In my time...

Let’s face it…the phrase “in my time’ doesn’t seem right coming out of my lips. No more do “today’s generation” and “kids get it so easy these days”.
But, here I am, mouthing these very phrases on a regular basis, and with increasing frequency. Scary!!!

Am I getting old to fast, or is the current generation of kids really jumping the gun in to premature adulthood?

I wonder

Being an Indian...is it unpatriotic to wish a Pakistani friend "Happy Independence day" on the 14th of August???

Darcy’s Story by Janet Aylmer: A review

It’s a fact commonly acknowledged that almost 93% of all girls who have read Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice are in the want of a their own arrogant Mr Darcy. The readers’ age may span from a mere 10-year-old girl to a woman of 60, but they all seem to understandably fall in love with this quiet, straightforward, blunt, and of course tall, handsome and rich man of Pemberley.

Author Janet Aylmer is no different. The only difference being…what we all imagined the man of our dreams would have thought and felt during those scintillating conversations with the adorable Lizzy (Elizabeth Bennet), Aylmer went ahead and penned them down.

Starting off with a conversation about his deceased parents with his cousin Col Fitzwilliam, Aylmer sets the tone of the book by projecting Darcy’s softer and emotional side. The only trouble being, the emotions seem very simplistic.

A mirror image, if you will, of P&P, the story line in Darcy’s Story goes parallel to the original book. Aylmer has consciously and painstakingly never deviated from the original plot and chronology of events, reining in her creative urges to take liberty with the plot. An art many of our modern-day adapters and screenplay writers may want to learn.

Aylmer has tried to be honest to the spirit of even the minor characters that were portrayed in P&P, but due to their significance in Darcy’s life, they have more prominence in Darcy’s Story. Little nuggets of information and conversations that open up the protagonist’s character a bit more are immensely enjoyable, but unfortunately lack the finesse and wit that Austen is famous for.

Another aspect that is sadly lacking in the book is the complexity of character and the tendency to over-simplify situations. The one-liners and situations that pack a punch in the original sometimes lose their sparkle in this version. But that’s not to say that Aylmer hasn’t tried. The window into Darcy’s thoughts especially when he first proposes to Lizzy, or the time when Jane is ill and Lizzy stays at Netherfield, or when and how Darcy helps find Wikham and gets him married to Lydia are just invaluable. One can’t help but feel gratified that all the curiosity to a man’s thoughts…and that too when the man is none other than Fitzwilliam Darcy…is there for them to read and feel.

All in all, Darcy’s Story is a very enjoyable read. The best part is the idea itself and the author’s true love of P&P can be clearly felt in each and every word, which is what makes this book worth reading. Read this book just to experience the evergreen classic Pride & Prejude through the eyes of English literature’s most beloved heart-throb.

The last laugh

I spent the last week watching movies like never before. Blame that on the week-long Osian’s Cinefan festival in Siri Fort. Unlike my friends, I didn’t get to spend all week—sun up to sun down—flitting through audis one to four, but I did manage to spend two-and-a-half days doing just that.

Watching movies made by brilliant directors can be terribly exhausting. More so, if they’re all on death, exploitation, rape, murder, genocide, homicide or some such morbid topic. Now, don’t get me wrong. I do believe that the wrongs in the world should be highlighted. More so by the educated and creative sections of society who can actually do something for them, or inspire others to right the wrongs. But in a week-long film fest, how much of depression is one expected to take?

I know no one asked me to watch such movies. In fact, my parents were quite upset that I was spending such a huge amount of time watching movies! But I went there with the intention to learn something about film making and different cultures…and learn I did. For one I learnt this weird fact that old Japanese couples sometimes collect garbage from other people’s houses and dump them in their own. In fact, they love living in that filth. Don’t ask me why…even the director who’s movie apparently showed this aspect of the Japanese culture did not know.

But let’s go back to the umpteen number of movies on death. The reason I wanted to write about it is because I do believe that in trying to project the absolute reality of life…which is death, we probably tend to forget another important aspect of our life…laughter.

Throughout the festival I was aching to watch a comedy. In a way I did. I saw the premier of Rajat Kapoor’s Mithya starring the famous duo Ranvir & Vinay, along with a gamut of character artists. So much so, I felt that the movie was just another extension of Bheja Fry that I had seen a couple of weeks ago. The treatment was very much like that of a play, but again…even in that the character came to terms with life and everything else at the doorstep of death.

By the end of day three I felt sick. I felt as if all the joy in the world had been suck out of my life. Now, all directors can take this as a huge compliment, because their films had affected me so darn much, but seriously, a little levity…some joy…some laughter…ONE just ONE happy ending would have done. I was so down and out and desperate that I had to go and watch Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix on the same day.

You know what’s funny? After these three days, I was reminded of this one film/media seminar that I had attended, where everyone was talking about depicting real life on the big screen and its importance, when this one woman at the front of the auditorium stood up and said “I go to watch a film to escape from my real life. I love the fact that no matter what everything ends on a happy note and that there is some unrealism in the film. There is depression, difficulty and sadness around me, why would I want to pay money and watch the same thing. So, I really don’t think that that kind of cinema is something to be derided.”
At that time, along with so many other ‘intellectuals’, I thought that this woman has gone crazy. I know better now. So much better that I kind of agree with her.

So, what happened to all the comedies in the world of cinema? Does everyone really think that comedies aren’t as important as realistic-tragic cinema? I hope not…for as Lizzy in P&P had once said…“I dearly love to laugh.” And I truly don't think I can handle another movie with death, exploitation, rape, murder, genocide or homicide for quite some time to come.

Newspaper boo-boos and their possible repercussions

Working on the desk of a newspaper organization may not be as glamourous as being a reporter. Bringing out exclusives, meeting up with he rich and famous, dodging the talons of the mafia and the government to get out a scoop or receiving accolades for doing a fantabulous story are not the things that a sub-editor has the opportunity to do. Standing in the middle of the Kargil war giving an eye-witnessed account or exposing the corruption scams in the government is very much part of the glamourous-but-hard life an in-the-field reporter.

In fact, sitting in front of a computer, checking grammatical errors, doing dollar-to-rupee conversions, selecting pictures and finally making the final product that the readers would see and read…the product that would bring laurels to the reporter, while the sub slinks in the background, is hardly anything to be compared with the racy job a star journalist.

ALTHOUGH…being in the background may not look as interesting and fabulous, but that certainly does not take away the importance of the sub-editor’s job. In fact…(and a wicked grin now adorns my round face) people in the outside world have no clue as to how a mere sub can simply change the course of history. Albeit the act of doing something like that may be completely unintended.

In today’s electronic era, when the debate on ‘the survival of the newspaper’ is growing hotter by the moment and newspapers are increasingly being generated as e-papers, the archival value of the written word gets incremental. This makes the sub’s work all the more important. Take for instance, any mistake that may have gone into an article because of a sub’s callousness, or just by sheer confusion, a sub manages to commit an error of commission, THAT error stays in the paper not only as hard evidence for time immemorial, but also every time someone googles (and c’mon face it…the site has become a part of our lives; how many of us actually go to a library to research anymore! — the omission of the question mark is deliberate) anything related to a topic, there is a huge chance that the person searching for information may get the wrong information, just because of a sub’s lack of focus. Thereby, starting a whole chain process, wherein that false information has a chance of being repeated ‘N’ number of times unless one is very careful.

Now, face it…isn’t that scary or what???

But then, here’s the funny bit. If it does ever come out that the information printed was wrong, it isn’t the sub who will be blamed for it, it is, in fact, the “star” reporter—whose byline went with that story—who will be at the butt of all jokes and subject of ridicule. And while all this goes on, the subs sit meekly on their chair slinking in the background and shielded by a shroud of anonymity.

Imagine the craziness that can ensue from such a mistake committed by a person on the desk. How about a situation where the sub was part of a well-established and highly respected newspaper, and years later, someone digs out some data for a project from the Internet and blindly follows them, just because the person trusts that particular publication…a sub’s minor mistake of, say wrongly converting lakhs into millions, thus, changing the numbers significantly, acts as the basis of an entire report in the future, thereby possibly affecting some major decisions. (Now…I do realize that I may be over-reacting, but this is a possibility nevertheless.)

Imagine what power a single anonymous sub-editor has in those dainty li’l fingers.

Oh my!

The Pondicherry ADVENTURE STORY

I walked up the creaking metal stairs. Initially painted bright red, but which have faded over time to a dirty brown with spots of rusts spattered all over. I tried holding on to the railing for support, but the rickety tubes of steel did nothing to ease my nerves in preparation for what was to come next. Oddly enough, at that moment I felt a special connection with Rose Calvert (played by Kate Winslet) in Titanic as she climbed towards the ship’s Starboard, trying to save herself from drowning. A Rabbi behind her, morbidly murmuring, “…As we walk to the valley of the shadow of death…” Those were the very thoughts going through my head. Unfortunately, I didn’t have my Jack Dawson saving me; instead, I had seven heartless friends who’d make me walk the plank if it gave them enough amusement. And the knowledge that a ten year old child was in charge of the controls didn’t help much.

We were in Pondicherry for the weekend, and on our way back to the bus stop. Already late for catching a bus to Chennai, it was then that Srijoy had an ‘aha moment,’ “Let’s go back to the fair…I want to go on the Mary Columbus.” Now for the uninitiated, ‘Mary Columbus’ is a huge boat that swings 35 feet into the air, from left to right to left to right and on and on and on. Bad memories. Something always went wrong when I boarded any of the ferries wheels in the fairs.

The last time I boarded a Columbus was when I was 12 years old. Appu Ghar in New Delhi is a famous children’s amusement park and a must visit for any child living in or visiting Delhi. I was not to be left behind. The prospect of boarding a huge ship that swings in air can be a very daunting thought for anyone, but for a 12 year old, it seemed as if her life was in peril. The Columbus in Delhi is painted in beautiful vibrant colours of red and blue, with a base of black, and three layers of gold coloured waves painted on both sides. On one side is a gorgeous red dragon head breathing fire…not a heart warming sight…but magnificent nevertheless. While at the other end is its tail beautifully painted in red green and yellow fiery designs.

Sitting in this behemoth with at least forty other screaming children, securely pinned down to my seat with a handlebar, life wasn’t at its best, but it wasn’t at its worst either.

Wait…

I spoke too soon…

The ride was to be for five excruciating minutes right? Why wasn’t it over?

A throb of fear stuck in my throat, I looked down for some explanation. Something had gone wrong with the machinery, and the mechanics could not be found.

We were stuck in a perpetual purgatory upon a swinging boat!!!
.

.
.

I don’t know why these boats have to be called “Columbus.” No one in my group knew why. After all, Columbus didn’t fling himself 35 feet in thin air when he set out to look for India-- ramblings…but that was all that I could do sitting squished in between Shutapa and Leon. It was all I could do to stop reminding myself of my last ride in Appu Ghar.

I held on tight to the handlebars, which were uncomfortably a little far from the seats. Oh! How I wished these people had the Delhi handlebars, which would pin you to your seat. The four rows of seats in front of us were empty, and I could see straight into the eyes of a middle aged gentleman, wearing a yellow shirt who was with his son.

The ride started with a slow and ominous prolonged screeching sound.

Screeeeeeeeeech….Once….we went left…10 feet in the air

Screeeeeeeeeech….Twice…we went right…15 feet in the air

Screeeeeeeeeech….Thrice…we went left again…more than 15 feet in the air

And suddenly without a moment’s notice the boat lunged upwards at angle that was as close to 90⁰ as they could get. Gravity was taking over as I was slightly lifted from my seat. For a terrifying moment I thought I might fall, when the boat went the opposite way, but the relief was short lived, as I was once again thrown up in the air, in a precarious position of half hanging on a rickety handlebar. One…two…three…four…five…that was supposed to be it.

Stop…

Stop it…

Ohkay….this is enough…..

Just Stop…

Why isn’t it stopping?

Oh My God!!!

C’mon stop already…

Looking down towards the controls, I couldn’t see the boy who was supposed to stop the swinging boat and get me down. I panicked…my knees were knocking…my voice was hoarse with all the shouting…

“Look at the light,” said Leon, and I did. It was so beautiful. The huge lights...reminiscent of the fairy lights that are supposed to beckon you when you’re dying. The thought was NOT comforting. I looked down to the seemingly flimsy strip of rubber that was responsible for the machinations of this particular Columbus, only to see the boy who was supposed to be handling the controls, climbing on the engine and tinkering with the rubber strip. Life did not seem promising as I once again looked at the incandescent light alternating it with the eyes of the gentleman with the yellow shirt sitting in front of me, seeking solace in both.

Screeeeeeeeeech…the boat slowed down…

I looked down at the controls again…the darling little boy had returned to his position.

Screeeeeeeeeech…he pulled one of the levers and the boat slowed down a bit more…

Screeeeeeeeeech…he pulled another lever and we almost stopped…

Screeeeech….he pulled the final lever and we stopped.

My legs wobbly and hands shaking, I carefully got out of the menacing boat, holding on to Shutapa for support. Walking down the creaking tin faded-red stairs and onto terra firma…I vowed never to get on a Mary Columbus again.

Time had never passed so slow, making myself aware of each passing moment as it did from 8:30 pm to 8:40 pm on January 29, 2006.

Anna Land

Life in Chennai can be very amusing at times. There is just so much that you can learn when you’re in a strange place and you don’t know the language. Even if you’re trying to be a smart aleck and make a sorry attempt to speak the language and get yourself understood.
A conversation with the auto walas is the paradigm of any such doomed—from—start conversation. Now most of us are kinda proud of our almost real Tamil accent, the problem is…at times it just gets a bit too real. The end result, the guy starts a tirade in Tamil and we’re left struggling to find a one-foot plank in a rough sea. That is nothing compared to the humiliation you feel when the auto guy starts speaking in full-fledged Tamil, and you have to brace yourself and quickly tell him…“Anna, anna….Tamil Teriyada….Tamil Teriyada.” (I don’t know Tamil) And then the auto guy will give an exasperated expression as if we’ve stopped him just before the final countdown of a rocket launch, take a deep breath…his eyes gleaming with a wicked smugness, and curtly throw the exorbitant price at you.
But the war doesn’t end there, because for him, it’s just one of the many battles won. Next come the directions to the actual place you want to. You can count your lucky stars if you’ve gotten an auto who knows where exactly he needs to go, and is ready to take you there without saying more than twenty of the choicest words. Or maybe I should be saying…you should count your lucky stars if you get an auto that will take you to the place without creating unnecessary trouble, because for some inexplicable reason, the guys here seem to just be in love with the concept of haggling. They will take you near your final destination and just stop…asking you to pay more money to cross a meager road or go another twenty feet. At moments like these, you just can’t but see red, especially when you’re late for a class.
My most amazing experience (upto now) is recent. I had to go for a rock concert in IIT-Madras. The problem was, I didn’t know the way, nor did I know which bus to take. The only solution – take an auto. My friends had told me that an auto ride would cost about 50 bucks. Now the friend in question invariably manages to spend more on auto than what’s required, so if he tells me any rate, I automatically quote at least ten bucks less. Standing on the main road I manage to flag my first auto.
“Anna…IIT…..Indian Institute of Technology.”
He nods his head and says, “Fifty Rupees.”
“Ille anna….naapada…forty…anna…forty…it’s not that far…forty is fine…”
Resignedly he motions me to sit. I’m smiling ear to ear in my head while maintaining a poise and cool demeanor on the outside. It wouldn’t help if he knew that I had got myself a bargain.
Basking in the glory of getting myself a profitable deal, I sit pleased with myself and the world as the auto meanders its way through the winding lanes of Kodambakkam and T.Nagar to unknown territories. Suddenly he stops in front of a board with the letters “S.I.E.T” painted on it. Things were not working out for me.
To cut a long story short (and also because I’m tired of typing) I ended up visiting at least three different universities before getting to IIT. Serves me right to keep on complaining that I haven’t been around Chennai as much as I’d like to.
No matter what…the auto walas always win!!! Come to think about it…that’s not very amusing….maybe I should revise my first line.