What a movie!! After ages, i watched a film that hit all the right spots - erotic, cerebral and emotional. A case of brilliant casting and a script that sizzles with every lush and detailed scene. It's always the script that's the real star - in any memorable film. No script, no film. Not all the big budgets and special effects in the world can make up for a lousy, flimsy script. And here's a movie with a modest budget, but with immense ambition - and the talent to pull it off. Only a gutsy director can come up with such an inspired ensemble cast. Jimmy Shergill, one of Bollywood's most wasted talents, finally gets to strut his stuff as the 'Sahib'. That he does so with delicacy and refinement says a lot about 'what lies beneath'. Mahie Gill as the Biwi, is passable, but is no aristocrat ( fire her stylist, forthwith!). She looks and acts like a wanton village belle, and one can completely understand why the Sahib shuns her. It is really Randeep Hooda as the Gangster who fills up the screen with unadulterated testosterone. As the Biwi's rugged driver "without any class", his supremely assured performance goes from brutal to delusionary, cunning to needy, with the sort of finesse one rarely sees in commercial cinema these days. His 'Bholanath' ( am i getting it right?), is a far more complex creation than the original. But poor Mahie is no Meena Kumari... and is the movie's weakest link. It is Deepal Shaw who is the real surprise package in SBAG. She puts in a convincing performance that goes way beyond her popular image. Unfortunately, the music is weak. But every single person ( i wish i knew the name of the actor who plays Jimmy's trusted aide), including the minister, the mistress, and the stepmother, adds to the rivetting narrative. Tigmanshu Dhulia has once again proved his mettle. A must watch film after a spate of over rated rubbish.
Friday, 30 September 2011
Monday, 26 September 2011
Our OTT coverage of PH in Mumbai is still on. Why we are treating her like visiting royalty,remains a mystery . Agreed, she's fun and glam.Hamarey liye yehi bahut kaafi hai, it appears. The lady turned up for a party in her honour at 1 30 a.m. when the invite read 9 p.m. Did guests leave or crib? Naaah. She made up for it by dancing on sofas with our local glam gals and blowing kisses from the dj console. Swwweeeeet or what????
*************
This appeared in Bombay Times today....
Paris: the Candyfloss Party Girl….
Paris is a social phenomenon. Rather, she was one. Paris is sort of over and so past tense in the West … but that doesn’t matter to us, here in India. So long as the person is blond, cute, sexy and considered ‘hot’ by a handful of socialites and fashionistas, everybody will flock!Good for Team Paris. Paris is no bimbette. She is smart and on the ball. Paris is primarily a businesswoman who shrewdly cashes in on her brand equity, which is fast losing its value in her original markets. Which is why she goes to China these days to flog her products.Which is why she came to India. Which is why she’ll go to Africa. These are the only markets left for fading celebs, and frankly, it’s a clever move.We provide a huge dumping ground to them. Whether it is her or her managers, they shrewdly picked a suburban mall to off load her handbags. The price points are ridiculously low, even by desi standards. So, the marketing team is obviously hoping to woo buyers who are happy enough to settle for a foreign label, even if they’d never heard of Paris Hilton till last week!Ironically, the supposed A-listers who made it to the ‘Paris Party’ wouldn’t be caught dead with one of her bags! That’s what sharp marketing is all about! And Paris sure as hell knows a trick or two in that department. She is hugely photogenic and has made a career just out of being photographed jetting from one party to another (she gets paid serious money to party with strangers). She has given everything a shot – singing ( critics claimed it wasn’t her voice in the first place!). Acting (that’s a laugh, since her worldwide notoriety comes from a sex video called ‘A Night in Paris’). Hosting reality shows in which she, the richie rich girl about town is exposed to the lives of poor people, and surprise, surprise, she survives!!
The Hilton surname does not hold much of a cache these days. That leaves Paris with her catchy first name. She should be eternally grateful to her mother for that ( the second option was China). The girl knows her P.R. as was evident in Mumbai, where she went the whole hog doing her ‘Namastey Mumbai’ act, and talking about her love for sarees, bindis and all things Indian. Then there were the standard clichés about India being a ‘magical’ and ‘spiritual’ place. We lapped it all up and begged for more, as chefs gushed about the 60 dishes that been prepared for her (does she eat?), and designers fell over backwards to offer free clothes. All this, for a woman who has no known talent ( she isn’t Lady Gaga, for God’s sake), and appears dangerously plastic. So what? We need our distractions, especially those that come packaged in baby pink. Welcome to India, Paris-ji. And don’t forget to courier a handbag to India’s number one Bag Lady, Mayawati.
**********
Why is the audience referring to ‘Mausam’ as a case of slow poisoning? Is it really that awful?
*************
This appeared in Bombay Times today....
Paris: the Candyfloss Party Girl….
Paris is a social phenomenon. Rather, she was one. Paris is sort of over and so past tense in the West … but that doesn’t matter to us, here in India. So long as the person is blond, cute, sexy and considered ‘hot’ by a handful of socialites and fashionistas, everybody will flock!Good for Team Paris. Paris is no bimbette. She is smart and on the ball. Paris is primarily a businesswoman who shrewdly cashes in on her brand equity, which is fast losing its value in her original markets. Which is why she goes to China these days to flog her products.Which is why she came to India. Which is why she’ll go to Africa. These are the only markets left for fading celebs, and frankly, it’s a clever move.We provide a huge dumping ground to them. Whether it is her or her managers, they shrewdly picked a suburban mall to off load her handbags. The price points are ridiculously low, even by desi standards. So, the marketing team is obviously hoping to woo buyers who are happy enough to settle for a foreign label, even if they’d never heard of Paris Hilton till last week!Ironically, the supposed A-listers who made it to the ‘Paris Party’ wouldn’t be caught dead with one of her bags! That’s what sharp marketing is all about! And Paris sure as hell knows a trick or two in that department. She is hugely photogenic and has made a career just out of being photographed jetting from one party to another (she gets paid serious money to party with strangers). She has given everything a shot – singing ( critics claimed it wasn’t her voice in the first place!). Acting (that’s a laugh, since her worldwide notoriety comes from a sex video called ‘A Night in Paris’). Hosting reality shows in which she, the richie rich girl about town is exposed to the lives of poor people, and surprise, surprise, she survives!!
The Hilton surname does not hold much of a cache these days. That leaves Paris with her catchy first name. She should be eternally grateful to her mother for that ( the second option was China). The girl knows her P.R. as was evident in Mumbai, where she went the whole hog doing her ‘Namastey Mumbai’ act, and talking about her love for sarees, bindis and all things Indian. Then there were the standard clichés about India being a ‘magical’ and ‘spiritual’ place. We lapped it all up and begged for more, as chefs gushed about the 60 dishes that been prepared for her (does she eat?), and designers fell over backwards to offer free clothes. All this, for a woman who has no known talent ( she isn’t Lady Gaga, for God’s sake), and appears dangerously plastic. So what? We need our distractions, especially those that come packaged in baby pink. Welcome to India, Paris-ji. And don’t forget to courier a handbag to India’s number one Bag Lady, Mayawati.
**********
Why is the audience referring to ‘Mausam’ as a case of slow poisoning? Is it really that awful?
Saturday, 24 September 2011
Byline for September 25, 2011
Tiger, Tiger Burning Bright
M.J. Akbar
In the loneliness of the small town where I was born, and the shuttered years of boarding school, dream was a five-letter word called Tiger. Mansur Ali Khan’s magic transcended the supreme piffle that passed for cricket commentary when radio, with a glowing green eye in the right hand corner, was our primary passport to Test cricket. Secondary knowledge came from the grey photographs in black-and-white newspapers; but the red cherry seemed to blossom when it was smacked imperiously in an arc that began with the single eye of the master and traversed along the hooded nose that had been designed by God for aristocracy. The radio went into memory. The photograph was lovingly preserved in a scrapbook along with peers like Neil Harvey, Richie Benaud, Wes Hall, Garfield Sobers and Frank Worrell. I kept the unassuming Worrell in that illustrious company not because he could bat, but because he could lead.
Pataudi’s inherited title was a bit of a two-way sniff. We certainly sensed if not heard his occasional sniff at the plebs; but the fun was that he heard our periodic snort at yesterday’s elite as well. By the 1960s a Nawab had already become an effete caricature, a piteous descent from the glory days of the 18th century, first reduced to a whining fawn of the British and then to a vainglorious hanger-on of post-Independence politicians. Even Hindi cinema had begun to laugh at the “Chhote Nawab”, unless it tipped towards lachrymose self-pity as Nawab Sahab auctioned off his precious heirlooms in Mere Mehboob to protect some immensely idle honour.
Then came Indira Gandhi. In 1969 she made Nawabs and Rajahs illegal. Their fury was as silly as their impotence. They learnt how distant they had become from changing India when they tried to challenge Mrs Gandhi in the general elections of 1971. That election anointed a new order when it lifted Mrs Gandhi to power. The new Rani of India was Indira Gandhi, the Begum of Democracy.
Tiger was as upset as any of his brotherhood, but he disguised any personal trauma behind a finely chiselled sense of humour that combined the riot of practical jokes with the deadpan of a British mask. He was the perfect Indo-Anglian, as comfortable in stately sherwani as in a hunting jacket on Scottish moors. If he did not belong to any Drones club from the fiction of P.G. Wodehouse, it was only because he carried a bit of Drones along with him. The strategy for his impish pranks was often perfected across a convivial bar, and secrets were carefully protected till long after the victims had been duped — harmlessly of course. It was tragic that the last incident in his life was a snub from the MCC, which refused to hand out the traditional Pataudi trophy at the end of an India-England series this summer.
The Indian prince was bound to English cricket by a silken bond. At one level it kept him on friendship terms with the new ruling class, just as hunting had done in the Mughal days. It also became an appropriate theatre for the display of regal talent. It did not threaten the British, and it did not involve too subservient Indians. It would have been demeaning for a Nawab to become, for instance, a rampantly successful business executive: even a blue-chip private company was not blue enough for India’s blue-blooded. The Army was an honourable sanctuary but demanded too much discipline for too little reward. Politics was an option, but required rubbing shoulders with the serf.
Tiger had an equitable relationship with glamour. He was not a hypocrite, so he never disdained glamour. But he never fell in love with his mirror, either. Many reasons have been cited to explain the comparative paucity of runs: he scored just six centuries. The popular theory is the tragic loss of an eye in a car accident when still at Oxford. I tend to believe that he just could not be bothered. Cricket was a game, not a religion. He did not sacrifice joy at the altar of statistics.
Pataudi became an acknowledged Tiger because of his sleek style, his calm demeanour at the crease until the moment came for the instinctive pounce. He also wore the smile of the Tiger, a quiver that only once in a while bubbled across his face. This Tiger had class: Royal Bengal, an epithet that Calcutta happily adopted when he married a brilliant daughter of the great Tagore family, Sharmila.
I wonder how Tiger would have reacted to the cant that has surfaced after his death. A shrug, a nod, a half-weary smile. He hated clichés, so could we please abandon rubbish like “Cricket has become poorer” etc. Cricket has become infinitely richer in both cash and technique since Tiger last held a bat. But the world has certainly become poorer since his death.
Tiger, Tiger Burning Bright
M.J. Akbar
In the loneliness of the small town where I was born, and the shuttered years of boarding school, dream was a five-letter word called Tiger. Mansur Ali Khan’s magic transcended the supreme piffle that passed for cricket commentary when radio, with a glowing green eye in the right hand corner, was our primary passport to Test cricket. Secondary knowledge came from the grey photographs in black-and-white newspapers; but the red cherry seemed to blossom when it was smacked imperiously in an arc that began with the single eye of the master and traversed along the hooded nose that had been designed by God for aristocracy. The radio went into memory. The photograph was lovingly preserved in a scrapbook along with peers like Neil Harvey, Richie Benaud, Wes Hall, Garfield Sobers and Frank Worrell. I kept the unassuming Worrell in that illustrious company not because he could bat, but because he could lead.
Pataudi’s inherited title was a bit of a two-way sniff. We certainly sensed if not heard his occasional sniff at the plebs; but the fun was that he heard our periodic snort at yesterday’s elite as well. By the 1960s a Nawab had already become an effete caricature, a piteous descent from the glory days of the 18th century, first reduced to a whining fawn of the British and then to a vainglorious hanger-on of post-Independence politicians. Even Hindi cinema had begun to laugh at the “Chhote Nawab”, unless it tipped towards lachrymose self-pity as Nawab Sahab auctioned off his precious heirlooms in Mere Mehboob to protect some immensely idle honour.
Then came Indira Gandhi. In 1969 she made Nawabs and Rajahs illegal. Their fury was as silly as their impotence. They learnt how distant they had become from changing India when they tried to challenge Mrs Gandhi in the general elections of 1971. That election anointed a new order when it lifted Mrs Gandhi to power. The new Rani of India was Indira Gandhi, the Begum of Democracy.
Tiger was as upset as any of his brotherhood, but he disguised any personal trauma behind a finely chiselled sense of humour that combined the riot of practical jokes with the deadpan of a British mask. He was the perfect Indo-Anglian, as comfortable in stately sherwani as in a hunting jacket on Scottish moors. If he did not belong to any Drones club from the fiction of P.G. Wodehouse, it was only because he carried a bit of Drones along with him. The strategy for his impish pranks was often perfected across a convivial bar, and secrets were carefully protected till long after the victims had been duped — harmlessly of course. It was tragic that the last incident in his life was a snub from the MCC, which refused to hand out the traditional Pataudi trophy at the end of an India-England series this summer.
The Indian prince was bound to English cricket by a silken bond. At one level it kept him on friendship terms with the new ruling class, just as hunting had done in the Mughal days. It also became an appropriate theatre for the display of regal talent. It did not threaten the British, and it did not involve too subservient Indians. It would have been demeaning for a Nawab to become, for instance, a rampantly successful business executive: even a blue-chip private company was not blue enough for India’s blue-blooded. The Army was an honourable sanctuary but demanded too much discipline for too little reward. Politics was an option, but required rubbing shoulders with the serf.
Tiger had an equitable relationship with glamour. He was not a hypocrite, so he never disdained glamour. But he never fell in love with his mirror, either. Many reasons have been cited to explain the comparative paucity of runs: he scored just six centuries. The popular theory is the tragic loss of an eye in a car accident when still at Oxford. I tend to believe that he just could not be bothered. Cricket was a game, not a religion. He did not sacrifice joy at the altar of statistics.
Pataudi became an acknowledged Tiger because of his sleek style, his calm demeanour at the crease until the moment came for the instinctive pounce. He also wore the smile of the Tiger, a quiver that only once in a while bubbled across his face. This Tiger had class: Royal Bengal, an epithet that Calcutta happily adopted when he married a brilliant daughter of the great Tagore family, Sharmila.
I wonder how Tiger would have reacted to the cant that has surfaced after his death. A shrug, a nod, a half-weary smile. He hated clichés, so could we please abandon rubbish like “Cricket has become poorer” etc. Cricket has become infinitely richer in both cash and technique since Tiger last held a bat. But the world has certainly become poorer since his death.
Friday, 23 September 2011
What an elegant, informed and readable tribute. By far the best! Disappointed by the tepid response to the legend's passing away, especially from our current cricketing greats, the contemporary players, who make money by the buckets, but lack the grace to show better respect to one of India's best captains. All I have read so far are politically correct, polite noises , devoid of any reverence or humility. And most newspapers have given more coverage to that brat from across the border, Shoaib Akhtar's naughty autobiography....
*********
By Shekhar Gupta
It is because nostalgia is an attribute so essential to the love of cricket that so much cricket writing is in the first person, and tends to begin with those three dreaded words: “When I was...” Mansur Ali Khan “Tiger” Pataudi’s passing away gives me my excuse to start a cricketing story with, “When I was seven...”
So I saw my first Test match when I was seven. It was the winter of 1964 and Pataudi’s India were taking on Mike Smith’s ossible (6am for a 10am start) to find just enough of a perch to park your butt. You hung on to your jhola with lunch (paranthas or pooris with aloo and aam ka achar) and waited for the game to begin. Cheapest seats — which we could afford — were facing point or square leg, depending on which end the bowling was on. Any cricket fan would tell you that is the worst position if you really want to know what is going on: the place to be is behind the bowler’s arm! There were no giant screens for replays, the manual scoreboard was too small and distant to tell you much. So, you mostly cheered when the players of your team cheered, or tried to catch some radio commentary.
This match, however, was not expected to provide much cheer, as a dull draw was predicted (the five-Test series was an all-drawn yawn). But in India’s first innings (of 344) Hanumant Singh scored a hundred on debut, and in the second, Pataudi batted quite majestically to get his only double century (203 not out) in partnership with a very dour Chandu Borde who meanwhile plodded on to 67. For somebody at seven, and a tiny gaggle of cousins of about the same vintage, this was something to cheer about. But it was a long, long time ago, when I was seven, and I have very few, if fading, memories of my Test debut: as a spectator, of course.
But I have a couple of memories imprinted on my mind. Of one slim and fit (unusual for India then) Indian batsman pulling the fast bowlers, and sweeping the spinners (those shots were also uncharacteristic of Indian batsmen then, they were more English). There is one more memory: of one Indian fielder, only one Indian fielder, throwing himself at the ball, chasing it all the way to the boundary as if his life depended on it, and throwing to hit the stumps. Ironical that at
a time when Indian cricketers treated themselves as princes, shirt-collars turned up, and waiting for the ball to be thrown back by attendants or spectators, here was one man breaking that rule. And he was the only real prince
on the playground. It was not for nothing that a most famous English commentator (John Arlott? John McGilvray?) said that when Pataudi fielded there, there was curfew in the covers.
Memories that get imprinted deepest on your mind are the most unusual ones. That is why, Pataudi, the athletic cover fielder, is one that stays on mine. But he brought much more that was unfamiliar to Indian cricket than his willing athleticism. He brought a sense of aggression, and an intent to win.
Of course, the first Golden Era of Indian cricket followed his departure, and more or less retirement from national cricket. Vijay Merchant, then chairman of selectors, carried out what was then called a clean-up, made Ajit Wadekar captain, and selected Sunil Gavaskar — a prodigy at 21 — for the 1971 West Indies tour. That history is more familiar to us. We won our first series in the West Indies, and in England later that year. And as it always happens, the fall came just when we thought we had built a world-beating team. We hit a nadir with that 42-all-out at Lords, in a series even more disastrous than this year’s 0-4.
Clive Lloyd’s rampaging West Indies arrived on the heels of that English debacle. A 0-5 disaster was predicted. That is when the Board decided to recall Tiger from retirement. He had not played a match in over a year, but agreed to take the mantle. From day one, he told the team they were out to win, even answer fire with fire. Madan Lal and Karsan Ghavri were brought in to offer a two-man Indian pace attack probably for the first time since Amar Singh and Nissar in the thirties, and encouraged to bounce at the West Indies line-up that read: Greenidge, Kallicharan, Richards, Lloyd, Murray, if your bowlers got that far!
We lost that series, but it was the most stirring fightback in our history, until Bhajji, Laxman and Dravid brought about that 2001 miracle against Australia. From two down, India came level, only to lose the last Test, that Lloyd and Fredericks settled (242 and 104, respectively, in the first innings). But even there, getting to 406 in the innings, chasing 604, to avoid the follow-on was no disgrace. Pataudi’s own contribution was very little. Pataudi was just the full-time captain, leader of men, Tiger himself. And he packed a roar even in his cricketing autumn.
Better informed people will write a lot more about Tiger’s cricket. But since my journalistic periscope is mostly political, let me talk politics. Mansur Ali Khan Pataudi was our rare, in fact almost solitary, Muslim star in not just cricket but popular culture in an era when our secular temper was still evolving. Through the sixties, Muslims were not even usually picked in the national hockey team because they were not trusted against Pakistan. Ask Inamur Rahman, a most brilliant forward of his time to not play very much for India. Aslam Sher Khan arrived in Indian hockey in 1972 and Azharuddin in cricket in 1983. But Tiger, at 21, was drafted to captain a battered India in the West Indies to replace Nari Contractor, nearly killed by a Griffith bouncer. It was 1961, and exactly the year when one Asif Iqbal left Hyderabad (Tiger’s Ranji team) for Pakistan which he captained later on. Tiger Pataudi, though he may never have looked at it like that, became that symbolic link in the evolution of Indian secular thought. Remember, this was a period when our biggest Muslim film stars had felt constrained to take Hindu names. Dilip Kumar and Madhubala, for example.
I return now to the first person and the “when I was...” narration. But this was not several decades, but only a few weeks ago. I was chatting with Saif Ali Khan on a Bombay-Delhi flight and told him who I thought was the most talented member of his brilliant family. His mom, Sharmila, of course.
Within weeks now, I have to have a rethink as you read all the stuff on Tiger, and go back to your own memories. The man taught India aggression, winning, how not to fear pace, and achieved all of it with just one good eye. Now just how much talent would that have required? I may, therefore, be allowed to change my opinion on who is (or sadly, was) the most talented member of this family. I am sure neither Sharmila, nor her brilliant children, would complain or disagree.
http://epaper.indianexpress.com
http://epaper.financialexpress.com
--
Shobhaa De
shobhaade.blogspot.com
*********
By Shekhar Gupta
It is because nostalgia is an attribute so essential to the love of cricket that so much cricket writing is in the first person, and tends to begin with those three dreaded words: “When I was...” Mansur Ali Khan “Tiger” Pataudi’s passing away gives me my excuse to start a cricketing story with, “When I was seven...”
So I saw my first Test match when I was seven. It was the winter of 1964 and Pataudi’s India were taking on Mike Smith’s ossible (6am for a 10am start) to find just enough of a perch to park your butt. You hung on to your jhola with lunch (paranthas or pooris with aloo and aam ka achar) and waited for the game to begin. Cheapest seats — which we could afford — were facing point or square leg, depending on which end the bowling was on. Any cricket fan would tell you that is the worst position if you really want to know what is going on: the place to be is behind the bowler’s arm! There were no giant screens for replays, the manual scoreboard was too small and distant to tell you much. So, you mostly cheered when the players of your team cheered, or tried to catch some radio commentary.
This match, however, was not expected to provide much cheer, as a dull draw was predicted (the five-Test series was an all-drawn yawn). But in India’s first innings (of 344) Hanumant Singh scored a hundred on debut, and in the second, Pataudi batted quite majestically to get his only double century (203 not out) in partnership with a very dour Chandu Borde who meanwhile plodded on to 67. For somebody at seven, and a tiny gaggle of cousins of about the same vintage, this was something to cheer about. But it was a long, long time ago, when I was seven, and I have very few, if fading, memories of my Test debut: as a spectator, of course.
But I have a couple of memories imprinted on my mind. Of one slim and fit (unusual for India then) Indian batsman pulling the fast bowlers, and sweeping the spinners (those shots were also uncharacteristic of Indian batsmen then, they were more English). There is one more memory: of one Indian fielder, only one Indian fielder, throwing himself at the ball, chasing it all the way to the boundary as if his life depended on it, and throwing to hit the stumps. Ironical that at
a time when Indian cricketers treated themselves as princes, shirt-collars turned up, and waiting for the ball to be thrown back by attendants or spectators, here was one man breaking that rule. And he was the only real prince
on the playground. It was not for nothing that a most famous English commentator (John Arlott? John McGilvray?) said that when Pataudi fielded there, there was curfew in the covers.
Memories that get imprinted deepest on your mind are the most unusual ones. That is why, Pataudi, the athletic cover fielder, is one that stays on mine. But he brought much more that was unfamiliar to Indian cricket than his willing athleticism. He brought a sense of aggression, and an intent to win.
Of course, the first Golden Era of Indian cricket followed his departure, and more or less retirement from national cricket. Vijay Merchant, then chairman of selectors, carried out what was then called a clean-up, made Ajit Wadekar captain, and selected Sunil Gavaskar — a prodigy at 21 — for the 1971 West Indies tour. That history is more familiar to us. We won our first series in the West Indies, and in England later that year. And as it always happens, the fall came just when we thought we had built a world-beating team. We hit a nadir with that 42-all-out at Lords, in a series even more disastrous than this year’s 0-4.
Clive Lloyd’s rampaging West Indies arrived on the heels of that English debacle. A 0-5 disaster was predicted. That is when the Board decided to recall Tiger from retirement. He had not played a match in over a year, but agreed to take the mantle. From day one, he told the team they were out to win, even answer fire with fire. Madan Lal and Karsan Ghavri were brought in to offer a two-man Indian pace attack probably for the first time since Amar Singh and Nissar in the thirties, and encouraged to bounce at the West Indies line-up that read: Greenidge, Kallicharan, Richards, Lloyd, Murray, if your bowlers got that far!
We lost that series, but it was the most stirring fightback in our history, until Bhajji, Laxman and Dravid brought about that 2001 miracle against Australia. From two down, India came level, only to lose the last Test, that Lloyd and Fredericks settled (242 and 104, respectively, in the first innings). But even there, getting to 406 in the innings, chasing 604, to avoid the follow-on was no disgrace. Pataudi’s own contribution was very little. Pataudi was just the full-time captain, leader of men, Tiger himself. And he packed a roar even in his cricketing autumn.
Better informed people will write a lot more about Tiger’s cricket. But since my journalistic periscope is mostly political, let me talk politics. Mansur Ali Khan Pataudi was our rare, in fact almost solitary, Muslim star in not just cricket but popular culture in an era when our secular temper was still evolving. Through the sixties, Muslims were not even usually picked in the national hockey team because they were not trusted against Pakistan. Ask Inamur Rahman, a most brilliant forward of his time to not play very much for India. Aslam Sher Khan arrived in Indian hockey in 1972 and Azharuddin in cricket in 1983. But Tiger, at 21, was drafted to captain a battered India in the West Indies to replace Nari Contractor, nearly killed by a Griffith bouncer. It was 1961, and exactly the year when one Asif Iqbal left Hyderabad (Tiger’s Ranji team) for Pakistan which he captained later on. Tiger Pataudi, though he may never have looked at it like that, became that symbolic link in the evolution of Indian secular thought. Remember, this was a period when our biggest Muslim film stars had felt constrained to take Hindu names. Dilip Kumar and Madhubala, for example.
I return now to the first person and the “when I was...” narration. But this was not several decades, but only a few weeks ago. I was chatting with Saif Ali Khan on a Bombay-Delhi flight and told him who I thought was the most talented member of his brilliant family. His mom, Sharmila, of course.
Within weeks now, I have to have a rethink as you read all the stuff on Tiger, and go back to your own memories. The man taught India aggression, winning, how not to fear pace, and achieved all of it with just one good eye. Now just how much talent would that have required? I may, therefore, be allowed to change my opinion on who is (or sadly, was) the most talented member of this family. I am sure neither Sharmila, nor her brilliant children, would complain or disagree.
http://epaper.indianexpress.com
http://epaper.financialexpress.com
--
Shobhaa De
shobhaade.blogspot.com
Mumbai high society is gearing up for a seriously pink saturday night. Paris Hilton will be in the city to flog her handbags. And party. I am in two minds... what do you guys think? Go or not go?? I am tempted. I have always been intrigued by this strange creature who has made a good living out of.... ummm... good living! Her cv reads : professional party girl. And that's what she does for a living! Parties! Parties HARD! And gets paid big bucks for it. It's a tough life, folks. But someone's got to live it, right??
*************
This appeared in The Week.
One of the most unforgettable Bollywood dialogues remains , “Mere Paas Ma Hai,” and with good reason. Mothers have played a huge role in Indian society, and no matter how hard our desi men pretend or protest, at heart they are quintessential Mama’s Boys. No issues. If they think Mama knows best, so be it. But when the ‘boy’ happens to be a 41- year-old bachelor, positioned as the next prime minister of India, one begins to worry. One of the many text messages doing the rounds right after Rahul Gandhi’s ‘game changer’ address at zero hour, read, “Mummy ko aane do… phir sab ko dekh loonga.” Roughly translated, it says, “Just let my mother return… and I’ll fix everybody.” It was a reflection of popular sentiment. Now that Sonia Gandhi is back, all eyes are on her – will the ‘wave of anger’ turn? Will she assert herself and provide a reliable road map to a party that appears lost and confused?Most importantly, will she be able to get her son back on track, given that he is the chosen one? It may turn out to be Sonia’s toughest challenge to date. Not just as the mother of a young man who is about to don the prime minister’s mantle, but also the mother figure to a party of old men. Imagine the irony of it all. Most of those seeking her guidance are far older than she is. They too have been behaving like mixed up adolescents pining for a mataji to come home and take charge. This is not just comical but also very telling. Jayalalitha has been addressed as ‘Amma’ for the longest time, ever since she hit her forties. That too, by grown up guys in their fifties and sixties! For some hard to decode reason, Mayawati is addressed as Behenji and Mamata Banerjee as ‘Didi’. And ‘sister’ they shall stay.While Sonia is ‘Madam’ to one and all, her role is that of a stern, autocratic matriarch who rules over a large and chaotic family. Greying men seek her counsel unabashedly. While Rahul’s contemporaries are happy to play little boys in her presence. It was astonishing to note how the party elders regressed during her long absence and refused to take a strong position, perhaps afraid of the consequences. It was left to Rahul to finally accept the challenge and address the nation. It was seen as a tactical error by political experts, and he was mauled by critics.But someone had to do the dirty job and who better than the heir?
Being Sonia Gandhi was never easy. Not even when she was just the glamourous Italian bahu of the famous Gandhi family. Today, her role is still more complex and vulnerable.It’s a ‘damned if she does and damned if she doesn’t’ situation. If party bosses had carried on jauntily during her illness, people would have gloated, “See… that’s how dispensable she is.” But by reminding the country that all major decisions were on hold, awaiting Madam’s clearance, the party once again demonstrated its crippling dependence on one woman – Sonia.
A major crisis looms. If Rahul’s leadership is not unconditionally (and immediately) accepted, if Sonia is not in a physical condition to take full control of day-to-day issues, there will be an obvious and alarming vacuum. Who’s going to fill it? How soon?If an alternative is not identified and announced within the next few weeks, it will lead to demoralization and disappointment. Team Anna had gone to town with the Bharatmata imagery. It was a shrewd, calculated move to leverage India’s mother fixation. When citizens were repeatedly told they were protesting in order to uphold the honour of the motherland, it struck a strong emotional chord. Whether it’s our villagers or the educated middle class, one thing is instantly understood – protecting a mother’s dignity. Anybody challenging that, is seen as an enemy. Within the party, that’s also how Sonia is perceived. To attack her is to attack your own mother. It’s a delicate situation that the Congress bosses will have to skillfully negotiate as plans for the 2014 Elections get crystallized. If Sonia chooses to play a less assertive role due to health reasons, what happens to Rahul? Not to worry, folks. There is a solution in sight. The name is Priyanka. She can play mentor to not just her brother, but the party , too. Rahul’s trump card is here! And the new dialogue can then read : ‘Mere Paas Behen Hai.”
*************
This appeared in The Week.
One of the most unforgettable Bollywood dialogues remains , “Mere Paas Ma Hai,” and with good reason. Mothers have played a huge role in Indian society, and no matter how hard our desi men pretend or protest, at heart they are quintessential Mama’s Boys. No issues. If they think Mama knows best, so be it. But when the ‘boy’ happens to be a 41- year-old bachelor, positioned as the next prime minister of India, one begins to worry. One of the many text messages doing the rounds right after Rahul Gandhi’s ‘game changer’ address at zero hour, read, “Mummy ko aane do… phir sab ko dekh loonga.” Roughly translated, it says, “Just let my mother return… and I’ll fix everybody.” It was a reflection of popular sentiment. Now that Sonia Gandhi is back, all eyes are on her – will the ‘wave of anger’ turn? Will she assert herself and provide a reliable road map to a party that appears lost and confused?Most importantly, will she be able to get her son back on track, given that he is the chosen one? It may turn out to be Sonia’s toughest challenge to date. Not just as the mother of a young man who is about to don the prime minister’s mantle, but also the mother figure to a party of old men. Imagine the irony of it all. Most of those seeking her guidance are far older than she is. They too have been behaving like mixed up adolescents pining for a mataji to come home and take charge. This is not just comical but also very telling. Jayalalitha has been addressed as ‘Amma’ for the longest time, ever since she hit her forties. That too, by grown up guys in their fifties and sixties! For some hard to decode reason, Mayawati is addressed as Behenji and Mamata Banerjee as ‘Didi’. And ‘sister’ they shall stay.While Sonia is ‘Madam’ to one and all, her role is that of a stern, autocratic matriarch who rules over a large and chaotic family. Greying men seek her counsel unabashedly. While Rahul’s contemporaries are happy to play little boys in her presence. It was astonishing to note how the party elders regressed during her long absence and refused to take a strong position, perhaps afraid of the consequences. It was left to Rahul to finally accept the challenge and address the nation. It was seen as a tactical error by political experts, and he was mauled by critics.But someone had to do the dirty job and who better than the heir?
Being Sonia Gandhi was never easy. Not even when she was just the glamourous Italian bahu of the famous Gandhi family. Today, her role is still more complex and vulnerable.It’s a ‘damned if she does and damned if she doesn’t’ situation. If party bosses had carried on jauntily during her illness, people would have gloated, “See… that’s how dispensable she is.” But by reminding the country that all major decisions were on hold, awaiting Madam’s clearance, the party once again demonstrated its crippling dependence on one woman – Sonia.
A major crisis looms. If Rahul’s leadership is not unconditionally (and immediately) accepted, if Sonia is not in a physical condition to take full control of day-to-day issues, there will be an obvious and alarming vacuum. Who’s going to fill it? How soon?If an alternative is not identified and announced within the next few weeks, it will lead to demoralization and disappointment. Team Anna had gone to town with the Bharatmata imagery. It was a shrewd, calculated move to leverage India’s mother fixation. When citizens were repeatedly told they were protesting in order to uphold the honour of the motherland, it struck a strong emotional chord. Whether it’s our villagers or the educated middle class, one thing is instantly understood – protecting a mother’s dignity. Anybody challenging that, is seen as an enemy. Within the party, that’s also how Sonia is perceived. To attack her is to attack your own mother. It’s a delicate situation that the Congress bosses will have to skillfully negotiate as plans for the 2014 Elections get crystallized. If Sonia chooses to play a less assertive role due to health reasons, what happens to Rahul? Not to worry, folks. There is a solution in sight. The name is Priyanka. She can play mentor to not just her brother, but the party , too. Rahul’s trump card is here! And the new dialogue can then read : ‘Mere Paas Behen Hai.”
Monday, 19 September 2011
This is a self portrait shot by Gautam when he was just nineteen.He taught himself photography by shooting himself in the mirror of his armoire, which was - and remains - next to a window through which natural light streams in. Some of my best pictures have also been shot in this exact spot by him.
I swear Gautam would have found beauty within Narendra Modi, India's prime ministerial aspirant, too ! He was that generous!!
*************
I have written this tribute for Forbes...
A few weeks ago, I was being photographed by one of today’s hot shot lensmen. The new breed. The guys in designer gear who arrive with an entourage of more than eight assistants and demand star treatment from magazine editors who hire them. At the end of the impersonal, brisk shoot with hardly a single meaningful exchange of words between the moody, scruffy photographer and moi, I turned to the stylist on the shoot and said, “That’s it? Are we done?” I didn’t want to linger for a single extra moment or even ask to see the images on the computer. I could as well have been shot by a robot. I don’t remember the man’s name. I wonder if mine registered with him. It was a job. We’d got it done. Finished. No time for small talk. No time for gup-shup. No time for something as basic as politeness. Time most certainly is money for this lot. Pack up was announced. The assistants fluttered around, putting away reflectors and lights that weren’t used (but paid for).
And I thought of Gautam.
Invariably dressed in a simple, comfortable white kurta-pyjama. Never rushed. Always chatty and cheerful. Unfailingly courteous to one and all — be it a gawky , desperately young first time model, or a Forbes’ List billionaire. No wonder he retained his position as an ace portraitist. No wonder people lined up to get themselves photographed by him. No wonder Gautam was a legend.
In a way, I bullied my cousin into getting ‘professional’ about his hobby. “Start charging for your pictures,” I suggested. That was over twenty-five years ago. He looked aghast. He was genuinely horrified. This was when he was working at Lintas, after a short stint as a lecturer of chemistry, and shooting for fun.
At the time, there were three or four outstanding, world class commercial photographers working in Mumbai. There was the cerebral snob, Jehangir Gazdar, who flew his own plane. Mitter Bedi, who specialised in industrial photography, Ashwin Gatha who went overseas and did very well as a fashion photographer, ‘Balsi’ (Balsara) who died young, and ‘Obi’ (Oberoi), who disappeared into the Lonavala hills and took to horticulture.
Gautam soon joined the Big Boys, but instead of picking the far more lucrative route via advertising campaigns, he decided to concentrate on magazine work, especially shoots involving movie stars. There was a time when a cover shot for top film glossies could not be assigned to anybody but Gautam. Stars were prepared to wait, take flights, change their schedules, change their entire personality if needed, to be photographed by Gautam. This was especially true of newbies in Bollywood, who believed a portfolio shot by Gautam was as good as a passport to instant fame. Many times, it was! Gautam’s reputation as a star maker was firmly established by then.
His early shoots with Smita Patil, Shabana Azmi, Sridevi, Rekha, Kaajol, Aishwarya Rai and most famously, Madhuri Dixit, did not just accelerate Gautam’s career but created a big buzz around his lovely leading ladies as well. He was crowned the Pharaoh of Faces!
A few years down the line, Gautam graduated from shooting movie stars and models, to photographing personalities. From J.R.D. Tata to Lata Mangeshkar, he managed to cover an impressive gamut of celebrities, including a few famously reticent individuals. How Gautam managed to relax these mighty individuals is another story. And this is where his genius comes in. Gautam was a remarkably intuitive person, who knew exactly which buttons to press, especially when he sensed his subject’s shyness or self-consciousness.
Gautam’s greatest gift as a photographer was that he saw beauty in everybody he photographed. And so genuine was this attribute, he made each and every one of his countless subjects feel beautiful… look beautiful. Momentarily, people forgot their flaws, big and small, and lulled themselves into believing they were indeed special… alluring… attractive. Or at any rate, worth a second look. What may have started out as a mere technique to relax those in front of his lens, soon became an intrinsic part of Gautam’s character.
From the hundreds of mails I have received since he passed away, most have been from regular people narrating a sweet, touching incident with Gautam playing a stellar role. Almost without an exception, these spontaneous mails talk about how he made people feel, not just look.
Everybody left his studio with a big smile, convinced they were indeed stars, if not in the movies, than in their own eyes. How absolutely wonderful!
*************
Sunday, 18 September 2011
I was delighted when Nana Chudasama, the Chairman of Giants' International, a 39 -year-old social service organisation, promptly accepted my suggestion to honour Gautam Rajadhyaksha, posthumously, by giving him this prestigious award, four days after his sudden demise. Thank you, Nana. It was a grand function, as always, with a host of deserving receipients, like veteran TV anchor Vikram Chandra, media moghul Ronnie Screwvala, actor Farhan Akhtar, prominent doctors, educationists and of course, my old friend Y.K. Sapru of the Cancer Patients Aid Association. Gautam would have been delighted with the award... it would have meant a lot to him... such a pity, it came this late.
****************************
"The perils of living in a fish bowl " reads the headline for my column in the Sunday Times .... and this is the one I gave. Which one do you prefer??? :
"When celeb ‘shaadis’ go phut…."
Show me a person who doesn’t salivate over ‘salacious gossip’, and I’ll show you a bore! Come on… it’s human nature to want to know the dirty details about your neighbour, his wife, his kids, even his pet dog. That wonderful desi phrase: whyfor you are wanting to poke your big ,fat nose into other people’s lafdas? No other kaam-dhanda or what?’demands a candid response, “Frankly, no yaar! I am pretty faltu these days… tell me more.”As of now, the presswallas are pretty divided and the jury is out on how much coverage to give dishy C.M. Omar Abdullah’s official announcement ( he has split from Payal,his wife of 17 years). The rather silly argument is : “But it’s a personal matter… is it of national importance?” Ummm. Is Salman’s surgery of national importance? Does it impact India’s economy if Sheetal Mafatlal waltzes off with jools and canvases worth crores from her marital home, that may or may not belong to her? Does the future of Kingfisher Airlines change if Siddhartha Mallya marries Deepika Padukone? Will India go into deep shock and depression if the number one ‘It Girl’ of today, Vidya Balan goes public with a ‘dirty’ secret? It’s time to grow up and smell the spicy rassam. There is hardly anybody one earth who isn’t curious about what’s going on in the lives of public figures. Good looking, high profile public figures, at that. Omar Abdullah is almost a movie star. He has been the poster boy for the Congress Party ever since he jumped into the political arena. His father, Faroouq Abdullah, remains a rakishly attractive senior citizen, with a colourful reputation he has never bothered to hide. Omar’s tabloid credentials, in that sense, come from an impeccable lineage. And I am glad he has taken the best route available to celebrities caught in such sticky circumstances. Omar took the wind out of media sails by being upfront about the status of his failing marriage. This is how it is handled by mature, modern, clever people. Why wait for the muck to start flying? Why not pre-empt the inevitable coverage by making the announcement yourself and in the most dignified way possible? Why run away from what is already in the public domain?
Omar Abdullah has shown the way. Link-ups,break-ups,patch-ups, happen. Nobody is interested in these kahanis if the main protagonists are non-entities. But as soon as a person chooses the harsh glare of the spotlight, it’s time to kiss privacy goodbye. A celebrity can’t have it all – incandescent fame and a reclusive life. Unfortunately, the two (fame and zero privacy) are inter-linked. The Omar-Payal story read like a fairytale about today’s progressive India, given the assorted faiths and nationalities involved in the alliance. If the marriage and the arrival of two beautiful children , received extensive coverage in the press at the time without anybody squawking, ‘ But is it of national interest?’, why not just shut up and treat the impending divorce in the same spirit? Tabloid journalism across the world spares nobody. Look at how the media handled Arnie S and Tiger Woods when their marriages fell apart , publicly and rather horribly, with charges and counter charges ? Those men had no choice but to take it on the chin and move on with their lives and careers. So it shall be for Omar. It is entirely up to him and his estranged wife Payal how they handle the after math of the recent announcement. If they choose to wash dirty linen in public, you can bet there will be any number of takers.Scratch the surface and we are all voyeurs, living vicariously, feeding off stories about famous people’s fortunes and misfortunes. Forget the moral huffing and puffing. As we say in the media - brutally and crudely – a story is a story. Deal with it.
****************************
"The perils of living in a fish bowl " reads the headline for my column in the Sunday Times .... and this is the one I gave. Which one do you prefer??? :
"When celeb ‘shaadis’ go phut…."
Show me a person who doesn’t salivate over ‘salacious gossip’, and I’ll show you a bore! Come on… it’s human nature to want to know the dirty details about your neighbour, his wife, his kids, even his pet dog. That wonderful desi phrase: whyfor you are wanting to poke your big ,fat nose into other people’s lafdas? No other kaam-dhanda or what?’demands a candid response, “Frankly, no yaar! I am pretty faltu these days… tell me more.”As of now, the presswallas are pretty divided and the jury is out on how much coverage to give dishy C.M. Omar Abdullah’s official announcement ( he has split from Payal,his wife of 17 years). The rather silly argument is : “But it’s a personal matter… is it of national importance?” Ummm. Is Salman’s surgery of national importance? Does it impact India’s economy if Sheetal Mafatlal waltzes off with jools and canvases worth crores from her marital home, that may or may not belong to her? Does the future of Kingfisher Airlines change if Siddhartha Mallya marries Deepika Padukone? Will India go into deep shock and depression if the number one ‘It Girl’ of today, Vidya Balan goes public with a ‘dirty’ secret? It’s time to grow up and smell the spicy rassam. There is hardly anybody one earth who isn’t curious about what’s going on in the lives of public figures. Good looking, high profile public figures, at that. Omar Abdullah is almost a movie star. He has been the poster boy for the Congress Party ever since he jumped into the political arena. His father, Faroouq Abdullah, remains a rakishly attractive senior citizen, with a colourful reputation he has never bothered to hide. Omar’s tabloid credentials, in that sense, come from an impeccable lineage. And I am glad he has taken the best route available to celebrities caught in such sticky circumstances. Omar took the wind out of media sails by being upfront about the status of his failing marriage. This is how it is handled by mature, modern, clever people. Why wait for the muck to start flying? Why not pre-empt the inevitable coverage by making the announcement yourself and in the most dignified way possible? Why run away from what is already in the public domain?
Omar Abdullah has shown the way. Link-ups,break-ups,patch-ups, happen. Nobody is interested in these kahanis if the main protagonists are non-entities. But as soon as a person chooses the harsh glare of the spotlight, it’s time to kiss privacy goodbye. A celebrity can’t have it all – incandescent fame and a reclusive life. Unfortunately, the two (fame and zero privacy) are inter-linked. The Omar-Payal story read like a fairytale about today’s progressive India, given the assorted faiths and nationalities involved in the alliance. If the marriage and the arrival of two beautiful children , received extensive coverage in the press at the time without anybody squawking, ‘ But is it of national interest?’, why not just shut up and treat the impending divorce in the same spirit? Tabloid journalism across the world spares nobody. Look at how the media handled Arnie S and Tiger Woods when their marriages fell apart , publicly and rather horribly, with charges and counter charges ? Those men had no choice but to take it on the chin and move on with their lives and careers. So it shall be for Omar. It is entirely up to him and his estranged wife Payal how they handle the after math of the recent announcement. If they choose to wash dirty linen in public, you can bet there will be any number of takers.Scratch the surface and we are all voyeurs, living vicariously, feeding off stories about famous people’s fortunes and misfortunes. Forget the moral huffing and puffing. As we say in the media - brutally and crudely – a story is a story. Deal with it.
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