Sunny days are here again!

A bend in the river - remember that marvelous book? Well.... this spot in Rishikesh reminded me of the book, and I thought to myself, I would have undertaken that river rafting experience along with Arundhati, had I been thirty years younger! Today, Arundhati and Anandita are  in Hong Kong, discovering one of my all time favourite destinations .... but on their own! They are big girls now.... I keep forgetting!
And Rana is back in Singapore.... after a jaunt in China. He called to congratulate me from Shanghai. And I asked him 'for what?"' He said it was because my web presence was entirely blocked in China, and I should take that as a huge compliment! He couldn't access my mail, blog, twitter account or FB page. Okay, Rana. I am flattered.... but what a bloody bore!

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Clearly, I had forgotten to post this earlier... it had appeared in The Week...

                                       Sunny days are here again…

India with all its crazy contradictions, still manages to surprise. Our broad acceptance across the board of Sunny Leone, an adult content films performer ( porn star, to put it bluntly and crudely), continues to baffle. Not only has Sunny gone mainstream with a starring role in a Bollywood movie, she was invited to ‘grace the Navratri celebrations’ in ultra-conservative Narendra Modi territory – Gujarat. Durga! Durga! On one level, this new openness is a great big leap forward for a nation that has earlier remained obstinately stuck in a pseudo-moralistic morass.But the  Navratri  invite  to Gujarat has definitely sent out mixed signals. Navratri is considered a particularly auspicious period for Hindus, preceding Dusshera and Diwali. Gujarat virtually explodes with elaborately staged Dandiya Raas nights during the nine day Festival . Navratri’s unwanted pregnancies used to be Gujarat’s worst kept secret. In such a confused cultural hot pot, it was inevitable that a canny organizer came up with the Sunny Leone masterstroke. There is big money riding on these  colourful nine nights. Youngsters spend extravagantly to deck up for the festivities, often saving up chunks of their income to buy nine sets of  fancy costumes. Quick to cash in on the occasion, organizers invest in hiring Bollywood and Television stars to perform on the vast grounds that  attract thousands of dancers night after night. Even by these OTT standards, hiring a porn star was an inspired move indeed!

Sunny herself, is attempting a serious makeover after brazening it out in the Bigg Boss house. Sunny wants to go respectable ( but why, honey?). This transformation is worthy of an independent reality show, if only an enterprising producer would  get Ms.Leone  to cooperate, which shouldn’t be too difficult. It’s a great India story! Here’s a hot Punjabi kudi from Canada, who has established herself in the highly competitive international porn movies market with steamy films directed by her husband. Her liberal parents know about her day job as an adult film performer, and are fine with it.They respect her choice of career and encourage her to excel. But aha, look at what happened once she came to the country of her origin ( India).She swiftly figured her future is here, given the extraordinary amount of publicity she generated from day one. Opportunities galore came her way, and soon Sunny became a brand. And, since every brand comes with a price tag, she smartly decided to cash in on hers.She also went in for some timely strategies designed to make her old job look better. For one, she insisted she would not kiss her co-stars in Bollywood! F or another, she talked of being a devoted and faithful wife, lucky enough to be married to a progressive, liberal guy who understands her line of work. The message is loud and clear : Hands off, guys! It seems to be working. She is now referred to as Sunnyji. Soon she’ll be Bhabhiji. And her transformation from a liberated Canada-based porn star, to a saree clad Bharatiya Nari will be complete. This sort of a fairytale ending to an unconventional life, is possible only in India. We’d seen it earlier with Raakhi Sawant. We saw it with Pakistani starlet Veena Malik. And now we have Sunny Leone living the dream. That’s a pretty remarkable breakthrough in our prissy, judgemental attitude and it has taken place in under a decade. Poor Silk Smitha was not as fortunate. Sunny Leone’s  transition is a fascinating account of India’s love-hate relationship with women who run with the wolves. Despite our pretensions and protestations, we are  at a significant cultural cross road that will determine where we go from here.

My own feeling is that the fake and exaggerated Devi complex (“We worship women…. because we worship Durga”) men in our society project, is finally ready to get a decent and overdue burial. Today’s Indian woman is neither a Devi nor a whore. She is herself. A Sunny Leone is free to participate in porn films that titillate millions across the world, and yet retain her right to re-invent herself at will, as a loving wife and dutiful daughter, doing what a gal has to do to make a living in these recessionary times. Clearly, large segments within India are willing to give her that chance – no questions asked. That, to me, represents a remarkable shift which grants the required space to a woman to exercise choice, even if that choice happens to be radical.So far, I have not come across any protests from those self-righteous groups that take it upon themselves to guard us from ‘evil influences’. In that context, the Sunny Leone saga does indeed represent a moral bastion being successfully stormed and torn down.

The only downside? Heavy breathing will never be the same again!

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Hang... and be damned!

 I was vastly amused when a male friend sent me this....that 'he' and not a 'she' sent it, displays confidence and a great sense of humour....

This appeared in Sunday Times today.....

                              Hang…. and be damned

Qasab’s died a mangy dog’s death.Yes,it was pathetic.But his short life was even worse.Here was a young man who’d never lived. No wonder it hardly mattered to him when he spent his last few hours singing a Bollywood song, nibbling on a tomato. This image is so apt for a man whose 25 years on earth had no value to anybody. Disowned by his country, shunned by his village and forgotten by his family, Qasab’s existence was worth absolutely nothing. Whether he rotted in a jail in Mumbai or faced the gallows in Pune, Qasab lived and died a zero. In a way, one almost feels sorry for him. Ever since the dramatic announcement of his secret hanging was made public, there have been the expected reactions complete with the standard scenes of people expressing relief, jubilation and gratitude. That over used and rather annoying word – closure – has been repeated ad nauseum. But the one thing most of us have overlooked in our haste to congratulate Pranab Mukherjee, Sushil Kumar Shinde and R.R. Patil, is the wisdom of the decision. Why Qasab and not Afzal Guru first, is a very valid question to ask. Perhaps the real answer is far from palatable. Perhaps, we shall never know it. It’s also worth recalling that Qasab was the only witness who could have been summoned to testify in the David Headley case. But these are all nothing more than wild conspiracy theories. And we love them! Since everybody today has become a self styled authority on conspiracy theories in any case, why not table the current favourites? It is commonly conceded that in himself, Qasab was a nobody. He was just the ‘Butka’ who was programmed to go across the border and kill as many innocents as he could. He came to India to die, as he confessed. And we obliged him and his handlers by hanging him, in what can be described as unseemly haste. A haste that apparently took our own Prime Minister by surprise! Or was that just Sushil Kumar Shinde jumping the gun and making a monumental gaffe? As a former cop, Shinde says he knows how these games are played . Sure. But if around 80 people were involved in this key operation, howcome Manmohan Singh  was kept in the dark? Given the vast amount of paperwork such a complex procedure entails, it’s nothing short of a miracle there were no leaks this time. It’s been the high season for leaks, remember? Now that it’s a done deal, and Qasab lies buried in one of the six unmarked graves in the Yerawada jail compound, how smart a move is that, given the threats of retaliatory action issued by the LeT and the Pakistani Taliban? Should we ignore them? Should we also ignore ‘Im the Dim’s’ outburst demanding the death of our Sarabjit Singh languishing in a Pakistani jail? Qasab alive was our biggest bargaining chip. Was hanging Qasab in India’s interests at all? Or will we be paying a huge price for our action in the days ahead?

Poor Qasab. I never thought I’d be saying this. But looking at his close ups in various newspapers, one instantly recognises the eyes and face of a loser. A lost and listless wastrel like thousands of other disenfranchised, hopelessly impoverished, uneducated and frustrated young men with nothing at stake and nobody to call their own. Qasab’s is a classic story. That of a rootless,jobless desperado willing to try anything – even terrorism. Lured by false promises of financial security for himself and his family members, Qasab signed over his life to those who continue to be free…. in all likelihood training other Qasabs even as we in India rejoice over the death of an entirely dispensable cog in the much larger terror wheel. Haunted and hunted, Qasab went to his grave dealing with the blood of innocents he’d  systematically slaughtered for a handful of rice and a fistful of money , both of which were never given to his father. Ironically, he died in vain… used and abused by the masterminds who had brainwashed him into believing he’d be hailed as a martyr. His sisters may still be waiting for the promised money for their marriages. But their foolish, misguided brother will only be remembered as the coward who killed defenseless people. Not so surprisingly, when he finally found the noose tightening around his neck, he lost his voice, but his bowels opened up.What an inglorious life! And what a dirty death. The man, who shot people in cold blood, did potty in his pajamas in the end. Cheee chee, chee! Bechara Qasab.

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Better believe this!

Okay Blogdosts.... read it.... and react aaram se... but do react!

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I am still wondering why I didn't adore Life of Pi? Was I just tired? Should I have kept myself awake with strong coffee and ignored the family sitting next to me , gobbling samosas? It's hard to concentrate on deep, allegorical images when the man to the right is burping noisily through dramatic scenes. Besides, I had forgotten to pick up my 3D chasma. A few early moments were blurred. Not that I wanted to look the tiger in the eye at all. Then I had major problems with Irfan Khan's peculiar accent which went from Denver to Dombivali. It was particularly odd when he spoke about finding 'Gaad' everywhere. What exactly was he looking for? It took me an hour to figure out he was looking for God. Frankly, highly simplistic lines that advise viewers to 'let go'etc sounded plain dumb. And which desi family speaks the way the Patels from Pondicherry ( if you please!) do? Those dinner table conversations were stilted and as fake as Pi's soul searching in the middle of a violent electrical storm. Come on, Ang Lee. India is so much more than a gleaming golden reclining Vishnu floating down a river. Or Tabu playing Yashoda and deconstructing the legend of Krishna as a bed time story.
 Sorry... I wasn't enchanted. I was just bored.

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Women and wheels...

This is just one of the many press interviews I've done to promote Sethji. In case my Blogdosts are interested in reading the rest, just ask!!! I'll post them here one interview at a time....
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Don't ask... but this column has generated a great deal of comment. Kyon? Any explanations?

                    Women and wheels….

I don’t drive. Cars, I mean. It is simply not an aptitude I possess. Fortunately, this appalling inadequacy was discovered pretty early in life. But at  an enormous cost. Not just in monetary terms, but emotional ones as well. I totaled a car that did not belong to me. It didn’t belong to the young man who had been besotted and reckless enough to allow me behind the wheel. It was his father’s company car. How he explained the axle breaking into two, is something I never did find out. We broke up at the site of the accident itself. I managed to wreck a couple of other cars …. and hearts. But we shan’t go into that here. The price has been paid. Many times over. It was a hard and expensive lesson to learn. But I was sensible enough to back off while I was still ahead. And lives had not been lost.

This sounds like an insanely sexist remark to be making, but I do believe gals should think a hundred times before taking the plunge and hitting  the accelerator. During the past few months, there have been some really nasty accidents in and around Mumbai. Most of them involved women. And most of the women were inebriated at the time of the crash. Some of the gory details from police records suggest that the fast cars these ladies were driving , belonged to their richie rich dads and were birthday gifts. One of the accused has just been given a five year jail term. Her shocked dad died of a stroke a few months after the drunken daughter’s picture had hit the headlines after the accident which claimed the life of a young cop. Today, the girl is pleading with the judge to reduce her sentence, even as the cop’s widow is insisting 5 years behind bars is far too lenient a punishment for such a heinous crime. This is but one such case. And it attracted more attention than some of the others because the rather fetching young woman is known in Mumbai’s social circles.

 Three out of four of my daughters possess a driving license and insist they are skilled, calm and in control behind the wheel. I am the nervous wreck, they mock, as we pull out of the parking lot, and I start issuing instant instructions. They promptly plug their ears with headphones and start listening to favourite tracks on the iPod. Grrrrr. Meanwhile, I hang on to my seat, as the car takes off and flies over the innumerable speed breakers at top speed, like those  cemented obstacles don’t exist. Generally, the girls are smiling to themselves, lost in song, as pedestrians leap nimbly out of the path of the killer car. This has been going on for a while. Their father is not pleased. He wants me to “stop this nonsense’. I plead helplessness. It’s a mess. I tried talking to the girls about the way female brains are wired. I mentioned foolish stuff, provided statistics which talk about the left side, right side of female brains, and which side controls what. Driving skills are thrown in to this argument. I shamelessly fib as we negotiate a sharp and abrupt turn that nobody noticed till we took it. My heart lurches into my mouth. The daughter at the wheel grins and asks, “Isn’t Adele just too cool?”

My superb research has convinced me that most women should leave cars alone. Of course, this is a nasty theory, based on nothing more than personal experience. Psychiatrists would label it as a direct result of   an unresolved trauma, at an impressionable, vulnerable time of my life. They’d be one hundred per cent right. But, thanks to that trauma, I am alive. More importantly, so are other, innocent people. Angry women drivers tell me I am perpetuating a stereotype and falling into a male trap. Men are possessive about their cars and other modes of transport. They are even possessive about their wives’ and girl friends’ cars. Men feel proprietorial about machines. Let them keep the bloody machines, is what I say? Why waste our time behind the wheel when we could be doing other stuff? Stuff that doesn’t endanger life, our own included? So far, I haven’t succeeded in convincing anybody. Not even my daughters. The last time one of them offered to drive me somewhere, she helpfully gave me a cheerful T-shirt that read ‘Tension mat le, yaar.” I huffed, ‘I am not your yaar, I am your mother.’ She was already in fourth gear…. and we hadn’t left the garage!

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Balasaheb.....

                             POSTERAMA - Affordable. Inspirational.Art.

Blogdosts, this is my son Ranadip's brand new venture. And it's doing very well - God is great! Posters on canvas are flying off the shelves.... great gifts for the coming season. These are the two I have booked for myself. If you want more options, log on to www.posterama.co

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There's a Tiger in Maharashtra's tank! 

           Balasaheb is a phenomenon. A force of nature.Period. At the time of writing, he is struggling for his life, and as an apt newspaper headline put it , “ Thackeray remains critical,keeps city’s heart pounding.” Well, so far, both hearts are still pounding – his and the city’s. Balasaheb will go ( as all of us must) when he is good and ready to. Not one second earlier. That’s the kind of man he is. For the past few days we have been hearing several people across popular television channels paying pre-mature tributes to Maharashtra’s Tiger. If this seems somewhat inappropriate, indelicate and insensitive, that’s how the media works. I recall being asked by a leading channel to record my feelings about Balasaheb nearly a month ago. When I wondered aloud whether the enthusiastic anchor was jumping the gun, he answered smoothly, it was far better to have all the sound bytes and footage in place well in advance, rather than air an amateurishly put together tribute when the worst does happen. He had a point.Internationally, this is an old and common media practice. Obituaries of public figures are written months and even years in advance. And those public figures don’t have to be either ancient or ailing. This is a cold but far more professional approach which we in India find cringe-making. It’s true we  handle such matters with  a  highly exaggerated sense of sentimentality. We refuse to let go. We resist closure. And the imminent death of a ‘maha purush’ is a calamitous proposition, even if the person is what we call ‘serious’ and close to 90. In the case of Balasaheb, this refusal to accept the inevitable has been so pronounced as to be thought ridiculous. It was left to young Aditya Thackeray, Balasaheb’s grandson, to put things in perspective when he tweeted ‘Let us stay optimistic.’ Contrast the maturity of that comment with the reactions of  other, far older people speaking on behalf of the family, who kept insisting Balasaheb’s condition is ‘stable’ and that he is ‘improving’. Come on!

Then came the question of protocol. As VVIPs rushed to Matoshree on Thursday, breathless mediawallas reported each sighting with the sort of  excitement one reserves for red carpet arrivals at the Cannes Film Festival. Fortunately, the stars who turned up ( Amitabh, Abhishek. Salman and Aamir) were not asked the standard red carpet question by idiotic tv reporers, “ Who are you wearing?” Anything is possible when there is no other ‘news’ to fill those hours earmarked for something that does not take place on cue. This was largely true across the board, when Mumbai more or less came to a stand still, as offices hastily shut shop, store owners downed shutters and sensible people stayed home. The point is, none of the above was required , in order  to display profound grief and respect for someone who is , after all, a mere mortal, an octogenarian and a very sick person. Why should the public have feared a backlash for what is a natural cause , and not  a gory assassination? Why did the cops convert the area around Matoshree into an impenetrable fortress, instead of reassuring citizens that Mumbai is calm and functioning as usual? Why should Mumbaikars  have cowered and run for cover fearing an outbreak of violence? Violence is misplaced in this situation, even if loyal party workers wished to express their concern and anxiety. This sort of  fear psychosis only reinforces the stereotype and does no good to anybody. Least of all to the reputation of the political leader with a mass following in Maharashtra. It also leads to widespread panic and confusion, with citizens worried about the safety of their life , limbs and property. This is no way to ‘honour’ a revered leader. But that’s us. It is again our over sentimentality that compels us to beat our breasts and make a theatrical public display of  love.All this, while the cops stand around helplessly , insisting they cannot ‘interfere’ for fear of escalating the violence. That generally provides an excuse to potential arsonists  to go right ahead and burn  buses, taxis, cars…. anything inflammable. It’s hard to figure out how these wanton acts of destruction become demonstrations of asli sorrow. It is almost as if those who do not take to the streets and throw stones are not loyal enough to the great leader.

How can we change this mindset and bring more dignity to such occasions? When will a show of shameless sycophancy replace sincere sympathy? Why are there so many distinctions when it comes to meeting the families of those in precarious health conditions? Why the class system? The hierarchies? The power play? And the ongoing extension of what we call the VIP culture in India? Celebrities are ushered in instantly and given access to other celebrities waiting with the family. Plebs, who may have far more real admiration and love for the  leader, are subjected to a lathi charge. This is terribly lop- sided. And an annoyingly desi trait that we keep perpetrating. I was asked in hushed whispers by several Important People when I’d be visiting Matoshree. As also how well I know Balasaheb.

Frankly, my dear, that’s nobody’s business but mine!

Here's wishing Balasaheb a speedy recovery and an even longer life....

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Phatakis enjoying phatakas!

Bubbly on the terrace..... lights, sparklers and beauty everywhere..... what a gorgeous Diwali it has been!

 Saal Mubarak, Blogdosts!

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Mumbai Ki Diwali

                                        Mumbai ki Diwali

I was in Delhi last week and was surprised when someone told me that Diwali started in Delhi more than a month ago. I scratched my head to figure that one out. Were we looking at the same calendar? Had I missed something? My Delhi friend clarified with a laugh. “All I meant was that the famous taash parties started a month ago.” That was funny. For most Dilliwallas, Diwali only means  cards. And parties are carefully structured around gambling tables. Everything else is incidental. As the same host put it, so long as there is enough daaru, nobody cares. The stakes in Delhi are always high – metaphorically and literally! The Festival of  Lights is now officially known as the Festival of Cards. Mumbai has its taash fanatics as well, but they are nowhere as hardcore as their counterparts in the Capital. In fact, this year in Mumbai has been mercifully brighter but not noisier, thanks to stepped up vigilance that has inhibited those over enthusiastic phatakawalas from lighting ear shattering pre-dawn bombs loud enough to wake the dead. Mumbai is at its prettiest during Diwali, and it’s a treat to drive around streets that are ablaze with diyas and kandeels. I went to Girgaum as usual for my Diwali shopping and was distraught on discovering a few significant changes in an otherwise lively locality. Two of my all-time favourite stores had changed hands. The laddoos simply did not taste the same. And the fragrant oils I used to buy from an old ittar shop, are not available any more. But the old gajrawalli is still there, even if her beautiful shevanti gajras are now priced at thirty rupees. It’s really quite incredible how Mumbai miraculously gets it all together for a few short days, and every person participates joyfully in celebrating Diwali -  India’s answer to X’Mas.Let’s hope this spirit of bonhomie and good will spills over to the days ahead, which may be rocky, given the rapidly changing political equations. What is still more amazing is the quantum of money floating around , despite spiraling costs and absurd prices of everything  - from diesel to diamonds. Did anybody foolishly mention inflation?

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Bollywood is at its glittering and most glamourous best during Diwali. As always, Sunita Kapoor’s Diwali  tofaa was declared the uncontested winner by all those fortunate enough to receive it. I still have the spectacular candles she sent two years ago. And her gigantic, hollowed out wooden ‘Books’ this year are equally impressive. To make a Diwali statement  year after year, requires not just an abundance of resources but an equal amount of good taste, imagination and an artistic vision. Anil is one lucky man! And so are those of us who enjoy their generosity year after year.

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I’d say one of the most fun evenings during this festive period was meticulously structured by ‘The Boys’ ( Abu-Sandeep) for ‘The Girls’. What a novel idea! And how supremely well done! Mumbai and Delhi…. a tale of two cities that couldn’t be more different. The contrasts become even more glaring during Diwali. Discretion over vulgarity. Taste over excess. But ….hey – who cares? Diwali hai! Maja karo!

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