hewn, ad lib, wonky charm. If some celestial largesse were to render fusion perfect and non-controversial, the world of music would be a poorer, less challenging place. Read more »

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‘May you die a dog’s death’

Having seen a number of very well-fed and pampered dogs, my friends and I often joked about being born as dogs in our next lives. In such a scenario, the much used Hindi curse “tu agle janam mein kutta paeda hoga” (you’ll be born a dog in your next life) lost its significance. But for the past few years a number of incidents have shown me the enormity of this curse.

The starkest images are those of puppies – one lying at the side of the road, bloated, with a small puddle just below its mouth… slow drops of blood dripping into it. Recently, while at a shop in the locality I heard squealing and immediately knew what was wrong – another pup had been run over. Three men on a motorbike had ridden over it. It squealed and squealed while its mother ran after every bike that drove past, barking. The other little ones were running harem sacrum in the middle of the road, in danger of being run over any minute. While I took in the scene, one of them went over to the dying pup, caught it by the neck and shook it feverishly, trying to wake it. While I staved off the anxious mother and carried the siblings to the other side of the road, a colleague carried the dying puppy and laid it on a stone…and the crowd dispersed. I went back to the spot 5 minutes later, but couldn’t find the pup’s body. Instead, the whole family was there – mother, and all the puppies sleeping piled each other, nothing seemed amiss except for the fact that the one on the edge wasn’t breathing. A last attempt at pretending things were the way they used to be – before the garbage vat came and carried one of them away. I saw the mother again yesterday – she was sitting in a garbage dump and I went over to see how she was doing. She wagged her tail and it was only then that I realised that she was sitting near another little body – only, this one had no head. Read more »

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Christmas- A different view

Christmas is invariably portrayed in the backdrop of snow, even though Christmas and snow are not always concomitant. While it snows only in the higher latitudes of the northern hemisphere, it is summer in most of the areas of the other half.

Snow nevertheless shows up as a dorsal item in the Christmas scene and Santa Claus turns up in his trademark red wintry attire even in the summer of Australia. This incongruence is retained out of deference to the mores of the north rather than as a defect in the Christmas depiction. Read more »

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Multiple intelligence: Is your child a genius?

I came upon the concept of multiple intelligence or MI during my research while writing Roots and Wings – A Handbook for Parents. The theory had me completely stumped. Initially, the lines that jolted me were: ‘Which parents cannot see gleaming rays of genius in their child? And yet, how many children come to school and demonstrate their own unique genius? There was a time when it might have been a joke to suggest “Every parent thinks their kid’s a genius”. But research on human intelligence suggests that the joke may be on educators!’

As I went about speaking to people we look up to, some of them being Javed Akhtar, Kumar Mangalam Birla, Kiran Bedi, Jaya Bachchan, Shreya Ghoshal, Pandit Jasraj, Jogen Chowdhary, among others, I realized that every single thing the study claims is true; that these people were given the freedom and space to align their native interests and talents with the careers they thought should be their lives. Although in those days parents were not aware of MI as a concept or theory, they instinctively believed that their children had something unique, and they had as much faith in their children as in themselves to allow their children to explore and develop the same. Read more »

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When ‘hot cakes’ cooled in the marriage market

The slump in the IT industry is causing IT professionals to slide down a few notches in the matrimonial market. Earlier considered ‘hot property’, a ‘good catch’, the situation is such that parents are actually shunning these guys where marriage proposals are concerned. Which leads to the overwhelming question that, assuming all other factors remain constant, is a man’s marriage prospect in the matrimonial market directly proportional to his professional standing? Well, the answer for a number of people, is- yes. After reading a report on this issue, a person commented that the situation leaves one with a very poor impression of women. Let’s look at the following points before commenting on the impression such a situation leaves on one’s mind. Read more »

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Fizzy pop and ethics

I was recently sitting in a popular dive with an American guy, analysing the differences between Pepsi and Coke. Our mundane conversation was proving enjoyable - a rare snatch of pointless but jovial discussion in the Kolkatan pressure cooker. And so it came as a surprise, when moments later the same man embarked upon a lengthy discussion about life and death, battering me with the moral high ground through mouthfuls of Big Mac. The fellow (a self confessed Lapierre junkie, it transpired), had been working with a charity for two weeks, which as far as I could conclude, was morphing him into a bit of a depressant and somewhat of a philosopher. Unsurprisingly, my rather sedate line of work didn’t interest him that much in comparison. He did however, wonder how it felt to be employed amongst the bourgeoisie of a city steeped in wretchedness. Read more »

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A brush with Bangla

My interest in Kolkata had always been strong, so when I fixed a return to the city this year, I decided I would have to learn some of the Mother Tongue. It seemed a natural choice, and an important task, if I was to get the most from my experience. Thus began the long search for a suitable teacher and after 4 months scouring of Northern England, I eventually found my woman. Sharmi Siddique was a Bangladeshi immigrant living in my University City of Newcastle, and over the next few weeks we spent much time together. This lady took me right back to the most basic forms of interaction- she patiently listened to me recite the numbers one to thirty, she gave me a crash course in all the vital questions and statements needed for survival, and she also took it upon herself to provide a thorough education in Bengali sensibility- ‘Kakhona bhulona Amy. Every Bengali thinks London means the same thing as England. When they ask you where your house is, just lie and it’ll save you a lot of explanation’. I’m not sure that this was entirely true, but it was certainly meant with the best intention.

So I can’t imagine what my poor teacher would have thought, when upon touchdown in Kolkata, my first spoken word was ‘dhanyabaste’. This careless mispronunciation invoked embarrassing laughter from a number of people, and thus the struggle to establish my language abilities began. Things hadn’t started well, but I was darned if I was about to fall at the first hurdle. And by Jove, it would be a tall order.

English people have a reputation for being some of the worst linguists in the world and unfortunately, I had immediately served to further this notion. But the problem we face is not poor verbal aptitude, for I quickly learnt the correct way to say ‘thank you’. It is the cold hard fact that everybody in the entire world speaks our lingo, hence why would we endeavor to learn anything else? For the language enthusiasts of the UK, this is a real pain in the neck, as it renders self improvement almost impossible. Go to Holland thinking you can speak Dutch for example, and they will shoot you down in an instant. In Germany, the smallest hesitation whilst ordering a pretzel, will mark the end of your Deutsch experience. Pick destination India, where English binds the common people almost as much as Hindi, and fluency in Bengali becomes mission impossible. ‘Bangla bolo’ I keep pleading of my friend. ‘But it’s so boring’ he complains. ‘You don’t understand anything and we can have such better conversations in English, isn’t it?” Problem number one, how then can the poor international ever hope to learn?

I faced this discerning attitude from the beginning of my adventure and quickly realized that whilst acquaintance with high society was nice, it was unhelpful for progress. And so I decided (rightly or wrongly) to throw social sensibility out of the window and create a healthy circle of down and out associates, who were of much more use, simply because they couldn’t counteract me. Sometimes I wonder if this approach was a little slapdash and often fear I would get the boot, were any colleague to see me in such company. Indeed, my enthusiasm has led to a few misguided encounters; I’ve shared pavement space with some real undesirables, made accidental acquaintance with a well known pimp and generally become a regular on the mafia scene. Overall, however, I have to argue that lowering one’s standards is the best way to do things. The human ability to communicate is quite astounding, as is the capacity for kindness and learning. One young boy, for example, regularly creates lists of vocab for my use. In the past, these have included some real linguistic gems, such as the Bengali translation for ‘entrails’,’ pot-belly’ and ‘bowels’. Just in case. Another youngster likes to entertain me in the back of her cart, where I am fed copious amounts of rasagulla and chastised for not learning my weekly quota of Bangla.

So through various crude methods of interaction, I’ve ensured a stream of terminology and whilst I am no expert, have somehow become an authority on basic phrases. Actually, it’s always the simple things that are the most useful. ‘Atcha’ for example, is a straightforward but wonderful word, which serves to pacify any situation. It can be said in a number of tones, to mean different things or to drive the spike into any point, and I enjoy combining it with a head wiggle. We don’t do head wiggling in the UK, so this gesture is a novelty. ‘Ki hoyeche?’ is another great one and a question which I seem to ask myself far too often. Since things have a tendency to go marvelously wrong in India, it’s a good way to wash over any mishap, and a useful outlet for grief. Finally, ‘aami janina’ is a favorite, for it allows one to protest innocence and feign confusion in any suspect circumstance. Yes, these three turns of phrase are most crucial and I relish using them. In fact, I find them irresistible.

When I was at school I learnt German and French, but I never discovered a real passion for either, and it’s hard to remember a great deal. My abilities can just about stretch to ordering a croissant or a Curry Wurst and grammar wise, I only know that ‘je laverais la vache’ means ‘I have washed the cow.’ So imagine my frustration that Bangla, which I really want to be good, is a million times harder than either and that during these early stages, the only way to remember anything, is to parrot talk it until you simply can’t forget. Many an hour have I forgone in Barista, looking like a mad woman whilst doing this. It’s often the case, however, that once I attain some meager in road (such as managing to distinguish the word ‘bari’ in a sentence), my effort is crushed by the stumbling block of linguistic variation. Anyone who I allow to peruse my book of learning, will inevitably find a hundred corrections to make, and each one they will fervently claim is the ‘real’ Bangla. I understand that the language has gradually changed over the years and that a span of subtle dialect makes such modification somewhat inevitable, so I try to be tolerant. However, I do suspect that the Indian tendency to help with anything, means I’ve also received inputs from the most utterly doubtful sources of Bengali, ie. Urdu. Add to this confusion an entirely new script, and the task ahead seems monumental. Whatever happened to the good old ABC? I’m proud to say I can write numbers (with all the pace and concentration of a three year old), but it’s going to be a while before I can comfortably sit down to a samosa and a nice copy of Anandabazar Patrika.

It’s no surprise then, that people question my motive. Why, they inquire suspiciously, would you bother to learn Bangla since a) Everyone speaks English, and b) it’s impossible anyway? Sometimes, they display open mirth. I would like however, to argue against both points. Firstly, many of the people I mix with are highly educated and fluent in English, yet still love to slip between both dialects. E ach time this happens, I get unwittingly left behind and whilst I admire such bilingual talent, it is a little bothersome. Secondly, Bangla may be hard, but learning even the smallest amount has improved my foreign experience tenfold. Conversations, however pitiful, can open up a host of rewards, ranging from dinner at someone’s house to a unique insight into an unusual part of the city, a free cup of chai or a slice of exceptional Bengali warmth. And as far as navigating the city is concerned, a bit of the old lingo couldn’t be more useful. I can now walk relatively unscathed through Sudder Street, for example, since I am able to say, ‘no, I would not like to buy your rickshaw bell, but thankyou very much all the same’, or ‘that is indeed a nice bevy of flutes Dada, but I’m not really musically inclined’. Well actually I can’t converse quite so smoothly, but I can definitely make my point. And so my prospects are on the up.

My Father is a linguist, and at his advice I keep a detailed record of conversations, which has proved a great way to track achievement. The first entry in my journal proudly states: ‘Asked small man in airport where toilet was. He pointed straight, I said ‘shoja?’, and I think he understood me!’ Clearly I have come a long way since those peasant origins, but every time I remember my humble roots, the triumph spurs me on to new heights. In my last blog I stated that I would like to know some ‘cutting edge Bengali’, after which I resolved to pad out my dictionary of abuse. And I’m pleased to report that I now have a nice reserve of slang to match any occasion- Another small victory in the name of fluency.

So it seems a shame that just as I’m getting into the swing of things, I’m about to be swept off the face of Mother India, back to the Small Island. What then will happen? Can I continue my education in the face of distance, globalization and the blatant skepticism of my local Asian community? Will I muster the fight and will I conquer? Well yes, is the answer, for I have learnt the art of resilience and discovered that it more than pays its way. As long as my Indian prospects continue to flourish (and that I don’t doubt), I have oodles of incentive and more than enough confidence. So expect me at the service of all your conversational needs, in Kolkata, this time next year.

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Oh! Kolkata takes some getting used to

I’m standing on the metro platform. It’s what, eight in the morning? I’m not looking pretty and I’m certainly not feeling great. In fact, my stomach is reeling from the dodgy paneer I ate last night and I’m perspiring like nobody’s business. Suddenly a small round figure bounds into me, extending a pudgy hand. ‘Hello Ma’am, what is your name Ma’am?’ I’m half tempted to swipe the little brat off the platform, but instead I offer an ingratiating smile and force myself into a parody of good will and kindness. ‘What a sweet, darling child’, my face says, ‘how endearing’ and ‘what awfully, awfully good English.’ Not.

I face this kind of social torment on a daily basis, whilst waiting for my train to Chandni Chowk. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I arrive just before the metro does and I can dash aboard, but nine times out of ten I stand awkwardly on the platform, trying to look as chilled and unbothered as possible, as a million faces stare in my direction. I might take a cool sip of water, maybe I’ll listen to some music or casually apply some lip balm, perhaps I even succeed in seeming relaxed. However, it takes a huge amount of willpower not to run screaming and yes, I am horribly aware of every prying eye. You see, I come from England, thus I am something of a object of curiosity and a source of unprovoked interest. In the UK, we have a very multi cultural society. I even live in an Asian pocket, and so I’m just not used to such attention. Black, white, even Irish, no one bats an eyelid, but here in Kolkata I seem to have morphed into some sort of subhuman. Being tall, relatively shy and almost as pale as the white girl comes, doesn’t help.

At the moment I’m reading ‘Shantaram’ by Gregory Roberts, which is offering some solace. Roberts, an Aussie prisoner who escaped to Mumbai, understands and quite brilliantly outlines how the staring culture can make unsuspecting Westerners feel. At one point in the novel, when he goes off to live in a slum, he beautifully articulates the bizarre experience: ‘ They were all staring at me with such gravity, such a fixed and frowning intensity that I felt sure they must bear me enormous ill will.’ This description really nails things. Later on Roberts offers an explanation for such behavior, commenting that the endless staring is just a mark of curiosity. People aren’t being rude, they genuinely just want to know everything about you. Perhaps (although unlikely), they’ve never seen anything like you before. This is why, like with the small pugnacious child, I exercise a degree of tolerance. That and the risk that by being a poor British ambassador, I might incur wrath for future visitors to Kolkata.

Even so, my charitable efforts occasionally and shamefully slip, because some people just push it too far, even beyond simple curiosity. Let me explain such a situation. One day, whilst on the metro, I was accosted by two young and enthusiastic lads, who claimed to be medical students. I don’t mean to be rude, but frankly they were lying, because they could hardly speak a word of English. They were bent upon being my ‘best friend.’ Oh god, I thought, but at least I was getting down soon and with relief I alighted at the next stop, without a goodbye or a backwards glance. Happy at my escape I legged up the platform and upon reaching the ticket barrier was met by the same two. They proceeded to stalk me from a distance all the way to work. I would have dearly loved to slang some cutting edge Bengali insult at them, but my vocabulary only stretches to ‘amiy d’jeiti dao,’ so I slinked into the office like some hunted criminal and fumed as I watched them pass. Unfortunately, some people have a tendency to be not only inquisitive, but also rude. On a more serious note though, this harassing can be genuinely upsetting. To quote my diary on that day: ‘I felt real anger, anger because my colour became a personality substitute. It was a degrading experience.’ Thus it won’t surprise you that under the cover of darkness is my preferred way to travel, when cloaked in night I can commute relatively undisturbed and generally avoid such trauma.

Luckily, most people aren’t quite so forward, yet many are just as invasive in more creative ways. You’d be amazed at how often I find myself wedged under someone’s sweaty armpit, stuck like a lemon and on full view for ogling purposes. This invasion of personal space is a common problem. A friend of mine once took a train to Agra and spent a good 12 hours being subtly groped by a man three times her senior. Granted she took cattle class, so you might say it was coincidence, but I don’t think she quite deserved his foot massaging her leg for all that time, whatever his motive, or however cramped the carriage was. I have been informed, however, that it is not just Westerners who suffer such disturbing advances. The attractive young women of Kolkata are pestered just as much, if not more, especially on the city buses. Of this, I am deeply sympathetic and deeply relieved that an appalling lack of bus knowledge discourages me from using the dreaded breeding ground of Eve Teasing and such other travesties.

But don’t let me harp on too much about the negatives, because for us subhumans, Indian travel has its perks. I firmly believe that a crowded train is the place to meet not only the worst, but also the best people in this city. And on a daily basis I smile to see how these people converse with such warmth. Any Bengali who graces the London tube must be as appalled by the awful silence in which commuters tolerate each other, as I am beguiled by the social ease of the Kolkatans.

Some of these kind souls are guiding me through the minefield of public transport and whilst I suspect this is for entertainment purpose, they’ve taught me some damn useful stuff. I’ll never blend in without a skin transfusion, but have worked on other areas. I’ve learnt to fight my corner and I’ve also learnt that politeness is a useless weakness, to be applied sparingly. The department of extreme bravery and daring is much improved too- reaction time is up, as is my ability to deal with any potential hazard.

When I look back at the old days I realise how far I’ve come, and cringe at the things that used to happen. Like at the time when I managed to hire an alcoholic rickshaw wallah, who drunkenly pedaled me to a power cut Dum Dum Park at eleven pm. That, was a mistake. But the point is that in India, this kind episode is just part of life’s rich tapestry, as is a confused Westerner trying to navigate the metro. The Kolkatans have a resilient and entertaining attitude to transport chaos and despite minor pitfalls like death and public humiliation, I have to admit it’s a dangerously exciting way to live. My friend Aditi once saw a man watching a Bollywood clip in the middle of a busy road, whilst cars dodged and swerved around him. ‘He was thoroughly enjoying it as well,’ she said. ‘Only in this wonderful country could that ever happen.’ Agreed. At present I happen to value my life a little more than Shah Rukh Khan’s, but once I master such skill, I’ll know I’ve come full circle. Anyway, I’m looking forward to more trials and tribulations on this great learning curve, touch wood with no disasters. Pray for me, I’ll keep you posted.

Amy Parsons

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Role of the Captain in IPL games

The Rajasthan Royals has taken a resolve not to lose any further games. They are charged up like nobody else – what is the secret of their success? Obviously, it is the captain who has developed an enviable relationship with his boys. They have not failed him and he is sitting on top of the world – yes, including the points chart.

An outsider, he has got all his players local and overseas eating out of his hands. On the field, he is in all places at the same time – whether encouraging his bowlers or setting a field or tapping a fielder for an unnecessary blunder – he enjoys the game. Unlike other captains who are weighed down with burdens that no one can see but can imagine. He has proved to be a true brand ambassador for IPL.

In this context, a report in a section of the press indicates that Rahul Dravid wants to part ways with his owner. Earlier there were rumors of the relationship between SRK and Sourav turning sour. Then the captain of the Deccan Chargers VVS Laxman was a captain for namesake – it was Adam Gilchrist all the way. For the Mumbai Indians, there were as many as three captains – unfortunately, it has not been of much help. The bottom-line is that the captain has to lead the way – if his body language does not impress his players, the team suffers. At the back of his mind are the questions – can I meet the expectations of the crowd? Will I emerge victorious? Will I get into runs? Will I bag the award for the maximum sixes? It is all about the bad word ‘I’ – if the captain thinks in terms of ‘we’, he will be a much relieved captain.

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The further adventures of the fedora and whip

By MANOHLA DARGIS
Published in The New York Times of May 22, 2008

CANNES, France — “Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull” is a movie for boomers of all ages, though you can bet the bank that plenty of tots will be tagging along with Mom and Dad, Granny and Gramps. Like the 1981 blockbuster “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” the first in a monster franchise that has spawned two previous movie sequels, a television series, comics, novels, video games and Disney theme-park attractions, this new one was directed by Steven Spielberg, cooked up and executive produced by George Lucas (with Kathleen Kennedy) and stars Harrison Ford as the archaeologist-adventurer-sexpot with the sardonic grin, rakish fedora and suggestive bullwhip.

This latest Indy escapade, which was shown out of competition at the Cannes Film Festival and will probably scoop up more money than the rest of the selections combined, serves as a reunion for the principal creative team. Almost two decades have lapsed since the third installment in the series, “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade” (1989). In the years since, Mr. Lucas — whose logo for Lucasfilm received the loudest applause at the press screening in Cannes — continued to build his special-effects empire and resurrected the “Star Wars” franchise while Mr. Spielberg has oscillated between serious-minded projects and financially instrumental entertainments.

For his part, Mr. Ford rode the ups and downs of high-concept stardom, oscillating between roles that called for him to flash his customary wry grin or his equally familiar grumpy frown. He wears both in “The Crystal Skull,” though the busy story makes enormous effort to keep the mood happy and snappy and decidedly PG-13 friendly — P.C. friendly, too, as in politically correct, with fewer dark-skinned people popping their eyeballs. Not that Indy has gone soft or the natives have gone hard, mind you, only that Mr. Spielberg no longer seems as eager to cut down extras for a laugh.

Thank goodness for the fall of the Soviet Union and the rise of Vladimir V. Putin, which have expedited the return of blond-haired, blue-eyed villainy to the screen. Set in 1957, this new Indy yarn, written by David Koepp from a story by Mr. Lucas and Jeff Nathanson, takes place far from the Middle East even if it opens in a desert. The bad guys this time are cold war Reds first seen poking around an American military base and led by Irina Spalko. A caricature given crude, playful life by Cate Blanchett, Irina owes more than a little to Rosa Klebb, the pint-size Soviet operative played by Lotte Lenya, who took on James Bond in “From Russia With Love.”

Dressed in gray coveralls, her hair bobbed and Slavic accent slipping and sliding as far south as Australia, Ms. Blanchett takes to her role with brio, snapping her black gloves and all but clicking her black boots like one of those cartoon Nazis that traipse through earlier Indy films. She’s pretty much a hoot, the life of an otherwise drearily familiar party. Among the other invited guests are Ray Winstone, John Hurt and Shia LaBeouf, who plays Mutt, the young sidekick onboard to bring in those viewers whose parents were still in grade school when the first movie hit. Karen Allen, who played Indy’s love interest in “Raiders,” is here too, with a megawatt smile and a bit of the old spunk.

If only the filmmakers seemed as eager to see — and to please — the audience as Ms. Allen. There’s plenty of frantic energy here, lots of noise and money too, but what’s absent is any sense of rediscovery, the kind that’s necessary whenever a filmmaker dusts off an old formula or a genre standard. “Raiders of the Lost Ark” creaks with age now, but to look at it again is to see Mr. Spielberg actively engaging in an organic whole, taking a beloved template and repurposing it for the modern blockbuster age he helped create. By contrast, “The Crystal Skull” comes alive only in isolated segments, in a clever motorcycle chase that ends in a library and, best of all, in an eerie sequence at an atomic test site that wittily puts the nuclear in family.

The original Indiana Jones venture was inspired by Mr. Lucas and Mr. Spielberg’s love for 1930s serials, but you’d be hard pressed to find much inspiration in their latest collaboration. There’s plenty of perspiration, of course, what with the wall-to-wall chases — many tricked out with obvious computer-generated effects — that careen one into another like colliding big rigs. As expected, the high leaps and long jumps look impressive, even if it’s something of a bummer when one of the best directors working today (Mr. Spielberg) doesn’t seem to be working as hard as the stunt crew. Initially, I thought he was bored with the material (he wouldn’t be alone), but now I think he’s just grown out of this kind of sticky kids’ stuff.

Creative ennui certainly might explain why he spends so much time riffing both on his own greatest hits — Indy and company have an encounter of a close, insipid kind — and on other movies. Some of these allusions amuse (a sea of red ants parting à la “The Ten Commandments”) while others are just painful (Mr. LaBeouf done up to resemble Marlon Brando in “The Wild One”). It’s odd to see Mr. Spielberg recycling plot points already chewed through by Roland Emmerich in “Stargate,” though Indy’s brief encounter with some ferociously feathered Indians who look right out of Mel Gibson’s “Apocalypto” was a tantalizingly sweet pip, a sequel in waiting (“Indiana Jones Meets Mad Max”) or maybe just a YouTube mash-up.

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wrong strategy means loss

This 41st game of the IPL between Kolkata and Chennai should have not been lost by the home team. However, when over confidence strikes, it spells doom. That is what happened. It was a loss due to wring strategy. There were rains the previous evening and at this time of the year, the climate is always unpredictable with heavy showers, gusty winds and terrible atmosphere. Therefore, when Sourav won the toss, he should have asked the visitors to bat – that way, in the event of rains and the D/L system, he would have had the advantage. Unfortunately, he preferred to bat himself because he had tremendous faith in his batsmen and felt that they would have no difficulty in putting up a high score. That was not to be since the team managed just 149 runs. The rest is already history.

There are accusing fingers pointed at the decision of the umpire to call one of the balls as a ‘dead’ one when it should have been called as a wide. The argument is that if it had been given a wide, Kolkata would have had one more ball to play and that might have changed the course of the game. Well – arguments are bound to be there: the misfield by Goni that sent the ball to the boundary when it should not have got more than one or the missed catches that gave lives to a couple of Kolkata batsmen. Then, in the Chennai innings, the life given to Parthiv also went against the Kolkata Knight Riders. Therefore instead of blaming others for the debacle, the team management need to look for the weak links in their strategies.

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The cheerleader controversy

Political leaders are passé and cheerleaders are in. And that even applies for a politically sensitive city like Calcutta.
Irrespective of what our sports minister Subhas Chakrabarty or few other ministers and political leaders have to say about cheerleaders, cheerleading has become a hit both on and off the ground.
Not only Calcutta crowd on ground is lapping up cheerleaders like anything, even they have become competitors to cricketers when it comes to post match analysis in the tea shops or in Writers’ Building.
There has been lot of discussions in recent time whether slightly over the top cheerleading (no pun intended) is a distraction to the cricketers or not, but the fact remains it definitely caters to the obstruction of viewing cricket. At least that happened to me during the Kolkata Knightriders match with Decan Chargers.
As a boundary was hit or a wicket tumbled, the cheerleaders started gyrating; hijacking the attention of most in the crowd – who stood up their feet, jumped on the seats, waved and ogled, not necessarily in that sequence – even as the batsman prepared to face the next ball. And in the process completely blocking those who wanted to see something else (read, cricket) other than cheerleading in the ground. Any protest and you are bound to be hopelessly outnumbered!
“This is bound to happen in a sex starved country like our’s, where few years back even a kiss was not allowed by the censor” observed a clearly exasperated middle aged person sitting beside me and struggling to see the match through the dancing crowd in front. “Doesn’t the guy look like an auto driver in city road who spends more time looking sideways rather than straight” quipped another pointing towards a teenager who was waving frantically towards the cheerleader girls even as they settled down after a bout of cheerleading.
“Don’t complain, in that way most in the stadium look like auto drivers” countered another. “Actually the whole thing has a social angle, it is a big turn on for most to see some firangi girls dancing to the tune of Indian music for pleasing indian spectators” observed another trying to delve into the mind of spectators per se.
Coming back to opinions regarding the sanctity of cheerleading, a complete contrast is on the plate.
“Don’t we ogle through out night watching skimpily clad girls parading their staff in beauty contests and even takes national pride when a Sushmita Sen or an Aishwarya Rai wins? What happens when our bolly bellies bare all not only in films but also in television within the privacy of your living room? Then why single out the cheerleaders”, is one kind of opinion.
“Agreed, the society has changed a lot and all these have entered in our daily lives via consumerism. But still our society is not ready for this kind of on you face titillation” is another.
“Why blame the cheerleaders, they are after all a small part of an entertainment package called T 20 cricket. If you are interested in this brand of cricket, you have to accept the cheerleaders as well” is kind of middle of the road third opinion.
And there are interesting other opinions as well,sample this one.
“I do not have any opinion about the cheerleaders but I am happy that because of them there has been less unrest within the crowd… crowd is so busy appreciating them that there was hardly even a murmur of protest when the local team lost so badly to the Mumbai Indians few days back, almost unthinkable in Eden Gardens” commented a senior police official.
Food for research for the social scientists?

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Salman Butt itching to make presence felt

Salman Butt is in the Kolkata Knight Riders’ XIV for Thursday’s faceoff against the Bangalore Royal Challengers, but it’s to the XI that he’s itching to return.

“I guess the Indian Premier League (IPL) rule about fielding only four overseas players is working to my disadvantage… It will be great to again play at the Eden, though,” Butt said. Read more »

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“Is this Tantra?”

That’s what the sedate-looking gentleman behind me demanded of the twenty-somethings dancing to ‘Om Shanti Om’. He didn’t want directions. Genuine wonder combined with exasperation gave rise to this question.

The venue wasn’t Tantra or Venom or any other nightclub at all. It was good ol’ Eden Gardens. Steeped in sporting history but fallen into disfavour following a flurry of makeshift missiles aimed at visiting cricketers, Eden is in revamp mode. A floodlight malfunction, a non-functioning scoreboard, and lack of basic facilities may have spoilt the initial impression, but the Kolkata stadium is hoping to get back into everybody’s good books. Read more »

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Unlike Grisham

Just tucked the latest John Grisham into the upper rack of my bookshelf. I picked it up at Kolkata airport on my way to Delhi. The Indian capital is about two hours by air from Kolkata, and I was sure to complete the read on my return flight, because I thought four hours should be enough for a pulpy read. But I was wrong.

I came back to Kolkata halfway through the book, convinced that Grisham has but grown mature. He took a sabbatical in ‘The Innocent Man’ and his efforts to transcend himself were visible. But ‘The Appeal’, his latest, clearly shows his growing reluctance to stay inside the typical Grisham fame.

‘The Appeal’ tells a long and astonishingly detailed ordeal of the purchase of a Mississippi Supreme Court verdict by a corporate giant, Krane Chemicals. In the course of producing pesticides in a small town factory at the outskirts of Mississippi (Bowmore town, fictitious), the company illegally dumped truckloads of toxic byproducts in and around the city. These chemicals, in time, trickled down into the water-layer. The ground water became too risky to drink—even unfit for bathing. Soon the water was proved a carcinogen— cancer spread all over the city, and the number of patients soared fourteen times the national average.

At this outset, two humble trial lawyers, Wes Payton and Mary Grace, managed to win a lower court verdict in a lawsuit that held the corporation liable for the deaths of two male members of a black family. Paytons mortgaged all their tangible assets, including a tract of land owned by Mary’s father, to keep the fight on. They moved out of their cozy house in Jackson and settled down in a rental, sold off their fashionable cars and got used to be on the wheels of secondhands—all for the hope of winning the lawsuit some day.

They win the lawsuit, but the astounding $41 million that the lower court ordered Krane to pay the plaintiffs, of which one third was Payton’s, still looked a far cry. Krane appealed to the Supreme Court and tried their bit to buy the judgment. There was a chance that the final verdict could go against them, on a 5-4 division of the jury bench consisting nine members. And the Judge whose vote could uphold the decision of the lower court was Sheila McCarthy, a divorced woman in his late forties, with a record of voting against corporate giants.

But, the impending judicial election for Sheila’s seat provided Krane with an excellent chance to replace her. They made a judicial candidate of a credulous lawyer, Ron Fisk—whose only qualifications were his clean family records and his looks. Looks were important, as Krane agents saturated the judicial election with TV ads, featuring Ron as a caring father, responsible husband, a school baseball coach and a fierce critic of same sex marriages and the gun-control policy of Mississippi—everything except his worth with the black gown put on. The minutely planned campaign kept Krane and its owner, Carl Trudeau, a seasoned Wall Street predator, out of the picture. A friendly right-wing senator used his contacts to ensure a steady shower of campaign-funds until the election was over.

The novel starts quite like a page-turner—the proceedings at the lower court and its upshot ride a gripping narrative. Grisham introduces Carl Trudeau next, displays his social circle making full use of the art-auction backdrop, where you stumble on those who make Forbes rich list and their trophy wives. However, as the political campaign kicks off, Grisham struggles to maintain the proportions of his characters. At some points, it looks like he is in a dilemma—on one side, he fights the pulp writer in him, while on the other he cannot take to the prose properly in the fear of loosing pace.

He loses pace at times. But then, those are areas where his attention to the niggling details of a judicial campaign makes the read more interesting. It clearly shows the risk the American judicial system embraces every time it chooses a Supreme Court judge by election—how exposed campaigns are that need seamless cash inflow to move on, to corpo-political gropes designed to limit social liability. That most US trial lawyers hate Washington politicians these days is a result of such foul plays, which makes an outsider wonder why such a system still exists in USA at all.

As one goes though the writer’s seemingly effortless weaving of climaxes and non-climaxes, expectations on the last page piles on. But Grisham concludes his novel in a surprising but stylish manner, not exactly what a die-hard Grisham would long for. This novel might not have the elements to please readers who loves Grisham for his popular works, but it shows his efforts to induce a change in the way thrillers are written, and the result is a work many cuts above his previous page-turners.

Surely a work, which you wouldn’t do enough justice if you try to finish it in four hours.

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Cool Sreesanth takes things in stride

The body language was different. There were no frayed tempers and no tears shed on Sunday as Sreesanth shook hands with the Delhi DareDevils after Kings XI Punjab won convincingly.

The ceremonial handshakes, this time, were conducted well inside the boundary line. On Friday, against the Mumbai Indians and during the infamous Harbhajan-Sreesanth altercation, the porch hid most of the view. This time the teams were “directed” to carry out formalities in the full glare of the cameras. Read more »

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Can IPL succeed?

This is a question not only in the minds of the common man but also in the minds of the millionaires who have taken the plunge. As long as there is a struggle for supremacy between two countries, there are spectators to cheer them on.

Sides are taken and there are signs of ecstasy and disappointment on the faces of spectators once the final is over. The stakes are invariably for the teams and individuals – the ICC rates these two entities based on their performances in games between two nations. There are no laurels for teams which are hotchpotch affairs of one-time enemies and perennial adversaries. In the final analysis, the game is sure to take a severe beating.

The dazzling spectacles will have laser shows, skimpy clad girls, plenty of fireworks and promoting of individual brands of whatever. The cine stars who have invested their finances will watch helplessly as their importance takes a beating. It is the BCCI and others who will relish every bit of this extravaganza.

It can be safely said that this is a platform for retiree cricketers to make the final plunge into extracting the last bit of juice from the game of cricket. Tall talk of encouraging youngsters to play alongside established professionals is an eye wash. Finally, the big names will remain names and will be seen in action only in a few guest appearances. It will eventually turn out to be a clash between the Sharmas of Jullunder, the Ghoshs of Kolkata and the Murthys of Bangalore. Obviously, the on-ground spectators will not approve of that!

Prabir Ghosh

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Shocking pitch: Laxman

V.V.S. Laxman blamed the Eden Gardens wicket and the power failure for Sunday’s loss to Kolkata Knight Riders. The Deccan Chargers captain also said he was happy with the team’s performance.

The following are excerpts…

Are you happy with the way Deccan Chargers played today?

Yeah, I am pleased with the way my boys played. Read more »

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I’m the energy for this team: SRK

The Kolkata Knight Riders’ owner, Shah Rukh Khan, spoke to The Telegraph soon after his team’s five-wicket win over the rather highly rated Deccan Chargers of Hyderabad on Sunday.

The following are excerpts…

Thoughts on the Knight Riders’ second win in succession

Feels fantastic, yaar… It’s a great team made up of players from different parts of the world… Australia, New Zealand, Pakistan… This is their home now and they’ve done every Calcuttan proud… This isn’t only Sourav Ganguly’s home, but Ricky Ponting and Brendon McCullum and Mohammed Hafeez’s as well… Of course, mine too. Read more »

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Star’s song saves the day

Calcutta, April 20: Tonight was solely on the spur of a song four words long. Korbo, lorbo, jeetbo re… korbo, lorbo, jeetbo re….
Sourav Ganguly’s Knight Riders had very little going for them for the better part of their riposte to the Deccan Chargers’ modest 110.

They were floundering, in fact, at five down for 89. Seventeen overs had gone. Dada had perished along with the better part of his batting cast. They seemed to have taken their mascot Hoog-Lee’s catch-line too much to heart — “I play Cinderella cricket, I find it hard to get to the ball.” Read more »

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Commerce meets cricket, at fine leg

The girl screwed up her eyes against the sun and asked: “What’s the name of the game again?”

Brijesh Patel, swashbuckler of yore turned mover-shaker of the Karnataka Cricket Association, let out a sardonic little grunt and said: “Cricket, it’s called cricket.”

But the girl was already out of earshot, flouncing away on the park, a ballerina in blue jeans, cellophane fairy wings wrinkling and flowering under her arms. Read more »

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Sachin hopeful of playing in opener

Sachin Tendulkar on Thursday brushed aside reports of his being doubtful for Mumbai Indians’s opening IPL tie against Bangalore Royal Challengers.

The former India captain said there were two more days left for him to get into shape and lead his team at the Wankhede Stadium here.

“I am strictly following the physio’s fitness regime. There are two more days to go (for our opening match). A decision will only be taken before the 20th,” he said. Read more »

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