Remember the greatest Solo goal?

From this site

Michael Slater and a great article

One of my favs.

QUANTUM ACTING: an email debate

This was the posting which started the conversation:

'We need to devise a new mode of acting' my friend said, taking a paan leaf from my pouch.

I got worried that he would soon start a new conversation. We had just come out of a daylong seminar, and had enough of such remarks. It was a boring day, with the usual theatre lot speaking disorganised on everything ranging from globalisation to the evening traffic jams in Bangalore that made the theatregoer's life hell.

Except one moment-it was sometime in the siesta hours after lunch, and an upcoming actor was speaking about how he manages both theatre and TV serials simultaneously in his artistic life, he said, 'Yes, I learn from both the arts; one is complementary to the other, in fact'. 'I disagree,' a voice floated in from the auditorium, and the one speaking was a Kannada writer. People looked up. 'I disagree,' he repeated, 'because, first of all, I do not see TV as an art at all-it is not even a medium of communication. It is just advertisement, and nothing more. What can anybody learn from TV? It is illusory to think this way,' he continued, and sat down throwing a challenge to everyone present. 'If you-any of you-can show me one example from what we watch on TV that can remotely be compared to a Kuvempu novel or a Bendre poem, I will take back my words and apologise.' Nobody answered, and the embarrassed compere brought the proceedings back onto the track.

My friend, who was an ardent anti-TV activist, was excited. He was whispering his arguments to my ear while the rest of the seminar went on. And, he now wanted to continue that topic. 'What kind of acting do you wish to develop?' I asked him, knowing that he would continue even if I do not ask this question. He said, 'An acting method, which would only teach a kind of acting that would perfectly suit the stage; but which makes the actor completely incapable for acting on TV!' 'How is that possible?' I asked. 'If it is not possible, we should make it possible,' my friend said, 'otherwise we would all end up wasting our lives on actors who will eventually reach a TV serial. NSD has already become one such institute, an auxiliary unit to the entertainment industry. Soon, your repertory and my theatre group will consist of either aspirants to or rejects from that industry.'

'Yes,' I now joined the conversation. To make the situation look less grim, I made a lighter momment, 'We have already achieved that.' And gave him two examples. One: of an actor
from our repertory who went to TV serials and became notorious there for his 'theatrical' habits-he would never stand quietly, even when the other person was talking, this actor would make all sorts of faces and gestures that would infuriate the TV producer. Another was a less gifted actor, and we had taught him to open his mouth as widely as he can while speaking, so that his speech clarity would improve. He continued the same on his TV acting, and one day a producer shouted at him: 'If you do that during the close-ups, your mouth will cover half the TV screen!'

No, my friend was not moved by these digressions. He was in a mood to formulate his ideas in a serious way and he dragged me into a café, ordered coffee, and started scribbling on the backside of the menu (re: Stanislavsky and Danchenko, 1897!). 'The first thing we must do, for this acting method to take shape, is to abolish psychology (and also to make room for philosophy to come back),' he said. I understood what he meant. He had just seen a recent production, where an actor would talk to her image. He had told me that it was 'intolerably psychological' and he could not bear it. 'The greatest damage that TV has made to our culture is the appropriation of psychology and its re-synthesis as a packed consumable.'

'In that case, you would wish to bring back the "body" into theatre?' I asked him with a saucy look, and he understood what my argument was, as he too shared my scepticism for that kind of
theatre. 'No, no. We must touch something deeper than that. What I have in mind is something which you could call "Ayurvedic Acting". In Ayurveda, one is neither concerned about the body nor the mind. Instead, Ayurveda looks at a person in terms of three elements: Vaata, Pittha, and Kapha. All men in this world and also characters from plays, are in fact various combinations of these three elements. Therefore, our acting method must base itself on these elements and work on creating these elements within oneself. Fortunately today, TV has no accommodation for this kind of a philosophical task; we can be safe until they catch-up.' It was a crazy idea, but it was exciting too. But I was still in a mood to tease him: 'Why don't you call this "quantum acting"? You could become as famous as Deepak Chopra if you succeed!' I said.

My friend laughed heartily and intending to begin another sentence looked at his watch. It was time to catch his bus. And he sprinted off saying we would continue the debate some other day. I sat there for a while; made a paan from my pouch, chewing it I came out completely relieved from the tedious memories of the seminar.

By Akshara K.V.

Whenever he finds time everyday between consuming kilos of the supari he himself cultivates in this idyllic corner of Karnataka, Akshara manages to produce and direct plays and run NINASAM, among the most important attempts at creating an 'alternate' institution for the arts. He is also publisher Akshara Prakashana , and can be contacted at aksharakv@yahoo.com.

And this was what I thought when I read it. And emailed to a friend, who is into theatre.

My views would not be your views, neither might they be appreciated by you, I am sorry. I am, if I dare say so, a connossieur of art. I unfortunately do not see theatre at the peak of all creativity, and the rest of it as secondary. The way I get hit reading/watching a 'Julius Caesar' is as appreciable as reading a 'Good Earth' or watching an "American beauty" or a 'Decalog' by Kieslawsky (note, this is not a movie, but a 10 part TV serial... watched a bit of it, that's it)
.

Well, someone said, "'If you-any of you-can show me one example from what we watch on TV that can remotely be compared to a Kuvempu novel or a Bendre poem, I will take back my words and apologise.'
Any TV serial running on TV in DD would not be in halfways comparable to a Kuvempu novel, but name me one play staged in RS in the last 3 years which can? There are just two kinds of art. Good art and bad art. Kuvempu is good art. Kieslawsky's TV serial is good art. and XYZ-fallana-thikana theatre on Ranga Shankara is bad art, like Saas-Bahu serials are bad art.

TV acting, as of what I know, is subtle and does not require practice serious practice. Speak your likes and come off. Theatre acting is quite different and will require the actor to throw not just his voice a-la Nihar Nanjundayya, but her whole range of expressions to the audience, and yet underplay/ overplay at times, as the role might demand. The stage is no doubt tougher, I am not running away from the fact.

And hey, Girish Karnad does movies and books. Alyque Padamsee does ads. Person X works in a software company. Person Z does TV. Like, so what? As long as person Z is honest to his/her performance on stage, why should anybody be cribbing? To me, one of the best plays to come out of India in the last fifty years is Evam Indrajit. By Badal Sircar. Profession while writing the play? Architect. One should not take the professional bit too far.

"NSD has already become one such institute, an auxiliary unit to the entertainment industry"
Now what is the harm in entertainment? What is the harm in the entertainment industry? In the fifteen hundreds in England, another word for the entertainment industry at that point of time was WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. Also, I had a bit to say about these intellectual-snobs who think that theatre is all that is there to it. If you do not appreciate other forms of art, you will never be able to share your love of one form of art to others. Now if TV is packaging psychology to fit the common man's tastes and OKOK sell it, isn't that a good thing? Psychology, in whatever way, does not remain in the realms of the cultural elite. Actually, this is a bit of a grey area for me too, if some things need to get curbed and be made a little more understandable, say even packaged, and thus gets more acceptability, is that a good thing or a bad thing. You are losing out on the entire good thing, but some part of the good thing is still getting permeated down society, isn't it? So is dilution good or bad. No clue. No answers from me.

So if one could not develop a love for theatre in their wards whom they teach, it is one's failure. If they use the theatre experience for just CV value for the next jump to TV, it is the failure of the teacher more than anything else. You told me once that what made you get drawn to theatre was
that workshop you attended under Arundhati Nag. Do you get the picture? I think she did not only teach you the tricks on how to perform on stage. She shared her love for the theatre on to you. Which makes you what you are. A theatre enthusiast, and not just one looking for the next jump to TV.

So, comment?

p.s.: I will blog this post. I will use your reference, sure as hell will not take names. Hope thats ok.

In reply to that, my friend had this to say:

No issues with posting at all. Blog it with my blessings, name and watever else you want.

Ya know why I wanted ur comment? It was that line, "intoleratably psycological". Cracked me up. Coz I heard me say yes, da. Will come to that. My comments ....well...

I may have got the entire gist wrong but this is what I felt from AK sir rants. Art is something beautiful, something that hopefully comes from the heart. The main stream commercial TV serials are not of the same league. As you doubtlessly knew, I havent heard of decalog. But I am assuming that it came as a rare thing in TV, something that gets termed as an exception. Just as a ceratin ex of mine (who plays to the gallery) remains an exception to theatre. (actually not, there are more like him)

Theatre requires more hardwork, sure... but only because it is demanded out of us. When TV producers ask more they will get more. I have nothing against TV, but as things are, I am not sure I want to have anything to do with it. If Kieslawsky whoever comes to me and asks me to work with him, I'll drop jaw and job and everything else and do whatever he wants (how old is he btw ;))

True wat you said about good art and bad art. AK's friend's point was to say that in theater we r working hard to create good art (the NINASUM guys certainly do. Just as in Nityagrahm they do). In TV they dont seem to care as long as the ratings are high.

Like I said, I wasnt even bothered by anything I read except that psycological thing. As for the NSD thing u talked off, its like saying a person who is trained to write like Camus writes Danielle Steel best sellers and thats ok (!!) I will certainly remain firm about expecting more. Let them do TV and movies but let it be like Kieslawsky's stuff. Something that will make us say "good art".

Entertainment is subjective. Rajnikant is entertainment. Saas Bahu is entertainment. If entertainment today still meant Shakespear no one would be cribbing. We know the difference between good art and bad art. But most of the masses dont... there is a point i want to make here.... but i'll let it pass and return to wat caught my attention.

Psycology. hmm... We both saw Broken Images. What did we like about the play besides the great acting? The story? What about the story? The twist? Which turn of events, the fact that the woman is so evil or the trimph of the crippled sister's soul, did we see as the ultimate twist? Why do I ask.. coz in way Shom we were just entertained. In a way the play which I thought was one of the best I'd seen, was good because I was surprised. Did the story stimulate any thought process that I should be thankful about. Nope. Mrs Nag's acting though did stimulate thought process. And thats the last point in this longdrawn-shit talk I am doing. Her acting was good art. Girish's play was well written and good entertainment. Nothing wrong with that, of course.

Why I agree with the psycological stuff... coz its disguising itself as something intense something deep... as good art, when it is not. By art, I repeat, I mean something moving/skillful/soulful/difficult-to-achieve/requires practice etc. Mass ntertainment is not easy but its way too much of a low brainer for me to want to classify it as art. Like a Mark Knopfler concert. Super music. A piece of good art. Did he entertain us? Nope. Did he remove shirt and hug the girl in front? Nope. If he had that would be entertainment. Not art. I am struggling here. Please help with definition. Entertainment is not evil. Its just not art. Its too shallow and forgettable.

Back on track. Psycological mumbo jumbo. Every one of David Kelly's serial has lines like "when I was seven" "when I was 10". And so falls a whole sad mop story of how christmas was screwed coz mom came home drunk, how billy hit joey and joey became gay and nonsense of that calibre. That is entertainment. Is it bad? Hell no. But for someone looking for art it is.

And last (since I have to get back to work much as I want to continue) dance, riding a cycle with your head on the seat, trapeze artists, singing, painting, instruments, running, soccer, cooking, writing all are art. Only the numskulls wud disagree. They might be in theatre but dont generalise. Theatre does another evil to us.. will tell you what later. But we are very appreciative of art and so is AK. Take my word for it.

Last last line... dont base ur opinion on theater based on what you see in Rangashankar. We are still learning in this city, we accept that.

And my reply was:

Will write a long expansive critique on this, but only on little thingie. Nobody is ever trained to write like Albert Camus. Nobody can ever be trained to produce a Camus or a Michelangelo. Nobody can be trained to produce a Brian Lara classic innings.

And why not a Danielle Steele I wonder. Art does not fill anybody's stomach. So a you need a survival tactic, or a support system. Like Kiron Kher, with his support system husband, waited for a lifetime to get that Bariwali roal. And Humphrey Bogart waited a lifetime of shady Bgrade movies, westerns and whatnot, till he got his Casablanca. And then his Big Sleep. The "let them do Kieslawsky" opportunity does not really fall on somebody's lap if one is not alive, no?

You did watch Hazaaron Khwaishen aAisi, didn't you? There's this awesome support system guy with a dad who is the supreme court judge. So he involves himself with the naxalite movement, all heart and all...... and then when his life in itself is at risk? what would he do? scream DAD and run. Read my blog article on this. The story is, great if you have a support system.... you have to create one for yourself otherwise. Did I tell you about a woman I knew and one of the major reasons why we are not on talking terms anymore? A major cause of debate and eventual fallout? Will, sometime. These silver spoon types will never understand my story.

Till the long post, then. No, would rather not blog on this.

And in reply:

Oh, I wasnt getting judgemental on how one was earning one's bread and butter. But what if they were not doing it for that... wat if the glamour, fame that comes with it was wat they did it for? Am I then permitted disappointment?

"...person who is trained to write like Camus writes Danielle Steel best sellers..." didnt mean it from the student perspective but from the teachers. Not teaching nursery rhymes for example. I Mean... after recieving quality training you still didnt do anything worthwhile. He/She doesnt owe it to anyone to do anything, of course... lest of all me. But its still a sad waste of an education/experience. A seat that I'd have been only to happy to fill was given to i-want-to-be-srk ninnies. Yes, it is sad. And Danielle Steel is shit. She has enuf money. There is no justification to her writing anymore. Just dried out talent (if there was any to start with) and the refusal to accept it.

I'd say, a good discussion.

Why Buffet would invest in Booze?

[This post is not, could not have been written by me. This was by one of my closest friends from Bschool, Arun R]

As has been said regarding FDI in India, there just isn't enough money coming in (eventually applicable to in-hand salaries as well). Let us face it; money is what makes the world go around. So with limited time and even more limited money, it is essential that one make the most of whatever little comes one's way.

But then there must be a significant methodology in the way that one goes about using whatever little one has to earn maximum returns. A keen decade-and-a-half long study of various industries has revealed that the best industry to invest in is not automotive, info-tech or any of the others that one sees in the news. It is Alcohol. The easiest method to understand why alcohol is the best area to invest in, is to look at it from an expert's angle. Thus the usual suspect when it comes to investments shall be taken: Warren Buffet.

There are two types of people who buy alcoholic beverages. One is the chappie who buys for immediate returns (speculation for short term gains), the other is the discerning consumer who buys for storage and eventual enjoyment at a later point of time (investing for long term gains). That's the entire backbone of investing in alcohol. It also follows one of the basic credos of drinking… WHY BUY THE STOCK WHEN YOU CAN BUY THE BOOZE? The investor should look at long term prospects and not the short-term gains. In the long term, one must look at whether the company's business is a sustainable and profitable one. Thus one should ideally look at the product and not the share price. Also, the investor should have full knowledge of the product and its various benefits.

This leads us to state the following:

Credo 1: Never invest in a business you cannot understand
Credo 2: Buy a Business, not a stock

The alcohol sector is extremely profitable. Studies and experiments carried out have shown that people drink when they are happy and people drink when they are sad. Given that these are the two major emotions that a person shows throughout his life, the signs as regards alcohol consumption are extremely encouraging. This might however have severe repercussions for the holdings of the investor as he is human and hence also prone to the abovementioned emotions.

Credo 3: The stock (market) is a semi-psychotic creature given to extremes of elation and despair
Credo 4: Do not take yearly results too seriously. Instead, focus on four or five-year averages


Given that the person has to be willing to concede certain short term losses for long term gains, often one might be tempted to broach that bottle of excellent Medoc or the fine Chablis that has been stored for a rainy day. A romantic evening with a promising company or a chance meeting with a long lost friend may tempt the investor to offer a glass of fine wine for short-term gains. The investor must be cold hearted in his approach and look towards the rainy day with more expectations than the chance
of the passing cloud bringing momentary relief. Buffet has, somewhat drearily, put this as follows


Credo 5: Much success can be attributed to inactivity. Most investors cannot resist the temptation to constantly buy and sell
Credo 6: The ability to say "no" is a tremendous advantage for an investor

It has long been said by philosophers that one should not put all his eggs in one basket, or, have ' diversified portfolios' as investment managers have brilliantly put it. Investment in wine or scotch alone does not a good bar make. Get a bottle or two of vodka, some gin and a few kegs of the ol' beer going. A well rounded bar ensures that you are the talk of the town. This also ensures that like Buffet, all the wannabes hang onto your every word and regard you as the reincarnation of Bacchus. Your entire social group looks at your bar as a model and often seeks to imitate it. Thus the less you say about what booze you have, the better. This is also a secret of Buffet's who apparently never discusses his investments in public. Thus I end with

Credo 7: Manage a portfolio of businesses (or don't put all your daaru in one baatli)

But then at the end of the day, as some of the wise men amongst us say: “it's Saturday night, just give me my beer and chilly chicken”.

Well I have to wrap up here as happy hours are nearly over at my favourite watering hole, and being strictly a speculator, I have to make the most of current market conditions and look at maximising short term benefits .

Cheers!
Arun R

Never to find my way back...

 

Written: 31/05/2003

Took a trip down memory lane today thanks to the net. Found quite a few priceless gems, the memories of those innocent, wonderful days in Asansol, where the football and the story-books, the comics and St. Vincent's, friends..... almost everyone lost now but for alone Dibyen Chatterjee, ....... the afternoon games (football and cricket) at the Apcargarden park (do they still play there any more?).... exchanging Hardy Boys and Famous Five and Three Investigators..... Graduating to Sheldon and Archer and Forsyth and Ludlum........ with the intermediate stage of Agatha Christie and Alistaire McLean, with Desmond bagley somewhere in the run too.......... The pride in playing for the "Para" football / cricket team...... The disappointment in missing out on the School Team........the joy in wearing the school jersey for the first time....... The respect that came naturally for the Guddu-da’s and seniors of the para…..Admiring the Loreto Convent / AG Church girls..... Treating the guy who has a girlfriend an a hero (turning green all the while) .......The sudden elevation to the "House Captain" post (still remember the "St. Matthew's House, Eyes Right" on Sports day).... The fights with the friends over trivial matters...... The immense St. Vincent's v/s St. Patrick's rivalry........ The sudden realisation that I can quiz, ....... The sudden realization that I can write a bit...... The mad struggle to be a good footballer (trust me, I could have been better)........... the Karate training for two years (7 days a week, 365 days a year, ..... all the puppy fat gone in two months…. thank you Sensei Mihir Bag)...... chatting with friends for hours at ends....... The bicycle rides....... the first cigarette..... the first "adult" movie.... The terrified admiration for Krishnendu-da and the others with their stories of murdering people..... the first and only time I touched a real pistol…… the amazing thing called “DurgaPujo”…… The Saraswati Pujas at home … the not-quite-a-joint family (3 brothers in 3 floors)….. Thakuma (how I miss her now…. Haven’t met her for nearly 3 years)……. Getting beaten up by Baba and Ma all too often at home, and by all (excepting nobody) the teachers at school…… desparately trying to get to the top three in class (…….. Of course, Dibyen and Subhadeep were at a different league altogether)….. the pretenders…. Subrata, Saurav, Manish Das, Vishal Chaudhry, Kutty, Avijit Das & me, all fighting cats and dogs for one single position…. Oh, and how can I forget Suvo Sarkar, the topper from class I to class V…… probably those who say that you should not make the kids study so much when they are too young, for they become believers in learning by rote, are right…. I don’t know of anybody but for myself as proponents of the gospel……….. looking up to Cliffie-sir, though I knew he did not like me so much….. I remember him telling us the story of “Day of the Jackal” in class.....rivetting !!!! …. The teachers, Bhattu, Francis, Mrs. Menon, Mr. Biswas, Br. James, Mrs Bhattacharya, …… oh, and how can I forget Br. Kyle ……. A distant figure, revered, respected and feared by students and teachers alike. I remember those small incidents. Hirak, (or was it Ritwik?) pushing that Biyani guy into a puddle in front of AG Church, Kundu saying “Tu Yudhisthir hai?” when I owned up to not scoring a goal in that inter class match…. Kayesh Beg’s dad beating him up with a chappal in the Polo ground in front of us all, after he and his henchmen beat me up in my para….. those two solid punches I landed on Suraj and Kayesh….. such a useless fight….. very similar to the fight against Eric in LMB…. But that is a different story…….. the Graduates’ Association Quizzes, the first quiz in Rabindra Sadan by Sandipak…… with Subhadeep as teammate…… being almost doormat to Hirak….buying Movie star postcards and Audio cassettes with Subrata…. And racing my bicycle with him on our way to school…. Buying each and every Sportstar and Sportsworld published…. Not missing a single sports event on TV, the Kalipujo Cracker bursting on the roof of our old three-storied……. Falling in love in the most unwarranted situation …. And never being able to tell her…… The puchkas and the veg chowmien at 5/- a plate…….. after eight years of forgetting … or atleast, trying to forget that the place exists…… hey, I am as much an Asansol boy as ever.

The Unforgettable Fire

Written: 27/11/2003 08:10:42

Stephen Rodger Waugh

Was not my favourite cricketer. Refuting the common refrain, if I would want someone to bat for my life, Stephen Rodger would come in at a distant third (it will always be Border, and then Gavaskar for me). Stephen Waugh, in my belief was a competent captain, and that’s all. He did not unearth any new player as such, and as for the all-conquering team of his, the basic rubric of it was laid by Mark Taylor, who unearthed, among others, the two giants of the modern era, Glenn McGrath and Shane Warne, and the mercurial Ricky Ponting. Neither did he come up with brilliant tactical moves very often, and there have been at least two instances when from an insurmountable position, the mighty men of Oz were defeated, and the blame could be attributed to their leader. Yes, I am talking about Eden Gardens with VVS and Rahul, and that record chase by West Indies early this year.

So I am not heartbroken now that he has announced his retirement from International Cricket. Right? Wrong.

But then, honestly, it is strictly his batting which endeared (the past tense? For Stephen Rodger Waugh? Eerie, isn’t it?) him to me. Look, I am one of the few who like their heroes strictly working-class. An amazing streak of genius, say for example what Brian Charles lara has quite the knack of coming up with, for me, will never match up to a Michael Atherton saving a match, bating for the whole of the fourth and fifth day against the rampaging South African bowling. Not for me are the elegance of Mark Waugh, the beguiling genius of Wasim Akram, or even the … umm… well… perfection of Sachin (yeah, right, I am Indian, I do follow cricket, and spare me the hate mails please). It’s always the Allan Borders, the Curtley Ambroses, the Anil Kumbles and the Glenn McGraths who have the pride of place in my cricketing horizon. And therein comes in Stephen Rodger. OK, here’s a little trivia. Stephen Waugh actually played in the second tied test at Chepauk? And his performance? He batted at no. 8 in the first innings, did not bat at the second, and trundles his arm for a few overs, with one wicket. A bits-and-pieces man if there ever was any. And there is nothing more glorious to me than a bits-and-pieces man, not naturally talented, developing into a giant on the sheer dint of effort. And that was Stephen Rodger. The one who never gave up. The one whom controversies couldn’t wither. The man who was so much responsible for the “Invincible Aussie Juggernaut” image… mark my words, it was not the captaincy, it was the man, the unflagging, untiring fighter who would invariably reach the team to a respectable 300 from a disastrous 96-7, almost every time. The man when the chips were down. The man who symbolised the transformation of cricket from the golden age of the mid ‘80’s to the period which defined the way cricket will be played for a long time to come, late ‘90’s and early on into the new millennium. Hell, he was the overseer of this transformation. Very definitely, the cricketer who defined the last decade… (and not Sachin Ramesh, and not Brian Charles, and not Muttiah Muralitharan). And this was the same man who started off as a bits-and-pieces guy.

Hats off to you, Stephen Rodger Waugh. You symbolised success to millions of us average-folks. You will be missed.

Gurgaon at night

Written: 28/12/2002

Am in gurgaon now after a brief sojourn to calcutta. Before that i had my second term examinations (end term.......... as in , we have a midterm and an endterm exam), and i think I did pretty decently well......... but i think the results will tell me more....
Now let's tell u more about stuff around here.
The winter in calcutta is sweet. the weather is perfect, about 12 to 15 degrees for most part of the day, the dreaded humidity is for the most part, absent, there is a cool wind blowing on your face, the sun emanates a soft glow which is never harsh, never pungent, quite romantic actually. it is just beautiful, i scarce believe that the weather can be described thus, but well, that suits the occation the best.
on the other hand,......... oh forget it, not this way, let's tell you about today. i returned from calcutta today at about 11:30 p.m (it's 1 o'clock now.. at night) and after changing to clothes more suited to the conditions, i decided to take a walk around campus.
Well, it's cold. About 4 or 5 degrees centigrade, maybe colder, and there is no trace of the sweetness that the cold in calcutta radiates. there is a really thick fog, so thick that you cannot see a person about 5 mt. in front of you, no exaggerations. your breath when u exhale is thicker than cigarette fumes, cigarette fumes in turn are a lot denser than they normally are. The cold
here is harsh, and there is no respite from the strong wind slapping u on your face. Yet, there is a different kind of beauty here (the word again...), of a far more rugged type, but yes, beauty nevertheless.
A new semester, a new struggle, a new adventure, a new experience. and yes, i feel good....... quite good indeed.

Homecoming

Sunday, September 07, 2003

Homecoming

Gariahatar Mor; Mini-mini Bus-bus;
Bus-er terminus-ey; Monmora shari-shari;
Mukh chokh nak haath

And the Calcutta of my mind has not changed so much, not so much at least that I could not remember, and relive. Home was as usual, home. Ma is fine. Baba is fine. Contented smile. Children have grown up. Doing fine. Thanx. Was all your credit. Sis has grown up. And has not. And when I was polite enough to suggest that Presidency Eco Hons. and Darius do not go hand-in-hand, "None of your biz" was the answer. Oh yeah. Cool.
Quarrel in the afternoon. Great. I am home. And this is still home. I am a home-boy still. No probs. I felt good. And all gets settled in half-an-hour, say. Normal, na?
Went to Gariahat in the evening. The auto fare is still the same as the price of a Classic Milds. Has been for the last 8 years. Home. The customary one bottle of Coke at Pansari Stores. not anything else. No more, no less. Sweet memories. Sad memories. Walk down gariahat. The crowd. Normal, packed streets. Dover Lane, A friend stayed there. Still does I guess. What used to be Duncan's Apollo Hospital. Another guy does not anymore. The customary Wills Navy Cut (no, Apoorv, I am not changing my brand, ever) at the opposite foot of Sharma's. Walk back to the Auto Stand. Following the tracks of the days long gone. I walked these paths. Thanks. Ekdalia Evergreen's pandal is being made. The walk. Memories. Sad memories. Another cigarette. The auto stand. Ruby Hospital Jaabey? Bari. Singara-Muri. Generally, it is singara-muri with Black Forest pastries. I am just fine. I am home.

(22/01/2005: And stuff has changed.... but not substantially)

Dawn in Gurgaon

[Written: 23/06/2003 16:15:28]

The second of the nature articles.

The present moment can hardly be classified as morning, as I did not sleep at night, and will only go to bed after I am through with this. But it is 5 a.m., and Gurgaon, is beautiful. Sticky humid. Not a breeze blowing. The silence is punctuated only by the chirping of the few early birds. And college is lovely. Green. Lush. Near spotless clean. A moist brick-red structure. Picturesque. It’s not morning yet. This is my rendezvous, after a long, long time, with that beautiful English word. Dawn. Dawn, Dawn…… have you ever been so beautiful before? Are you always so beautiful? The Signature Tower, with a curious hollow body, and green glass panes, looks almost surreal from a distance. The white crescent is still visible in a now almost clear dark blue sky. Not a cloud to be seen. A suppressed glow, not really the sun’s rays. Droopy green trees. And I just stand back and admire……

[Written: 13/08/2003 09:05:59]

[Written: 13/08/2003 09:05:59]

There was a scary thing which happened the other day. In the SDIPR class the Profs asked us to lie down, close our eyes and imagine the way our life would be, and give vent to our imaginations. The Profs will give an approximate timeline as to the age and situation that we are in, and but for our age, we can choose to follow or not to follow whatever guideline they give. The catch was that the moment any of the Profs would touch us on our foreheads, we are dead. And so it started. I was imagining that I was out of college and even though they said that I have got the job I was looking for, I was conservative to allow myself only a decent job, one that would make me happy, but not quite the dream job. Then I marry the girl of my dreams, have a contented, if somewhat hectic professional life, and at age 30 or so, have my first child. A lovely little girl. An absolute bundle of joy. And then I was (in my mind) holding her in my hand, and smiling at her, while she was giggling away to glory when there was this touch on my forehead. I was dead. Just like that. Over. Finis. Khatam. And you know what was left behind? An inconsolable emptiness. There was so much to do, so many more mountains to scale. Those brilliant boardroom victories. The treachery of colleagues, those days of depression, all lessons in the walk of life (sorry, Mr. Knopfler). The company I am to start, aged forty or so. Brazil, the Selvas. Italy, Venice, the Gondola. The Black Forest. Losing a few thousand dollars in a day in a Las Vegas casino. REM on stage. Actually being there for Knopfler's last concert. So many experiences to feel, and enjoy. The feel of my grandson's hand on mine, my leathery, crumpled, old hand. The book that I have to write. Those long talks with my wife, both old, contented and happy, sitting in the sun, the soft glow that is special only to Calcutta. Discussing Literature and poetry, politics and economics with old friends. Those old boys' nights at Purple Haze in Bangalore….. So many things to do.

Seriously, 30 is too early. Far too early.

On Mahesh Bhatt, Mathematics and sundry other things

15/09/2003 06:55:29

On Mahesh Bhatt, Mathematics and sundry other things.

OK, I left for Gurgaon on the 13th morning, on Purba, from Sealdah station. This post is not about that. Parents keep on complaining that I do not sleep at night and instead smoke and watch football. And rightly so. Did never sleep at night for all the five days I was home. But I am keeping true to my normal routine from the Insti, Ma. Plus, there are so many books to read, so many movies to see, so many cigarettes to smoke (hey, I could not smoke when all of you are awake, could I? even though you said you would not mind…). This post is not about that either. And the last night I was at home, on the 13th of September, I saw Daddy, the Mahesh Bhatt masterpiece again, after a gap of eleven plus years, and no, this post is not about that, however enticing the thought might well be. Nice movie, na? It is not even totally about the first time I saw Daddy. It is about Biprodas-Sir. It is about gratitude. It is about a Thank-You which I have never said. Which I should have a long, long time ago, and which I probably will never be able to, even if I would want to.

Biprodas Basu became my private tutor when I was in class VI. And before that I’d had another private tutor, a certain Utsab-da, and incidentally I nearly flunked Math and Science, the two subjects in which Ma thought I needed tuition, and Utsab-da was brought in for, in the second term that year. Ma BTW was quite strict regarding this, and summarily rejected Utsab-da. I did not like that. Utsab-da was really cool. Was from our neighbourhood, and was quite a senior-whom-kids-generally-look-up-to kind of a guy. Good cricketer, good footballer, polished English, and he listened to ENGLISH SONGS!!! Quite a thing for us small-town kids. He was one of my first I-wanna-be-like-hims. Well, but there went Utsab-da. And in came Biprodas Basu. Small, gauche, untidy, fat, uncomfortable, the absolute antithesis of Utsab-da. My natural reaction would have been to hate him. But I did not. He was, honestly, too pathetic for hatred. I’m sure he hated himself, to make the job easier for the rest of the world. And he was from Ramakrishna Mission. Far from its lofty brothers scattered around the rest of India, Ramakrishna Mission, Asansol, was small and inconspicuous. Moreover, it was Bengali Medium !. Now that was a very big factor. In Asansol, there are in all four big English Medium schools, two for boys and two for girls. I was studying in one of those elite ones (incidentally, Utsab-da had passed out from the other English Medium boys’ school). We DID look down upon our Bengali-educated brothers. And Mr. Basu was one of the breed. No, I did not hate him, but there was hardly any respect in my heart for him. He even called my Mother mashima. Mashima, for Heavens!!! That’s so downmarket!!! Couldn’t he say ‘Aunty’? Utsab-da called Ma that, not that she liked it too much. She still doesn’t. She would prefer a Mashi or a Kakima, but a Mashima was a little drastic even for her. (sorry, people, if you do not understand Bengali. These are the subtleties of the language that just can not be translated)

But Good Heavens he tried!!! And never raised his voice. Never. While Ma used to implore him to spank me if need be (Utsab-da did so… as in, raised his voice), he just never did so. Come whatever may.
Did you do your homework?
No, Sir.
Keno (why)?
No reaction.
OK, let’s see what the problem was.
And yes, he saw to it that the problems were finished before the day’s studies were to be started. Even if he had to be late by half-an-hour. Oh, BTW, he used to travel home (home was Burnpur, not really very close from our neighbourhood) on a bicycle. Hey c’mon, kids ride bicycles. OK, not really those huge Atlas Goldlines, those are for newspaper-wallahs. Utsab-da used to have a scooter. You know, respect came naturally for Utsab-da. And pity was what came naturally for Biprodas-Sir.

And I was made to solve all those problems in the book. Could you believe, all the problems…. And O.P. Sinhal was not a thin book by a long shot. And if that was not enough, he would get some weird Bengali book from the other guy that he teaches Math to, some Bengali-medium fellow, and make me solve those too. And ask me why I did not revolt? Because I was afraid Ma would see to it that my name would be cut off the school register, and I would never be sent to school again. That was her standard threat if I would not study. And naïve me, I would believe in all that, too. Also, you just could not scream and shout at a guy like Biprodas-Sir. He was too mild (no, meek) for that. But let’s get back to the curriculum. Science, well, Biprodas-Sir was OK with Science, and he saw to it that I was OK too, and left it at that. I never really became very good in Science BTW. Math was a different issue altogether. Sir was doing his M.Sc in Math. So… My results picked up. C’mon, they had to. I was already into literature, so the teachers could not fool me with language in the Math papers, and after that, was boredom. I had done the same shit a woparexillion times already. Once more? OK if you force me to. And so went class six, 3rd and last term. 4th highest in Math. Class seven was the year of the revolution. I ended up fifth in class, and topped in English and Math. And therein comes the issue of Daddy. Daddy was being telecast on TV. And I had started seeing it, knowing that Biprodas-Sir were to be coming that day to teach. And he did come, about five minutes late (See, he was not too punctual, he used to be about ten-fifteen minutes late sometimes. He hardly ever bunked, though). And asked me to come study. Luckily Ma and Baba were not there at home that day. So I came to him and said that there is this amazing movie on TV, and I would like to finish seeing it. It would finish in five minutes, so please would he wait? Yes he would, said he. Five minutes my foot. I made him wait for a full twenty-five minutes. My sis has that lingering memory of Biprodas-Sir. She keeps on telling me, even now, about how I made him wait, and he never uttered a word about that. I shudder to think about what would have happened had Ma come to know about this. I would have probably been beaten up bad (Now this was not so uncommon, Ma used to give me a small pat on my hand with a ruler, and that was OK with me, I was quite a nuisance in class and complaints from teachers was a regular thing. But it never got violent as such, I never really got beaten up, so as to say … well, this could have been …), and what’s worse, Biprodas-Sir could have been thrown out. And I remembered Biprodas-Sir, after a long time, on the 13th of September, at about 0300 a.m.

After class VIII, two things prompted a change. Biprodas-Sir got a job with the Asansol B.C. College, as Assistant Professor in Mathematics, and could not come to my place and teach anymore. I too had to (supposedly) be taught in a ICSE-specific way, and since Biprodas-Sir mentioned his inability to teach Chemistry and Biology, we parted ways. Amicably. He visited my house a few times afterwards. But then it stopped. He probably realised that he was just a part of the past for me. And the familiar short, somewhat less shabby now that he was a college professor, gauche man on a bicycle was gone from my life. And not with so much as a heart-felt Thank-You in return. Was he looking for one? I don’t know. But even now, when Ma and I discuss about how I cleared a certain major competitive exam with hardly any practise (I am NOT gloating here), we never fail to thank that one man who almost forced into me the basics of Mathematics. With English, I guess it came naturally. With Math, I was anything but a natural. I was made to be competent. Made to be competent by one unspectacular man a long long time ago. OK, Mr. Bhattacharyya, who took on from where Biprodas-Sir left off, contributed too, but the base, the foundation was very definitely laid by Biprodas-Sir. Thank You, Sir. This is about 10 days past Teacher’s Day, but … well, Thank You.

[ 15.02.2005 : I never did meet Biprodas-Sir again, although after almost a wild-goose chase, I did manage to locate his house is Asansol in the 4 days that I was there after college got over. He is teaching Math in some college in Burdwan. I met and talked to his mother. And promised to visit him whenever I would visit Asansol next. Which will be later this year]

The history of the Quizzing Gang

I am gonna get pitifully senti now, so help me G……. ah, whoever.

Had gone for a Quizcorp quiz last weekend. To watch, mind you, not to participate. (Ahem, hmm, participate I eventually did, ahem... not at any real quiz or something, but whatever… I will let that pass). Had managed to see the Quizcorp blog sometime earlier, and was rather impressed with the look of it. Happened to read a few of the articles during the week, and thus does this post emanate……

I had never been a serious quizzer before RVCE. Now in St. Vincent’s in my tiny little hometown, nobody is a serious quizzer. You just go, win some, and come back home. And in LMB, my school in the spiritual home of Indian quizzing, Calcutta (and like Lords’, the spiritual home of cricket, losing relevance in the overall scheme of things rather rapidly), quizzing is serious sport. Real serious sport. The Sorbojit Banerjees and Nilanjan Moitras were looked upon with awe as the lords and masters of School-fests. The harbingers of pride and golden glory and reenactment of Martinian superiority over the rest of the junta. And I was one of the wannabe's. One of the many pretenders to the throne of the third-best school quizzer, who would get to the stage, and will be able to see from close quarters the magic that would unfold upon the world by these two virtuosos. And I did represent the school. Once. When there were two teams representing the school. OK, OK, you heard the sobby shit. To RV then…..

Now I have noticed there is (or at least was during those days) a sense of respect that the Bangalore quizzers have for the enfant-terribles from Calcutta. And it so happened that the teammates of mine were from Calcutta too (an all-hostelite team which we never did break if all were available to participate; a quarrel or two, a sudden slip-in-form or a nonchalances in participating in quizzes notwithstanding). And winning the first decent quiz in RV we participated in, and by a yawning margin, what’s more (hmm well, it was the Fundaa-Mental… and for a greenhorn, it IS big). Now accepted that our batch did not have too many quizzers, Arun Raghavan (who was exceptional, but never really had a team in college to back him up, not at least in the first year) being a notable exception….. and of course Konga and Shrav who came in the fray more towards the next year. And that was the year the first UTPT happened, a horrible, sweltering experience on the first floor of the RV Library (yes, I am not kidding here). Ah well, the questions, now that you ask, were fantabulous (OK, the tendency to go esoteric to be counted as knowledgeable, often led to a few….. a few, mind you…. of the questions being arbit rather than anything else). And that was that.

And we slogged on our quizzing. And slogged some more. And then some. Read up on everything, forced ourselves to hear the arbitest of music, read the weirdest of books and watch (and read the reviews of) the grossest of movies. To know. To just know. No analysis. NO understanding. Just plain vanilla knowledge. Just being the treasure trove (or rather, a gunny-sack) of information. Information which was useful? Useless? Maybe-someday-useful? Like, who gives a damn? Avinash Mudaliar was an influence, no doubts. Even now, after being a non-active quizzer for what…. Four years?..... JK, one of my teammates still mentions Avinash as one of his influences ….. and he was the least sentimental of us all… that possibly says it all. Good, bad, ugly (and tongue-in-cheek I say, Mudaliar was all of that, and some more), whatever; single minded passion has to be respected, grudging or whatever.

Second year came, and with it came a bunch of guys who I insist, converted our team to permanent third-placers and me specifically to a specialist quizzer. So I knew sport …. I did. I guess I am possibly the only person who ties Konga in sports quizzes [1(NLS) - 1(St. John’s)] competing against each other in Inter-college quizzes or otherwise. Unfortunately, we never qualify to the finals when we are a team…..

But these guys were good. If we were shocked out of our skins by the team of Shetty-Ganja-Bib, a somewhat gradually developed team, Mihir-Khadiya-Konga, I guess did win the greater number of laurels. And were they good or what!

So what happened after that? We were a team. We were rather good. How come nobody has ever heard of MNB-JK-me as a team after the first year? As much as the perennial third-place thingy and the curious rule of other colleges to allow one team only from RV to be on stage (or sometimes two, which still did not help either, now Avinash and his team would qualify, right?) could hurt, was that all that was to it? Ask MNB. He will just wave his hand, settle his spectacles on the bridge of his nose and say that hell, we had other priorities. And yes we did. Largely middle-class all three of us, we had our careers to look after, as brutal (or alternatively, boring) as it might sound like. So we had to create CV-value. Plus, the hostel is the death to information about the outside world. Ask us about the number of runs Prateek Raturi or Nitin Agarwal scored, or the number of goals Eugene or Shanbhag scored in the hostel-games matches, and you will get an immediate answer. Gianfranco Zola? Paolo Maldini might just ring a bell, but George Weah who? So we collected CV-value. Doing sundry things. A college newspaper here and a Rotaract there. A stage play here and a cricket match there. A big quarrel there and a physical fight there. Ah well, a quiz here and there too. And well, we still did qualify, and still sometimes (ah, rarely) won prize money and all too. But another thing that hurt us was the lack of a vehicle….. So god bless NLS quizzes was the sustaining motto I must say for us that year.

And that too trickled down to nothing in the third year. Now we were shelling out a decent lot of moolah (PNK and all that) to sustain ourselves at RV. And the mental disintegration in a job-besotted hostel made sure that we don’t utter the Q word for that year. The meltdown, and the whittling down of Infy jobs from the heady 70 odd the previous year to 6 in our batch, did not help matters either. And well, so passed third year. We saw posters of the Quizcorp quizzes on our way to the canteen, and discussed about how the quizzing scene has changed from our times during the weekend when we met. We did sound ancient, trust me. Came sudden sundries like a sports quiz at NLS which I won with Arun and Sunil Nagaraj. But specks in the ocean they were.

Come fourth year, we were conveniently forgotten. So many brilliant freshers had come in, so many great questions had been asked, so many Quizcorp legends had been scripted and I had no clue. A lot of water had passed under the bridge. MNB had a job and was preparing for the GRE. His quizzing days were over. JK was too disillusioned to do anything but spew venom at all and sundry. The hostel treats anybody with an iconoclastic vein rather harshly, and no doubts JK was more of an iconoclast than I ever was. And I guess the hostel had been more unkind to him than it had been to me.

Ah, now what? There were no sundry jobs left for me to do. I had done all the petty fights and quarrels and ego-hassles that one could do, and then some. I have filled up my CV to give the ‘holistic complete individual’ look. Sports. Quiz. Literature. Organizational activity. Ah, perfect. Had done all the shit that I could do. So, relax. Nobody has got a job anyway from the IT department, so you are not alone.

And then came a curious turn of fate. Grossly under-prepared, I write the CAT, buy the MDI form from an under-performing friend at a 50% discount after a lot of cajoling, and could you believe, get a call! From MDI alone.

And this paragraph is the crux of the matter for this long meandering piece that you had to labour through. The interview, for which I had prepared and prepared, was a surprise. One of the interviewers, a bong-sounding guy (Bappaditya Mukhopadhyay, himself a good quizzer, as I would come to know), asks me 15 quiz questions on sports. And apart from a slight hesitation in remembering Luz Long’s name, I cracked them all. So there I was, through to MDI, on the sports-quizzing quota, as someone remarked on hearing this story.

So although I was a semi-retired Quizcorper now, I realized that Quizcorp had given me something to take home. The extra effort to get to the details, the sense of following up on the little sidelights, the little trivia, was all a gift of Quizcorp. The place where I learnt quizzing.

True, if you consider my quizzing performance in Delhi with the same in Bangalore, you would consider me a late bloomer in the quizzing sense. I did make my mark in the Delhi quizzing circuit, but the learning, the bedrock on which the cas…. shack (ok, you win) was built, was a gift from Quizcorp, and Quizcorp only.

And I did take much more from Quizcorp than I gave back, but then would not the founding of W5H count for something? The model of W5H was built on Quizcorp, with sundry quizzers coming up with sundry quizzes….. and if you replace the On-The-Rocks with the Viagra Falls, you get the picture.

So then, and so there.