President Obama?…Cojones on line 1 for you.

New York Post says "FUCK IT" to actually working on a headline

EDIT EDIT SUPER AWESOME EDIT: I’m so glad that deep down inside I’m a metrosexual dude and therefore spend an obnoxious amount of time on Esquire.com becasue John Richardson just wrote THIS. “WHADDYA MEAN OBAMA HASN’T DONE ANYTHING?” (http://www.esquire.com/print-this/obama-timeline-110309)

I was one of the people feverishly wielding a debit card by my computer, donating to the Obama campaign when he was running against McCain in 2008. The thought of 4 more Republican years was not scary anymore. It was tiring and embarrassing.

“God is here, and he’s black” I thought to myself gleefully. Simply the thought of Sarah Palin scratching her head while she tried to finagle a spot on the podium to make a concession speech after the defeat of the Republican party that November night made me want to make a smoothie out of puppies, pixie dust and sunshine and drink it all down . The America he was going to inherit was, no doubt,  up shit creek with no paddle, and there he was, on the banks of the creek with not only a paddle, but a tall glass of lemonade and a sun umbrella!

And what a campaign he ran. Mobilizing a generation, going viral and Obama girl-ing all over the internet- he was a rockstar, a celebrity, but most importantly he was the voice of reason and hope. There were standing ovations and meeting halls reverberated with 6 syllables for months: “Yes-we-can” and “O-Ba-Ma.”

America, fed up of the mortgage prices, soaring credit, unemployment and the corruption disguised as “capitalism” and “freedom,” had been listening and had finally spoken.

And now, as Drew Western of commondreams.org points out “Somehow the president has managed to turn a base of new and progressive voters he himself energized like no one else could in 2008 into the likely stay-at-home voters of 2010, souring an entire generation of young people to the political process.”

What happened? The “honeymoon period” is over, but is the relationship already on its way out? I, for one, am not in the mood to break up. I’m not ready to declare Mr. Western’s “Pretty Speeches, Compromised Values: Leadership, Obama style” as true. Not while, Obama’s toothbrush is still by my sink and the towel that smells like his soap is still hanging at the back of the bathroom door.

Western’s arguments against my sentiment are strong-

“(Obama’s three big issues are) a laissez faire style of leadership that appears weak and removed a failure to articulate and defend any coherent ideological position on virtually anything, and a widespread perception that he cares more about special interests like bank, credit card, oil and coal, and health and pharmaceutical companies than he does about the people they are shafting.”

His reproach to the Wall Street fat-fucks to “be nice” led to nothing and foreclosures are still more common than dust bunnies. The Health Care debate was a joke. In the greatest country in the world, grandma should not stand in front of a death panel, but God help us if our sickness and unemployment eat into Insurance giant’s profits. And credit card rates have, in some cases, quadrupled. No wonder we’re a jaded generation.

But Copenhagen was not his fault.

The simple fact that I’m wondering why I think Obama should still be trusted, is dangerous, and indicative of the fact that I might soon join the demoralized mass. But I’m biding my time in this relationship yet. The Guardian’s Mark Lynus’s brilliant article on the unbelievable events as they unfolded in Copenhagen might be one of the reasons. He describes Obama’s unfortunate position-

“Obama needed to be able to demonstrate to the Senate that he could deliver China in any global climate regulation framework, so conservative senators could not argue that US carbon cuts would further advantage Chinese industry. With midterm elections looming, Obama and his staff also knew that Copenhagen would be probably their only opportunity to go to climate change talks with a strong mandate.”

Something that blew my mind was this (Sorry for the long quote, it’s well written and shocking, so I just had to)

“To those who would blame Obama and rich countries in general, know this: it was China’s representative who insisted that industrialised country targets, previously agreed as an 80% cut by 2050, be taken out of the deal. “Why can’t we even mention our own targets?” demanded a furious Angela Merkel. Australia’s prime minister, Kevin Rudd, was annoyed enough to bang his microphone. Brazil’s representative too pointed out the illogicality of China’s position. Why should rich countries not announce even this unilateral cut? The Chinese delegate said no, and I watched, aghast, as Merkel threw up her hands in despair and conceded the point. Now we know why – because China bet, correctly, that Obama would get the blame for the Copenhagen accord’s lack of ambition.

China, backed at times by India, then proceeded to take out all the numbers that mattered. A 2020 peaking year in global emissions, essential to restrain temperatures to 2C, was removed and replaced by woolly language suggesting that emissions should peak “as soon as possible”. The long-term target, of global 50% cuts by 2050, was also excised. No one else, perhaps with the exceptions of India and Saudi Arabia, wanted this to happen. I am certain that had the Chinese not been in the room, we would have left Copenhagen with a deal that had environmentalists popping champagne corks popping in every corner of the world.”

And lest it sound like I’m making excuses for Obama, I’m not. But Copenhagen was ruined by nothing else but filthy politics. Our new pollutant for the day ladies and gentleman-politics. And another loss for the Obama camp. And that’s where his problem lies- in a bid to keep everyone happy, Obama has made no one happy.

What the world needs now from Obama is plain and simple COJONES. It’s sad that America saw 8 years of cojones from Bush with a pittance of brains, and just the opposite from Obama.

Your nation is at war, your economy is ravaged- What are you going to do Mr. President? And can you do it soon, we have a relationship to save here?

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My rashee and you are invited…

I saw “What’s Your Rashee?” last night, and save for the bazillion songs and very forgettable music, I really enjoyed it. The script was kind of funny and Gujrati theatre veteran Dilip Joshi is always a pleasure to watch.  Priyanka Chopra was surprisingly competent in her 12 avtaars and the art direction was quiet stylish (I really liked the opening credits). Harman Baweja was unfortunately uninspired. I actually like the guy. He’s not ugly, can totally dance and is definitely not the worst actor in the industry *cough* Arjun Rampal *cough.* I’m guessing that his uncanny resemblance to Hrithik Roshan might have something to do with it.  Literally every single time he came on screen Niharika turned up her nose in distaste and declared that he was copying Hrithik Roshan. Yes, I do agree that taking a picture of Hrithik Roshan to the plastic surgeon and saying “Uncle, I want to look like this” might not have been the best idea but you can’t hate someone for a bad plastic surgery decision when our Sanjay Dutts and Salman Khans have had enough work done to barely be recognizable as human beings anymore. What Baweja Jr. needs is some more acting training, and I think he might just have it I him.

Thank God I leave all my music decisions to Nick. My taste is kind of non existent and I don’t have the time or the inclination to spend time on lastfm.com to look for new stuff. I’ve never actively sought new music out. Till before I met Nick, I was still listening to Kiss Me by Sixpence None the Richer. I normally end up listening to the same song on loop for a month, and cannot stand the sound of it again. And somehow, at least for me, music becomes such an olfactory experience- just hearing the opening strains of a song instantly takes me back to the first time I heard it. Two summers ago, Nick’s family had invited me to spend the weekend at a beach front vacation house on Long Beach Island. The weather was a mix of nasty and fabulous, and Nick and I spent the entire weekend walking on the beach, going to rained out street fairs and visiting light houses.  “You are invited” by The Dismemberment plan was the soundtrack to that wonderful weekend, in that wonderful place, with that wonderful person.

I got it in the mail one morning

There was no return address

Just my name in gold leaf on the front

There was no time or location

There was really no info at all

No date, no time, no place, no RSVP

And it said

Chorus:

You are invited, by anyone to do anything

You are invited if you really want to go

You are invited, for all time

My knowledge of music, just like my taste, is kind of non-existent. I wouldn’t know what genre it would fall into, but the lyrics definitely are in the ‘rock my socks’ category. It makes me realize how much of our limitations are a product of our own internal censor. That club is too cool for you, that girl is way out of your league, your ass is way too big for that dress, and you’re definitely not smart enough for that job. But then imagine the simple idea of the invitation, of being invited by the universe at large, to go to that club, to ask out that girl who seems out of your league, to get your ass back in shape (or just wear that dress irrespective of the shape of your ass, and own it!) and to give that job a shot without prejudging yourself. It feels empowering and liberating.  I like being invited, by anyone to do anything, and be whoever the hell I want to be.

I will also confess to being a Beach Boys fan. “God only knows” gives me the warm fuzzies like a smoothie made out of teddy bears and sunshine, puppies and rainbows.

Back to listening to some more music me thinks.

PAA-r Excellence (Here Be Spoilers)

I am normally gripped by the fancy to watch a movie once every month. This is crazy because I grew up watching first-day-first-shows of almost every Hindi movie ever made. It had translated in to being a long line outside Lowe’s theater on 31st and 2nd every Thursday night to watch the first-night-first-show of every Hollywood film that happened to be running there when I was in New York.  (I saw ‘All about Steve’, there, I said it) So the fact that I’m watching one movie a month now that I’m back in India, and that includes all my T.V time, is fucking insane.

Last month, I had the fortune of finding a 1:00 p.m. showing of Wake Up Sid that I enjoyed thoroughly and have been smitten/stalking Ranbir Kapoor since then. (Wait till I get my hands on you Ranbir!) The cinematography by veteran Anil Mehta was breath taking, lyrical and gentle. Bombay will never be the same to anyone who has watched the movie.

This month, I called Niharika, eager to watch Kurbaan. I don’t much care for Kareena Kapoor or Saif Ali Khan and the hype around their ‘on screen chemistry’ had already annoyed me to epic proportions, but reviews mentioned that there was an attempt at some sort of discourse on terrorism, I really wanted to see what Bollywood thought of terrorism. But Niharika saved me Rs. 80 and need for a barf bag at Saif Ali Khan’s and Kareena Kapoor’s ‘on screen chemistry’  (What? It’s like watching Skeletor and Jocelyn Weinstein make out.)

Discourse on terrorism aside, I bet you’d like to see the ‘on-screen chemistry’ between this:

I am Saif Ali Khan. Hear me roar.

and this:

Nahin, Bebo MAIN Bebo

I didn’t think so.

Now, you have to be living in the Himalayas, to miss out on the pre-release promotion for Paa. Amitabh Bacchan was organizing private shows for every body- from members of the Indian cricket team, to his driver’s children, there were the interviews with the characters from the film with the ad rag, Bombay Times- but it never reached the irritatingly feverish pitch that Kurbaan had, so when Niharika suggested Paa, I agreed.

Good idea, me thinks, because the film was exceptional.  R. Balki of Cheeni Kum fame managed to make and write  one of the best movies I have seen in a long time.  From the performances to the cinematography everything was just right. Paa is the story of a young couple, Amol and Vidya’s untimely separation due to an unwanted pregnancy. Amol encourages Vidya to abort the child which she does not and raises it, Auro on her own. Auro and Amol meet by coincidence 13 years later when Amol is a successuful politician and MP and Vidya is a practicing gynecologist. Auro, suffers from Progeria, a disease that causes accelerated physical aging among infants. (So patients may only be 12-13 but their bodies look and work like that of a 70 or even an 80 year old). The fact that Amol does not know that Auro is his son forms the crux of the story.

And because no one has ever accused me of brevity, I’d like to go more into detail on my thoughts about Paa.

The Performances

Amitabh Bacchan: Starting off with the baap of the movie of course- Amitabh Bacchan. I have long maintained that Bacchan is not a “super star”. He’s an actor. I have a disdainful opinion of the word “super star”- It means nothing. Superstars need idiotic press coverage to stay in the limelight. For eg. “Preity Zinta moves bowls, plates feel left out.”Actors, on the other hand,  like Amitabh Bacchan can stand aside and let their work speak for themselves–because no amount of private screenings and character interviews will ever be able to do justice to his performance in the film. In Paa,  Amitabh Bacchan is at what I’m hoping is not the zenith of his acting career. Of course the make up and strong vision by the art direction team helped. Bacchan disappeared into the character of Auro. I would forgive his Lal Badshah’s and Boro Plus endorsements based solely on his performance in the film. I never understood what the hell the hype around him the superstar is, but I will be reverently bowing down my head to Amitabh Bacchan, the actor, every time I think of this performance.

Abhishek Bacchan: I have a love-hate relationship with Abhishek Bacchan, but no one has managed to remain constant in my heart more than he has. For every Dhoom and Dostana there’s a Yuva and a Paa. And in a movie with performances of the  bring-the-house-down variety from Amitabh Bacchan and Vidya Balan, Abhishek Bacchan has not received his due.  Junior B is back, in a big way. The scene in which he watches Auro sleep and breaks down is undoubtedly one of those moments when you are reminded of the fact that this man is the offspring of  two of the most prolific and popular actors in the short history of Hindi cinema.

Vidya Balan: She’s fucking gorgeous. Let’s just get that out of the way, because I’m constantly thinking about it, to the point that it distracts me from her performance. Her transition from the sultry and naive grad school student to the no-nonsense yet gentle and caring mother over the course of the film is natural, and the transition phase of a woman determined and resolute to keep a child that is not wanted is heart wrenching and beautiful. Vidya Balan bode her time with Kismat Konnections and Hey Babyys. I would love to see her do some Indie work (Even though the Indie film industry in India is regrettably small to the point of non-existence), so she can just keep churning out fantastic performances, one after another.

The Script

I have to admit that the salty-sweet Cheeni Kum did not leave much of an impression on me. I will be going back to watch it and might even post about it. The true hero of the film, Paa of course was R. Balki. His generous yet measured approach to the script and film left me satisfied and yet greedy for more in true “pet bhar gaya magar niyat nahin bhari” style. The universe of Paa is simply beautiful and poetic. It is a world where there are no mean kids making fun of the protagonist for being different and no one stands at the roadside to gape at anyone. I have to admit, that I was prepared to see a couple of scenes, at least, where Auro gets teased for being different by a bunch of cruel, taunting kids. I’m glad the preparation was in vain. All the issues of different-ness are dealt with and out of the way allowing the focus to remain on the cultivation of a relationship and its conclusion. On every level, just like the title suggested, the story was about a father-son relationship. The fact that the child was sick, was happenstance and did not take away from the film but added beautifully. Thematically tight, relentless and yet surprisingly gentle, Paa is a late night ride in a dark forest, a walk on the beach by the rising sun,  and a view of the stars as you sit on the roof when the power in your house goes out. I will of course, as you might have inferred, be watching the film again, but I did notice some themes featuring more prominently than the others- of time, of expectations and most beautifully portrayed, what it means to be human and what, on the most biological level is the reason for our existence.

Time

Time could almost have been a protagonist of the film. From the first meeting of Vidya(Vidya Balan) and Amol (Abhishek Bacchan) under a large clock (I’ve been unable to place where that is though I spend a bit of time on the Oxford University Campus. Yikes!) to the scene in which they go ’round round’ when both their  watch adorned wrists come together as if almost adding up the time they both wish they had with their dying son, making it more. The youngerAmol and Vidya ended up going different ways because careers had to be made, lessons had to be learned, there was no room for a baby in their relationship, the timing was just not right.  Even the nature of the disease that Auro suffers from is about the warp between time and a human body.
Expectations

Weather it be from politicians who are expected to be pure and therefore wear only white or Mr. Arte’s (Paresh Rawal) expectations of Amol, his son or even a woman, who cannot be unmarried and pregnant, expectations weigh heavily on the protagonists. I found myself re-thinking my own expectations and perceptions of a lot of things after this movie.

Man, as an animal

I was reminded after watching Paa, of the most basic reasons for our existence, on the purest, most biological level. Cutting through all our desires of self actualization and the cloak of expectations, standards and pressures, we are animals. We were born to procreate, to produce more of our kind, that is our purpose. Our ancestors realized this when they write “Be Fruitful and multiply” or why most Hindi T.V serials, when a married couple enters, the resident old character/person normally says something along the lines of  “Phallo Phullo.” The scene where Vidya, quietly points out to a patient who is too busy to have a child  and yet is suffering from some sort of a problem gynecological in nature, that her body is giving her the signs that it’s time for her to have a baby is indicative of this theme. A man and a woman’s body goes through the changes it does, because we are meant to phallo phullo. The scene between Amol Arte and his father at the hospital when he finds out that Auro is his son is heart wrenching and eye-opening.

(This is not verbatim, but as I remember it and it’s in English. It’s still freaking awesome though)

Mr. Arte: (To Amol) The media has gone crazy over the fact that you have this illegitimate child. They want to ruin your career. What you must do is tell them that it’s all a lie and that you were just feeling pity for this dying child which is why you stayed by his bedside all night.
Amol: Why are you saying this Dad?
Mr. Arte: Becasue you’re my son, and I love you and if anything comes in the way of you and your wishes then I want to stomp it out.
Amol: Auro too is my son, and I love him and if anything comes in the way of him and his wishes, I too want to stomp it out.
And it’s as simple as that, the need to protect your offspring, the simplest, most rudimentary biological impulse.  It’s just that, man, being what he truely is, an animal.

I’m going to try and convince my mom to watch the movie with me, even though I’m quiet sure she won’t be interested. Or will be making phone calls through the film.(She’s one of those)

There’s a whole political subplot that I’ve not made any mention of and I hear that the movie, when submitted to film festivals across the globe will be cut. I don’t mind that though, Paa in it’s most basic, visceral form, is still  a beautiful film.

Simply because this made me LOL, and becasue I'm three years old. I heart photoshop.

Post November blues

November has been, pretty much the most eventful year of 2009 so far. Well, there were other eventful months to be honest, but none of them that I would think of as eventful in a good way.

The play that I had been working on I am an Emotional Creature with Mahabanoo and Kaizaad Mody Kotwal (Poor Box Productions) which was written by Eve Ensler premiered at TATA theatre at NCPA Mumbai. We also did a few shows in Bangalore, my first visit to the city and then Nicholas came to India for the first time in his life. I did some stand up at Blue Frog through Weirdass Comedy’s HAMATEUR night.

Now I’m back to mornings of watching the dog getting his hair clipped and standing around making faces to agitate him while he is given a bath.

Eve Ensler is hugely popular in India. Her Vagina Monologues took  the nation by storm. Also produced by Poor Box Productions and the indomitable Mahabanoo Mody Kotwal, it has played in almost every major metropolis in India. It has inflamed politicians, infuriated censors and is still playing to packed houses almost everywhere.  So Eve’s next script I am an Emotional creature came with high expectations attached to it.

We were selected after a two-week long workshop process, and we finally became a cast of 10 who I think did a damn good job. It felt good to act with people who are in a good place in their careers because it makes me feel that I too will be all right, and out there in this  world, there is a spot for me too. The reception to the play was also pretty good. Bangalore audiences, I found out are more attuned to drama. People were bawling at the end of most of the monologues. I am an Emotional Creature, much like Vagina Monologues, is a series of monologues, told from the point of view of different girls from all around the world. What the play aimed to highlight was the fact that being a girl, is a universal experience, and no matter what the situation or dilemma, girls are a resilient albeit emotional lot.

I have to admit, I was not a fan of the Vagina Monologues. Entirely too much vagina in it if you ask me. I mean, we don’t have men walking around talking about the smells and taste of the penis poetically, even in Mills and Boons it was always known as something like the ‘member’ or at best his ‘manhood’

{Member (noun)

Meaning: Penis

Usage: Mick Jagger tried to enlarge his member by letting bees sting it/ His throbbing member responded to her heaving bosom and inviting eyes.

Manhood (noun)

Meaning: Also, Penis, maybe a nicer way of saying Penis than say, I don’t know…member

Usage: The light of the candle shone on her heaving bosom, and his manhood sprang to attention}

[EDIT: Does it seem like I've used the words "heaving bosom" too much in this post already? You're right, I have]

For men it never got as nice as  “love mound” or “honey pot.”

Everyone was very upset when one day in a skirt, on a swing, Oprah gleefully yelled “My vajajay is showing.” Why ,they ask, did she not say “My vagina is showing”? For the same reason that we don’t expect men to say, “My penis is so itchy”, before scratching their balls in public.

I am an emotional creature though is nothing like Vagina Monologues, had a lot of people imagining it to be a follow-up, which it was not. One of my favorite monologues was “The Thing about my Nose” performed by Gunjan Bakshi, about a 16-year-old in Iraq who is forced to get plastic surgery on her big nose by her parents because they think that “(she) will be a princess now.” But she loved her large nose, it gave her “history and mystery. It inspired (her) with wicked ideas.” My favorite performance, undoubtedly was Dilnaz Irani’s “Hunger Blog.” The text is sort of sparse, but Dilnaz created a whole character and story out of it. After having seen her explore every facet of the text and character very diligently during rehearsal, it was very satisfying to see her find herself on stage as an actor. (I was backstage during the Bombay performance, so I didn’t know how it went on the day of the show.)  The reviews were varied with Pragya Tiwari of HT Cafe bashing it for all it’s worth ( It’s not online unfortunately), iDiva being much, much kinder.

As the cast of the play, we had the fortune of meeting Eve Ensler, who came down and watched all of our performances. And her public image is EXACTLY the same as her personal one. The warmth she exudes is exceptional, the way she speaks is riveting, and her experiences and work have set her apart from the rest of the world in unimaginable ways. I remember sitting across the table from her at her hotel in Bangalore and knowing that I was in the presence of someone who had taken what she had done exceptional things, and will continue to do so. I was a little bit in awe.

In the process of course, I ended up making friends with 9 other wonderful girls, one wonderfully chocolate faced assistant director, and a mother-son duo, who share the kind of relationship that Rohinton Mistry’s character’s so plaintively long for.

Nick’s visit to India was amazing. I had an itinerary for every hour of our trip, one that was thrown out of the window almost as soon as he got here. There was too much hanging out in front of the T.V, over a beer and at a movie to be done with him, that I had rashly neglected to include in the itinerary. In his two weeks here however, we did manage to spend 5 days in Goa, 3 in Panchgani, go to an Indian wedding, get mehendi tattos (his, of a naked mermaid who has one arm draped carelessly across one boob, on his right arm, has given him the rash of a lifetime. Yes, I forced him to get it, yes I feel guilty) and rediscover each other. And of course my funny-yet politically correct-honey kept most of his observations about India to himself except “You guys are basically on the look out for a reason to start dancing all the time, right?” I had to respond with a guilty “Yes” before running off to dance to “chunari, chunari” in the middle of Pooja’s living room where everyone else had already been dancing for the past hour or so.

I am glad he came because I was reminded of how wonderful, kind, caring, gentle, patient and funny he is. This may will sound super corny, but even after years, I cannot believe my luck when it comes to having him in my life.

HAMATEUR night at Blue Frog was fun.  First off, kudos to Vir Das for being generous enough to give a platform to so many young people. Second off, he is a man after my heart because no one I know has managed to create such awesome puns from his own name in the history of awesomeness.

Vir Das’s show is: Walking on broken DAS

Vir Das’s comedy troupe is: Weird Ass (Say it quickly and it’s Veer-er-dass)

I like it. Keep it coming guys.

Of course, Mumbai audiences are more attuned to humor. Make me laugh or get off the fucking stage really. And as anticipated, poop/fat/facebook/Gujju jokes rule the roost. It’s all right though, in Mr. Das’s own words ” Nothing like a good song about STD’s.” We will grow as an audience I hope. We will. Sourabh Pant, another member of the troupe was also up there adding to the whole awesomeness of the night. He was there if any of the HAMATEURS wanted to run the material by him and his feedback was thoughtful, intelligent and helpful. It didn’t hurt that he was cute in a “who-me-?-oh-I’m-just-this-damn-nice-all-the-time-anyway” kind of way.

I’m looking forward to December, the end of 2009 is going to be great. I’m ready for things to start going very,very well.

Tight Security and Tweeting Salaciously

So as it turns out, there is no one better to comment about an Indian being detained at Newark airport, than an American.

Our newscasters were too buy calling what is only a routine security measure “a deep, deep shame,”an “utter humiliation” and a “Sharukh bites a quivering lip and holds back tears while big, mean man takes his liddle-widdle teddy bear.” Yes security personnel at Newark, you should be deeply ashamed of the your need to make sure that individuals who enter and leave the airport are going through the regular security channels, not to mention your penchant for liddle-widdle teddy bears. A cryin’ shame indeed.

Highlight: “It’s like a perpetual motion picture machine,” says Stewart gleefully. “He’s the dude-from-Twilight of Calcutta” declares Aasif Mandvi)

————————————————————————————————————————————————-

Can we leave Shashi Throor alone please?

His comments about using the “Cattle Class with the Holy Cows” was nothing but a witty, light-hearted remark in an off hand twitter conversation. Get over it. If you’re not smart enough to understand it, ask someone, if you still don’t get it. Shut the hell up.

The people who are making a big deal about the comment are also the same folks talking about what a useless, sad medium of communication is. (“Tweet is a very lonely man”) If tweet is such a lonely man (or such a sad, useless means of communication) why do you then give a hoot about what’s being said on it?

The guy uses twitter. Big fuckin’ whoop. That makes him more technologically advanced than…I’m going to venture an…EVERYBODY in the Parliament.

As Amit Verma pointed out, in a country that’s plagued by the lack of communication and accountability with and from our politicians, here is a man constantly communicating with over 1.5 lakh people, having conversations and making people aware of what goes on in the life of a MP.

Moreover, at the end of the day, this guy is my representative. Just like a boss who needs status reports on what his employees are doing, we the public deserve to know what Shashi Tharoor the MP is up to. His tweeting has bought a new level of transparency to our government, one that others will soon be expected to follow. I’m betting half of congress is pissing their pants at the thought of having to let people know how much work they’re doing (and most importantly, NOT doing) on a daily basis.

Especially in the past 15-20 years or so, we have been lamenting the brain drain phenomenon. Our smartest, brightest and best going off to serve other countries, leaving all us dumb folks behind. Well, Tharoor, with his international experience and education  has come back to serve his land. And instead of being grateful, we’re trying to bog him down with trivialities. No wonder our smartest, brightest and best run from politics with their tail tucked between their legs.

Shobha De, who is one of the very few commentators of our time, who has the equal ability to say a lot of things in two words, and nothing in 400, wrote about the issue, but disappointed severely. Amit Verma in this case, did not.

HAIR–The Vagina Monologues

(I was asked to perform the above monologue for a workshop recently for which I wrote a character study in the “stream of consciousness” style. Therefore it’s a first draft, no editing went into it.  )

It is just a gorgeous day outside and much like any other New Yorker who let’s the weather dictate his/her mood, I’m feeling great. I bought this fabulous pair of sunglasses that  make me feel fabulous. I slept in late today and I’ve taken Monday i.e. tomorrow off.  I’m so excited about staying home on a weekday even though I know that something will come up and I will end up working, albeit from home. Luckily I carried my work computer home so it’s not like I’ll be grasping at straws in case someone calls with a crisis.  I like work and I’ve very rarely been involved in office politics. In the 6 years since I started the company, I’ve never been friends with anyone of my employees. No after work drinks, it mixes up the personal and professional, a mess I’m happy to be far away from. I don’t even care what they think of me personally, as long as they produce good work, I’m perfectly all right with the way things are.

The subway ride here was rough, the L train is crowded nearly everyday, even on weekneds. Especially when the weather is nice, everyone wants to step out and over crowd the subways. I have to admit that I think these damn strollers are a fucking nuisance. They pack their children in these re-inforced, high-tech, futuristic prams as if the air will hurt their children. Leave them at home if you’re so concerned Goddammit. New York City is no place to be bringing up children. I had always thought I would move to Westchester or maybe Philadelphia when I have children.

Growing up, it was constantly drilled into our heads how lucky we were. Rosary two times a day was an almost too graphic description of Jesus’s journey to the tip of the hill with his cross. I tell people I’m a recovering Catholic. The last time I went to church was during the “Sex and the City” tour. You know those tours, that will take you to all the places that a T.V show was shot at? It was the St. Francis church from the episode when Samantha tries to seduce a priest. After mom died there was no need to keep up the charade of being holy. Dad didn’t care enough and when I went away to college, I even gave up Sunday mass.

It was dad that pushed me into marrying Steve. I was doing my undergrad at MIT, in Classical language and literature when I met Steve the math major. We kissed in the library stacks at about 3:30 in the morning while we were supposed to be studying for a test on Dante’s “Inferno.” How deliciously ironic. Dad said it would be a good idea. Where would I go after I graduated? The apt. we had called home for years was a rental and we had no relatives who would die and pleasantly surprise us with a very generous will. He said being married would help me save on rent.  It seemed like such a good reason to get married, to save on rent. Steve’s father did not spare any expense at the wedding. There was a string of foreign dignitaries, whose names I forgot in seconds of being introduced to them. We spent the entire night giggling like school children, imitating the accent of the Chinese ambassador to Brazil. Our marriage fell apart becasue of several reasons, some so absurd that even in the horrible pain and humiliation that divorce brought with it, I had to laugh.

After the divorce I had a a string of romances, mostly with ex-boyfriends, and one ex-girlfriend. I am single now, and damn happy for it. If I did get into anything with anyone, it would be highly inconvenient.

Caroline called this morning. The last time she had called, 8 yars ago, she said “Veronica, I’m moving dad to a home. He’ll like it there.” Just as I predicted. I was on the phone with a publishing house from Japan. They were desperately trying to position their new line of pornographic manga comics in the American market. He was saying how Japan maybe the birthplace of some strange sexual fetishes, it did not come close to the voracious American appetite for sex. America was puritanical, you see. I agreed with him, told him we didn’t have any plans in place to promote pornographic print in particular, placed him on hold and picked up Caroline’s call.  She wanted to see me at L’Express all the way downtown. She said it was urgent. She was married to the toast of the New York art scene, a short, fat balding man who squinted at everything as if he was looking at it for the first time. I ‘ve never seen his work, but I’m quiet sure his creativity is confined to the canvas. I’ve had more enlightening conversations with a doorknob. Now their marriage was falling apart. I made reservations, a table on the sidewalk and pre-ordered a bottle of 1991 Shiraz that I knew she liked.

I slipped into a yellow sun dress and my white pumps. I almost forgot my phone, and had to run back in to get it. The Japanese publisher had hung up or got cut off when I was on the phone with Caroline, he might just call back.

I feel like the sun came out specifically for me today. I’m going to have a great tan if I stay out till at least 2:30 in the afternoon. I know it’s not the way I’m supposed to be thinking, walking towards the story of the destruction of my sister’s marriage.  I’m not defending my callousness. It’s going to be a strange meal.

“Mumbai in Motion” redux

Nahin jaayega, aage waale se poocho.

The hanky was white, with a design on the edges that was so faded by repeated washings that I could not tell what it was anymore. When she would open it, the black seeds would lie there, insignificant as if unaware of their own power. Half an hour before the shoot would begin she would give me two seeds and I would put my head down in her lap. She would put me to sleep. I was in two public service ads. One of them was for smoking–Dhumrapaan nako kara.  The other was for water preservation.  In that one I am being given a bath by my on-screen father and a voice over who is then berated by a stern voiceover for leaving the tap on, letting the bucket overflow. That day, for some reason, the seeds did not take effect. We had to do the shot 22 times. The tap was on the entire time.

I was 12 years old and the Indian production lady at the casting for “Mumbai in Motion” took me to the head of the line. “He has experience,” she told the fat, white man behind the desk. She said to me, “Uncle ko hasao.” I grabbed my mother’s dupatta, stretched it out between my legs and danced like Salman Khan singing “Jawani Phir naa aaye.”

I was doing my homework on the floor by the main door when Lali ma came running down the lane, zig zagging clumsily between the open gutter and precariously sharp tiles. “Afzal America Jaayega! Award milega picchur ko!” she screamed.

Our bedrooms at the hotel were bigger than 4 houses in our lane put together. I ate pancakes with rich, golden syrup till I felt like vomiting. There was no tap near the western toilet, I sat on the pot for nearly two hours before the production lady came to find me and teach me how to use toilet paper.

I slept with the award under my bed every night. Newspaper-walas came to me and asked me how I felt to be home. They asked me if I was sad.  I told them I was very sad. They made me make sad faces and pose in the classroom. I complained about the heat and mosquitoes to them. I could not get used to it, you see, now that I had been to America for four days. My face was in the newspaper for weeks. When my grandfather died, my mother used her inheritance to buy a flat in Gowandi. The news-walas wrote two pages on it. They said that it was bought with the money I had made from the film. I went to a new school in a rickshaw every morning and sometimes they followed me in cars, taking pictures of me. I did an ad for Parle with Amitabh Bacchan. In India, people knew three names Amitabh Bacchan, Sachin Tendulkar and Afzal Sajjad.

Even after the news-walas stopped, the production lady came to see me at home sometimes. When  she saw my running nose and gaunt face asked me to stop. She said she would stop sending me money from the trust-fund that the fat, white man had set up for me.

Arre, but I am an actor. Bina aphim ke acting hota hai kya? Bhenchod log.

Haan boss, kidhar jaane ka hai?

Plugging into my hate.

The only reason I didn’t buy Glade candles regularly in the past is because I couldn’t afford them and the Duane Reade or Rite Aid brand fulfilled most of my candle-related needs. However, when there was a special occasion I would walk to the store and treat myself a “Clean Linen” scented Glade candle. Then I’d light it and wait for the entire house to fill with it’s glorious fragrance. I would then imagine that I had clean underwear for the next day, and that I did not have to  spend $10 and 3 hours at the laundromat trying to fold my underwear as soon as it comes out of the dryer so that people don’t see it.

Then one day I saw this on T.V:

They got the point across in the first 15 seconds.

Lady: Are you baking a fucking pie?
Lady in black dress: No it’s this wonderful candle.
Done. Why the fuck do we need to see 15 seconds more of these women chattering?  Worse still, is the maniacal cackling after the hostess is called out on her lie. I’ve heard more graceful sounding hyenas, also, it’s very mean. You are not baking a pie. It’s a lie. It’s a lie-pie. Gut-bustingly hilarious.

Maybe it was because she lied about it being French and her brilliant friend picked up on it and said Glaa-day instead of Glade?
I get it!

Also, out of curiosity, why is this woman dressed in this black dress and a pearl choker and pearl cuff and lighting candles all around the house, while her friends look like they just walked out from work at the DMV? She was obviously trying too hard, which will explain what happened.

Bad Glade. Bad!

But we forgive you, if only because of your apple-cinnamon scented candle.

But then, a week later, this abomination made it’s way to the airwaves.

And before I could change the channel, Christmas was around the corner. To celebrate, Glade harassed the networks with this piece of crap.

Is it just me or does this woman have a chronic lying problem? No wonder she has a different set of friends in every commercial. And every single time, they laugh at her, instead of telling her that they know she’s lying or that she should get some help.
Moreover her teeth are unreal, white and rectangular like large chicklets. Everytime I see her, I want to kick her in her large shiny veneers and watch them crumble like they do on Tom and Jerry.  (I’m a sad angry person with a lot of bottled up bitterness, sue me)
“They’re really good, and they’re really glade” She says sheepishly into the camera at then end of the commercial. But you said it was this was a boutique-y fragrance you got to plug into your karma…oh wait, that lying problem.

This is why a Glade candle is $3.99 while a good old Rite Aid candle is $1.99? This is what my two extra dollars goes towards? This woman with horse teeth lying to all her friends? Fuck that.

On the eighth day, God went to brunch at Indigo Cafe

And God said, let there be mushrooms, and there was mushroom cappuccino with truffle oil,  He said, “Let there be fish”, and there was baby rawas , He said “Let there be lamb” and there was lamb shank and last of all, He said “Ay Ganpat, chal daaru la” and there was pitcher of white wine sangria.

This very conveniently edited version of the opening of the world’s best selling book came to mind as I walked out of  the doors of Indigo Cafe this afternoon. Brunching with Dad on Sundays is a welcome ritual. Though, gastronomically, I’ve not been in the best shape since I moved back, jumping too eagerly into spicy plates of Sev Puri and glasses of water with grimy finger prints from bus boys with rags on their shoulders- which have led to having to excuse myself in social situations because I’ve had to attend to important “calls.”

So we chose Indigo Cafe, over the Blue Water Indo-Chinese buffet. Tucked into a lane Off Link Road in Andheri-Oshiwara, Indigo was located at the end of very bumpy lane, not the kind of place you would expect for a place like it to be. The valet found a place for our car to park, and even though we had no reservations, the waiters smiled and found a place for our asses to park in very little time. The decor style of Indigo Cafe is deceptively simple; divided into two sections by glass panes. We sat in what could be construed as the “outdoor” section, even though it was air conditioned and sunlight was streaming in through the opaque ceilings. The selection is diverse and American, like a New York bistro that I’m quiet sure would be packed on a Sunday afternoon, much like Indigo Cafe was.

And to add a disclaimer here- I have been a waitress before. I know what an absolute shit job it can be, but it can also be a lot of fun, when you actively make yourself a part of the experience for the diner. I’ve connected with people who I’ve served and met some very interesting ones.

At the prices we pay for dining out these days, food alone does not a a good restaurant make. The attitude in India towards wait staff is quite sad, where they can be perceived simply as people who carry the food back and forth the kitchen, as opposed to representatives of the restaurant or brand. They are the ones who are directly in contact with the point of sale and I think our service industry at large needs to wake up to that.

Having said that, Cafe Indigo was definitely more than a cut above the rest. Our server was polite, friendly, laughed at dad’s jokes like he genuinely enjoyed them and pretty much had us sold on anything that he said. One glass of  Sangria, at his suggestion, turned into a pitcher.  The wine was sweet though I was marginally disappointed to see only apples and pears in what is supposed to be an assorted fruit drink. (And even this, I thought I must mention, because the rest of the experience had me spouting superlatives, the good kind, so that I don’t seem biased.) Dad’s Baby Rawas that was on the 1 year anniversary menu, was delectable and Azra’s lamb shank meat fell off the bone and melted in your mouth before you had a chance to start chewing. My mushroom cappucino was what God had in mind when he first bestowed upon the earth, the holy gift of edible fungi.

We got talked into Molten Lava dessert. (Disclaimer time once again: I hate Molten anything. It’s just a bunch of chocolate cake, with chocolate sauce, and chocolate sprinkled on it, topped with chocolate shavings and a scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side. It’s pedestrian and unimaginative not to mention a whole lot of calories for two of the most common flavors in the dessert world.) Of course, Cafe Indigo, proved my fears unfounded. Chocolate whipped into a frenzy carefully placed in layers in a tiny square with a snowy dusting of powered sugar and the mandatory scoop of vanilla ice cream blew my mind. It was light, unique and sinful, a perfect ending to a perfect meal.

Two entrees, one soup, one side, a pitcher of Sangria and a dessert put us back by Rs.3000. Not the cheapest brunch excursion, but one worth every single rupee.

As we walked out to get into the car that the valet promptly retrieved for us, I know we will be back soon. What a treat this was!

And so on the 8th day, He called up a bunch of friends, and God went to brunch at Indigo Cafe. And that is the word of the Lord.

Sadly, I did not find a website to link to, but if you ever find yourself in the Andheri-Oshiwara area I would suggest getting your reservations in place and definitely making the time for a heavenly experience.

How do you say “Brilliant” in Icelandic?

Nick introduced me to Sigur Ros when we were just getting to know each other. Moments of the first few months we spent together, are punctuated by their music and so I think I’m particularly partial to them. During those days, as we sat  at Heddon watching the sky reflected in the placid water of the lake, Sigur Ros would play in our heads and I desperately hoped that time would stand still forever. Having introduced others to their music, I have known no one to have an insignificant reaction to Sigur Ros. And you will never forget that moment when the first strains of their music float into your consciousness.

An Icelandic band, Sigur Ros is comprised of jón þor (jónsi) birgisson (vocals, guitars), kjartan (kjarri) sveinsson (keyboards), orri páll dýrason (drums) and georg (goggi) holm (bass) and were formed in 1994.  At best their music defies description (and therefore I will attempt the next two paragraphs!). Sweeping, ephemeral, ethereal, unworldly and untouched much like the landscapes of their homeland, their music has progressed from ambient and conceptual to raw, dark and powerful all the while never losing the feeling of utter bliss that fans have so come to expect from their music over the course of their four albums.

I personally think that Sigur Ros’s music evokes some fantastic imagery and dreamscapes, a marriage of sound and sight and story that’s only been achieved effectively by a few others such as Japan based Mono and the US based Explosions in the Sky. The music grabs your hand, breaks out into an even smooth run and try as you might to keep up with your feet, you feel them lift off the ground and you have no choice but to give in to the soft, firm grip, flowing with it.

I’m not one of those people who seems to have head phones growing out of her ears. Even while running, the sound of the treadmills groaning and screeching seems to me more rhythmic and comforting than actual music.  So, to me, the impact of  Sigur Ros is over whelming, emotional, visceral and inspiring.

And as if it’s not enough that their music is mind bending, they go and make this video for “Svefn-g-englar” from their second album “Agætis byrjun.” (The people in the video are all members of Perlan theatre group, an Icelandic group of downs syndrome actors)

I don’t make bold claims enough I am told, but I have no qualms about the fact that once you’ve heard Sigur Ros, life will never be the same again.

So welcome to the rest of your life.