Bovine Divine (As in Jawaani Diwani)



This, on an otherwise unenthusiastic evening. Reminded me of the great cow-lover of our times. Venerable Mr. Verma, are you watching too?

What's the story



A stunned silence befell the blog neighborhood since I did the last post. In one short week, it has caused a sharp fall in already scanty readership, commentlessness from old faithfuls, and a general air of distaste. I admit that there was no point in digging up that item except to let forth some bad jokes. The incident has also jolted my deep-rooted belief in the saleability of sex and bad taste. So much so that I also contemplated pulling it out. But one should be reminded of past follies from time to time, so it keeps.

In the meantime, yours truly has uncharacteristically mustered enough enthusiasm to write an entry for the flash fiction contest organized by Caferati and Livejournal. It required a story to be done within five hundred words. For want of story ideas, I'd borrowed from a real life incident that took place in our city coupla years ago. To win a positive response from the caferati people who also organize the cultural festival with that name, I have cleverly named it Kala Ghoda. Without further pretext, then , here goes the story. I'd rather you read it while listening to the excellent rendition of Kali Ghori Dwar Khadi from the film Chashme Baddoor. The connection between the song and the story is like nobody's business, except both have a motorcycle in it.

Kala Ghoda

Su. Her dupatta , powder blue in cream. Ombre’. Her longish hair teased up in a simple pony. Her pearl white kurta, half a size too small. Making her look all the more curvy. Maybe she’s put on a little weight since moving here. Maybe it’s her not having to do house chores anymore. Tis Hazari court Metro Station. Noisy intersection. Almost seven. It’s getting dusky. Surekha, unsure. Still from Bijnor.

“Careful with that Dupatta, miss. Try and keep it off the wheel. Here, are we comfortable now?” RJ had sized the girl up while easing up his Pulsar to her side. Small-town, lower middle class. Enrolled in some college in the city. Possibly looking for part time employment. Lost look. Great rack. Attractive, if imperfect features. Rabi Johar the Lajpat Nagar smartypants went to work.

-Said you were waiting for somebody?

- I was meeting Pilu. Childhood friend. She’s been in Delhi for some time. She’s a model. She was to take me to South extension.

-I’m going that way only. Where in South-ex?

-I’m not sure. We were going to see one Mrs. Tandon. I have her address. She runs the Glitz model agency. She might have openings for new faces.

-So what happened to Pilu?

-She got stuck in traffic. Cell out of range. At last she called, minutes ago. Asked me to reach there on my own. She’ll be waiting. I don’t know that area well. See, I’m new in this city.

-No worries miss. You’ll be OK. What did you say your name was?

Too smooth, this guy. Was that beer in his breath? Beware the city slickers, Didi used to warn her. Evening fell rapidly around them. RJ talked nineteen to the dozen.

-Indraprastha College? Fresher, eh? Know Monica there? The cultural secretary? Good friend of mine. Tell her Rabi said hi.

Speed breakers near Sadar Bazaar. He knows how to use them. Touchy feely. Awkward blush from Su.

-I’m sorry. Bit of trouble with the brakes. You OK? Be there in fifteen minutes now. Where are you staying in Delhi?

Janpath is a lonely stretch even at this hour. RJ lets loose the throttle. They’re riding into the wind. Su keeping an uneasy hand over his shoulder. Doesn’t want a rerun of the brake incident.

-Stop! Stop your bike now!

A flash of powder blue and cream. A dupatta in flight. The breeze is strong.

They alight. Su with arms folded over her breasts. Conscious of her young body. Poor girl’s got a long way to go if she wants to be a model, RJ thought.

-Wait. I’ll fetch it.

-Thanks.

Had RJ looked back, he could’ve seen her smile. Her easy confidence as she straddled the machine. The graceful flick of her leg as she kicked. But he was busy catching a swirl of powder blue. A black pulsar faded away like distant thunder.

Excuse me while I have an O
(Warning: Reader rating PG 15 )

The world is full of women who are having problems with sexual arousal, women who are technically frigid, and really really sad women who've never had an orgasm in all their lives.
And then, we come to learn about Michelle who has an average 300 in a day. Then about Elle, and Sarah, too.

There is widespread belief that PSAS is a real-life condition, inasmuch as Wiki acknowledges it, though the syndrome appears to be a more recent phenomenon, discovered as late as in 2001. Earlier than that, it would appear, womenfolk used to have suitably lukewarm arousal patterns and victims of the condition used to be frowned upon as insatiable nymphomaniacs, satyrs and such like. Today, they are the darlings of British tabloids. Curiously enough, the tabloids have come up with one interview feature of a, um, sufferer every year for the past three years. In fact, the year 2008 episode could be out any day now. True to form, the pieces are as raunchy as they could get. They make for breathless entertainment, though after reading the first one, the others might get a little repetitive.

Predictably, bloggers have zeroed in on the phenomenon here and there. This had picked up momentum especially after Sarah Carmen attained celebhood last November by posing for pics as well as a named interview with her real name to NewsoftheWorld. One suspects that a book deal is in the offing too. (Methinks it should be aptly titled, "Am I coming or going? - Memoirs of an ecstasy aunt") Surprisingly no blogger seems to have put down his or her individual take on what could be an exceedingly juicy subject. The way the articles describe this syndrome, it can attack the afflicted woman like a force de la nature, and turn most of her waking moments into all yesssss, oooohs and aaaahs.

It's not fair making jokes about people who, by their extraordinary condition, are deprived of a normal livelihood. Then again, fairness is a concept that was invented so that children and idiots could participate in arguments (so said Scott Adams, my hero). The tabloids have creamed their stories for sensationalism. So much so, that there's no longer a line for a blogger not to cross. And my oh my, the mind boggles at the possibilities. The jokes are in extremely bad taste, so don't tell me you weren't warned.

Like this.

Hey Lucy, heard about Elle? She's left the beauty salon, the driers and stuff were giving her lots of trouble. Now she works as a secretary. One small problem though. Every time she goes to get something copied, she starts acting funny. The janitor thinks there's a ghost in that copier.

Or this.

-Hi Lily, I'm so sorry to hear about Susan. She died last week when her house caught fire.

-No, seriously? But she lived in a single story, she could've just walked out.

-I don't know. Neighbors said they kept calling out for her, and she kept saying, "Yaahh I'm coming, I'm coming."

God Tussi Great Ho- the review
(Another one bites the dust)

Bruce : Lord, feed the hungry, and bring peace to all of mankind. How's that?
God : Great... If you wanna be Miss America.

God : Bruce, you have a divine spark. You have a gift for bringing joy and laughter to the world. I know, I created you.
Bruce : Quit bragging.

Say you were Rumi Jaffrey for a half-year. No, let's say God gave you the kind of resources and laissez faire Mr. Jaffrey had while he tried to reproduce Bruce Almighty in amchi Mumbai. Now, the first thing you'd probably want to do is exclude the brand of humor in the original movie that you believe your Indian audience might not appreciate. For example, like in the lines above. Mark it, I said it's what you believe, not I. And definitely not your viewers, who, according to you, are from Ulhasnagar and Jhumri Talaiya and such like, and they are so crass that a brilliantly impossible story and kickass punchlines can't hold their attention for one hundred and sixty odd minutes unless your vertically challenged club bouncer of a hero struts in wearing his form hugging floral shirt and breaks into a vulgar jig every now and then to the tune of some asinine music. You'd also feel somehow that the God-meets-man-and-shows-some-tricks scenario can only appeal to the audience if presented with the right sort of special effects,e.g, melting skies, a road on the clouds, folks walking on air and vaporising at will, that sort of stuff. You'd moreover, doubtless require that between your bouncer and his girl, there should be a rival lover angle for comic relief. Hell, it worked in Mujhse Shaadi Karogi, and it worked in MPKK, didn't it? It always works man, and you know how to do it. In fact, your first half should only comprise your brand of triangular fun, right? God? Oh He'll wait. You know your crowd too well. Hell, you can twist them around your middle finger, huh, Rumi?

(But guess what, Rumi Almighty? While you were busy touching up the special effects, somebody's gone and changed the rules. The audience now, most unfair of them, are hardly pining for an item number on Aksa beach. Even your mentor doesn't know what the viewer wants anymore. Yes, the formidable Dhawan grapples today with the balancing game between the republic of Barka kana and the plex crowds. And you thought you had it all made, didn't you?)

Nuff said. If you were Rumi you wouldn't make these mistakes, I'm sure. I know I wouldn't. The trick here was making it with minimal creative liberties. One had perhaps one of a dozen greatest original comedies of all times, and all one needed to do was add small desi touches here and there. One needn't let loose a creative diarrhea. One certainly needn't select a lead actor who plays all his roles like he is on stage doing a live show (my choice was Arshad Warsi, remember?) and a former beauty queen who looks like she hasn't slept in a week (Priyanka, go spend a month at some spa, please, and quit worrying how Katrina is moving ahead). Speaking of mistakes one shouldn't make, one should also never, never include that mad monkey Sohail Khan in any sort of cinematic enterprise.

In the original film, the homeless man never talks to Bruce Nolan. He does it with his puns on the placard. In the last scene, his board reads: Armageddon outta here. And his face morphs into God's (Morgan Freeman's) as he walks away. In Rumi's edition, he's made that man Salman's chummy and confidante. Towards the end, he is granted a long denied wish, and turns into a barking dog. They put him in a cage and take him away. An eye-opener on how far backwards Rumi had got it all.

The King and I

The song on my scroll sidebar. I don't know why in my mind it associates with incessant rainfall. Isn't only because it mentions "pouring rain" once. The association probably has to do my listening to it a lot during the rains in a hazy, distant past almost two decades ago when I used to play it on my walkman while riding on a motorcycle, stopping at some dhaba for chai and a smoke when it started to pour.



This year again, a long monsoon is playing itself out. It refuses to go away. The song won't, either. Playing through my mind all this week.

Road Rash

One day, when I have enough money, I will buy a big bad SUV. And I will fit it with extra strength wraparound grills made of thick steel tubes on the front and rear bumpers. And I will drive it out on the national highway. And I will bump off the assholes who drive their 100cc motorcycles on the middle of the road one by one. I will give me five bucks for every creep bumped and ten for every fuckface sent flying out of the road. Every time I make a hundred, I will open a can of cold beer from the ice box I'll keep handy on the cabin side of the said monster. And oh, I forgot the cattle grazers. Those boys that let loose their herd on the highway. If there is one group of people who have caused me the most physical harm and irreparable mental trauma, they're IT. I intend to do them maximum damage. For them I'll carry an air gun loaded with .22 caliber bullets. I might have to pull off the road for these cattle-men sometimes, but I'm more than willing to take the trouble. Whenever I spot one of them scums trying to unleash cows on the asphalt, I'll slow down and shoot that man in the ass. Maybe shout out a term of endearment too, for good measure. I can do it throughout the day, across state boundaries, while listening alternately to Bruce Springsteen and Led Zeppelin. Yeah that's my medium term ambition in life.

You ask what I'm gonna do in the long term then? Oh nothing much, really. I'll only trade off my SUV for a 12000 cc sixteen cylinder DaimlerChrysler truck. And I'll bribe some official of the Steel Authority of India into selling me some scrap at a cheap price. You see, I need these two pieces of 20 millimeter thick and 250 wide hot rolled steel arisings, about 10 meters long, which I'd put under a shaping machine to give them a sharp wedge shaped profile, and fit them onto the sides of the undercarriage. I'd love it if these attachments could be made to slide out and retract hydraulically, but that feature, while extremely flamboyant and James Bond-esque, might come prohibitively expensive, I suspect. And I'll drive my truck out on the national highway. And on a good day, there will be any number of rogue truckers with emptied cargo traveling at 75 km an hour and trying to overtake other loaded trucks moving at 70. They will easily hold all traffic at ransom for an agonizing 10 minutes, liberally snorting the black soot they belch out. They will take great pleasure playing out this long drawn charade that is the staple of our great Indian highway system. It's precisely at this point that I'll step in. At first I'll politely flash my lights and ask for passage. Failing this, I'll meekly honk my horns at them three times. Upon which, the rogue trucker will extend a condescending arm from his cabin window and ask me to wait. After a few minutes of this, we will be on the clear and he will wave that arm again with supreme benevolence, beckoning me to come take that passage. While passing his truck, I'll smile and wink. And casually scrape my steel wedge against his chassis. I might even slash a tyre or two if I get lucky . After every three rogues I've maimed, I'll treat myself to a bottle of cold Kingfisher I'll keep handy in an ice box etc. I can do it all day, across state boundaries, listening alternately to Daler Paaji and Sukhwindera.

Please don't get the wrong picture here. I'm a thoroughly non-violent man, given to harming nothing and nobody in particular in course of my simple journey through life. For the most part, I'd even rather not talk about my secret fantasies on a blog post. It's only that I took on myself a road trip on my car, driving some 150 km to and fro in a good holiday spirit, on Independence day. And that the cattle grazers and other parties I met on the way brought back lots of older memories. And that these memories gave vent to many a bridled emotion. Also that I still get the recurrent vision of a tall strapping calf flying out athwart my windshield, which wakes me up sometimes in the middle of the night.

Revisiting a dear cousin

No one pulls the wool over the eyes of a Gambini. Especially this one.

This piece of news. Somehow it doesn't make me too happy. Maybe because the film about to be remade is a great big personal favorite. Maybe because I'd wanted to make it in Bollywood when I grew up. Maybe because I just cannot look at Ravi Chopra without a certain amount of disdain. He of the B-films. (This is something I just noticed, but all Mr. Chopra's films now seem to start with a B, not unlike Ms. eKta K-apoor.)



But first things first. Do I have reservations against Govinda playing Joe Pesci's role? Let's see, in all of Joe's illustrated career, this will perhaps be rated as one of his two finest roles (the other of course, being Goodfellas). Can Chi-Chi be quite as good? (Will he look too old? C'mon, surely nobody can look older than Joe?) Well, I'm prepared to give him a proper go at it, with a proper director and all. I have faith in him, I do. Not in Mr. Chopra's sensibilities, I don't.

Up next. Is that Lara there playing Marisa Tomei's character, or Tabu? Either way, where is the role for the other? I can't conceive of one. Another sweet brainwave of Mr. Chopra? Look, we can't play much with Ms. Tomei's role here, can we? It was her winning the Academy on an outside chance for this role, remember?



Remember these immortal lines?

Vinny Gambini: What about these pants I got on? You think they're okay?
Mona Lisa Vito: Imagine you're a deer. You're prancing along. You get thirsty. You spot a little brook. You put your little deer lips down to the cool, clear water - BAM. A fuckin' bullet rips off part of your head. Your brains are lying on the ground in little bloody pieces. Now I ask ya, would you give a fuck what kind of pants the son-of-a-bitch who shot you was wearing?

Delicate delicate stuff, constructing this character. Doesn't make it any easier when you want to distribute footage between the lawyer's fiancee' and the defendant's girlfriend.Or is Tabu playing Judge Chamberlain Haller, by an wild stretch of imagination? That, would be fun to watch.

Apart from the lead actors, then, and every other peripheral detail, the film is about two Americas looking at each other with a lot of distrust and hostility. The southerner's attitude to the big city slickers who, as a matter of fact, are Italian-Americans, or worse, Jews, borders on xenophobia. And the City slickers? Their take on these hicks is best summed up by this line:

Vinny Gambini: Hey Stan, you're in Ala-Fuckin-Bama. You come from New York. You killed a good old boy. There is no way this is not going to trial.

Hard to be set into an Indian context, but then, you're reminded of our own north-south divide and you're reminded of Ek Duje Ke Liye and you say, OK, not that hard.

On another level, this is the story of the underdog winning against unsurmountable odds. Because he has truth on his side. Because of John 8.32."ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free". Whenever in my limited power of appreciation for works of art I've had doubts about the quality of something, I've asked myself this:

Does it bring a lump to my throat? Did I come back with a tear in my eyes?

Yes, it does. In more ways than one. And I'd always wanted this dear cousin to be revisited like that. With a tear of joy. Somehow, I find it hard to believe Mr. Chopra and team will be able to recreate that ethos.

The ballad of Billy the kid

The Oracle has spoken on the last of the big time spenders. As is his wont, he is absolutely thorough and masterful. Nothing, in fact, needs to be added to, or taken away from that tribute. But since he has kindly linked me in this post, I felt obliged to put forth my two bits on when and how I started to worship the same idol.

I was not a big fan of the man when in college. In fact, I never quite understood his music at that point in time. In college, we were listening to Wham, MJ, John Denver, Eagles, a little bit of Pink Floyd and Dire Straits and all sorts of wrong kind of sound, an ignominy called Modern Talking included. Coupled with the fact that lyric books were not easily available in the 80's, that we would only listen to medium wave radio and some dubious quality tapes on mediocre equipment, made the soul of his lyrics to be largely lost on me. I remember having listened to and vaguely liked Piano Man, and having read somewhere that Manna De's Bengali hit on Coffee House was loosely inspired in theme by it.

Then came 1989 and Storm Front. Even though mtv was not here yet, the crazy video of we didn't start the fire was getting beamed on DD and immediately caught our attention. The power and pace of that dynamic ode to fifty years of Americana and other world events was hard not to get swayed by. It is learnt that he had fired all of his existing band members save the trusted drummer, revamped his team and worked with a new producer to create that new sound. And new it was. It turned everything else on its head.



But the moment of truth for me came on the 1994 Grammy Awards night. River of Dreams had been nominated in more than one categories. And in the runup to the awards the song played over and over. I had never listened to anything like that before. I had hoped it would win song of the year. With due respects to The Boss and sir John, lesser numbers own that year. On the night of awards, the man performed his song. I have been frantically looking for that video on utube and other places, but it's since been removed due to third party copyright issues. (It should be mentioned here that earlier the same night Frank Sinatra was cut short during his acceptance speech for the Lifetime Achievement award.) Billy might have known he was not going to win it that night. He looked dour. At the breath reprise ending the third stanza, where he builds up a crescendo :

I don't know why I go walking at night
But now I'm tired and I don't want to walk anymore
I hope it doesn't take the rest of my life
Until I find what it is that I've been looking for....

He always takes a longish pause at this point, straightening his neck, taking a sip of coffee and all. On that Grammy night, he just seemed to stop on his tracks. A full fifty seconds maybe. Then he said, nay, made an announcement :

Valuable time is passing by. valuable advertising time is passing us by.

He took a sip from his mug, and resumed his song all on a sudden. At that very instant, he made a true believer out of this casual fan.