Tuesday, March 21, 2006

SAD, HE IS BAD

BY BISWADEEP GHOSH

After Salman Rushdie became a major success in the West, Rukun Advani had coined a term for young Indians writing in English. Referring to Amitav Ghosh, Advani called this group the Ghosh Generation. Upamanyu Chatterjee belongs to the same period, although his manner of storytelling is different from most. Chatterjee's debut novel English August: An Indian Story became a rage everywhere. A young urban bureaucrat forced to face a new set of social realities in a small town, the plight of his protagonist Agastya Sen was something many identified with. After just one novel, Chatterjee had turned into a household name among those reading fiction in English.

Many years have gone by. Weight Loss is Chatterjee's fourth work and, it must be said, his most ambitious till date. The wonderfully designed jacket tells us that the novel is only "tangentially about weight loss", and that it is a "comedy of sexual and spiritual degradation." At the centre of all the action is Bhola, and there is nothing bhola (implying, innocent) about the guy to begin with. A licentious pervert since childhood, he fantasises about anybody and everybody, be it men, women or eunuchs. While at school, Bhola's delinquent ways are such that most readers will take some time to accept the character for what it is.

In some ways, this is a horror story. The young lad gets passionately attracted to people from the lower strata of the society. He has a relationship with a couple that sell vegetables: both the man and his wife. After being expelled from school, he eventually goes off to study in a faraway place. He scores fantastic marks in his school final exams, but that does not matter to him. He wants to return to Titli and Moti, the vegetable-selling couple. That's all. Because of the way Bhola leads his life, he seems destined to die in the end. At 37, after eight relationships, four with men and the rest with women, his life ends in an unusual manner that need not be described here.

So, what is so remarkable about a book that tells the story of a pervert? Bhola's character is such a shocker that nobody in his senses would pray for a son -- or a neighbour -- like him. But apart from his obsessions, one with jogging for weight loss and the other with sex, he comes across as a sensitive guy with a deep understanding of the finer things in life. He goes through a disastrous marriage but, when his wife practises music, he thinks, "What kind of song do you sing in the mornings, Kamala, and why a different type in the evenings? Where do they connect -- the brash rock that I've enjoyed for decades and your heavenly melody? Is a khayal a thought and a thumri a lilt? And an alaap an appetizer or the precursor to the mood? Is it too late for me to sing with you?" Exquisitely phrased thought, which makes one wonder what Bhola might have been if he had been able to tame his sexual impulses.

Till the last day of his life, he believes that he has been a non-achiever with nothing to talk about except a series of misadventures. Yet, he is miserably human in his inability to conquer his foibles. Somewhere, he knows he is just drifting through the ocean of life. But he seems to have reconciled to the fact that he will never change. Or rather, he never ever can. He is crippled by subversive flaws that eclipse whatever good qualities he has.

While experiencing the last moments of his life, he contemplates, "Do people really weep for God as they do for their wife and children? Now, who had asked that? Sri Ramakrishna? And why on earth should they?" Once again, the thought shows that he possesses a reflective mind. But what that does not mean is that the reader will be charmed by the character. So hopelessly enslaved to his weaknesses is he that one can, at best, pity him. And one would, despite knowing that deviants like him can defile an already corrupt society even further. This is where Chatterjee's triumph lies. The theme is complex and, therefore, the protagonist. At no point in time do we relate to Bhola. But we do realise what makes him flawed, and why he should not exist.

(The copyright of this article rests with The Maharashtra Herald )

IT'S NOT JUST CRICKET ANYMORE

BY BISWADEEP GHOSH

In the recent one-day match between the South Africans and the Australians, the latter posted an incredible 434 for 4 in their allotted quota of overs. In response, South Africa posted an even more incredible 438 and won. The subsequent euphoria surpassed all expectations. Many termed the match as the greatest one-dayer ever. After all, how many times can one hope to see 872 runs being scored at an average of 8.72 runs an over? Doesn't it require some really special batting effort to ensure that the best bowler who completes his spell concedes 6.7 runs an over? Superb. Mind-blowing. Those who do not view the game as a form of art must have exclaimed that way.

Now that the ecstasy has subsided somewhat, it is important to take a serious look at a match that gave no chance to the bowlers at all. Even if the pitch was batsman-friendly, the shot selection by the Australians that enabled them to post such a huge target showed that the batters were operating on a very basic see-and-hit principle. Even decent deliveries were being smacked out of the park, and the ball soared high enough to meet the clouds once every second over. Such a simplistic approach to batsmanship isn't what cricket is meant to be. One cannot question the South Africans. Displaying unbelievable courage, they went after the Australian bowling, using the same formula that their opponents did. Herschelle Gibbs played a blinder of an innings, but the player who gave an indication of the signs of things to come was the lower order bat J J van der Waath. The manner in which he butchered the bowling, ignoring every rule in the book, suggested that a Dennis Lilee could have turned out for the Australians and suffered the same fate.

Times have changed. So has cricket. Commercialisation has ensured that the game has to be packaged and presented in a manner that is viewer-friendly. When cricketers wear coloured clothing and play under floodlights, the situation does not seem outrageous any longer. When a lower order bat walks out to bat at number three so that he can hit, what they call, a few lusty blows, nobody gets surprised by the sudden change in the batting order. With concepts like super subs coming into being, the shorter version of cricket is all about quick thinking and calculations to outsmart the opposing team.

But the one change that is hard to swallow is the complete disregard for technique. In many ways, today's cricket has become like modern-day tennis. During the good old days when players like Bjorn Borg made such a significant impact, the game was characterised by a certain artistry that is rarely seen today. Even lesser players like Vijay Amritraj dazzled in the courts when, for instance, the Indian rushed to the net to meet a lob. Everyone expected a safe smash that the opponent could not have returned. Instead, Vijay touched the ball so slightly that it just about crossed the net and fell on the other side. That kind of control was sheer class, as opposed to the modern game when most players use power to outpace their rivals. Because of his deft touches, Ramesh Krishnan was nicknamed 'Surgeon' in the tennis circles. In today's times, an artist like Krishnan would not have survived beyond the first round. This is not because he was any less skilled, but since his serves lacked power and would have been put away by the most mediocre of players.

Cricket, sadly, is going the tennis way. With competitions like Twenty Twenty becoming more and more popular, power hitting will dominate the game in the long run. Very few would like to take up bowling, because good deliveries will not get the sort of respect they deserve. When batsmen like van der Waath come out to bat, all one will get to see is the ball flying out of the ground. As long as a bowler doesn't deliver a hopelessly wide ball, such batsmen would not favour the idea of leaving the delivery alone.

There was a time when Sunil Gavaskar's best cricketing skill was the art of leaving the ball. Playing without a helmet, he would move away from the line of a delivery and watch the ball go into the wicketkeeper's gloves. That is when one knew how technically skilled Gavaskar was. But, what would he have done had he been asked to chase a target of 500 runs in 50 overs? If a more recent player, he would have surely adapted to the needs of the one-day game reasonably well. Why he did not do so is because, and I seriously think so, Gavaskar did not take his one-day cricket seriously. Besides, one-day games were looked down upon by many then. So, he did not need to do so anyway. Today, things are different. A huge number of one-dayers are being played. So, even if Gavaskar had acclimatised to the format, the Little Master's attempt to play a cross-batted stroke would have been an ugly sight. The ball might have gone for a four, but one's love for the game would have died an instant death. Yet, most modern-day lovers of the game would have cheered and cheered. Won't blame them. They are used to the idea of not watching cricket.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

STORIES OF PASSION

BY BISWADEEP GHOSH

Most memories fade with time. But a few refuse to vacate the mind and go away. One such memory had catalysed the possibility of an accident a few months ago. I was in a taxi in Mumbai, and the car stereo was playing the cult classic I Am A Disco Dancer from the film Disco Dancer that had turned Mithun Chakraborty into an overnight dancing sensation in 1982. While humming the song, the driver changed gears so excitedly that he almost hit an auto-rickshaw. Out of sheer disgust, the rickshaw driver churned out some awful unprintables. After sanity returned, my cab fellow told me apologetically, "Sorry, saab. But I really love the song. I have been hearing it ever since the film got released." I wasn't prepared to grant him unconditional apology, since the experience had shaken me up thoroughly. But I understood him. As someone who had witnessed the Disco Dancer mania at its peak, and that too in a small town, I knew that the driver had turned into Mithun for a brief while.

There are so many books on Bollywood and its stars, but I am yet to come across a serious yet popular work on the enormity of its impact on the commoner's lives. Although I am a great Amitabh Bachchan fan, I was astounded when the Big B came to an awards function in Mumbai last year. Till the superstar arrived at the arena, the Vivek Oberois of the world were hijacking all the attention. But once he did, about eight persons climbed on a ledge to have a look at the man. While trying to wave at him, all of them fell down. With big grins on their faces, they wiped the dust off their clothes and returned to the seats. Had I not been working for the company that had organised the awards ceremony, would I have acted like those fellows? Don't know. Won't speculate. Actually I might have, considering I had once watched Shahenshah every day for one week or more. Even today, I tend to find millions of merits in Big B films like Ek Ajnabee that the critics pan and the box-office rejects. And, while I am sure that no critic will sympathise with my perspective, it is equally true that are at least a few thousand fans out there who think Ek Ajnabee is a flawless masterpiece unlike me.

When a star is at his or her peak, fans mimic their dress sense in a big way. I have been fortunate enough to see people wearing yellow shirts, yellow trousers and, of course, white shoes when Jeetendra's Hindi forays shot down South were huge hits. Amitabh's hairstyle was copied by thousands and, here I have noticed, mostly by short men. When Mithun Chakraborty became a rage, many shaved off their sideburns. In parts of the cow belt, 'disco lights' were available for Rs 20 which people attached to their belts. The lights went blink, blink, blink, as the proud owners walked up and down the streets, trying to look like their beloved disco dancer. In a small-town theatre, I have seen people leave their seats and go down on their knees, imagining they had guitars in hands when Amitabh Bachchan played the instrument onscreen in Yaarana or Mithun did in Disco Dancer.

If you visit an awards show, just make sure you see how people move their necks every time a new star comes to the venue. Eastward, Westward: that movement is to catch a better view of Abhishek Bachchan who makes an entry from the front. Westward, Eastward: that is for Rani Mukherji who walks in from the rear. Don't the necks hurt because of the sheer number of times everyone moves them? Not at that time, although one is quite sure many feel the sting once they are back home and dealing with the demands of everyday living.

Many feel that people flock to Mumbai in huge numbers every year to work as extras because they have no job opportunities back home. I can understand if the reference is to cab or rickshaw drivers, who earn a lot more than they can back home. But most who work as extras do so because they are besotted with the idea of being close to the stars they adore so much. Some of them continue to dream of becoming minor actors till the last days of their lives. With such aspirations in mind, they work for 16 hours a day, eating unpalatable unit food, earning hardly anything, unsure of what tomorrow has in store. But then, such is passion.

(The copyright of this column rests with The Maharashtra Herald)