Another Excerpt from My Novel - a Bit Provocative - from My Novel "Mr. Bandookwala, M.B.A., Harvard

Since it's a Sunday and I am feeling lazy, I am posting another excerpt from my novel. This is a bit provocative, so watch out! Don't say I didnst warn thou! Comments are welcome as always.

Excerpt:

Then I come out, wipe my tears, smoke a cigarette and stare at the sea and then stare some more at the well-fed bodies that do a petulant dance before my hungry eyes. Impossibly beautiful girls. The best girls I have ever seen. They wear sexy clothes – denims, tank tops which bare the midriff and navel. They sport straightened hair, low-slung jeans that show their panties, mini-skirts of a sheer fabric which leaves nothing much to the imagination, and a huge a-generation-ago-I-would-have-been-under-a-veil-but-now-I-am-liberated attitude. A pair of jeans accentuates a woman's shape; it takes a woman's behind and transforms it into a variety of tempting and luscious fruity forms: apple, pear, peach, mango, guava, papaya, etc. Ah, the forbidden fruits! Forbidden, at least to me. I sometimes put myself – because of my low social acceptability, due to my colour – into the fair skin of my friend Darius Screwala and – mysteriously and magically – great possibilities seem to assume aspects of certitude. Darius Screwala! My friend! The smooth-talking Priapic seducer of women, how I envy you.

Newness: that's what this country has in plenty – liberation of a sex, gender equality, and attitude. They could give the Britney Spears and Paris Hiltons of the world tough competition – just liberated from repressive men –, looking as if they have just been torn away from their mothers' bosoms, tasting the first freedom of the wide world of adulthood, such innocent beauties. Oh God! Oh great Zara! Looking at them makes me want to cry again. Though I am drunk, the sadness and moroseness hasn't left me. It wasn't like this before I left for the U.S. Those days only the Roman Catholics and Parisis (the Aarcees and the Parisees) dated girls and went out in the evenings. Now the Moomoori, Zoozoori, Malloori, and Bongoori girls dominate. The universality of the well-fed young bodies displayed before me do something to me. I find myself wildly aroused. I am so hopelessly aroused that I have to face a wall to hide my shame. They must be having their first sexual trysts in parked cars and the Family Rooms of shady restaurants. I am jealous. With Parul I haven't had sex for months; I wank off once in a while. For me sex has lost meaning. Parul if only you had spread your legs for me once in a month I would have been a happy man. I could have understood a stream drying up, not a total drought. 

Excerpt ends.

The Good; The Bad, The Ugly

Indeed times are bad. (Don't blame me since the bad mood persisted over a wasted morning when I witnessed a fight in train between two screwed up individuals [both unshaved and disheveled, some fashion this] with nothing worth calling manners, to my knowledge. I lost on my precious reading time on my daily commute and am still disoriented.) I guess MTV and VTV has done a big disservice by introducing the casual culture among youth. Both the young guys were wearing casual clothes.

But this morning had a spark of the good. Yes, serendipitously, sometimes the good overcomes the bad. Sanjay Dubey is a rickshaw driver I am friendly with. He is very polite and asks me for old clothes. So I give him old sweaters, trousers and a few shirts that I no longer wear. This morning he drove me to the station and gave me back ten rupees when I had given him twenty (the fare is rupees fifteen). I was touched. So I gave him back the ten rupees and said he should keep the change. This is good.

Last night the rickshaw driver was not like Sanjay Dubey. He charged me Rs 20 when my usual fare was Rs 18. He said the fares had been increased and didn't I know? I said I didn't, no notifications had come in the papers. What papers, he says, who believes the papers these days, we have our unions. God, is it the breakdown of communications? What do the media pundits have to say about this in this age of information overload? This is bad.

Last night I went to buy a brush for the toilet. I am very particular about toilets and I want mine to be as clean as in a hotel (if the hotels can do it why can't I?). I have no hesitation in saying I clean mine myself. The day before I had bought one from Sector 4 of Belapur and he had charged me Rs 25. So yesterday I went to another shop nearby in Sector 6 and the bloody lout told me to pay Rs 50, i.e., double the amount. Ugh! A 100 per cent profit on top of their usual profit margin. This is unfair, this is profiteering, this is absolute highway robbery (except that I don't see any trace of a highway nearby). This ugly.

Police State, Are We?

Common people in India do not tangle with the police because they know what happens. Makes me wonder if we have graduated from a police-thanedar culture into something more advanced. In the US it's the same, i.e., no better. There they call them "thugs in uniform" about which this story will vouch.

The Indian situation is complicated by the interference of the legislative and executive arms of the government. True, if you are in trouble a member of legislative assembly or a political leader can surely ensure your release. However in this instance, the contact with a political leader didn't work.Twenty-three persons were arrested and detained without giving a proper reason for their incarceration in Bombay. And, it turns out, they weren't the guilty party, but the hotel was. It transpires that the hotel didn't have the necessary permit to serve liquor.

And while on the subject what about the much tom-tom-ed police reforms.

Link courtesy Annie Zaidi's blog.

Sangam House Residencies - Corrigendum

Sorry, forgot to mention. The link below is courtesy: Caferati Listings! Thanks Caferati for letting me know!

Sangam House Residencies

Sangam House has various residencies available for serious writers. I intend to apply. Do peruse and apply, would like to meet up, if luck favours and I am there (A big "If" isn't it?! Details are here.

Space Seller Are You Kidding?

The job involves media buying. It's a dicey business because space seller executives lie about their circulation and rates all the time. It's amazing what they will do to fudge figures.

- Mr. John (Yeah, I am Mr. John!), the rate for full page is Rs 1,80,000 but we give you ad for Rs 45,000.

- Wow! That's a 75 per cent discount. What's your circulation?

- 2,50,000 copies.

- So a page in your magazine will cost me Rs 45,000 divided by 2,50,000 (the number of copies) right? That is 18 paise.

- Yes.

- So, a ream of paper costs Rs 1500 these days. So one sheet of paper of 16 pages cost Rs 3 (since a ream has 500 sheets). So a page costs Rs 3 divided by 16, right. That is 18 paise right?

- Yes.

- So you are telling me you will take our advertisement for 18 paise and publish it on paper costing 18 paise. What about your salary? What about printing costs? What about distribution costs?

- No idea, sir.

- Then get Id** (Oops! I almost said this).

Shed a Tear for Publishing and Advertising

This is important. Significant. At least, I think it is.

Let me put this in context. It occurred to me when some young people who were gathered together were appreciating an advertorial (If you don't know the word, it means an advertisement written in the form of an editorial article, for which actually the advertiser pays.) It seemed to me that the youngsters sitting with me don't even know that news used to be pure and unadulterated in the innocent old days.

Once publications, I mean periodicals (a term in which I include newspapers), were repositories of knowledge and information and reporters and editors were the gatekeepers to existing knowledge about what happens. Over the years the paradigm seems to have changed. So much so that it is no longer recognisable as to feel that periodicals are no longer thought of as they were. (May be, at my age, having seen fifty years of newspapers I am assuming too much.) But certain disparities come to mind and here are a few of them.

Those days newspapers used to write news stories not public relations agencies. These days newspapers don't trust their own reporters and sub-editors to write stories, they trust the PR agencies. I don't know why.

Advertisements were advertisements and editorials were editorials. Never the twain met. The term advertorial was not invented. I have worked in both departments and I remember that the editorial people always had the upper hand when it came to space allocation. Advertisements were looked at as derivatives of editorial and not otherwise.

The editors of newspapers were public figures, feted and celebrated. These days I don't know who is editor because they maintain a low profile.

The following are the writing specialists newspapers have eliminated:

1. Foreign correspondent
2. Indian classical music critic
3. Western classical music critic
4. Drama critic (one for each language)
5. Legal correspondent
6. Rural reporter
7. Resident editor
8. Literary critic
9. Chief sub-editor
10.Chief reporter
11.Education correspondent
12.Entertainment editor
13.Sub-editor
14.Copy boy

So on, so forth....

By selling editorial space newspaper owners are weakening their newspapers (or, their products). There isn't anyone saying "I read it in --- newspaper," anymore. The credibility of newspapers has gone down. Whereas most people read newspapers in trains in those days, these days people reading newspapers in trains are newspaper workers themselves, that too, to find out which ads they haven't received.

Advertising agencies aren't those of old. In those days ad agencies released their own advertisements through their media department. Today ad agencies consists of servicing executives and creative artists. The media buying is done elsewhere.

Those days the newspapers and publications were supreme. These days ad agencies can dictate terms to the media; with a few exceptions, of course.

Where are the small magazines? There used to be hundreds of small specialised magazines devoted to their own fields of interest. Most of them have folded up from lack of advertising support. I, too, worked for some such publications.

So guys when you go "woo, great advertorial," "ah, this is so nice," also think about the lost art of advertising and publishing and shed a tear.

Lacking in Simple Manners, Did You Say?

Is this some breakdown in manners or what? Consider the following two instances:

First: Yesterday as I was standing in queue for a first-class railway pass at Belapur station, a man insinuated himself into the queue saying he wanted a first class pass. I told him I am also waiting for a first class pass and that he should come after me. Usually, a person when he realises he is mistaken apologises or raises his eyebrow and waits.

But he wasn't willing to do both and still inserted his hand into the booking window before me. Goodness, what bad manners! The result was a shouting match between me and the twerp. I think some people aren't willing to admit they are mistaken and aren't willing to say a simple sorry. Duh!

Second: A man is leaning his weight on me in train. I can feel the pressure of his body on me and I am slightly off balance. Then the train lurches and I am thrown off balance and my glass flies off and I almost topple on the man nearby. Here also there is an unbelievable lack of manners. He doesn't apologise and tries to defend himself with: "You are standing as if you are in a public garden, you will topple, no?"

Gah! What's the matter with people? Or, is it me? No, I don't think it is me. I guess it is our propensity to justify our wrongs, a pathological need to prove that we can never be wrong. Where will this lead us? Aren't we well advised on basic manners by our peers and our seniors. I can understand a temporary lack of manners, but this is almost general, all pervasive.

Belgian Senators' Wives to Be Asked to Deny Sex to Spouses?

Here's Kira Cochrane writing in the Guardian about a Belgian senator's solution to the hung parliament in the country. Her (Yes, its a she) solution: have a sex strike. Meaning, ask wives of senators in Belgium to cross their legs during their noctural romantic trysts with their partners, or, whatever, until some kind of coalition is formed. A country can't run without a government, you see! Neither can it run without sex.

So the mantra: If you want sex have a government. **Grin**

Read the article, nothing like a novel idea (it has been tried before), considering sex is a great motivator.

Kala Ghoda Arts Festival (KGAF) and KGAF Poetry Slam

Went to Kala Ghoda Arts Festival (KGAF) yesterday. Main objective was to participate in the KGAF poetry slam. (I confess I couldn't cover this festival in detail as I was busy with a project launch and hardly found the time to visit it except for the panel discussion on "Getting Published.")

The festival has changed a lot over the years. There were metal detectors and security personnel this time at the Lion's Gate end and none at the Jehangir Art Gallery end. Beats me! The checking and frisking were perfunctory. More of a routine. When I was finished with the checking I found that there wasn't any space to stand. It had become like the 8.51 local I took every morning for Belapur. Only standing space, and that too I couldn't move a limb for fear of hitting somebody.

God, where did all this people come from! Was my first frantic thought. But then the thought faded as I got swamped by the ethnic chic on display. I wanted to perhaps buy all of them if I had the money: quaint pottery work, quilted jackets and bags, furniture and articles of everyday use, handicrafts, handicrafts, handicrafts, crockery and most of all, food.

Almost everyone had a camera and some were seen posting from their camera to their Facebook and Twitter pages. Guess it shows the power of social media to spread the word virally (a form of marketing where message is passed on from friend to friend by email, Facebook, Twitter.). So I can say viral marketing was out in full force. There were people posing for pictures in front of the sculptures, children being carried on shoulders, lovers cuddling to each other. Hm. Nice way to spend an evening.

KGAF Poetry Slam

Luckily, I got an entry into the Poetry Slam organised by Caferati through a wild card entry. The quality of poetry is of a high order and in previous years there have been quite tough competition. Till now I have been an onlooker, but this year I decided to take a plunge.

Into the first round I found that the poetic sensibility of the Hindi poets were quite keen and sharper than that of the English poets. (This happened to be a mixed slam of English and Hindi poems.) I read sang my poem "Fires of the Faithless" pacing the stage as I did so. Into the second round I began to have apprehensions. Something like a kind of "this isn't going well" feeling came over me. I realise now that my poems weren't contemporary as the Hindi poems were. They were quite general. I sang another poem "Freedom," which had to be cut by a moderator because I exceeded the allotted time limit. Never mind. What was important - according to me - was competing and not winning. I had put myself on stage and performed. I had performed uniquely at that. None of the other poets paced as they performed. Also, I was the only poet who had memorised my lines.

No problem. Lesson learnt from this slam: poetry should touch the heart and there should be a distinct poetic sensibility as the Hindi poets had. There are other poetry slams to write soulful and stirring poetry about.Being busy on the novel I had neglected poetry some what. This may be a stimulus to take it more seriously.