An Award, a Personal Disappointment

Imagine this: Do you invite a guest, who accepts with great difficulty, who leaves important work, commutes an hour and a half, arrives at the function, and then make him walk through a black entrance – because his invite is a black colour – and then sit him on a black chair, in a section marked "black passes," and then switch off the lights and complete the dinginess of the whole episode? Compound this with the bites of mosquitoes as big as flies. Hm. Also imagine: the this guest is an advertiser, a valued customer, an ardent fan of their radio shows, who is the reason for your prosperity, who has an idea, though vague, of how a customer should be treated, also he is a creative guy an aspiring – though pretentious – poet who loves music.

Yes, I mean this in the not too negative sense, this is what happened to this blogger at the awards night he attended yesterday. On reaching there I find that I am holding a black pass, not a gold pass, my invite is a stygian colour, am heralded through a black door, down to a seat done in fashionable black. In front of me is another world altogether, a gold door through which sashay the have-it people in black and colourful dresses, the friends and extended families of the radio people, some of them drop-dead gorgeous in solid black, like a black wall, excluding the likes of poor me, advertiser, blogger, seemingly beaten poet. When I looked ahead what I see is the trendy black backsides of silhouettes standing against a metal enclosure, also black, and I can't see any part of the stage at all. Before me is a barricade shielding me from the glitzy razzmatazz of people in the front, musicians, a poet (in a resplendent multi-coloured dreamcoat jacket) and chairman of the jury, a few movie directors, songwriters, singers, a faded star with only a wan halo around her (she used to be my heartthrob), and behind them stand a motley group who don't have gold passes, but are related to those who have.

The very important people need special seats, I understand. But do they need to be cordoned and barricaded from the rest of us? Especially when most of the seats meant for them were vacant one hour after the program started. I guess, therefore, the tardy get encouraged to be even tardier.

Hm.

Why the barricade? I ask my colleague. Are they creating a new class of people who are, sort of, grudgingly invited? I note through the camera panning wildly that most of the seats in the gold enclosure are vacant. Still waiting? So, the idea is even if those seats are vacant the barricaded, "black pass," lower caste of people (i.e. yours truly) shouldn't occupy it. There are hefty beefcakes guarding the only entry. Then why were we invited, walked through the black door, given black passes, only to suffer mosquito bites in the dark area meant for the lower-than-the chosen people (several guys had brought their wives also, I could imagine their embarrassment) along with what looked like ad agency guys and advertisers. Or, were we graded according to the volume of advertising we gave the radio channel, which wasn't a meager amount, by any reckoning. After all, I was the one who recommended the radio to my higher-ups.

Ugh!

On the whole an event that left me a bit disappointed, a tad too much introspective. Needless to add, I walked out an hour after the proceedings began, chastened, I might add.

Will Be There at the Mirchi Muzzak Awards

Got an invite for the Mirchi Music Awards. So, I am off there. Watch out for a report here, with all the jazz and razzmatazz. Watch, please, watch, this space, as they – so clichéd-ly – say.

Kala Ghoda Today

There are interesting things happening at the Kala Ghoda. The literary section for instance. Interesting things are happening though till yesterday it took a bit of warming up, as usual. Today there was an interesting discussion on travel writing in which every writer contributed so wonderfully. What makes travel writers so articulate and interesting, I wonder. Is it because they have seen life, so much of it raw, and uncooked, well, sort of? There was this writer - as witty as they come - who made a 4 a.m. visit to the loo so interesting by the mere mention that his fart almost blew off the toilet door. Hehe.

But, uh oh, there was Biddu, yes, that Biddu – you know Aap Jaisa Koi guy - with long straight hair, and a well-maintained body which he took pride in showing off, me thinks. He was there to launch his autobiographical book. And he jived, and shook on stage, and imagine this, actually sang Aap Jaisa Koi. If you weren't there, eat your hearts out. Yes, it was Yesterday Once More, and I went all mushy and maudlin.

The much needed police jeep is positioned at the intersection before Jehangir Art Gallery but the cops are not to be seen anywhere.

The Gyan of an Indian Best-seller

Aaah, missed the Kala Ghoda lecture by Chetan Bhagat. No worries! Apropos this post about Anita Roy's observation that the Indian mid-list writers are making it good (after all, more than 10,000 copies sold is a good figure in India, as Chetan's and Amit Varma's books have demonstrated), I feel the Indian publishing scene is a different brew altogether. The English love tea, the Americans like coffee, but India is brewing another concoction altogether.

Write in a simple style, nothing high-funda, add a bit of angst, position it to appeal for the youthful class (Yes, my son worships the deity of Chetan Bhagat, he says he is cool and hot. He has read extensively on Chetanspeak. Natch he doesn't like what I write. After all, dad is "ghar ki murgi," or, "murga.") and price it not more than Rs 200, the price of a film ticket, or, a CD. And if you promote it a bit, I am sure you can sell 10,000 copies because the book pirates won't duplicate something which is so cheap, no fun, yaar. Sell at pavement stalls ("This book is original, sir, not nakli."), college fests, youth jamborees, whatever. That's a cool profit, hai na?

I guess the publishing industry that priced books at Rs 395 got it all wrong. They were aiming at the higher income, inner city (I don't mean this in the pejorative sense, Malabar Hill and Colaba crowd), convent educated class (who speak in accents) while the real readers were from small towns and suburbs. Don't aim for the 300 million middle class. The MTV guys got it right the first time. The reality show participants are from Chandigarh and Bhopal, not Breach Candy and Pedder Road. The middle class is hugely segmented, and if you target the young you will at least get a 0.003 per cent of the readership which will assure you "best-seller status."

That's so much gyan. Can you digest it?

Day One at Kala Ghoda – A Report

Movies

The chairs in Cama Hall are vintage, comfortable, the fans are mounted horizontally, the long stem protruding from the side walls, giving a cool breeze - better than the stale air in multiplexes - the audio is not very clear if you sit in the back, but up in the front it’s lovely.

I caught Costa Gavras’ Amen and 3-iron directed by  Kim Ki-duk, a delightful Korean movie about empty houses, wherein the hero and heroine don’t even speak a word to each other, but their actions, emotions can be seen on their faces. (Please, watch this, Bollywood guys and gals, you will feel that you are wasting your plotlines by filling it up with inanities about “love for ever,” “love ho jata hai, kiya nahi jata,” and all that crappy crap.)

Literature

Later on at the David Sassoon Library, I go through the delightfully restored library which is a favourite haunt of yours truly. I did most of the writing of my first novel here. Then I go down to the library garden where a tribute to Facebook-friend Dilip Chitre is in progress with poet Sanjay Khandekar reading Dilip’s poems, with the right nuances, I might add. I haven’t met Dilip, which is a great regret I have. Sanjay says he was active till his final days. His poem “Has my time come?” rightly captures the anguish he felt in his final days.

Later on Nilanjana Roy does a well-researched presentation on Books of the Decade in which she pretty much wraps up the decade in retrospect – book-wise and publishing-trend-wise. Her’s was a presentation filled with humourous asides: “I combed my hair, but the fan did things to it.” Nilanjana, if you are reading this, “Your hair looked all right to me.”

Hehe!

Following this editor Anita Roy and writer and fellow blogger Amit Varma came on stage. Anita said, “The Bloomsbury guys said we are standing on the edge of a precipice, a bottom-less void,” or something such, I don’t remember, vis-à-vis the online digital prospects of books. I guess publishers have reasons to be scared as she herself said, “People don’t like to pay for something they can download for free.” Or, are available on the net cheaply. Peter Griffin has an aside to this, “Somebody said at the Jaipur Literary that you can’t take a Kindle to the bathroom, to which somebody retorted, ‘Yes you can.’”

So those who have perused the Kindle in the bathroom please let me know in the comment section, right below this post, what you did when washing/wiping your posterior. Left it on the bathroom floor?

So where does it take the book-printing-and-publishing industry?

Traffic

I stand outside David Sassoon Library and look at the mess the traffic is making. As expected there is no cop at the intersection of Dubash Marg with M.G.Road and I see a situation typical of Bombai. Cars squeeze themselves into an unseemly pile on both crosses of the intersection and the drivers vent their spleen on their horns. How’s this for doing a rap-thing on the streets:

Horn baja de, horn baja de

Baap ka rasta hai, baja, baja!

I am tired, now I need sleep. Keep tuned for tomorrow’s report. Till then, bye.

Kala Ghoda Festival Opens Today; Some Great Films on Show

The Kala Ghoda Arts Festival (KGAF) is opening today and I intend to be there in the afternoon and evening. I intend to catch Costa Gavras film "Amen" at the Cama Hall. I have never seen any Casta Gavras film, about which I have heard such a lot.

Facebook friend Vinta Nanda is curating the film section and I can see from the program (the program at kalaghoda association website wasn't opening so I had to get it from friend Ignatius D'souza) is excellent with the likes of Kurosawa's Ran (not to be confused with Rann, running (alliteration, hehe) in theatres). Some great films have been put together by Vinta and I, a film addict, full support her efforts and will try and catch as many as I can. (After all, one can't see these classic films in multiplexes, can one?)

So "hie thee thither" (as the Bard would say) and sink into a chair and catch great sights and sounds happening before you on the silver screen.

Into which Tukaram Shinde Gives, that Which One

This is another sad story. Tukaram Shinde drives a rickshaw, the three-wheeled contraption you see on Indian roads (aside: I may call it that, but it's my favorite transport). Seeing his rickshaw was new I asked him what it cost. He said Rs 2,30,000 (USD 5555). I say it would have bought him a proper car which he can run as a taxi cab, for a higher income, of course. He looks at me as if I am a squirrel who has lost his nuts (Andiillatha annan, is the correct phrase in Malayalam). But I hadn't reckoned on the basic economics of his beetle-shaped rickshaw, so adapted to the Indian scheme of things: in affordability, maneuverability, mobility, a wholly Asian concept in which short-limbed, bulging-torso-ed people with big plastic bags could fit in with ease. Just, move in, adjust paaleeeej! My son used to travel in one to school with ten other children squeezed into the back seat, some standing in front, and on child seated on the driver's lap between the hands that held the steering rod. Whew! The rickshaw can transport a family of three comfortably, which is my family: my wifey, Ronnie and me. Though, I must confess I have ridden to work in rickshaws with eight people including me and the driver. Economics, again, of an under-developed country with lopsided theory of development, which I abandon to economists like Amartya Sen.

Hm. Be that as it may!

Tukaram shared with me the economics of his new rickshaw, thusly:

• Cost of rickshaw: Rs 90,000 (USD 2000)
  
• Cost of getting a permit to run rickshaw (including bribes): Rs 80,000 (almost equal to the price of the rickshaw!) (USD 1777)
  
• CNG (compressed natural gas) fittings and accessories: Rs 60,000 (USD 1333)
  

I will be dammed. Because for that money he could have bought himself a new Hyundai Santro or a Wagon R. Why didn't he? He could have ridden in style in air-conditioned comfort.

Because, he tells me, what will he do with a Santro in New Bombai? With a rickshaw, at least, he will get business, besides CNG is cheaper than petrol.

What I can't understand is the Rs 80,000 he has to pay to get a permit. Where does the money go? Into which Tukaram Shinde gives, that which one (sorry, got carried away!).

We Read Less, We Communicate Even Less

This blog post really made me think. Why don't we read anymore? I mean I read only when I am travelling and am not near a computer or a television. I have set aside my commuting time as my reading time as it uplifts me, transforms me into the multi-layered, multi-faceted world of characters as diverse as Harry Potter (yes, I enjoyed one book of Rowling), Salim Sinai (Midnight's Children), Pierre (War and Peace), Humbert Humbert (Lolita), Humboldt (Humboldt's Gift), and so on. Reading fiction involves deep thinking, analysis, longer memory, better analysis of character. But with television we have become that much more superficial. We have mobile phones, but we communicate less, we have internet, but we write mails without a proper address and even a proper thank you.

In spite of having the latest phones, it's difficult contacting a person. We invent reasons for not answering someone's call. "Left mobile at home," "was driving," "battery ran out," "was in a meeting," etc. We cut off a person in the middle of a call and say "the network is bad," we scream, "hello, hello, hello," when we can hear his/her voice clearly, we have become more inventive and less dependable, we are inspired by foul-mouthed pseudos than genuine characters who fight for justice and fairness.

So, therefore, I was pleasantly surprised when I read this post the Guardian blog. Yes, the very thing I was thinking about, why are we so superficially glamour- and celebrity-oriented, running after mindless and bad-word-filled reality shows, thinking we are gods in our blogging, social networks, and not displaying any qualities of deep introspection from which all works of art are born? Even writers these days depend on quick-success formulas of mango orchards, pickled phrase jugglery, a laugh or a witticism a sentence, and assorted, in Bollywood parlance, dialogue-baazi.

The Sad Case of Ramprasad Pandey

This is the sad story of Ramprasad Pandey. He sells cut papayas in Churchgate, sitting under a pretty-looking gulmhur tree. On a good day he makes Rs 600 (Rs 18,000 a month), on a bad day hardly Rs 100. But the agents of the police, the municipal corporation come and take away Rs 100 a week as an unofficial tax as they fall within their area of jurisdiction. That's Rs 800 less every month. Ramprasad doesn't know law so he pays up without grumbling. He buys papayas from the wholesale market at Rs 20 per kg, and he sells them for Rs 40 per kg on an average. So that's Rs 9000 shaved off his income. From the balance Rs 9000 Rs 1000 goes in bribes, Rs 3000 goes to an assistant who transports papayas, leaving him with Rs 5000 a month. With this he has to manage himself, his family in distant U.P. yet, he is better off than this guy I profile here nearly a month ago who works for Rs 4000 for 12 hours each day 7 days of the week.

It's all right for Manmohan Singh to harp about 7 to 9 per cent growth. Wherein he says platitudes such as, "We are rapidly moving forward. We have faith in ourselves. We have political stability. Our democracy is an example for the whole world. We are gaining in economic strength. Most importantly, we have confidence in our youth... I am sure that they will take our country to a new glory." But what has it done for Ramprasad? He is a broken man, most always in tears and blabbering against the corrupt establishments that extort his hard earned money. I will bring you more such abject poverty abounding within our own city walls. What then would be the case in the dirt-poor villages? Development, growth rate, per capita, are all mirages for them.

What gets Ramprasad's gall is after paying the police and the municipal authorities, when the municipality's trucks come to check for unauthorized hawkers, he still has to lift his papayas (no pun, please!) and run into the nearby building, while the official of the ultipalti (topsy turvy) leers from the front seat. Some unsavory joke this?

Waiting for Mr. Right?

Whether women should wait for Mr. Right or settle for second best is a raging controversy going on on Facebook these day. Got to read this interesting account by an independent IT Project Manager which talks of her travails in the matrimonial realm (which includes matrimonial sites, dating sites, the works). Seeing as how much inexperienced I am in this front (I married the first girl I saw, whom my parents had chosen for me! Those were the pre-matrimonial-site days), I find the whole process fascinating. But there’s a positive side too. Recently a niece got married to a man she had met online. She is the independent type and he, poor chap, is a “Joru ka ghulam”. “No drinking, no cigarettes, okay?” is the first condition she laid. She won.