When I was a teenager, I never thought I would want to be teacher. I didn't see the charm in doing the same thing day after day, year after year. But after coming to America and starting to teach, it began to grow on me. And although I am not sure I want to teach for the rest of my life, I know I want to be associated with it in some form or other for as long as possible. I love the thrill of exploring new course material, the satisfaction of introducing something provocative in my classrooms just to see student reactions and the joy of knowing towards the end of a semester that this too got wrapped up neatly.
However, there are times when I question the very right to education, whether it should be a right at all and be extended to everyone, or whether it should be treated like the privilege it is at its core and restricted to only those who prove, really prove, that they deserve it. Or maybe, it's none of these things, it's just that current teaching methods and textbooks of the world need an overhaul.
This post is prompted by the gems I read recently from my first-year college students' History of World Civilizations test papers. I taught two sections totaling up to about 150 students. Given that like most teachers of the world, all that I can actually do is just grade or make little notes in the margin, I felt my creativity was being curbed. So, in this post, I made amends. The sentences are what my students wrote, but in brackets is what I desperately wanted to write as my response.
Q. Who as Prophet Mohammad?
A. Before Muslim religion entered Arabia, Arabs were Hindus and Confucius.
The Profit Mohammed was a cool guy. (And he was profitable to have, which made him even cooler.)
A. Islam was made up by combining ideas of Christianity and Muslimism. (This might be my absolute favorite.) Mohammad was the prophet of both the Muslims and the Islamics. (I want to meet at least two Islamics in my life.)
Q. Who was the Buddha?
A. Buddha's real name was Gandhi. (And he attacked the British in 400 BC by flinging chants at them.)
A. Buddhism involves worshiping The Bud. (How much of The Weed are you on, my friend?)
A. Buddha is the one who prays to the Buddah. (I loved this. Very existential.)
A. The Buddha is always in agreement with Allah. (Well, yes, in a matter of speaking.)
A. Buddha is basically THE GOD of the Hindu religion. (AMEN.)
A. The Buddha is not a person, it is a way of life. (Deep. Very deep.)
A. You can become the Buddah once you see everything. (I agree.)
Q. Who are Shias?
A. Shias and Sunnis differ on the issue of who should succeed Brahmid. (I had to call a friend after this one.)
A. Shias are Islams who believe government officials should be elected.
A. Shias can be gods and goddesses. (I like that there is no curb on their freedom of choice.)
A. Shias are nomadic people who do agriculture. (And Sunnis neither like to travel nor grow produce.)
A. Shias believe you need to keep moving constantly to pray to god because god is everywhere. (I am mildly disturbed at the thought of Shias being restless, little children.)
A. Shias are Muslims who believe that Buddhist leaders should be descendants of Buddha and Ali. (I appreciate that Shias should care so much about Buddhist leadership. This is tolerance at its best.)
A. Shias are middle-eastern people who are actually Christians. (Yes. Deep, very deep inside their souls.)
A. Shias feel differently about Hinduism. (Oh no! Why? That is so sad.)
Q. Was a conflict between the Romans and Jesus inevitable?
A. Yes, they both had strong feelings. (Yes. But about what? Hmm...mysterious. Very mysterious.)
A. Yes, because Jesus taught Jewish stuffs and Romans were Roman Catholic.
A. Yes because Jesus being around got people to get excited but that doesn't exactly means the man should have to get nailed to a cross and sufficate. (Don't you love the image of Jesus running around getting people excited randomly?)
A. Yes, because Jesus flipped over tables in a temple and lost his temper. This got him noticed. (Someone should have kept an eye on this crazy dude!)
A. Yes, because Jesus had too many opinions.
A. Yes, because Jesus kept getting elected as the King of Jews. (Oh, those Jews and their democracy!)
A. Jesus got into conflict with the Roman Empire because he didn't like their churches. (No, he didn't think they were pretty enough.)
Q. Name the countries of Scandinavia.
A. Pakistan, Afghanistan, Syria and Iraq.
A. Mesomatamia and Morrocow. (I like.)
A. Australia and Tailand. (I like even more.)
A. Delhi, Mecca, Medina, Damascus,Tunis. (I love.)
Q. Name 6 countries of Southeast Asia.
A. Asia, Islam and China.
A. Mecca, Medina, Cairo.
A. Greece, Iraq and Iran. (Yes, because they are all right next to each other.)
A. There are no countries here. It is just a chain of 20,000 islands. (All of which are waiting patiently for Columbus' arrival.)
A. Sicily, etc. (I rest my case.)
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
Our Schools, Their Schools
Teachers are always Ma’am(s) and Sir(s)
Teachers addressed by name
Text books with lengthy paragraphs
Text books with pictures, back to being twelve
Multimedia teaching is a rarity
Multimedia teaching is a way of life, god bless youtube
High propensity to cheat
Even higher potential of academic honesty
Good grades should be announced to all, Pappu pass ho gaya
Grades are a private matter
Parents aware of child’s performance throughout education cycle
Invasion of privacy if parents want to know their 18-year old’s scores
The same teachers and methods continue unthreatened forever
Anonymous appraisals by students, you know exactly why you’re liked or not
Office hours may or may not be held, teacher’s whim can’t be questioned
Too many office hour misses and someone’s bound to notice
Far, far more serious and hardworking
Life’s a peach, it’s mine for plucking.
Teachers addressed by name
Text books with lengthy paragraphs
Text books with pictures, back to being twelve
Multimedia teaching is a rarity
Multimedia teaching is a way of life, god bless youtube
High propensity to cheat
Even higher potential of academic honesty
Good grades should be announced to all, Pappu pass ho gaya
Grades are a private matter
Parents aware of child’s performance throughout education cycle
Invasion of privacy if parents want to know their 18-year old’s scores
The same teachers and methods continue unthreatened forever
Anonymous appraisals by students, you know exactly why you’re liked or not
Office hours may or may not be held, teacher’s whim can’t be questioned
Too many office hour misses and someone’s bound to notice
Far, far more serious and hardworking
Life’s a peach, it’s mine for plucking.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
The Goddess of Emails
The first time I moved out of my parents' home to start living independently was when I got a job in Chandigarh. As far as I was concerned, this was a big step. I had just quit working as an editor in a publishing house that believed in paying peanuts but producing close to 65 books a month. Compare it to most other publishing houses in India, this number is about 13 times the normal, industry output. I had worked there for a year and realized that although fun, the insane workload and the exploitative boss were not worth it.
Chandigarh looked exciting because I was joining a big, multinational corporation, where I would be only one among the 2000+ employees they already had. I was going to earn nearly twice of what I had been making. I was moving in to a new city, where I knew no one, I would have to start to learn how to cook, keep house, pay all my bills, etc. etc. Exciting as this, it was also nerve-wracking, and scary.
But most importantly, it was intimidating. Even the thought that I wouldn't walk home and see my parents and my brother everyday was enough to depress me. Add to that the fact that I would have to leave nearly all my friends behind. I wanted to include them all in my life, as I previously had.
Blogging hadn't captured the imagination of the world back then. So I decided to use the then time-honored practice of writing one good, solid email, and then sending it to nearly all my friends. I would like to think that the emails were detailed and chatty, that they were interesting and not sleep-inducing, and that they hinted, subtly, that the sender was desperate for responses. Because she was lonely and homesick.
Some friends replied fairly frequently. Others once in a while. Yet others, never. It was the last group that baffled me. What happened? Didn't they like me any more? Was it the classic out of sight out of mind syndrome? Or didn't they get my email? Or did my email offend them in some way?
Finally, curiosity got the better of me. So, one day, I picked up the telephone and called one of these inscrutable folks. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, I asked the question I had been dying to ask.
"Oh, yes, " my friend said, "I got all your emails."
"But I never heard back from you."
"I didn't think it was that important."
"Why not?"
"Well, these were all mass emails, right? Sent to everyone? These aren't something you had composed or sent just to me. So, I thought it was okay to not respond."
I got such a "mass email" today. I am going to reply to it as soon as this post is up. At the same time, I know for a fact that forget mass emails, I have been fairly infrequent in the recent past vis-a-vis personal emails.
In the complex pantheon of gods that is Hinduism, we need one for email etiquette. And I want Her to bless me with fingers that can type faster, a mind that can think of perfect responses every single time, and a conscience that does not forgive slacking.
I am waiting for an email with the subject line "Tathastu!" to reach me at sayan10e@gmail.com. ASAP.
Chandigarh looked exciting because I was joining a big, multinational corporation, where I would be only one among the 2000+ employees they already had. I was going to earn nearly twice of what I had been making. I was moving in to a new city, where I knew no one, I would have to start to learn how to cook, keep house, pay all my bills, etc. etc. Exciting as this, it was also nerve-wracking, and scary.
But most importantly, it was intimidating. Even the thought that I wouldn't walk home and see my parents and my brother everyday was enough to depress me. Add to that the fact that I would have to leave nearly all my friends behind. I wanted to include them all in my life, as I previously had.
Blogging hadn't captured the imagination of the world back then. So I decided to use the then time-honored practice of writing one good, solid email, and then sending it to nearly all my friends. I would like to think that the emails were detailed and chatty, that they were interesting and not sleep-inducing, and that they hinted, subtly, that the sender was desperate for responses. Because she was lonely and homesick.
Some friends replied fairly frequently. Others once in a while. Yet others, never. It was the last group that baffled me. What happened? Didn't they like me any more? Was it the classic out of sight out of mind syndrome? Or didn't they get my email? Or did my email offend them in some way?
Finally, curiosity got the better of me. So, one day, I picked up the telephone and called one of these inscrutable folks. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, I asked the question I had been dying to ask.
"Oh, yes, " my friend said, "I got all your emails."
"But I never heard back from you."
"I didn't think it was that important."
"Why not?"
"Well, these were all mass emails, right? Sent to everyone? These aren't something you had composed or sent just to me. So, I thought it was okay to not respond."
I got such a "mass email" today. I am going to reply to it as soon as this post is up. At the same time, I know for a fact that forget mass emails, I have been fairly infrequent in the recent past vis-a-vis personal emails.
In the complex pantheon of gods that is Hinduism, we need one for email etiquette. And I want Her to bless me with fingers that can type faster, a mind that can think of perfect responses every single time, and a conscience that does not forgive slacking.
I am waiting for an email with the subject line "Tathastu!" to reach me at sayan10e@gmail.com. ASAP.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
She Asked For It
I am currently reading the first of the four books that the Bangladeshi feminist author, Taslima Nasreen, wrote about her life. The title of the book is Aamar Meyebela or My Girlhood.
It's interesting that Bengali, my mother tongue, and also Nasreen's, has no actual word to denote girlhood. The word for childhood is chhelebela, or boyhood. So no matter whether you are a girl or a boy, your experience of childhood cannot be the uni-gender "childhood." It has to be "boyhood." So in naming her memoir, Nasreen actually made up a new word.
But a common language is all that we share. I grew up in a prejudice-free family, Nasreen did not. I lived for the most part in the capital city of India and got away with almost everything I wanted to say or do. Now I live in a country, where I have had to give up a few freedoms because I am not a citizen here, but most basic civic freedoms are granted to me. Not in Nasreen's case.
In her memoir, she candidly talks about all the times when if female children were born to any family, the parents openly wailed. Or they sent their girls to schools for a limited number of years, if at all, simply because in their point of view, women didn't require higher education. Just as they didn't need to learn how to climb trees, fly kites, run in the fields, or read for pleasure.
At present, several of Nasreen's books are banned in her own country. But her citizenship was canceled and she became a political refugee post the publication of her notorious book titled Shame, a novel that didn't portray her countrymen in an appropriate light.
As someone trying to write something worthwhile, I feel deep compassion for Nasreen. She hasn't been to her motherland in years because there is a price on her head over there. She splits her time between Europe and India and in spite of her scores of awards, bold words, intriguing stories, and obvious love for the land she grew up in, she is not welcome in her own home. There could be few things more tragic than that.
But then, like most women in most parts of the world, Nasreen got this treatment because "she asked for it," didn't she?
It's interesting that Bengali, my mother tongue, and also Nasreen's, has no actual word to denote girlhood. The word for childhood is chhelebela, or boyhood. So no matter whether you are a girl or a boy, your experience of childhood cannot be the uni-gender "childhood." It has to be "boyhood." So in naming her memoir, Nasreen actually made up a new word.
But a common language is all that we share. I grew up in a prejudice-free family, Nasreen did not. I lived for the most part in the capital city of India and got away with almost everything I wanted to say or do. Now I live in a country, where I have had to give up a few freedoms because I am not a citizen here, but most basic civic freedoms are granted to me. Not in Nasreen's case.
In her memoir, she candidly talks about all the times when if female children were born to any family, the parents openly wailed. Or they sent their girls to schools for a limited number of years, if at all, simply because in their point of view, women didn't require higher education. Just as they didn't need to learn how to climb trees, fly kites, run in the fields, or read for pleasure.
At present, several of Nasreen's books are banned in her own country. But her citizenship was canceled and she became a political refugee post the publication of her notorious book titled Shame, a novel that didn't portray her countrymen in an appropriate light.
As someone trying to write something worthwhile, I feel deep compassion for Nasreen. She hasn't been to her motherland in years because there is a price on her head over there. She splits her time between Europe and India and in spite of her scores of awards, bold words, intriguing stories, and obvious love for the land she grew up in, she is not welcome in her own home. There could be few things more tragic than that.
But then, like most women in most parts of the world, Nasreen got this treatment because "she asked for it," didn't she?
Saturday, September 05, 2009
Best Laid Plans
And so, I am back.
I guess I love words and the freedom to jot them down online too much to stay away for too long.
But there is something that happened to trigger me into resuscitating this blog this morning. What was going to be another regular trip to the farmers market today turned out to be a little more than that.
There I was strolling around, taking in the sights and smells of yet another sunshine-soaked Saturday. Bouquets of sunflowers and lavender, the meaty steam of freshly cooked chorizo, the lovely softness of fresh peaches, and the casual pace of all of us who had gathered at Moscow's Friendship Square to buy from local artists and farmers.
My red backpack was firmly on my shoulders, its weight evenly distributed. I held a cup of hot, bitter coffee in my right hand, a bag of freshly-baked jalapeno focaccia--that wonderfully flavorful Italian bread--in my left hand, when I noticed her, perhaps the youngest craftsman at the market.
Her long brown hair came down almost to her waist and her head bobbed over the many earrings she was selling. Beaded and handmade, they looked pretty and irresistible. She was busy talking to another customer, who glanced over at me and exclaimed,
"Can you believe this? She is nine years old and all this jewelry, she has made herself!"
"Really?" I asked, stepping a little closer.
"Yes," the girl replied.
"And is this a hobby? A class project?" I asked, fishing for the right response.
"No. I just want to earn enough money, save, and go to Paris."
"Wow! That's an incredible plan. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life when I was nine."
"Neither did I! I still don't and I am fifty-two!" My co-customer laughed.
Ten minutes later, we both left the little girl's shop, having purchased a couple of pairs of bead earrings ourselves. Even if those few dollars go into helping the little traveler buy just one bottle of water in super-expensive Paris, I would think I helped feed her wanderlust.
Good luck to you, dear friend. May Paris come to you soon.
I guess I love words and the freedom to jot them down online too much to stay away for too long.
But there is something that happened to trigger me into resuscitating this blog this morning. What was going to be another regular trip to the farmers market today turned out to be a little more than that.
There I was strolling around, taking in the sights and smells of yet another sunshine-soaked Saturday. Bouquets of sunflowers and lavender, the meaty steam of freshly cooked chorizo, the lovely softness of fresh peaches, and the casual pace of all of us who had gathered at Moscow's Friendship Square to buy from local artists and farmers.
My red backpack was firmly on my shoulders, its weight evenly distributed. I held a cup of hot, bitter coffee in my right hand, a bag of freshly-baked jalapeno focaccia--that wonderfully flavorful Italian bread--in my left hand, when I noticed her, perhaps the youngest craftsman at the market.
Her long brown hair came down almost to her waist and her head bobbed over the many earrings she was selling. Beaded and handmade, they looked pretty and irresistible. She was busy talking to another customer, who glanced over at me and exclaimed,
"Can you believe this? She is nine years old and all this jewelry, she has made herself!"
"Really?" I asked, stepping a little closer.
"Yes," the girl replied.
"And is this a hobby? A class project?" I asked, fishing for the right response.
"No. I just want to earn enough money, save, and go to Paris."
"Wow! That's an incredible plan. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life when I was nine."
"Neither did I! I still don't and I am fifty-two!" My co-customer laughed.
Ten minutes later, we both left the little girl's shop, having purchased a couple of pairs of bead earrings ourselves. Even if those few dollars go into helping the little traveler buy just one bottle of water in super-expensive Paris, I would think I helped feed her wanderlust.
Good luck to you, dear friend. May Paris come to you soon.
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Epilogue
Long ago, I learned to say, to anyone who bothered to listen, "When people say they are too busy or they don't have the time for something they are just being polite. It's the easiest way to say, may be even apologetically, 'Sorry, but I am not interested.'"
This is the 136th post on this blog. And although the blog itself was created in a time and space that seem far far away, it's been a good ride of two and a half years. But like all good things, this too needs to die. Perhaps to rejuvenate and come back. Perhaps to find something else worthwhile.
Or perhaps to find a better excuse than, "I am too busy."
To everyone who read this blog and commented, to all those friendships that were made and lost here, my sincerest "thank you." Be well. And keep writing.
This is the 136th post on this blog. And although the blog itself was created in a time and space that seem far far away, it's been a good ride of two and a half years. But like all good things, this too needs to die. Perhaps to rejuvenate and come back. Perhaps to find something else worthwhile.
Or perhaps to find a better excuse than, "I am too busy."
To everyone who read this blog and commented, to all those friendships that were made and lost here, my sincerest "thank you." Be well. And keep writing.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Scars
Dear Mr. Rishi Kapoor
Hello Sir! How are you doing? Long time no see. Or am I to really count your appearance on Thoda Pyar Thoda Magic? Where you yourself looked extremely uncomfortable as God. But then again not as uncomfortable as Mr. Bachchan in God Tussi Great Ho. Coming back to TPTM, just one question sir, what the hell were you thinking? Playing mentor to Rani Mukherji's less than convincing angel act must have been traumatic. My sympathies.
But speaking of trauma, Sir, what is this I hear about an upcoming movie called Karzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz? I understand that remakes must state everything with more eloquence, but this is still way too drawn out. Even if I could forgive the spelling, how, how, how could you let Himesh be the one in charge of the role you played once? Remember that year? 1980? I actually don't, having been just born. But you were a strapping young man who played Monty to perfection. Just your enthusiasm, screen presence, youthful good looks were enough to make a movie on reincarnation and revenge entertaining beyond belief. And then there was the fine music of course. No, I am not even going into the discussion of how "original" the tracks were. I am only harping on the fact that your Karz was part of a wonderful childhood, and I am angry that the memory of that is going to be decimated and then pulverized in less than a month's time.
Please Sir, I don't care what you need to do. Go on a hunger strike, weep tears of blood, do another badly written role of God, but whatever it is, please try and stop this film from ever getting released. Or even if it must be released, let it only tour Mumbai. Let it not embarrass the rest of the country or the world.
Alright Sir, be good. I shall keep you in my prayers.
Sincerely,
The One Who Saw the Trailer of Karzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz for the First Time Today and is Scarred Forever.
Hello Sir! How are you doing? Long time no see. Or am I to really count your appearance on Thoda Pyar Thoda Magic? Where you yourself looked extremely uncomfortable as God. But then again not as uncomfortable as Mr. Bachchan in God Tussi Great Ho. Coming back to TPTM, just one question sir, what the hell were you thinking? Playing mentor to Rani Mukherji's less than convincing angel act must have been traumatic. My sympathies.
But speaking of trauma, Sir, what is this I hear about an upcoming movie called Karzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz? I understand that remakes must state everything with more eloquence, but this is still way too drawn out. Even if I could forgive the spelling, how, how, how could you let Himesh be the one in charge of the role you played once? Remember that year? 1980? I actually don't, having been just born. But you were a strapping young man who played Monty to perfection. Just your enthusiasm, screen presence, youthful good looks were enough to make a movie on reincarnation and revenge entertaining beyond belief. And then there was the fine music of course. No, I am not even going into the discussion of how "original" the tracks were. I am only harping on the fact that your Karz was part of a wonderful childhood, and I am angry that the memory of that is going to be decimated and then pulverized in less than a month's time.
Please Sir, I don't care what you need to do. Go on a hunger strike, weep tears of blood, do another badly written role of God, but whatever it is, please try and stop this film from ever getting released. Or even if it must be released, let it only tour Mumbai. Let it not embarrass the rest of the country or the world.
Alright Sir, be good. I shall keep you in my prayers.
Sincerely,
The One Who Saw the Trailer of Karzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz for the First Time Today and is Scarred Forever.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Debris
While poking around some remnants of the past, I chanced upon my first assignment here at the University. It had to be a short story within 700 words or less and on any of the seven deadly sins. According to the Bible, these are: pride, sloth, envy, greed, gluttony, lust, and anger.
A lot has happened since that assignment. I have completed two years in the program and most importantly changed my track from fiction to non-fiction. So I don't write stories any more, I write essays instead.
So, here it is.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Perfection
I am on my way to pick up my seventh award of the year. Incidentally, today is my father's birthday. He would have turned sixty today had he been alive. He died three years ago, rather prematurely. He still had so many years of professional success and personal glory before him. I miss him, he was my best friend. But that trek in the lower Himalayas, and that fatal combination of slippery earth, monsoon sky, increased body weight, and finally the slip. That's how it ended for Dad.
Sadly enough, he had always been a mountain person. As a child I used to love listening to the stories my grandmother used to tell me about Dad's adventurous boyhood, when he used to beg his parents to take him to their ancestral village simply because it was surrounded by mountains, thus giving him an opportunity to explore and pretend to be Alexander on yet another dare-devil adventure.
Then one fine day, in his twelfth year, he happened to accompany his parents to a party thrown by some of their friends. Incidentally, the country's leading music composer was also a friend of the hosts and had been invited to the same party. A chance conversation, and the gentleman was convinced that the young boy he had just spoken to had something special about him. Under his influence my grandparents -- who until then had never paid much attention to whether or not their boy could sing -- put my father under rigorous music coaching.
Six months later, Dad made his stage debut. With time it became apparent that he was exceptionally talented, that he could sing literally any thing, on any key, with or without any accompanying music.
By the time he was nineteen, Dad had recorded his third album. This one too was a runaway success, and there was just no looking back. Songs, albums, concerts, fortune, fame, and a succession of wives and children followed as did pride, complacency, and an increasing love for alcohol. Yet, in spite of it all, he continued making magic with his voice, and the world loved him for it.
I am my father's eldest child, and like all good sons, I inherited his height, his looks, and even his voice. As a child, and even as a young man, it was a matter of no small pride. I was the object of everyone's envy. Not only was I the son of the country's most popular male singer, but I also sounded like him! I won every competition I participated in, I had girls fawning all over me everywhere I went, I had people of all ages and backgrounds eating out of my hands. It seemed the best thing in the world when I got offered my first independent song, and with it, what seemed at that time at least, a huge amount of money.
The first few months went off rather beautifully. I sang some really nice songs and that too with debutant musicians, so all of us had the same thirst to do well. They let me experiment with my voice, and I loved it. I began to enjoy my work, and even got married to my college sweetheart.
I remember clearly how the bubble burst. One June night my heavily pregnant wife said to me, "Dearest, sing that song I love, and this time sing it exactly like your father. I love it even more then." I indulged her. Just the way I had to indulge the next crop of music composers, who wanted my father for their songs but could not afford him, and I had a family to feed.
The tide continued to grow, it overwhelmed me and swept my protests aside. But through it all, Dad stood by me. He had always been my closest friend, and I knew how much it hurt him to see my increasing frustration and despair. He tried his best to step back, to curtail his kind of singing, to push me ahead, to encourage me to sing in my distinctive style, but his hands were tied. After all, these were the pressures of the market. We could do nothing to change it, we were two mere commodities in a ruthless world of buy and sell. At least we had each other, along with a common love for food, treks, and our mutual friendship.
But the last trek changed it all. I remember how on that fateful day, I was walking behind Dad, taking in the fresh mountain air and the clear blue sky when suddenly Dad lost his balance and skidded, and even before my hand could reach out to save him, he hit his head on the sharp rock jutting out of the side of the mountain. His skull cracked and he died instantly. I could do nothing to save my father, the man who gave me my life, and my voice. There he lay, my father, my best friend, and I could do nothing.
Except close his eyes and tell myself, "Finally perfection will mean my kind of music."
A lot has happened since that assignment. I have completed two years in the program and most importantly changed my track from fiction to non-fiction. So I don't write stories any more, I write essays instead.
So, here it is.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Perfection
I am on my way to pick up my seventh award of the year. Incidentally, today is my father's birthday. He would have turned sixty today had he been alive. He died three years ago, rather prematurely. He still had so many years of professional success and personal glory before him. I miss him, he was my best friend. But that trek in the lower Himalayas, and that fatal combination of slippery earth, monsoon sky, increased body weight, and finally the slip. That's how it ended for Dad.
Sadly enough, he had always been a mountain person. As a child I used to love listening to the stories my grandmother used to tell me about Dad's adventurous boyhood, when he used to beg his parents to take him to their ancestral village simply because it was surrounded by mountains, thus giving him an opportunity to explore and pretend to be Alexander on yet another dare-devil adventure.
Then one fine day, in his twelfth year, he happened to accompany his parents to a party thrown by some of their friends. Incidentally, the country's leading music composer was also a friend of the hosts and had been invited to the same party. A chance conversation, and the gentleman was convinced that the young boy he had just spoken to had something special about him. Under his influence my grandparents -- who until then had never paid much attention to whether or not their boy could sing -- put my father under rigorous music coaching.
Six months later, Dad made his stage debut. With time it became apparent that he was exceptionally talented, that he could sing literally any thing, on any key, with or without any accompanying music.
By the time he was nineteen, Dad had recorded his third album. This one too was a runaway success, and there was just no looking back. Songs, albums, concerts, fortune, fame, and a succession of wives and children followed as did pride, complacency, and an increasing love for alcohol. Yet, in spite of it all, he continued making magic with his voice, and the world loved him for it.
I am my father's eldest child, and like all good sons, I inherited his height, his looks, and even his voice. As a child, and even as a young man, it was a matter of no small pride. I was the object of everyone's envy. Not only was I the son of the country's most popular male singer, but I also sounded like him! I won every competition I participated in, I had girls fawning all over me everywhere I went, I had people of all ages and backgrounds eating out of my hands. It seemed the best thing in the world when I got offered my first independent song, and with it, what seemed at that time at least, a huge amount of money.
The first few months went off rather beautifully. I sang some really nice songs and that too with debutant musicians, so all of us had the same thirst to do well. They let me experiment with my voice, and I loved it. I began to enjoy my work, and even got married to my college sweetheart.
I remember clearly how the bubble burst. One June night my heavily pregnant wife said to me, "Dearest, sing that song I love, and this time sing it exactly like your father. I love it even more then." I indulged her. Just the way I had to indulge the next crop of music composers, who wanted my father for their songs but could not afford him, and I had a family to feed.
The tide continued to grow, it overwhelmed me and swept my protests aside. But through it all, Dad stood by me. He had always been my closest friend, and I knew how much it hurt him to see my increasing frustration and despair. He tried his best to step back, to curtail his kind of singing, to push me ahead, to encourage me to sing in my distinctive style, but his hands were tied. After all, these were the pressures of the market. We could do nothing to change it, we were two mere commodities in a ruthless world of buy and sell. At least we had each other, along with a common love for food, treks, and our mutual friendship.
But the last trek changed it all. I remember how on that fateful day, I was walking behind Dad, taking in the fresh mountain air and the clear blue sky when suddenly Dad lost his balance and skidded, and even before my hand could reach out to save him, he hit his head on the sharp rock jutting out of the side of the mountain. His skull cracked and he died instantly. I could do nothing to save my father, the man who gave me my life, and my voice. There he lay, my father, my best friend, and I could do nothing.
Except close his eyes and tell myself, "Finally perfection will mean my kind of music."
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Two Kinds of Endorsements
I have sometimes been accused of having more tolerance for movies than for people. I think my justification, at least to myself, has been that a trashy movie can be shelved and forgotten but the impact of a trashy person can last a lifetime.
However, I sincerely believe that viewers like me, who will watch almost anything that comes out of Hollywood in the name of entertainment, and everything that comes out from Bollywood to curb their homesickness, should take the blame when products such as God Tussi Great Ho are released to the wider world. In the recent past, I have even sat through the entire screening of wonders such as Loha, Disco Dancer, Saudagar, Red, etc. to name a few. And it was with similar expectation or maybe a trifle more that I started my personal experience with God Tussi...
It is beyond my comprehension to understand why Salman Khan needed to not talk, nor scream, nor cry during the movie but screech instead. Or why Priyanka Chopra kept switching her nose ring from the left to the right nostril. As someone with a pierced nose, I can safely declare that getting one nostril pierced does not sort of guarantee the piercing of its twin, no, neither by osmosis, nor by auto suggestion. The supporting cast comprised, most memorably of, Anupam Kher and Sohail Khan. The former played an angry, bitter father, who apparently has a heart of gold buried somewhere really deep inside. So Kher mouths supposedly laugh-out-loud dialogues like, “Arrey jis din meri kali kalooti beti ki shaadi ho jayegi, us din...” Ah! Emancipated times! Particularly true in a country like ours where Bollywood actors are deified, their words are treated like those from gods, and where being fair-complexioned is one of the most coveted virtues. Sohail Khan is, well, never mind. I never did judge a movie by his inclusion in it. But the biggest surprise is Amitabh Bachchan who plays God in the movie. Why at this ripe old age he had to play a half-baked, nit-witted character defies all logic. This is a god, who unlike Morgan Freeman’s in Bruce Almighty, is super zzz inducing boring. He sounds like those pedantic and monotonous teachers from school who went on and on, and as students you could almost imagine the words “NOT FUN” to be engraved on their foreheads.
But a movie that as a viewer I should be proud of and also endorse is the Meryl Streep starrer Mamma Mia! (The exclamation is part of the title.) If not for anything else, watch the movie for its frame after frame of cinematographic generosity. Seriously, this is one of the prettiest movies of all time. It’s as if the creative team sat down and said, “You know it doesn’t matter if they like our movie or not. Let’s just make sure that for the duration for which they are in front of the screen, they should not be able to peel their eyes off it.” Another good reason to watch this movie? The evergreen music, mind you, not the lyrics, of ABBA. Okay, so are you saying you need one more reason? How about the fact that the central theme of the movie as I understood it is, “There is no ‘right’ age for fun. If you think you can handle it, go for it.”
Which is also my ten paisa worth of gyan to you today: If you think you can handle it (life), go for it.
However, I sincerely believe that viewers like me, who will watch almost anything that comes out of Hollywood in the name of entertainment, and everything that comes out from Bollywood to curb their homesickness, should take the blame when products such as God Tussi Great Ho are released to the wider world. In the recent past, I have even sat through the entire screening of wonders such as Loha, Disco Dancer, Saudagar, Red, etc. to name a few. And it was with similar expectation or maybe a trifle more that I started my personal experience with God Tussi...
It is beyond my comprehension to understand why Salman Khan needed to not talk, nor scream, nor cry during the movie but screech instead. Or why Priyanka Chopra kept switching her nose ring from the left to the right nostril. As someone with a pierced nose, I can safely declare that getting one nostril pierced does not sort of guarantee the piercing of its twin, no, neither by osmosis, nor by auto suggestion. The supporting cast comprised, most memorably of, Anupam Kher and Sohail Khan. The former played an angry, bitter father, who apparently has a heart of gold buried somewhere really deep inside. So Kher mouths supposedly laugh-out-loud dialogues like, “Arrey jis din meri kali kalooti beti ki shaadi ho jayegi, us din...” Ah! Emancipated times! Particularly true in a country like ours where Bollywood actors are deified, their words are treated like those from gods, and where being fair-complexioned is one of the most coveted virtues. Sohail Khan is, well, never mind. I never did judge a movie by his inclusion in it. But the biggest surprise is Amitabh Bachchan who plays God in the movie. Why at this ripe old age he had to play a half-baked, nit-witted character defies all logic. This is a god, who unlike Morgan Freeman’s in Bruce Almighty, is super zzz inducing boring. He sounds like those pedantic and monotonous teachers from school who went on and on, and as students you could almost imagine the words “NOT FUN” to be engraved on their foreheads.
But a movie that as a viewer I should be proud of and also endorse is the Meryl Streep starrer Mamma Mia! (The exclamation is part of the title.) If not for anything else, watch the movie for its frame after frame of cinematographic generosity. Seriously, this is one of the prettiest movies of all time. It’s as if the creative team sat down and said, “You know it doesn’t matter if they like our movie or not. Let’s just make sure that for the duration for which they are in front of the screen, they should not be able to peel their eyes off it.” Another good reason to watch this movie? The evergreen music, mind you, not the lyrics, of ABBA. Okay, so are you saying you need one more reason? How about the fact that the central theme of the movie as I understood it is, “There is no ‘right’ age for fun. If you think you can handle it, go for it.”
Which is also my ten paisa worth of gyan to you today: If you think you can handle it (life), go for it.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Grace
It's been a month of travels.
Of new sights, friendships, and relationships.
Of new writing, note-taking, and solitude.
Of full circles and new memories.
Home-->Sandpoint-->Port Townsend-->Seattle-->Calcutta-->Chittagong-->Calcutta-->
Seattle-->home.
And of revisiting those that matter the most.
SANDPOINT
At Lake Pend Oreille
With old friends, Scott and Mike
PORT TOWNSEND
At the Castle in Fort Worden
With my friend and co-conferencer Katie
CHITTAGONG
At Fatehabad, my ancestral village
With my cousin Jiko
At Chittagong University
CALCUTTA
From Dakshineshwar
With my partners in every crime
Ma and Baba
Of new sights, friendships, and relationships.
Of new writing, note-taking, and solitude.
Of full circles and new memories.
Home-->Sandpoint-->Port Townsend-->Seattle-->Calcutta-->Chittagong-->Calcutta-->
Seattle-->home.
And of revisiting those that matter the most.
SANDPOINT
At Lake Pend Oreille
With old friends, Scott and Mike
PORT TOWNSEND
At the Castle in Fort Worden
With my friend and co-conferencer Katie
CHITTAGONG
At Fatehabad, my ancestral village
With my cousin Jiko
At Chittagong University
CALCUTTA
From Dakshineshwar
With my partners in every crime
Ma and Baba
Monday, June 09, 2008
Some Straight Talking
Wanted to update the blog but without much effort. So, a tag this time. Thanks, Skeety!
Name three most valuable assets.
Laptop, debit-credit card, cellphone. These must be on everyone's list I assume with a plus or minus.
One truth in your life that haunts you every day?
It’s also the only “episode of regret” but over time, I have coached myself to suppress it with distractions, however less than suitable they might be.
If you were to be stranded on a deserted island, who are the three blog buddies you would take alongside with you?
Rohit, Amiya, Aritro...purely for their sense of humor value.
Where is the place that you want to go the most?
Akbar’s court in Fatehpur Sikri while in session.
If you can have one dream to come true, what would it be?
Write a book.
What are you afraid to lose the most in yourself?
Stubbornness.
What would you do if you found a briefcase full of money?
Depends.
If you meet someone that you love, would you confess to him/her?
Ten years ago, yes. Today, no, I don’t have the balls anymore.
Which type of person do you dislike the most?
Whiney, self-pitying kinds.
What is your ambition?
This one’s easy...total and absolute world domination.
If you were given the chance to have one super power, what would it be and why?
The ability to read people’s minds.
For you life is?
An unpredictable bitch.
If you could do one thing different in life, what would it be?
Get a new name.
Are you a shopaholic?
Depends on the kind of shop.
Which actor/actress would you like to be?
Without a moment's hesitation...Shahrukh Khan. Several reasons: He is a Delhi boy, he is a North Campus boy, he is incredibly successful at what he is doing in spite of not being from a filmy family, and most importantly, he was a very good student all his life (I have always had a soft corner for those)in addition to being involved in half a dozen other things. In short, I admire the combination of discipline, persistence, intelligence, and unapologetic power politics he must have had to put in to reach and remain where he is. Oh...and I was 15 when I saw DDLJ for the first time. Few men have left as big of an impact as Raj Malhotra from there.
One song that gives you goosebumps?
A well-rendered version of the national anthem, whether vocal or instrumental. (No, this is not some sentimental tosh I have developed while living here in the US. It was the case even when I was in India.)
Do you have any plans for tomorrow?
Yes. I have to teach in the afternoon, and go for drinks at night.
I tag?
Rohit, Amiya, Jayant, Butterfly, Swetank, Aritro, D, Skeety, and Twisted Gourmet. Do at least some of these questions, please. Add some of your own if you wish.
Name three most valuable assets.
Laptop, debit-credit card, cellphone. These must be on everyone's list I assume with a plus or minus.
One truth in your life that haunts you every day?
It’s also the only “episode of regret” but over time, I have coached myself to suppress it with distractions, however less than suitable they might be.
If you were to be stranded on a deserted island, who are the three blog buddies you would take alongside with you?
Rohit, Amiya, Aritro...purely for their sense of humor value.
Where is the place that you want to go the most?
Akbar’s court in Fatehpur Sikri while in session.
If you can have one dream to come true, what would it be?
Write a book.
What are you afraid to lose the most in yourself?
Stubbornness.
What would you do if you found a briefcase full of money?
Depends.
If you meet someone that you love, would you confess to him/her?
Ten years ago, yes. Today, no, I don’t have the balls anymore.
Which type of person do you dislike the most?
Whiney, self-pitying kinds.
What is your ambition?
This one’s easy...total and absolute world domination.
If you were given the chance to have one super power, what would it be and why?
The ability to read people’s minds.
For you life is?
An unpredictable bitch.
If you could do one thing different in life, what would it be?
Get a new name.
Are you a shopaholic?
Depends on the kind of shop.
Which actor/actress would you like to be?
Without a moment's hesitation...Shahrukh Khan. Several reasons: He is a Delhi boy, he is a North Campus boy, he is incredibly successful at what he is doing in spite of not being from a filmy family, and most importantly, he was a very good student all his life (I have always had a soft corner for those)in addition to being involved in half a dozen other things. In short, I admire the combination of discipline, persistence, intelligence, and unapologetic power politics he must have had to put in to reach and remain where he is. Oh...and I was 15 when I saw DDLJ for the first time. Few men have left as big of an impact as Raj Malhotra from there.
One song that gives you goosebumps?
A well-rendered version of the national anthem, whether vocal or instrumental. (No, this is not some sentimental tosh I have developed while living here in the US. It was the case even when I was in India.)
Do you have any plans for tomorrow?
Yes. I have to teach in the afternoon, and go for drinks at night.
I tag?
Rohit, Amiya, Jayant, Butterfly, Swetank, Aritro, D, Skeety, and Twisted Gourmet. Do at least some of these questions, please. Add some of your own if you wish.
Friday, June 06, 2008
Language Barrier
The closer I am getting towards my thirtieth birthday, which is a little over a year away, I am becoming more and more like my parents when they were in their thirties.
Those days we had just arrived in New Delhi from Calcutta, their hometown, and my homesick parents were determined to surround themselves with as much Bengali-ness as possible. Right from the location my father chose for our house, Chittaranjan Park--originally a refugee colony for Bengalis forced to flee, what was then, East Pakistan--to the food my mother cooked at home, to what we listened to. Of all these vestiges from Calcutta that we desperately hung on to, it was the music that depressed me the most. While it is sacrilegious for any Bengali to not be obsessively in love with Tagore’s music, or Rabindrasangeet as it is better known, it tired me. The words and emotions were too heavy handed, most of it sounded too melancholic, and I really couldn’t be made to care one way or other. The same ritual was repeated when satellite television entered our home. By then, we had moved out of our Chittaranjan Park house, but because of access to channels directly from Calcutta, the house was infiltrated by not just sounds but visuals as well. And I protested. Nearly every time that a spectacled, harmonium playing singer took center stage and went about business. Of course all these rituals quadrupled every time that we actually went to Calcutta. Again, while authentic Bengali food was closest to my heart, Rabindrasangeet and most of Bengali cinema tired me. (Except Ray of course.) One evening, while in my unruly teens, I went so far as to say to my grandfather, “All this is repulsive.” It also stopped our conversation for an hour, which was a big deal, considering that my granddad and I have very rarely needed anyone else in our sphere of conversation.
All that was before America happened.
Youtube has one of the finest collection of black and white Bengali cinema, and since the last few months or so, not only have I combed through most of them, I have inflicted them on the only person I can…my roommate. Fortunately for me, she is half Bengali, and enjoys good cinema. Last night, it occurred to me that I was doing the exact same thing as my parents did. Surround myself with the roots lest they disappear in a country where I get to use my mother tongue only twice every week – while chatting with Ma and Baba on Saturday and Sunday mornings. A complaint that my creative writing friends have heard sometimes is that my head seems jumbled with words from English, and I cannot think anymore because I need to do something in Bangla in order to be able to get back to English. Which either means putting Bangla music on a never ending loop, or watching back to back 1950s movies, or at the very least, reading a Bengali newspaper or webzine to ensure that the language and I are still old friends, and that I haven’t forgotten a letter or two.
So finally I think I have forgiven my parents for all those afternoons and evenings when their very act of switching on a tape player or TV made me cringe. I do have one question for them though: every movie that I have so far seen of my grandparents’ generation or from the time when they (my parents) were very young, inevitably shows the man and the woman get married almost instantly or at least reach the conclusion that “this was the final and only one” by the end of the movie. Why did things change so dramatically and drastically within my parents’ generation that by the time the next one appeared, cinema as well as real life began telling us again and again “this is not the final one, this cannot be the final one, but there is nothing to be depressed about, after all the options are unlimited.” It would be interesting to see what sociologists have to say about this.
Those days we had just arrived in New Delhi from Calcutta, their hometown, and my homesick parents were determined to surround themselves with as much Bengali-ness as possible. Right from the location my father chose for our house, Chittaranjan Park--originally a refugee colony for Bengalis forced to flee, what was then, East Pakistan--to the food my mother cooked at home, to what we listened to. Of all these vestiges from Calcutta that we desperately hung on to, it was the music that depressed me the most. While it is sacrilegious for any Bengali to not be obsessively in love with Tagore’s music, or Rabindrasangeet as it is better known, it tired me. The words and emotions were too heavy handed, most of it sounded too melancholic, and I really couldn’t be made to care one way or other. The same ritual was repeated when satellite television entered our home. By then, we had moved out of our Chittaranjan Park house, but because of access to channels directly from Calcutta, the house was infiltrated by not just sounds but visuals as well. And I protested. Nearly every time that a spectacled, harmonium playing singer took center stage and went about business. Of course all these rituals quadrupled every time that we actually went to Calcutta. Again, while authentic Bengali food was closest to my heart, Rabindrasangeet and most of Bengali cinema tired me. (Except Ray of course.) One evening, while in my unruly teens, I went so far as to say to my grandfather, “All this is repulsive.” It also stopped our conversation for an hour, which was a big deal, considering that my granddad and I have very rarely needed anyone else in our sphere of conversation.
All that was before America happened.
Youtube has one of the finest collection of black and white Bengali cinema, and since the last few months or so, not only have I combed through most of them, I have inflicted them on the only person I can…my roommate. Fortunately for me, she is half Bengali, and enjoys good cinema. Last night, it occurred to me that I was doing the exact same thing as my parents did. Surround myself with the roots lest they disappear in a country where I get to use my mother tongue only twice every week – while chatting with Ma and Baba on Saturday and Sunday mornings. A complaint that my creative writing friends have heard sometimes is that my head seems jumbled with words from English, and I cannot think anymore because I need to do something in Bangla in order to be able to get back to English. Which either means putting Bangla music on a never ending loop, or watching back to back 1950s movies, or at the very least, reading a Bengali newspaper or webzine to ensure that the language and I are still old friends, and that I haven’t forgotten a letter or two.
So finally I think I have forgiven my parents for all those afternoons and evenings when their very act of switching on a tape player or TV made me cringe. I do have one question for them though: every movie that I have so far seen of my grandparents’ generation or from the time when they (my parents) were very young, inevitably shows the man and the woman get married almost instantly or at least reach the conclusion that “this was the final and only one” by the end of the movie. Why did things change so dramatically and drastically within my parents’ generation that by the time the next one appeared, cinema as well as real life began telling us again and again “this is not the final one, this cannot be the final one, but there is nothing to be depressed about, after all the options are unlimited.” It would be interesting to see what sociologists have to say about this.
Monday, June 02, 2008
Brevity
Sometimes, the best lessons in life are short, so short in fact that they can be wrapped up in less than five minutes.
A few days ago, I was in the local bus and coming back home from the campus. The bus was being driven by, shall we say, Fred. Amiable, friendly, and in his fifties, my favorite part about him is his distinguished silver mustache and the easy laugh lines all over his face. That day, while waiting at a traffic signal, his cellphone rang. Fred answered. Given the bus’s acoustics and the position of my own seat, I heard him very well. And however much eavesdropping is plain bad manners, there is a reason why I think I should be excused. This is how the conversation went:
Fred: Hello, this is Fred Wilson.
Other end: ...
Fred: Oh hello, Mrs. Wilson. How are you since I last saw you?
Other end: ...
Fred: I know it was at breakfast this morning. But I am eager to see you again!
Other end: ...
Fred: Of course! I would be delighted to give you a ride. I have about six minutes before I reach your bus stop. Will you please wait for me?
Other end: ...
Fred: All right then! Bye!
Other end: ...
Unfortunately, my own bus stop came before those magical six minutes. It would have been nice to see how Fred interacts with his wife even in real life, and maybe learn a lesson or two more from him about staying in love.
A few days ago, I was in the local bus and coming back home from the campus. The bus was being driven by, shall we say, Fred. Amiable, friendly, and in his fifties, my favorite part about him is his distinguished silver mustache and the easy laugh lines all over his face. That day, while waiting at a traffic signal, his cellphone rang. Fred answered. Given the bus’s acoustics and the position of my own seat, I heard him very well. And however much eavesdropping is plain bad manners, there is a reason why I think I should be excused. This is how the conversation went:
Fred: Hello, this is Fred Wilson.
Other end: ...
Fred: Oh hello, Mrs. Wilson. How are you since I last saw you?
Other end: ...
Fred: I know it was at breakfast this morning. But I am eager to see you again!
Other end: ...
Fred: Of course! I would be delighted to give you a ride. I have about six minutes before I reach your bus stop. Will you please wait for me?
Other end: ...
Fred: All right then! Bye!
Other end: ...
Unfortunately, my own bus stop came before those magical six minutes. It would have been nice to see how Fred interacts with his wife even in real life, and maybe learn a lesson or two more from him about staying in love.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Emergency
My Orkut account has been hacked in the most unusual manner.
I cannot glean any untoward activity that has been performed through my account, but the hacker has as of now, made me a member of two Brittney Spears' fan clubs, and one of Amrita Arora, Shakira, Mandy Moore, Angelina Jolie, Hermione Granger, and Hansika Motwani, the latter being the one with the exciting privilege of starring across Himesh R in his debut movie. I have also been made a member of "I love my Mom". Much as I value all these women, be it Britney or my Mom, I am not sure I would have honored them extra by becoming their fans.
Other fan clubs that I have joined are devoted to Saurav Ganguly, Shahrukh Khan, Sachin Tendulkar, Indian Premier League, and something eerily called "Born to Make you Happy". Err...
Probably the hacker felt bad at some point because as special concession, s/he has made me a member of Harry Potter, and Brain Teasers and Puzzles. Or maybe in spite of everything, Hansika Motwani is a puzzle solver, and as her fan, I am expected to hone those skills myself.
But the one community that makes me want to throw up is titled, "Love At First Sight." The last time I believed in that concept was when I was an embryo.
In all likelihood, I will delete my Orkut account in the next few days unless the problem solves itself. Even after repeated attempts, I cannot seem to be able to get rid of my membership to these questionable fan communities. See you all on Facebook!
I cannot glean any untoward activity that has been performed through my account, but the hacker has as of now, made me a member of two Brittney Spears' fan clubs, and one of Amrita Arora, Shakira, Mandy Moore, Angelina Jolie, Hermione Granger, and Hansika Motwani, the latter being the one with the exciting privilege of starring across Himesh R in his debut movie. I have also been made a member of "I love my Mom". Much as I value all these women, be it Britney or my Mom, I am not sure I would have honored them extra by becoming their fans.
Other fan clubs that I have joined are devoted to Saurav Ganguly, Shahrukh Khan, Sachin Tendulkar, Indian Premier League, and something eerily called "Born to Make you Happy". Err...
Probably the hacker felt bad at some point because as special concession, s/he has made me a member of Harry Potter, and Brain Teasers and Puzzles. Or maybe in spite of everything, Hansika Motwani is a puzzle solver, and as her fan, I am expected to hone those skills myself.
But the one community that makes me want to throw up is titled, "Love At First Sight." The last time I believed in that concept was when I was an embryo.
In all likelihood, I will delete my Orkut account in the next few days unless the problem solves itself. Even after repeated attempts, I cannot seem to be able to get rid of my membership to these questionable fan communities. See you all on Facebook!
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
When Iron Rusts
I am just back from seeing the finest movie of my life. It’s called Iron Man. No, please don’t dismiss the movie based on its name. Read the review at least. Please, I insist.
Iron Man is originally a Marvel comic hero and his real name, that is when he steps out of his red and gold platinum-something glitzy costume, is Tony Stark.
The movie unfolds like this: Stark is a multimillionaire because his father had founded a weapons manufacturing company, which he has perfected and taken to even greater heights. He has a sense of humor that I think Hollywood (bless its heart) had intended to be irreverent, but which to me seemed painfully annoying. He is a playboy like all good multimillionaires should be, and he has a huge mansion hanging from a cliff that overlooks the Pacific Ocean in Malibu, California. The house itself has every imaginable and unimaginable automated device, and a pretty housekeeper cum office assistant cum “I am so in love with my boss that you can see it in every flap of my eyelash and every simper of my smiling mouth” jackass, who in non-reel life goes by the name Gwyneth Paltrow.
So back to Stark: Two days after winning a fancy award from the United States government for his contribution to technology, Stark flies to (where else but) Afghanistan. He gives a demonstration of a weapon called Jericho which first flies out from its casing and then reproduces itself into many mini baby missiles while in flight. Incidentally, Jericho literally means “moon” in Hebrew and is at present a town in West Bank, Palestine.
After the successful demonstration, Stark is moving out of the zone in military jeeps when his convoy gets attacked, every good American soldier is killed, and he himself is knocked out. Upon waking up, Stark realizes that he has been kidnapped by brutal Afghanis who speak impeccable Urdu, and that in the little battle that had led to his capture, some shrapnel got buried in his chest and those are now threatening to pierce his heart. Enter weird Swiss doctor who saves Stark’s life, and constructs a magnetic chest plate that needs to be attached to a car battery so that his heart can pump blood normally. Yes, you are supposed to read on without questioning.
Now the Afghanis know who Stark is and they tell him to make Jericho for them. In return they shall release him. Stark and Swiss weirdo get down to work. It takes a long time before the whole camp of brown men realize that the two white men are making something else than what they were supposed to. Finally, Stark is able to fool /frighten them and he escapes because all this while he had actually been making an ugly body suit for himself which will let him hop/fly, shoot fire from his elbows (yeah baby!), and just scare the hell out of anyone he wants to.
Within some quick, mind-numbing scenes, Stark manages to escape, and then he is flown out of Afghanistan and into America by his best friend in the American army. Best friend is African American, by the way, just in case you were wondering. No, of course not, there ARE no stereotypes in Hollywood. Everything is darn original and absolutely new.
Our boy flies back home, and upon returning he demands the first thing that will endear him to every viewer. He wants to eat a grilled cheeseburger. Aw…I nearly got sentimental in this scene and delicately grabbed the end of my shirt to wipe the tear that had been threatening to spill over my cheek for a while.
Then Stark goes about perfecting his model for Iron Man suit. In the ensuing ride, he proves he has a heart and a conscience, and that he is a man of principles. The real villain of the piece is also revealed to the viewer and by this time we have been bombarded with enough technological tosh to believe anything. In fact, if they had even showed my grandmother smirking in the corner as the grand villainess of the piece I would have believed them.
Robert Downey Jr. as Iron Man or superhero or mortal man with a glowing cyclical heart is painful. Jeff Bridges as Obadiah Stane/ Iron Monger is entertaining. (You have to see the movie to understand what this is about.) Gwyneth Paltrow as Pepper, the housekeeper, is wonderful considering her histrionics in this movie required that she not eat for twenty months prior to signing on the dotted line, and practice wearing sky-scraper-high heels for thirty-six months before shooting actually began.
Give me a Govinda-Karisma Kapoor-Kader Khan-David Dhawan combination any day.
Iron Man is originally a Marvel comic hero and his real name, that is when he steps out of his red and gold platinum-something glitzy costume, is Tony Stark.
The movie unfolds like this: Stark is a multimillionaire because his father had founded a weapons manufacturing company, which he has perfected and taken to even greater heights. He has a sense of humor that I think Hollywood (bless its heart) had intended to be irreverent, but which to me seemed painfully annoying. He is a playboy like all good multimillionaires should be, and he has a huge mansion hanging from a cliff that overlooks the Pacific Ocean in Malibu, California. The house itself has every imaginable and unimaginable automated device, and a pretty housekeeper cum office assistant cum “I am so in love with my boss that you can see it in every flap of my eyelash and every simper of my smiling mouth” jackass, who in non-reel life goes by the name Gwyneth Paltrow.
So back to Stark: Two days after winning a fancy award from the United States government for his contribution to technology, Stark flies to (where else but) Afghanistan. He gives a demonstration of a weapon called Jericho which first flies out from its casing and then reproduces itself into many mini baby missiles while in flight. Incidentally, Jericho literally means “moon” in Hebrew and is at present a town in West Bank, Palestine.
After the successful demonstration, Stark is moving out of the zone in military jeeps when his convoy gets attacked, every good American soldier is killed, and he himself is knocked out. Upon waking up, Stark realizes that he has been kidnapped by brutal Afghanis who speak impeccable Urdu, and that in the little battle that had led to his capture, some shrapnel got buried in his chest and those are now threatening to pierce his heart. Enter weird Swiss doctor who saves Stark’s life, and constructs a magnetic chest plate that needs to be attached to a car battery so that his heart can pump blood normally. Yes, you are supposed to read on without questioning.
Now the Afghanis know who Stark is and they tell him to make Jericho for them. In return they shall release him. Stark and Swiss weirdo get down to work. It takes a long time before the whole camp of brown men realize that the two white men are making something else than what they were supposed to. Finally, Stark is able to fool /frighten them and he escapes because all this while he had actually been making an ugly body suit for himself which will let him hop/fly, shoot fire from his elbows (yeah baby!), and just scare the hell out of anyone he wants to.
Within some quick, mind-numbing scenes, Stark manages to escape, and then he is flown out of Afghanistan and into America by his best friend in the American army. Best friend is African American, by the way, just in case you were wondering. No, of course not, there ARE no stereotypes in Hollywood. Everything is darn original and absolutely new.
Our boy flies back home, and upon returning he demands the first thing that will endear him to every viewer. He wants to eat a grilled cheeseburger. Aw…I nearly got sentimental in this scene and delicately grabbed the end of my shirt to wipe the tear that had been threatening to spill over my cheek for a while.
Then Stark goes about perfecting his model for Iron Man suit. In the ensuing ride, he proves he has a heart and a conscience, and that he is a man of principles. The real villain of the piece is also revealed to the viewer and by this time we have been bombarded with enough technological tosh to believe anything. In fact, if they had even showed my grandmother smirking in the corner as the grand villainess of the piece I would have believed them.
Robert Downey Jr. as Iron Man or superhero or mortal man with a glowing cyclical heart is painful. Jeff Bridges as Obadiah Stane/ Iron Monger is entertaining. (You have to see the movie to understand what this is about.) Gwyneth Paltrow as Pepper, the housekeeper, is wonderful considering her histrionics in this movie required that she not eat for twenty months prior to signing on the dotted line, and practice wearing sky-scraper-high heels for thirty-six months before shooting actually began.
Give me a Govinda-Karisma Kapoor-Kader Khan-David Dhawan combination any day.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Verses
Two almost back-to-back posts! I must have rediscovered my blog!
Today's post is about two poems of Vikram Seth that I particularly like. This semester I had taken a poetry workshop, as a result, not only did I have to write twelve poems of my own, I had to read a similar number of poems of my classmates, plus nearly a hundred others.
These two have been particularly interesting, mostly because of their simplicity.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
All You who Sleep Tonight
All you who sleep tonight
Far from the ones you love,
No hand to left or right
And emptiness above -
Know that you aren't alone
The whole world shares your tears,
Some for two nights or one,
And some for all their years.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
How Rarely These Few Years
How rarely these few years, as work keeps us aloof,
Or fares, or one thing or another,
Have we had days to spend under our parents’ roof:
Myself, my sister, and my brother.
All five of us will die; to reckon from the past
This flesh and blood is unforgiving.
What’s hard is that just one of us will be the last
To bear it all and go on living.
Today's post is about two poems of Vikram Seth that I particularly like. This semester I had taken a poetry workshop, as a result, not only did I have to write twelve poems of my own, I had to read a similar number of poems of my classmates, plus nearly a hundred others.
These two have been particularly interesting, mostly because of their simplicity.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
All You who Sleep Tonight
All you who sleep tonight
Far from the ones you love,
No hand to left or right
And emptiness above -
Know that you aren't alone
The whole world shares your tears,
Some for two nights or one,
And some for all their years.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
How Rarely These Few Years
How rarely these few years, as work keeps us aloof,
Or fares, or one thing or another,
Have we had days to spend under our parents’ roof:
Myself, my sister, and my brother.
All five of us will die; to reckon from the past
This flesh and blood is unforgiving.
What’s hard is that just one of us will be the last
To bear it all and go on living.
Saturday, May 03, 2008
Being on Cloud 1556-1605
Yesterday was one of the most rewarding days of my life. Initially, I had constructed the sentence as “one of the most rewarding days of my professional life.” But that didn’t say much, whereas I wanted to say it all...
As a five-year-old, all that I wanted to do upon growing up was become a teacher. There was nothing particularly remarkable about that dream because almost every other five-year-old around me wanted the same thing. That dream lasted only a few years, and eventually got buried under other ambitions and plans for life. Eventually, perceptions – whether mine or of those around– convinced me that teaching was not for me. It demanded too much patience, and that was an area where I certainly lacked. Over time, I also grew interested in fitting into offices, surrounded by the paraphernalia and peculiarities of “regular, nine-to-five” jobs, and that’s what I did for four continuous years.
Upon coming to America though, teaching became practically the only professional option. As an international student, I am not allowed to work off-campus, and on campus, there are odd jobs, but those I am not keen about. Moreover, it was wonderful to get back to academics, and be in a university again, and full-time teaching seemed like something I could get interested in.
It was only in my third semester (second year) here that I received my first teaching assignment—a course on world religions for freshmen (first year students). It was an interesting process to teach students who seemed different in ways that were both good and bad from how I remembered my first year in college to be. In the next semester, which will conclude in a week’s time, I landed up teaching two courses—in addition to world religions, I began teaching the history of the Mughal Empire. I was asked to design it for upper division (final year) students of History.
Now I have always maintained that no one loves the Mughals more than I do, yet the first day of this class was particularly nerve-racking. These were serious students, they knew how social sciences worked, how movements progressed, and most importantly, this was the first time in the record of this campus that a course on Indian history was being offered. And I was saddled with that responsibility. I cautioned my students, I told them that this was my first time teaching something like this, and that I hoped to do a fair job because otherwise I could potentially end up messing up their perception and understanding of a country with over a billion people. They laughed, and with that we began the whole process of understanding the Indian subcontinent and the Mughals: how Babur—the military genius—loved fruits and hated Agra, why Humayun loved opium and pursued astrology, how Akbar was both a compassionate genius as well as a sexual predator, how Jahangir was creative enough to design his own clothes yet ruthless enough to blind his own son, how Shahjahan was almost effeminate because of his love for white marble, and how Aurangzeb can be is so easily and greatly misunderstood.
Yesterday was technically the last class of the semester, and we celebrated with a party at my home. I cooked an Indian dinner for all twenty-six of them, and received tremendous help from my "kitchen staff", a group of about six students who helped with driving me to buy groceries; peeling and grinding mountains of ginger and garlic; cutting little hills of potatoes, onions, tomatoes, and other miscellaneous oddities. Yet others pitched in by making desserts or bringing in drinks for the party. And finally, they justified my quitting a good job and coming to America on a whim when they presented me with a mug that read "I love Akbar." I had not laughed that hard in months.
I don’t remember if I ever did anything this nice for any of my teachers, but fifteen minutes ago when I brewed myself some cinnamon-spice tea in my new mug, my thoughts went back to several of them whose teaching styles have influenced and informed mine. To them goes my sincerest, "Thank you."
As a five-year-old, all that I wanted to do upon growing up was become a teacher. There was nothing particularly remarkable about that dream because almost every other five-year-old around me wanted the same thing. That dream lasted only a few years, and eventually got buried under other ambitions and plans for life. Eventually, perceptions – whether mine or of those around– convinced me that teaching was not for me. It demanded too much patience, and that was an area where I certainly lacked. Over time, I also grew interested in fitting into offices, surrounded by the paraphernalia and peculiarities of “regular, nine-to-five” jobs, and that’s what I did for four continuous years.
Upon coming to America though, teaching became practically the only professional option. As an international student, I am not allowed to work off-campus, and on campus, there are odd jobs, but those I am not keen about. Moreover, it was wonderful to get back to academics, and be in a university again, and full-time teaching seemed like something I could get interested in.
It was only in my third semester (second year) here that I received my first teaching assignment—a course on world religions for freshmen (first year students). It was an interesting process to teach students who seemed different in ways that were both good and bad from how I remembered my first year in college to be. In the next semester, which will conclude in a week’s time, I landed up teaching two courses—in addition to world religions, I began teaching the history of the Mughal Empire. I was asked to design it for upper division (final year) students of History.
Now I have always maintained that no one loves the Mughals more than I do, yet the first day of this class was particularly nerve-racking. These were serious students, they knew how social sciences worked, how movements progressed, and most importantly, this was the first time in the record of this campus that a course on Indian history was being offered. And I was saddled with that responsibility. I cautioned my students, I told them that this was my first time teaching something like this, and that I hoped to do a fair job because otherwise I could potentially end up messing up their perception and understanding of a country with over a billion people. They laughed, and with that we began the whole process of understanding the Indian subcontinent and the Mughals: how Babur—the military genius—loved fruits and hated Agra, why Humayun loved opium and pursued astrology, how Akbar was both a compassionate genius as well as a sexual predator, how Jahangir was creative enough to design his own clothes yet ruthless enough to blind his own son, how Shahjahan was almost effeminate because of his love for white marble, and how Aurangzeb can be is so easily and greatly misunderstood.
Yesterday was technically the last class of the semester, and we celebrated with a party at my home. I cooked an Indian dinner for all twenty-six of them, and received tremendous help from my "kitchen staff", a group of about six students who helped with driving me to buy groceries; peeling and grinding mountains of ginger and garlic; cutting little hills of potatoes, onions, tomatoes, and other miscellaneous oddities. Yet others pitched in by making desserts or bringing in drinks for the party. And finally, they justified my quitting a good job and coming to America on a whim when they presented me with a mug that read "I love Akbar." I had not laughed that hard in months.
I don’t remember if I ever did anything this nice for any of my teachers, but fifteen minutes ago when I brewed myself some cinnamon-spice tea in my new mug, my thoughts went back to several of them whose teaching styles have influenced and informed mine. To them goes my sincerest, "Thank you."
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Iconoclasm
I would like to share this link with all of you today. Please take some time to explore this website, and see how as a nation we have perfected plagiarism. We have bestowed on these plagiarists awards, honors, respect, and pot loads of money.
Let me know your reactions as many dearly loved icons from your memories come crashing down.
Let me know your reactions as many dearly loved icons from your memories come crashing down.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Rants
In another hour, I would have spent seven uninterrupted hours in this cafe. I did the same yesterday as well. Today, my laptop-engaged fingers are tired already, I am hungry, I have digested the turkey sandwich I had four hours ago, I have had three potent shots of caffeine since the time I came, yet, there is still an armload of writing to finish. I teach both my classes tomorrow (and also on Wednesdays and Fridays) so there is the preparation of that left. I am also supposed to meet a friend for dinner tonight. On Mondays, because of various obligations, I am required to be on campus from 8 in the morning to 9 at night.
At this point, all that I really want is another pair of hands. And possibly, more hours in a day? What else?
Karim's sheermal and brain masala, some good ittar from Lucknow, a personal concert by Josh Groban, a long drive along the rolling hills of Idaho, the touch of the cool floor at my grandparents' house in Calcutta or of my mother's hands, and most importantly, the ability to write effortlessly without the need for several drafts.
At this point, all that I really want is another pair of hands. And possibly, more hours in a day? What else?
Karim's sheermal and brain masala, some good ittar from Lucknow, a personal concert by Josh Groban, a long drive along the rolling hills of Idaho, the touch of the cool floor at my grandparents' house in Calcutta or of my mother's hands, and most importantly, the ability to write effortlessly without the need for several drafts.
Saturday, February 09, 2008
Ten Degrees of Randomness
My dearest dude Rohit tagged me. I am supposed to list six random things about myself, and they all have to be unimportant. But, I am going to take this a little step forward, and list ten things instead:
1. I hate taking baths on Sundays. (Only in winters though!)
2. I need to be part of a world where clothes can wash themselves.Every single time.
3. Reading horror calms me down.
4. I am acquiring a serious taste for red wines and German sausages.
5. Teaching gives me a kind of high that no other job has given so far.
6. One of my professors has hunted rattlesnakes for their meat in the past. He has
promised me his specialty--sauteed rattlesnake--before I return to India.
7. There is no one in the world who loves the Mughals as much as I do.
8. I usually get either very irritated or very bored at weddings.
9. I still have the very first story I ever wrote. I was five years old then.
10. My roommate and I have a common journal in which we write every night.
I tag...everyone. When you leave a comment, make sure you mention at least 3 random details about yourself. Please.
1. I hate taking baths on Sundays. (Only in winters though!)
2. I need to be part of a world where clothes can wash themselves.Every single time.
3. Reading horror calms me down.
4. I am acquiring a serious taste for red wines and German sausages.
5. Teaching gives me a kind of high that no other job has given so far.
6. One of my professors has hunted rattlesnakes for their meat in the past. He has
promised me his specialty--sauteed rattlesnake--before I return to India.
7. There is no one in the world who loves the Mughals as much as I do.
8. I usually get either very irritated or very bored at weddings.
9. I still have the very first story I ever wrote. I was five years old then.
10. My roommate and I have a common journal in which we write every night.
I tag...everyone. When you leave a comment, make sure you mention at least 3 random details about yourself. Please.
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