Tuesday, March 10, 2009

CHEAP AND BEST!

Classics, be it musical, literary or cinematic, turn me into a marionette. Whenever I saunter into a shop, invisible strings get unleashed within seconds. They wrap themselves around my feet, and manipulate their movement. I find myself gravitating towards works that not only epitomise creative immortality, but also make me hopeful about the future of art in general. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. I do the puppet walk. By the time I do my buying and leave the store, I ensure that my debit card is a lot poorer. Reactions to my purchases vary. Some find me affluent which I am not. Some others find me extravagant which could well be the case.

Yet, one thing saddens me always. When I pick up a contemporary novel and look at the price tag, I realise that I will have to shell out Rs 500. How good is the writer? In most cases, if that fellow's book had been released yesterday, it would have been forgotten by today. But when it is Charles Dickens or Jane Austen, editions meant for the common reader can be all yours for as little as Rs 100. Till today, I have not been able to figure out why the works of all-time great writers should be treated with so much indignity.

As it is, there is this detestable cross-section of buyers that picks up books to embellish shelves at home. Dickens, Austen, Thackeray, Hardy, Wordsworth, Maupassant, Wilde: I have seen one disgusting shelf in New Delhi which held around 1000 classics, most of them unread that the complacent owner acknowledged blissfully. One reason why such a collection was built was since the price of the books was obscenely cheap. So, by marketing masterpieces at such rates, aren't the store owners actually guilty of creating decorative collections at a time when reading habit is clearly on the decline? More importantly, if someone wants a Dickens, let him/her pay for a Dickens. Pray, why should David Copperfield come for a hundred rupees less than some nonsensical Harold Robbins novel?

Not that cheap pricing does not help. During my days as a child in Patna, there was no library that stocked Russian literature. About 25 years ago, my budget for books sanctioned by my family used to be a princely 200 bucks. But I did manage to finish that off by the middle of the month. Once that happened, I persuaded my grandmother to take me to a store that was a repository of Russian books. "They are so cheap," I simpered. With a benign grin, she surrendered to my request and took me there. It was because of my journeys there that I discovered Fyodor Dostoyevsky (two hardbound volumes of The Idiot cost me eight rupees), Alexander Pushkin (a five-rupee Pushkin volume acquainted me with another Don Juan) and Maxim Gorky (ten hardbound volumes of his entire works cost me Rs 110).

But, why those books were sold for so cheap was because of a deliberate policy that they needed to reach out to everybody. And, in that store, there was no Jack Higgins whose thin paperback was priced at 20 bucks. The sad thing today, and it really hurts, is that a VCD of Salaam Namaste comes for Rs 149. Then, one moves on and picks up six Laurel and Hardy films from the same store for Rs 300. Does one need to add that the makers also give a free VCD case along with the Laurel and Hardy films? Not only that, I also happen to be the proud owner of 20 odd Chaplin films that must have cost me around Rs 1000. For five Alfred Hitchcock flicks, I have shelled out Rs 400.

Classics being classics will always have fewer buyers. That's a known fact of life. If that were not the case, everyone would have views on why Raag Bhimpalasi need not be less interesting than Raag Poorvi , or why Beethoven's best magic isn't as captivating as Mozart's worst. Despite cheap tags, alluring offers and so on, the fact remains that Mallika Sherawat's assets in forgettable films will continue to generate more discussions everywhere. So, if the makers think that selling classics for cheap can create more interest in them, they are awfully wrong.

How I wish could walk into any store that gave classics the honour they deserve. How I hope that A Tale of Two Cities will be sold for Rs 500, about 300 more than a Scott Turow book. That will not happen soon for sure. If at all that will ever happen seems slightly less unlikely.

MAN IN A WOMAN'S WORLD

There was, indeed, a time when I wasn't aware of my own existence. Unlike someone else. My mother. When I had grown into a vague presence inside her body, she had experienced a happy unease that, slowly, surely, turned into the nine-pound baby that I was. Years have flown. Have added another nine pounds to become a man of the 'fragile: handle with care' variety. Whenever the first lady in my life looks at me even today, I can feel a sense of triumph in her eyes. Those eyes, large ones, speak an eloquent language of affection-laden silence. They tell me what a woman can do, but no man can. Mom gave birth to me, like countless other ladies since the beginning of time. Can any of us guys, the male guys I mean, replicate that miracle ever? If not, how the hell did that phrase 'man's world' come into being?

As I get stuck in a mental quagmire, seeking the unanswerable, several images of the other ladies in my life come to mind. Like all men, including those cursed by the inability to be grateful, I adore my mother. Then, there is grandma, the great dictator who has exercised unbelievable power over everyone else in a large family. If mom is simply lovable, grandma is incomparably scary.

When the old lady had played Emma Wodehouse and ventured towards matchmaking, she had ended up voting for the wrong guy who ruined a woman's life. When she used to serve tea with salt to my grandpa years ago, he would look at her with a weak smile and drink half of it before grandma realised her fault while sipping hers. When a relative of mine had wanted to marry a girl he loved, grandma had vetoed so emphatically that the fellow didn't utter her name in front of her ever after.

So what if grandma had made a devastating blunder while endeavouring to choose the right guy for someone? That women seldom erred but men always did was her life's operational mantra. It still is, and one must add that her analysis isn't particularly wrong either. Whenever we try to communicate our thoughts about life, we are dependent on our experiences with fellow human beings, if not guided by a hypocritical motivation to sound like someone else. The latter, a conscience killer, has spawned a few moments when I have hated myself. But, all I can say is that I have tried hard to be honest, which is not saying much, yet which is why 'man's world' is a silly chauvinistic thought I can never ever comprehend.

After all, what about the divine gift of motherhood that no man 'should' have been born with? What about my grandma, whose acceptable version leads to each and every woman, who guides the course of men's lives ever so subtly? What about many lady colleagues I have come across, whose ability to strike a balance between personal and professional lives is as natural as it is amazing? What about my former girlfriend of many years ago, who had dumped me because of my chaotic lifestyle? What about my could-have-been girlfriend of a few years later, who remained just that and no more for the same reason? What about all those ladies who have taught me so much without being ostentatiously didactic, a crippling foible which many men simply love to show off, making an ass of themselves? Inhabiting a woman's world, the biggest failure of most guys is that they don't know how powerless they actually are. That's funny but not surprising, considering most men still don't know the difference between having sex and making love.

(This column had appeared in Femina)

Monday, March 09, 2009

A BAD SATIRE (excavated from archives)

How old would he be? Don’t know. Doesn’t matter. Could be 45, 48, 51…forget it. Since he is a journo who will make his debut behind the camera soon, how does his age matter? He doesn’t need to look glamorous.

And, what about the girl in front of him? Eighteen, 19,20…she, a lass with a pretty face and a fine figure, should figure somewhere in that bracket I suppose. The girl is a wannabe starlet, a modern-day Miss Quested from Jhumritilaiya lusting after five seconds of fame in Bollywood.

When she walks into the cabin of this man, his neck is buried in a huge file of what seems like newspaper clippings. “Yes, sit,” he looks at her through his rimless spectacles for less than a quarter of a second and goes back to reading his clippings again. Doesn’t seem to be interested in the female presence it seems. Correction. If at all he is interested, it doesn’t show.

“Sir,” the girl mumbles after a patient ten-minute pause, “I had called you up last week. I need a break, of any kind, in the Hindi film industry but I don’t have contacts. No godfather, you see. So I thought that perhaps you could help me…”

“Hmm, I couldn’t have met you last week because I was travelling abroad on a junket funded by Josh Distilleries, the makers of Beer Zara," the scribe looks at the girl and continues, “See, we need to go out with film units when the movies are being made so that we can file special reports. Besides, the filmmakers also need to keep the journalists happy so that the media does not trash their movies.”

“But Sir, what is it that you mean by junk it?” the girl asks, her Tilaiyaisms clearly audible for once.

“Oh, not junk it but junket lady,” the man sets forth a smile demonstrating his nicotine-tinged teeth, “Junket means a trip that costs nothing to us, and helps media-savvy producers get kind reviews for the rubbish they make. Some of us, the senior scribes, constitute an important power centre you know.”

“So you mean Beer…is really bad? But it has got Big S, Big R, Big P and even Big B in a small role, so many big stars,” the girl stammers at the very thought that a bad film with so many huge actors is actually possible.

“The film is unadulterated gibberish if that is what you want to hear,” the journo neighs emphatically, “But we will ensure that it becomes a huge hit.” Then, the guy stops for a while and adds, "Journalism is all about ethics you know. So, if someone has spent lakhs on a junket, we need to make some sort of a contribution to make his film a success.”

“But Sir, you blasted Shudder and it became a huge hit,” the wannabe starlet’s eyes light up because she has a point.

Shu...Shudder? True, we had murdered Shudder because not only was it a bad film but it was made on such a small budget that the producer could not organise a junket to Pondicherry of all places,” the journo nods his head in mock-disbelief, “But I guess Girlika’s fans don’t care for criticism just as she doesn’t care for clothes.”

“Sir, a question. A small question,” Miss Wannabe leaves her seat, saunters lazily, and sits on the table right next to the newspaper clippings the man had been reading. Then, she whispers into his ears, “Sir, you are going to make a film. You are going to be yet another journo who will make a film. Can I have a small role in your film? A leeteel role Sir?”

“You will have to, you will…”now, the journo-man is stammering, “you will have to give a screen test.”

“Here Sir?” The girl seems keen to turn into a Buffalo girl and do an item number then and there.

“No, no, not here. This is office, not office, this is office,” the journo has lost it, completely.

“Cut.” In walks Virus Locha, the VJ-turned-compere who has now done his first episode of investigative journalism. The journo’s face turns white as he sees the deadly Virus with the camera crew, while the girl gets up from the table to shake his limp hand, “Sir, this is a sting operation. You have been caught on camera in a confessional mode for which we must thank you.”

The short and plump scribe is trying to dodge the camera most desperately. He actually looks like a cookie that has crumbled on an office sofa. Now, the garrulous Virus takes over. “Journalism, we all know, is about ethics as our esteemed catch for tonight said a little while ago. Just in case you are wondering why we did a sting operation on Song TV, well, that is because we wanted to give a special twist to an episode on our month’s special guest, the rock star Sting.”