The Big Cahoona Burger

Afridi gets pun-ishment for ball-tampering

2010-02-01T21:47:00.000-08:00

Shahid Afridi's curious decision to bite into the ball during the fifth ODI against Australia has evoked startled responses in cricketing circles.

Match referee Ranjan Madugalle was smug in his assessment. “He thought he could get away by the skin of his teeth.. Nice try,” he said before slapping Afridi with a two-match ban, only to see a half-eaten bail, the remains of a grip and most of Salman Butt’s helmet, flying out of Afridi’s mouth due to the slap’s impact.

Ravi Shastri, hardly the man to lose a chance to spew clichés, jumped in with his analysis. “Virender Sehwag is a strong man. He can use the long handle to good effect. The atmosphere is electrifying at the Eden Gardens,” he blurted out before realizing that it had been two weeks since the India-Sri Lanka series ended.

Umpire Simon Taufel took the opportunity to complain about Afridi’s tendency to appeal loudly for lbw as soon as the ball hit the batsman’s pads. “You think this is the worst of him? Wait till you hear him shout. His bark is far worse than his bite.”

It was a field day for critics of cricketing metaphors. “What else did you expect? I keep hearing these blade commentators endlessly refer to the ball as a red cherry. No wonder he dug in,” remarked a noted spokesman from the obscure group. “You cannot have your ball and eat it too,” he added for good measure.

Ramiz Raja put in his two cents worth on the issue. “Tampering has gone on for so long, but has anyone been so blatantly open about it? You have got to give credit where credit is due – Afridi had the ball to do it,” he said. “Of course, such things can happen in the heat of the moment, one should display tampered aggression”, he added sagely.

Supporters of the Pakistan team from Kolkata, totally missed the issue. “Aren’t Pakistan the ICC World T20 Chompions? Isn’t this what they are supposed to be good at,” said a person identified by the name Purno Das.

The Pakistan Cricket Board was non-commital on the issue. PCB chairman Ijaz Butt said, “We are not taking any action. The ball is in ICC’s court,” triggering panic in the ICC circles. “Yikes! We don’t want the ball anywhere here… Cheetangol!”, said ICC GM Dave Richardson.

Former Pakistan captain, Inzamam-ul-Haq blamed the transition phase in the Pakistan team for the controversy. “The young team is still suffering from teething troubles, after seniors like myself stopped playing,” Inzamam said, amazing the gathering with his newfound mastery over the English language. “Yaaissh, Afridi.. bat well.. balling also..,” he added out of habit, quickly making the previous sentence completely redundant.

Arun Lal made a much-awaited return to the main-stream after missing out to L Sivaramakrishnan in the commentary stakes for the timeless India-Sri Lanka series. “You cannot really blame Afridi. With all the controversies surrounding them, the Pakistan team was coming apart at the seams, and it was only fair that the ball did so too,” he quipped with rare lucidity.

Afridi himself decided to look ahead instead of brooding too much on the issue. “No point spending so much time on this controversy. I am not going to remain 16 forever you know,” he said impatiently. “We have just got to bite the bullet and move on,” he signed off, even as Mohammad Yousuf, who had been searching for the World Twenty20 trophy for a while, began to look suspiciously in Afridi’s direction.

Dhoni blames failed run chase on superstition

2009-11-05T18:20:00.000-08:00

After 20 years of crushing defeats at the doorstep of victory while chasing targets, India's cricket-crazy fans finally know what to blame. Skipper MS Dhoni blamed bad luck for India's inability to overhaul targets in steep chases.

"You have all been through it. When the match is going down to the wire everyone is supposed to sit in the same positions and on the same seats in order to maintain the lucky configuration. The unwritten rule of close finishes is to postpone bathroom breaks, even risking serious bladder injury. However, there is always that one unlucky person who enters the TV room at the wrong time and then the luck turns dramatically."

When asked who this pesky unlucky person was, Dhoni revealed that it was none other than batting legend Sachin Tendulkar, much to the shock of everyone.

"We keep telling him - don't come into the dressing room until the end. Stay out there till the winning runs are scored.. Even Ganguly in his captaincy days used to stand on one foot and plead with the man to not jinx the match by appearing at the wrong time. But Sachin is a huge fan of cricket and while he can abstain from watching a cricket match for most part, he always insists on watching the ending of the chase - hell, he is as big a cricket fan as anyone else and loves to see India winning!" added a forlorn Dhoni even as he sipped on his third jar of milk.

Meanwhile, Tendulkar was not pleased by accusations that he brought bad luck to the Indian team by merely insisting on watching the closing stages on TV.

"All of India watches cricket on TV. Why should I be the only one to take the blame always? Like everyone else, I love to see cricket with the replays, Hawkeye, mind-numbing DOCOMO ads and to top it all, the blade commentary from Sivaramakrishnan and Arun Lal. I am just as masochistic as every other cricket fan in this country! Yet, I manage to stay away from the TV until the match nears the finish and victory is a mere formality. Only at that stage do I invent ways to lose my wicket and get back to the dressing room." said a forlorn Tendulkar.

Ace commentator Ravi Shastri as always picked on the wrong idea and gave unrelated and totally unsolicited comments.

"It is not Tendulkar's job to finish ODI chases! How many more roles can he handle? He is already the world's greatest batsman after Bradman and the best ODI opener in the world. For a short man, the amount of bat speed he generates is tremendous. And he can use the long handle to good effect. The atmosphere is electrifying when he hits the ball like a tracer bullet. He is also the world's only perpetual run making machine in non-pressure situations, ideally against weak teams. To top it he is also the only man in the Indian team capable of skills such as throwing off both arms and actually spinning the ball. Take that Kumble and Bhajji!", said Shastri, much to the glee of Anil Kumble who was pleased to know that Shastri knew more things about him than that he (Kumble, not Shastri) was a tall man.

Tendulkar fans as is their habit, refused to take this ignominy heaped on their GOD, sitting down. Across the country, a number of noted Sachin fans stood up in protest. Some of them were already in the act of giving Tendulkar their daily dose of standing ovation and continued to do so.

The curious incident of the cat in the night time

2008-12-06T08:47:00.000-08:00

Let it be stated for the record that I am not a superstitious guy. I have always insisted on opposing superstition with impunity that often belied my age and position. The oldest memory I have of such an incident is way back when I was all of eight or nine years old. I was with my grand-dad, a man filled with pride, pomp and infinite style. For instance, for his whole life, he had insisted on not riding pillion on a two-wheeler, an insistence born probably out of a bad childhood experience or lack of trust in the abilities of his sons in law (Which of course is in keeping with acceptable girl’s dad behavior). This was back in the days when my family was still trying to make the jump between the lower levels of the middle-class to the current state of reasonable affluence. Which meant that there were no cars for Pappa’s ready access. Despite the infinite inconvenience of walking long distances or worse, using the Madras bus-service to visit his daughters and raucous grand-children, Pappa stood firm on his decision to never venture on a two-wheeler. For me, such style and decisiveness did not go well with an illogical belief in superstitions. So it was only natural that I was taken by surprise when on the night of Ganesh Chaturti (The Elephant God’s birthday), Pappa insisted that I should never look at the night sky on that particular day. So strong was my refusal to be tied down by such rules (after all, I have inherited his genes) that my eyes immediately darted up to the sky. So strong was the smack that he landed on my head – I still remember it like yesterday.

I have carried on this rather disdainful stand towards superstition over the years, right up to this day. Well.. Atleast until yesterday. For last night, something strange happened to me which makes me want to rethink my position.

It was 9 PM when I decided to finish work for the day and head homewards. Home is a good 25 minute walk from office, a welcome walk at that time of a particularly pleasant Dubai night. I also needed to make an important call on my walk back home, but unfortunately, my Du mobile phone’s connectivity was non-existent once I hit the road.

Since I was also expecting my important daily call around this time, I had to reach home quickly - my phone’s connectivity magically improves when I enter my 16^th storey house. All was well until I went past Spinney’s, the only grocery store in a 5 km radius from my house in The Marina (Welcome to Dubai!). I remembered that there was no milk at home, so quickly popped in to pick up a carton of milk. Smooth and slick, I was in and out in no time.

I was roughly 100 yards away from home when I suddenly revisited my plan to make do with an apple for dinner. I was walking past this new bagel place called Bagels and More that had opened up near our place and was contemplating whether or not to give it a try.

And then, something happened which steeled my resolve to actually venture into the bagel shop and see what was on display.

A black cat crossed the entrance to the bagel shop, which meant that I could either:

Be a good god-fearing Hindu grand-son and quickly walk on straight towards home, avoiding a life destined to be ruined by bad luck
Or turn left, into the bagel shop, crossing the cat-path and inviting bad luck, a lifetime of hardship, a lot of woman trouble and worst of all, a smack from Pappa’s hand, God bless his soul.

As is to be imagined, it was an easy decision for me. I walked into the bagel shop, almost bristling with anticipation, excited to be taunting fate in my own cheeky, childish way.

There were a number of bagels on display, different shapes and sizes. But since they were not labeled, they were all the same to me. There were two Filipino women manning the counter at the shop. Or is it womanning the counter? I’m not sexist, please Oh Please!

They were Filipino women, I can’t help it! I’m not racist either.

So, this is how the conversation proceeded:

Me: “Hi! Can I have a chicken bagel please?”

Filipino Waitress 1 (FW1): “Good Mawwwning Sirrrrrrr! Welcome to Bagel and Mowrrrrr!!!”

Me: : “Err, Good Evening! Can I have a chicken bagel please?”

FW1: “Chicken Bayyyygell…. Is mostly not there la!”

Me: “Hmm, ok, what bagels do you have?”

FW1: “Sorry, I don’t know Sirrrrrrrrr!”

Me: “ Err, could you please check and tell me? And also I’m in a bit of a hurry, so it will be great if you can tell me quick.”

FW1: “Sure la!”

FW1: “Sirrrr, we have only cheese bayyyyygell!”

Me: “Hmmm, can I have 2 of them.. and do make it fast – you need not heat it.”

FW1: “Ok Sirrrrrrr! That will be 16 Dirhams Sirrrrr!”

Me: “Here you go.. 16”

Filipino Waitress 2 (FW2): “Sir, it is 20 Dirrrrrrrrhams!”

Me: “@#@$#$%%$^^^!!!!! Your colleague just said its 16!”

FW2: “It is 20 Dirrrrrrrrhams Sir!”

Me: “Its probably a good idea for you guys to know what you’re selling and for how much!”

Me: “I really don’t want them heated, can you please just pack them for me!”

FW1: “ “…………….”

Meanwhile FW2 who clearly seemed to be the person in charge took over the transaction and put my bagels into a paper bag, so super-efficiently that I almost sighed in relief. She took approximately 2 minutes for the job.

A minute later I was back on the road, pacing quickly homewards, cursing my luck. When I got home, I noticed my dear flatmates had already ordered a sumptuous dinner with enough food to serve an army. I smiled wryly to myself at the pointlessness of my whole bagel expedition.

I quickly made my office call – I was around 15 minutes late on the deadline but thankfully it was not a very critical task. Soon I was settling in my couch, trying to put the bad times behind me and enjoy my dinner consisting of a lot of pulao, rotis, dal and a couple of bagels in the china shop.

When I realized that I had left the milk carton in the bagel shop.

Needless to say, in the 5 minutes it took for me to run back down and retrieve the milk, I missed the one call that I wait eagerly for all day.

So… The bottomline is that you must in no circumstance cross the path of a black cat. If you do, be prepared to:

Face a lot of woman trouble: If you are cheeky enough to commit the crime knowingly, like I did, then you will be destined to Filipino waitress trouble, which is the deadliest form of women trouble known.
Face a lifetime of hardships: If you realize your crime quickly enough and repent whole-heartedly, then the hardship is restricted to half an hour, as it was in my case.
Get smacked by your grand-dad who will never give up trying to teach you values: Pappa came in my dreams last night and sure enough, I woke up feeling a little sore in my temples.

The Tiger

2008-11-12T03:43:00.000-08:00

Tiger, tiger, burning bright

Indian Cricket’s Dark Knight,

What last-ditch despairing dive,

Could tame thy languid cover drive?

On what distant part of the ground,

Could the battered ball finally be found?

At what length dare he aspire?

The left arm spinner who earned your ire?

And which captain, however smart,

Could match the passion of your heart?

And when thou cut with timing sweet,

What deft hands and what quick feet?

What good tactics up your sleeve?

What other skipper could irk Steve?

What the passion? What the dream?

Dare make us abroad, a winning team?

When Greg Chappel threw down his spears,

And plunged your fans in gloom and tears,

Did he smile at his work or cry?

Did he who dropped you eat Humble Pie?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright

Indian Cricket’s Dark Knight,

What last-ditch despairing dive

Dare tame thy languid cover drive?

Dasavatharam - some observations

2008-06-17T12:08:00.000-07:00

Like every big ticket Kamal Hassan movie in recent times, D has managed to elicit very extreme views from the public. Most people have been largely disappointed by what they see as an expensive vehicle used by the actor to indulge in self obsession on a grand scale. Yet, quite a few have been left in awe by the sheer range of characterization and authenticity of the roles portrayed by one of the most malleable screen personalities of our times. The bizarreness of a few of his make-ups has not gone unnoticed. So too, the ease with which he shifts effortlessly from one character to another, leading us to believe that ten different men – no sorry, nine men and a woman – have played the lead roles.

A closer look leads me to believe that the movie is eliciting both praise and brickbats for the wrong reasons. The brilliance of D lies in a host of smaller and rather smart tools of inspiration and tribute that run as parallel threads. Tributes and references are not new to Kamal Hassan’s movies – for instance, the unmistakable parallel between Nandakumar’s jailbreak episode in Alavandhan (Abhay) and Hannibal Lecter’s in Silence of the Lambs is a plot device that went largely unnoticed by the average movie goer. The main painting in Anbe Sivam had the obvious influence of Salvador Dali who had clearly left a lasting impact on the actor. D is filled with some astonishing tributes of this kind. Some examples:

1. The opening sequence where Rangaraja Nambi (Kamal Hassan) is tied to the idol of Lord Vishnu and thrown into the sea is a very obvious tribute to Mel Gibson’s Passion of The Christ. KH has often been compared to MG, mostly in the negative sense. This is probably his own tongue in cheek way of saying that he does not mind the comparison =)

2. Fletcher (KH), the ruthless ex-CIA guy is almost single minded and robotic in his quest for the vial. It was a little bizarre to see him sport shades in the night during the first chase. Later in the movie, he straddles a Harley Davidson and chases the scientist on the train. Could not have been more obvious - “Hasthala Vista Baby… I’ll be back!”

3. “He killed Yuka, now he dies for Yuka”, says Yuka’s brother, Kung fu master Narahashi (KH) pointing at Fletcher. Chinese martial arts. Revenge. Redemption. Kill Bill!

The story line touches upon atleast 25 issues, all of which revolve around the central theme which is the God vs. Science debate. Almost all the sequences in the movie depict the hand of God in them, be it the thirunamam-shaped scar formed on Nambi’s head when he’s stoned by Vaishnavites, or the white bandage Govind sports on his forehead after getting hurt which is shaped like the cross. Every single time Fletcher is on the verge of capturing the vial, divine intervention saves the day – for instance, the scene in the hospital where Avtaar Singh intones something sacred and distracts Fletcher from his quarry. The movie goes to great extents to show the effect of strange and seemingly unconnected incidents on the lives of people from all the major relegions in India. The characters of Avtaar Singh and Khalifullah are there just for this purpose, since the movie demanded Muslim and Sikh representation. Armchair critics argue that these characters are there just to make the numbers, but it is tough to talk about the oneness of God without first establishing the presence of all the Gods. Vincent Poovaraghan’s (KH) magnanimous Dalit character hits home if nothing else, just through his tremendous intonation and accent. KH scores a bulls eye here, for the very first time – a far cry from MMKR days where the London returned Madanagopal spoke in a weird American accent! The Dalit character dies in the tsunami even as he tries to save his adversaries’ family from sure death – a sad commentary on how the gods and fate have been unfair to those oppressed by caste. D reiterates the futility of war several times – the scientist is always pointing out the mindless havoc that the bio weapon would cause the world if it reached the wrong hands. He argues that if God existed, then his design which created scientists with such brains is flawed enough to question if it exists.

The Butterfly Effect thread is quite blatant too, with a rather conspicuous butterfly twittering through the tsunami aftermath connecting the lives of all the people affected on the shores. Science says that the Butterfly Effect is the avalanche effect of a small happening on one corner of the world, seen as a tremendous happening in another. D implies that the incident in the 12th century has ramifications that culminate in a tsunami in the 21st century, another reinforcement of the Science vs. God debate – all schools of religion talk about redemption, reincarnation and the concept of the balance between good and evil that is maintained on the long run. It takes KH’s vivid imagination to combine the God argument and the Science argument, beautifully intertwining reincarnation (9 similar people living in the 21st century and their lives culminating at a climactic, earth shattering event), redemption and Chaos Theory that runs across time, rather than distance! It is tough to imagine anyone else in the world imagining and executing a spectacle of this kind. It is tough to classify D as a movie – it is some kind of whirlwind crashcourse that touches upon a lot of issues, leaving us with more food for thought than we can possibly chew in one sitting. Maybe KH thought he’d condense a number of ideas into one script, and see if he could have fun in the process. The fun is clearly evident – we always knew that this man was not driven by commercial considerations. He makes movies for the love of movies and it does look like he enjoyed this one immensely.

Negatives:
1. Asin - . Both her character and its portrayal are nauseating and it’s surprising to see the scientist put up with all her crap through out. Should have pushed her out of the train and into Fletcher’s hands very early.

2. Bad make up – Fletcher looks a little bizarre. Khalifullah is straight out of Marvel comics. The rest are all quite brilliant, but the bad ones stand out. George Bush is astonishingly real, also aided by Kamal Hassan’s breathtaking replication of the man, even taking his case on the side!

3. Horrible visual effects – the much hyped tsunami looks like it’s a bad painting. Khalifullah moves on the screen like he’s painted on to it as well – atrocious editing, and a waste of a lot of money really.

4. Mallika Sherawat’s item number – some lame attempt to ensure cashflows. Should have been avoided at all costs. In fact, her presence in the movie is quite unjustifiable.

The scientific mind questions everything and sees the inherent flaws in the way things function. So much tragedy and destruction in the world cannot ever be justified as the creation of a supreme power. Yet, the religious mind always seeks to justify every single natural and manmade calamity as another small cog in the divine wheel. The tsunami saved the world from the much more dangerous ramifications of bio weapon leakage, thereby sacrificing 1000 lives in order to save 10000. Is the Hand of God powerful, sadistic or simply non-existent? D leaves us with the question and lets us choose our own answers. In many ways, the movie itself is open to the same kind of interpretation. Scratch beneath the surface and it is tough not to be awed by the effort.

The defeat

2008-04-11T12:38:00.000-07:00

Three days back, I decided to reopen a part of my past that I had chosen to bury forever. Sometimes, the past is best left alone, the scabs of experience healed by the antiseptic of time. Yet it is always tempting to dig through the sands of time and to revisit those foreboding haunts where the buried ghosts lie. Loyal readers will remember my earlier tryst with that old haunt that ended almost as soon as it began.

And so it was to be - a few years older than the first time, a battle-scarred veteran from some rare fleeting peeks into the horror house – I decided that my overwhelming compulsion to lose the burden of the present far outweighed the fear of failure from past attempts. With a silent prayer and renewed vigour to scale the peak, I decided to have another tilt at the windmills. Yes – I summoned up enough courage to go back to a gym.

After minor issues like registration, it was time for the real showdown. Invoking the blessings of the God of gymming (Arnold Schwarzenegger), and with war cries ringing in my ears thanks to Apple ipod, I resumed battle with the most benign in the enemy’s camp - the treadmill.

Ten minutes in, I knew that this was not going to be as easy as I’d imagined – running at a strolling speed of 7 kmph, I was already gasping for breath and falling all over myself. I could feel the ache in my heart and hear the creaking of my knees. I could sense the fire parching my lungs and the mist on my glasses was partly just the smoke I was breathing out. In the past I have easily done 10-12 kmph for periods of upto 20 minutes – no mean feat, but almost Bradmanesque when compared to my current form. Was this the same me of the WIMWI Frisbee fame? I just laughed the whole thing off as a minor starting problem and kept at it.

Ten more minutes passed – it was clear that my initial stumbles were a foreboding sign of things to come. The second half of my dread mill run, if anything, went even worse. If I was struggling for breath after my first half at 8 kmph, I was definitely choking by the end of the second stint – this despite reducing my speed to a rather lethargic 7 kmph. The mean machine was mocking at my human fallibility with its stentorian steady pace of rotation that could go up or down on a whim, controlled by buttons. With every drop of sweat that dribbled down my nose and onto the rotating belt on its way to nothingness, the nemesis was eating away at my reserves, bit by bit, exercising its stranglehold on me.

I was happy that the session came to an end. Round one to the opponent and I was left licking scars of wounds, both physical and psychological. I always knew that this reunion was going to be a painful one, but little did I imagine that I would come out with my pride taking such a beating. Running at speeds of under 8 and feeling so bloody exhausted was just not me. I knew that something had to give and if there’s one thing that life has taught me, it is to never say die!

I was back at it yesterday – my limbs were aching, my heart was burning, but my spirit was intact. I knew that I would go down fighting if that’s what it took. Back to the treadmill then, I set the speed to an optimistic 8.5 kmph, very confident that I’d exorcise the demons of yesterday in style.

Twenty minutes passed. That was it. I had lost the war. It was not to be the bestial benchpress or the barbaric barbells. Even death at the hands of the deceptively strong dumb bells or a plain slimy medicine ball would have been more respectable. Alas, I had fallen at the first hurdle, decimated by the guiles of a friendly treadmill. My tennis elbows and athlete’s heart had proven to be my Achilles’ Heels (you can see the profound impact that the whole episode had on all aspects of my being, including my writing). The stuffing had been knocked out of me - kayoed in two rounds flat. I could hear the final count ringing in my ears, even as the ghosts from the past jeered me on to the last breath. The irony was not lost on me - I had always considered myself to be in the prime of my youth, a young Turk in the company of a peer group with an average age of approximately 147. And here I was - falling victim to my own impunity.

They say that before you die, your past flashes in front of your eyes. For me, it was the sight of the hot chocolate brownie that I fought for unsuccessfully with Gendy at Upper Crest; the umpteen times D-Balls insisted on warming up before Frisbee; it was the extra dollops of unpalatable panneer that I inexplicably kept forking onto my plate in the mess; and I thought of Freezo…

There I was, a fallen man – unable to resist my temptations, I was ready to pay the price - I was ready to bite the dust. There I was – doubling over the treadmill. And then I saw the instructions on the dial:

“Please use the arrow buttons to alter the speed of the machine in mph”

In mph…

mph… miles per hour……

Ouch!

Danish Kaneria invents new form of leg before appeal

2007-11-27T09:12:00.000-08:00

(This post is inspired by the website www.bosey.co.in)

Pakistani leg spinner Danish Kaneria invented a rather bizarre style of appealing for lbw at the Feroze Shah Kotla on the 4th day of the First Test against India.

During an exasperating period of play when Sachin Tendulkar and Sourav Ganguly were batting beautifully, Kaneria pleaded with umpire Simon Taufel to give Tendulkar lbw after his faster one had hit the middle of the bat. When the loud and vociferous appeal did not have the desired effect, Kaneria inexplicably performed a somersault by falling back and landing upside down on the middle of the pitch.

When contacted later about his animated appeal, Kaneria justified his action in great excitement. His words were translated into English by noted commentator Ramiz Raja.

Ramiz Raja's translation: "Sivaramakrishnan looks like Shah Rukh Khan, but Pakistan will win the next World Cup."

Though Arun Lal was not available to comment, we believe that he would have said "That was a fabulous performance".

Sources close to the bowler reveal that Kaneria actually fell backwards and lifted his legs up in the air to make sure that the umpire understood that he was appealing for an LBW. His cause was supported by experienced umpire Suresh Shastri (no relation to Ravi Shastri) who made waves in the recent series against Australia and Pakistan by getting 48 lbw decisions wrong in 4 games. Shastri chided Simon Taufel for being so strict with lbw decisions. "This is utterly against the spirit of poor umpiring - its a pity that Kaneria did not play the one day games, else I would have made sure he got lbws even without appealing. The human element in cricket is being questioned by good umpires like Taufel", said the umpire who recently gave a few lbw decisions off wide balls and even reported the Indian wicketkeeper MS Dhoni, who has never bowled in his ODI career thus far, for chucking.

Sachin Tendulkar was visibly taken aback by the feat and narrated the incident in his customary kid voice. "There were several guys around me, trying to disturb my concentration and get me out. But eh, Boost is the secret of my energy."

The incident sparked off a wave of unease amidst Pakistani media and public who disowned the leg spinner for his display. Some sections took undue advantage of his first name, claiming that he was actually Danish by birth. Cricket analyst Mandira Bedi even initiated proceedings on Extraa Innings with Charu Sharma and a tarot card reader to rename the bowler Danish van der Somer Saulth. "He is sho shweet!!", she purred when contacted for comment.

Ex-Pakistani captain and fellow faller on the cricket field Inzamam-ul-Haq was calm and forthright in his observations. "Yaissh,... Danish,... bowling well.... ish win the match," said the burly batsman even as he invoked divine intervention to save Pakistan from certain defeat.

Limerix

2007-10-19T05:59:00.000-07:00

Random

2007-06-27T05:54:00.000-07:00

I had a friend who was a teacher by day. He decided to work part time as a pizza delivery guy in the evenings to make ends meet. However, he could not handle the varied requirements of the two jobs – apparently they were as different as chalk and cheese.

Another friend of mine is a compulsive marijuana addict. One day he was on a real high when he took to the roads. On a nearby farm he chanced upon a cow that he heaped racist invectives at. It was a classic case of a pot addict calling the cattle black.

The makers of Notting Hill were worried about finances for the movie. All that changed once they got one Hugh Grant.

The change

2007-04-10T07:58:00.000-07:00

Apologies for the long break – a break that had enough potential to kill this blog. The first year at IIMA, I’m sure has sounded the death-knell for many a blog, but I am made of sterner stuff. More on the first year later – technically it has not yet ended.

There comes a time in everyone’s life when ‘perspective’ changes for the better. Today was one such day in mine.

All these days I’ve wondered how it must have been for Mr. Anderson aka Neo when all those green numbers began to fall into place, when he realised that he was The One. Today I know what it must have meant.

My entire outlook towards life seems to have changed in a flash. Suddenly, everything seems so clear that the entire simplicity of the entire thing fills me with a sense of scorn at my inability to have realised these things before. The path ahead; the trail behind; the myriad roads not taken – never have I had a better understanding of my environment or a better awareness of the people around me.

Make no mistake, it is an amazing feeling. From mundane activities like driving my car and doing the Hindu crossword to more meaningful activities like.. well.. you know.. I feel empowered, equipped with what it takes to face the world with confidence. Suddenly, everything seems to make more sense. The haze of uncertainty that so clouded my perspective, biasing my opinion and shrouding my outlook, has vanished for good. I am seeing sense, all at once.

Oh, if you still haven’t guessed – I just got new glasses!

Enter your email address below to subscribe to Galt's Belch!

powered by Bloglet

Demo CRAZY

2006-05-26T00:02:00.000-07:00

For many centuries, our country was under British rule.

The people of India were colonized, oppressed and subjugated by Englishmen who derided our cultural prowess, scoffed at the might of our ancient civilization and ridiculed our ability to think for ourselves.

Needless to add, we did not take it standing. After years and years of revolt and uprising, we finally gained our freedom when Kapil’s Devils conquered the Lord’s balcony in the summer of 1983 and ever since….. err… whatever…. That’s not the point.

The point is – more than 50 years after ‘independence’, are we free in the true sense of the word? Are we truly ‘living’ in the largest democracy in the world? A number of incidents in the recent past leave me in grave doubt about our so-called freedom:

1. Right to Information: Chennai continues to have Conditional Access – ‘DMK may come and ADMK may go, but the set top box plays on forever’.

2. Right to Freedom of Expression: The idiot nitwit Vice Chancellor of the biggest technical university in South East Asia gets away with his rules and enactments that border on outright stupidity.

3. Right to Education / Recognition of Merit: The Union Minister for HRD plays with the future and dreams of millions of ambitious youngsters – he proposes a ridiculous scheme of Reservation in Higher education. He does this, chiefly in an act of vendetta aimed against the leader of the Congress party who reduced the former’s power and office. And the latter remains SILENT about the entire issue, seeing it as a nice opportunity to add to her vote bank in the next elections. Sure, the odd AIIMS guy is dying while fasting in protest against the reservation Bill and millions of students are going to be disillusioned and forced to ply their wares on foreign shores while our country will soon be ruled, engineered, doctored, managed etc. by incompetent nincompoops… but then, we need to concentrate on the ‘bigger picture’ - which is winning the next elections.

4. Right to Expression of opinion: An actress airs her opinion on the current sexual mores in the country and is asked to SHADDUP and made to cry, cringe and apologise in public, lest she be totally ostracized by the people of her state (who earlier were stupid enough to build a temple in her name, but that’s another matter altogether) and burnt at stake as a witch-suspect. Meanwhile, the same people promote vulgar movies and regressive serials on their screens.

5. Right to Dissent: Arguably the best actor in the country (Aamir Khan) extends his support to the NBA who are protesting the mass displacement of tens of thousands of people caused by the proposed raise in the height of the Sardar Sarovar Dam. The government hits back by banning his latest movie from being screened until he retracts his support and apologises for his totally peaceful protest.

6. Right to watch-a-good-movie: The Vatican is okay with it; all catholic countries are okay with it; even the Opus dei has not opposed its screening. Yet, we, the morons of India are not allowed to watch The da Vinci Code because it questions the tenets of Christianity and glorifies Mary Magdalene. The fact that it is a MOVIE and hence, technically, does not PROVE ANYTHING is lost on our asinine law enforcers.

7. Right to have eleven-performing-cricketers: Venugopal Rao continues to find a place in the Indian team despite the fact that he can’t hit the ball beyond the 30-yard circle.

Seriously - Where is this country headed?

Enter your email address below to subscribe to Galt's Belch!

powered by Bloglet

Ze Trip

2006-04-29T05:42:00.000-07:00

A week or more had passed since VK first started pestering ‘The Gang’ to go to this place called Tada Falls. Three years of close proximity with VK had taught me to take everything he says with a truckload of salt and hence I observed his plans with the usual skepticism. Most of my skepticism stemmed from that fact that the plan revolved around using my car. - “… it’s a great place daa… 100 km from the city... we park and then walk some 3 km… and its amazing… so many people have gone… they rave about it… err… we’ll go by your car (VK’S SHEEPISH GRIN)”

We finally decided to go on the 27th of April – not in my car though. A little research revealed the brisk business in used car spare parts in the area near the hill and this in combination with my love for our Indica put my car out of the equation. There’s this chill fellow called MS (nick – The Gomes guy) in my class – he has a car that he either wants to get rid of or stole from somewhere. Only these two explanations justify the amount of care he doesn’t bestow on his non AC, non stereo Maruti Zen. In addition to the above facilities, the back bumper is loose and actually emits sparks on scraping the road – Batsmobile India style. MS agreed to donate his car for a day and this suited us just fine.

And so it was that The Gang stepped out on empty tummies at 7 AM. The Gang for the day had 6 members (thankfully – 7 or more people traveling 200 km in that Zen in this weather would’ve been a close run simulation of Buchenwald. Only a lot more tragic.) – Frog opted out of the Lonely Road trip for spurious reasons (Lonely Load). So it was VK (tour manager/guide/driver), Gulp (Pasappi), Ross (Anand - The motor man), Poppy (ECE babe *hehehe*, TNPCEE rank 3 ;)), Pollen (Venk – The Hungry man) and yours truly (yours truly).

Hitting NH5 at VK’s breakneck speeds, we were soon out of city limits and headed somewhere towards the Andhra border. Rumbling tummies (especially that of Pollen) reminded us of the small matter of breakfast and to our disappointment we realized we were already way past the decent eateries. We stopped at a bakery that served rotten puffs (pups, as its pronounced in AU canteen), Coke with ‘cooling’, coconut cookies and bun-jam. In addition, we stocked up with some biscuits for the trip and resumed our journey. There was lot of (bad) singing and even worse jokes (courtesy Ross) through out the drive.

After some turns in and out of a small village like place, we finally reached the end of the road – beyond this point the road ceased to be a road and became a path filled with huge stones and pebbles.

“Only a SUV could continue on this road” observed Pollen.

VK’s response (translated from Tamil) – “If I find even one SUV beyond this point, I’ll beat the driver with my slipper.”

The rest of the group visualised this unlikely event.

Such anecdotes show our mental capacity in very poor light, but surely made the burden of the sun and the walk a lot easier to take.

We didn’t have to wait for the next day’s paper to know that this was the hottest day of the year thus far. The walk along the stony path put our heads on fire and left us in little doubt. Me and Ross had been clever enough to start the trip without headgear. Thankfully, Gulp had this pant with detachable parts that doubled up as sun hats. Thanklessly, her strip tease did not proceed further. (see pics)

40 minutes into our trek, all of us were already on our last legs. I had half a mind to suggest we just turn back and head home. This is when we reached Check point 4 – The Brook. We had to cross the stream of water on its downward descent and resume our path on terra firma. Raised on the spurious water supply of Madras, all of us were wary of getting too wet in this stream. That was before we realised something astounding:

We were in the cleanest water we had ever seen in our lives.

There were tens of hundreds of small finger sized fish nibbling away at our feet. The water was mostly around 3 feet deep and flowing on at a steady rate. The green rocks below the water and the greenery all around mingled on the water to form myriad patterns of absolute beauty (YUCK, THAT SOUNDS LIKE A CLICHED WORDSWORTH LINE, BUT I DUNNO WHAT ELSE TO SAY! – see snaps)

Check Point 4 rejuvenated us quite amazingly. Half an hour in that cool, waist deep stream and large unabashed gulps of the water, straight from the heavens, gave us enough ammo for the rest of the walk/climb. Gulp and I had half a mind to just stay there the whole day, but VK promised that this was only a trailer of what was to follow. This time I believed him.

The sun seemed less harsher now – partly since we were not out in the open anymore. Ranges and trees provided ample protection and it felt a lot cooler now after our dip.
Around 20 minutes later we reached Check Point 3 – The Tree. There was nothing special about this place, except that it had a huge tree which had a large branch jutting out at a height of 7 feet from the ground. VK immediately leapt up and hung from the branch like an ape (he doesn’t lose even the minutest opportunity to flaunt his height advantage!). Soon Gulp wanted to be up there too and VK obliged by hoisting her (Refer Snaps). What followed was an extremely funny scene which involved VK hoisting a squealing Poppy up to the tree. I am sure the birds and other fauna in the area were pretty amused by the sounds they heard as Poppy clung on to the branch for dear life. Poppy’s turkey towel shorts made the scene a lot funnier than it should have been. I was bugged with the place and wanted to proceed. I asked VK to hoist me next - that did the trick.

Another 40 minutes passed before Check Point 2 – The Pool. This was a secluded spot amidst the woods with a good expanse of the cool water, a lot deeper than the brook, and without as many fish. I figured out that this was probably because the water was not flowing as freely here. We spent a good hour and a half wading about in the pool and playing with the plastic ball that Pollen had alertly put into his bag in the morning. The pool bottom was made of huge rocks that were all a uniform green with the algal growth – swimming through this pool, looking at the waterbed is a sight for sore eyes (and also a necessity in order to avoid kicking the rocks closer to the water surface). Gulp managed to borrow a swimming tube from another gang and as usual missed out on the real fun – until I threw her off the tube and dunked her head under water. Poppy and I were involved in a plastic ball aim-and-hit in which she got royally kick-assed! VK, in his inimitable style made yet another discovery – when a stone collides with a rock under water it makes a strange squeaky sound that feels like someone is scratching your vertebra. And keeping with his track record, no one is going to gain anything from this discovery either.

We eventually toweled ourselves and dressed up for the last phase of our ascent. We had to cross the pool at its shallowest – Pollen and I slipped on the rocks in our attempt to do this. I managed to save my cellphone, but Pollen did not protect the camera well enough and it got totally immersed in the water. As a result, the gadget went berserk and started zooming in and out all by itself. Thankfully it set itself right in a while.

Walk had already given way to climb and now, climb gave way to trek. The next half an hour was the most tiring/thrilling phase of our trip as we had to actually find our way through jagged, dangerous rocks – one wrong step could end up in a few broken bones. I must say our gang is well above average in its trekking skills.

Gulp’s bony limbs, aided by her weightlessness give her a lizard like approach to life – and this is where such an approach pays rich dividends.

Ross had a plastic cover on his left hand containing his change of clothes. He nonchalantly WALKED over the rocks without the help of his forelimbs and without a care in the world. He lost his footing once though and hurt his knee ever so slightly. But that did not affect his confidence at all.

I am sure he was a mountain goat in his previous birth.

VK is a mountain goat in his current birth.

Pollen is known to be the man who never stands out in a crowd. True to form, his climbing was neither spectacular nor pathetic.

Poppy was easily the worst climber in the group, closely edging me out. I perfected the ass technique of climbing which involves using your butt in addition to your limbs for grip. Poppy also greatly benefited from this technique.

At long last we reached Check point 1 – THE ZENITH. The actual waterfall was a bit of a disappointment – the approach was perilously dangerous and the actual spot where the water landed almost impossible to reach. That did not stop VK from reaching there, slipping and almost killing himself. He can thank his lucky stars for making the trip back alive. Gulp slipped on a smooth rock and landed on her ass with a thud, but was smart enough to hold the camera aloft and lucky enough to have Ross behind her to stop her fall. And hence it was to be that Poppy – the worst climber in the group - was the only one of us who did not fall down even once. Strange are the ways of fate.

The rest of us pottered about on the water and were DEAD TIRED. Honestly, I had no idea how we were going to make the trip back to our car.

Miracles do happen – we managed to finally get there – after walking/climbing/trekking for around 5 hours and swimming/standing for 3 hours. By the time we reached our legs were on auto walk mode and felt very weird. On the way down, we took our most memorable snap (refer pic). All of us were posing even as Ross set the camera on timer mode on a ledge and had just 10 seconds to join us. Only he could have made it in time and he just about managed to get into the frame!

The car journey back home was a huge relief. We put our legs up, literally and otherwise, totally exhausted after the rigours of the most tiring day in our lives and with a sense of pride at having conquered Tada Falls!

Enter your email address below to subscribe to Galt's Belch!

powered by Bloglet

Tada in snaps 1

2006-04-29T05:37:00.000-07:00

Ross makes it on time!

The Zenith - I dunno what Ross is trying

On the descent

I obviously clicked from far away :)

Tada in snaps

2006-04-29T05:13:00.000-07:00

The trip begins - Base camp (Me, Pollen, Poppy, Ross, VK)

Gulp hangs - Check Point 3

The pool - Me murdering Ross

The Strip tease that wasn't - Ross and me andGulp, the hat supplier

Unusual Suspects (Rhymed verse, worst)

2006-04-03T12:10:00.000-07:00

There once was a left-handed tiger from Bengal;
‘God of the off-side’, he was feted by The Wall.
Few spinners could survive his lofted maul -
None could match the way he timed the ball..

His amazing consistency
Was rewarded with captaincy.
All hailed Sourav, His Excellency!
In the selection procedures he had lots of influency.
But alas! There appeared problems with his fluency.
On tracks bouncy,
His shots were chancy;
His footwork marked with hesitancy.
Such inconsistency,
Caused by technical discrepancy,
Along with his innate irreverency,
Did not catch Greg Chappel’s fancy.
Who said, “Cricket is important to his financy..”
Which led to Dada’s down fallacy…
From the throne of cricket’s aristocracy,
(And everyone in Bengal went crazy)

Watching from the sidelines, Master blaster Tendulkar..
His own form, a far cry from the spectacular.
The backfoot cover drive, frontfoot straight drive,
Replaced by defensive attempts to stay alive.
The furious paddle sweep,
Now stashed into his drawer deep.
The feasts of all the shots we were to behold,
Fleeting glimpses that flit by before he’s out-bowled.
Adding to Sourav’s insult, Sachin’s injury
Ranging from elbow to toe to fingery,
Sixteen years of international wear and tear,
Apparently more than his body can bear.
The little big man’s appearances are markedly rare,
His retirement date, round the corner somewhere.

How many Tests has he won!
Using his non-turning wrong ‘un!
But alas – Anil is a one day misfit –
His guile not inducing too many a mis-hit,
Under pressure, he may be pretty cool,
But his fielding makes him the butt of ridicule;
His batting style that’s based on blocking,
Not the kind that sets the run rate rocking –
So its swansong time for Kumble to sing,
Turning duties solely to Harbhajan Singh.

His trusted lieutenants, thus, all but gone –
Leaving us with just The Wall to rely upon;
‘As he sows, so shall he be reaper’
- Of runs by the hundreds, he’s the heaper;
The guy finds no target steeper -
One-day makeshift wicket-keeper,
Many a day, the Man Friday,
Many an inning, the sheet anchor,
ICC batting top ranker..
In the slips, safe as a banker..
Not one responsibility does he shirk..
All the more reason to give him more work;
And so it was that Rahul became skipper.

And aiding The Wall in his quest for glory -
A motley bunch to script the success story.
With all due respects..
Presenting the Unusual suspects!

Milkman Dhoni’s hairdo
Might make him seem a weirdo;
This dude of unmatched bravado,
Tonks the ball around without much ado.
Wielding the willow off front foot or back,
Giving the cherry an almighty THWACK…
His follow-through is one of a kind,
After impact, the bat finishes well behind!
Sure he’s not the best keeper that ever was,
Who cares! Look at what he did to Vaas!
His machismo comes across as striking,
He’s not designed to the bowler’s liking,
He’s the man when the runrate needs hiking
If 18 runs are required for victory,
Three balls later, the match will be history!
And meanwhile our man will be biking.

Hail the latest Sultan of Swing –
Irfan’s zippers tease and sting;
Conning the batter into careless drive..
Edging the cherry into first slip’s dive.
Delivering the ball at a friendly pace,
Delivering the goods with fiendish grace!
When elevated to one down,
Pathan literally goes to town,
Driving, cutting, slicing diligently..
Running the singles intelligently;
Pinch-hitting to him is the aesthetic art
Of taking the attack clinically apart.
It looks like we’ve finally found
A fellow with skills, all round!

Be it when he fields inside the ring
Or does his slow left arm spin bowling;
But mainly when he’s batting in full swing.
Yuvraj Singh…
Is simply amazing.
That delightful drive through mid off;
The fierce cut that splits the field in half;
The off-the-toes flick over mid-wicket,
That’s unparalleled in the history of cricket.
Sure, at times he makes catches look tougher,
Who cares! As long as he makes the bowlers suffer!

The out of form Kaif
Leads an uncharmed life.
The same can be said of Veeru
Who’s quickly gone from Heeru to Zeeru.
Bhajji’s Doosra turns just enough
To trick the batsmen into double bluff;
Raina’s too young to be rated…
So young, he can even be berated!

So that’s the core of the final eleven,
For the World Cup 2007!
The Great Wall and his men,
- The leader and his trusted ten;
Can they bring home the World Cup?
Sure! Lets keep the hopes up!

The art of making a bad movie

2005-10-02T02:34:00.000-07:00

I am back! It’s been ages since my last post and the reasons behind my self imposed sabbatical are many and quite distinct from one another – lack of time, dearth of topics, soaring oil prices and world peace for instance. Since there is no point crying over split milk, I’ll instead spill the beans – the main reason why I quit blogging was coz I was waiting – waiting with bated breath for the release of Surya’ latest movie, Ghajini (Even though no evidence… he kills… for one reason… LOVE)

For those of you frowning at that tagline(s), I swear I am not making it up. It comes in the film’s trailer. Anyways, I saw the movie recently. And much to my chagrin, I found that the wait was no where near worth it – the film is as hopelessly incoherent and as unintendedly funny as the tagline itself! That the film is running to packed houses and will become a runaway hit is immaterial.

To say that this movie is ‘inspired’ by Memento would be doing a huge disservice to the cult classic that established the novel reverse narrative technique. The hero who was clubbed on the head when his wife was killed suffers from short term memory loss – can’t remember things beyond fifteen minutes. And hence, writes things on his house walls, tattoos vital information on his body and uses a Polaroid camera to click away faces that he can’t commit to his own memory. Armed with these aids, he seeks to take revenge on his wife’s murderers. While retaining most of this in the Tamil version, the director has done away with the reverse narrative which would have left the average Tamil audience quite confused and irritated no end. It is amazing how a director who can show so much common sense ends up punctuating his film with so many obvious flaws that leave one laughing at the stupidity of it all.

Ghajini is replete with enlightened characters – to begin with the nameless police man who after peering closely at the numbers tattooed on Surya’s body makes a connection that would put John Nash to shame – ‘indha numberla 10 digit irukku.. So idhu oru cell phone numbera irukkumnu nenaikkaren’. Last heard, the cop and the director were filling the application forms for Mensa.

Next in the list of caricatures – medical student Nayantara who probably read too much of Nancy Drew in her free time. Her quest for knowledge is so awe-inspiring that she will go to any extent to do a case study on the short term memory loss patient – not heeding warnings from her professor who says it could land her in deep trouble since the police are involved. Such commitment should be lauded. Especially when it’s coupled with her ‘extra-curricular skills’ that include doing a raunchy item number in the name of college culturals. (Now, the self appointed moral police of Tamil Nadu should see THAT! And how Nayantara managed to triple her size since Chandramuki is the million dollar question.)

But as the movie ambles along, she reveals more shades to her multi-faceted character. The most predominant of all being her stupid unpredictability and predictable stupidity. To begin with, she tells Surya she’s there to help him and then snoops into his house when he’s not around. When she sees the photos and realizes Surya is going to kill the ‘villain’ (for more on ‘villain’ refer later stages of the post), she calls villain up and informs him about the danger to his life. Next, she does a bit of dare-devilry to get Surya into police clutches. And the moment he is released she goes back to him and reminds him about the guy he is seeking to kill – the same guy that she tried to save from him in the first place!

Next up on the jokers list – the muscled cop who does not even know how to tie a person to a chair. Having found out that Surya is responsible for the recent murders, the cop breaks into his house to attack and arrest him – and then ends up running for his life from the house coz Surya chases him out, unarmed, mind you! To make the scene funnier than it actually is, Nayantara follows Surya and the three run on the roads of Madras in a three way chase set to Harris Jeyraj’s jarring background score. The comedy is cut short by an inopportune bus that runs over the cop, thus terminating a character that must make Tamil Nadu police feel quite insulted.

But the single biggest joker in the movie is the comedian – at first sight he might seem to be the villain of the movie, but that’s just the director’s attempt to play with the psyche of the movie-goer. God knows where this sensational talent was unearthed by the director – coz u must really dig deep in the rubble and garbage to find such extraordinary performers.

The film begins with a murder. And along with the police guys, you find villain and his gang also investigating. If only the police were always so accommodating. Next up, you find villain (his credentials yet to be established in any sense, mind you) is the chief guest at a college function. He watches Nayantara’s belly dance from the front row along with his menacing looking henchmen – god save the students of that college. Villain next up gives us an insight into his nefarious activities, thus establishing him as villain. Yet he lives in the middle of the city in a huge mansion where anyone can approach him – in fact even college students know he lives there. A villain with a difference really! It’s at this stage of the movie that you begin to feel really flummoxed by the events around you.

Once villain comes to know that surya is after his life, he is on the guard. He does this by getting into an Ambassador car with three of his baddies and waiting at one end of the street. The other end is guarded by the remaining baddies in another car. In the deep dark of the night, as the gang lies crouching in wait for their tormentor, villain takes his walkie talkie and utters these pearls of wisdom for the guards at the other end of the street – ‘alerta irunga. Avan andha side vandha neenga sudunga… indha side vandhaa naanga sudarom’. Now, if only Scotland Yard formulated such fool proof strategies!

And still, Surya manages to thwart their vigil – How, is left to our imagination. He just jumps over the compound wall into the house – probably used some secret underground passage or teleported himself in.

At this point, the director plays the double bluff – villain has a twin brother (villain2) and Surya is totally confused by the photos he sees inside villain’s house, as indeed are we. End result he is caught by the police and the police call villain to identify him coz they find his ‘cell’ number tattooed on his body. And for some inexplicable reason, villain tells the police, ‘ivan ennoda friend thaan’. Later villain gets a chance to kill surya when the latter is unconscious and alone, but chooses not to – the reason behind this sound decision – ‘naan police kitta ivan yen friendunnu sollitten, adhanaala ivan setha yen mela thaan sandhegam varum.’ Logic of the highest order – remember everyone suspecting Duriyodhana when Karna was killed? (“I knew it.. it has to be him.. its an open and shut case man! He is his best friend, isn’t it obvious?”)

Things move at a feverish pace – to the climax scene. Nayantara’s hostel is converted into a WWF ring with lot of water (rule 43.2 of Tamil cinema – it will rain). Villain and Villain2 enter the hostel and wreak havoc, killing a girl, yet the 5000 odd remaining inmates don’t call the police – I guess there was a cell phone ban imposed in that hostel. Finally Surya comes there with Nayantara, who finally decides to take sides with him and implores him to kill both villains. Surya duly obliges with some flying kicks and some mere flying alone. Why this obsession for the Matrix culture? Why, OH WHY?????

I’ve left out certain parts of the movie (read, the flash back) in this write up. Those parts are genuinely good. Surya rocks and Asin’s performance is a pleasant surprise. In those scenes Ghajini matches up to Khakha Khakha, but the rest of it is…. Well…

If any of you understand the last scene of this movie, please enlighten me. And why this film is called Ghajini – coz from what I remember the great Mughal conquerer was neither forgetful nor seeking revenge.

Verdict – Surya wastes one year of his career acting in a mockery of a movie. My heart goes out to him… and to myself coz the damn ticket cost me 80 bucks :(

Snip, Snap, Swoon

2005-08-11T11:27:00.000-07:00

I am yet to come across a dog that is badly in need of a haircut. And by ‘dog’ I mean the entire gamut – starting from your run-of-the-mill, piss-on-the-hill street mongrel of debatable breed right up to the other end of the bark-spectrum that includes the thoroughbred micro-miniature Chihuahua. And its not just dogs for that matter - sheep, lizards, tapirs, ant-eaters, sea-gherkins… – every single species of the animal kingdom lives in a state of peaceful equilibrium with the hair that nature has prescribed for it. Barring man, of course.

Hair is one of the biggest hair-raising issues facing the human society. Right down the ages, (barring the primitive days when Adam, Eve and Co. frolicked along in hirsute happiness), hair has been amongst the greatest challenges to man’s determination. Grown locks and the associated road blocks are so many that even the stodgiest souls have had to finally cut the crap. Andre Agassi won gazillion hearts with his blonde bangs, but was eventually harried into de-hairing himself before Steffi Graf came calling. Similarly, even a man as desperate to differ as David Beckham was eventually distressed to the point of de-tressing. The odd exception to the rule has valid reasons for sporting long hair. For instance, Michel Jackson hardly finds the time for hair care in the midst of his hectic nose-job schedule. T.Raajendhar versatility in the film world (actor, director, producer, co-producer, musician, lyricist, stunt man, light boy, dandanakka, danakku nakka) puts matters of appearance on the back burner and that explains his hair-do (or hair-don’t, as one close friend chooses to put it).

To put it in short, man likes to keep it short. Going by the natural economic law of supply and demand, one would expect a large number of good barbers, hair dressers and saloons to flourish in the hairy world. Strangely and sadly, that is not the case. And when I say this, I speak for a healthy majority of the Chennai male populace.

The dreaded day springs upon you each month; you look into the mirror and find that your hair is actually growing in front of your eyes – a mini eco-system on your head with black orchids, creepers and tendrils creeping over you foreheads; dark and foreboding clouds hanging menacingly over the ears; and stalactites (or is it stalagmites?) drooping down over your collar onto your back. Its time for a hair cut.

It’s amazing how almost all of my hair cut days have been bad hair days. It begins with the fact that you actually have to wait in a queue for your turn. Early birds enjoy the rare privilege of getting a bad haircut before you do, even as you rehearse your instructions for the barber in your mind. (‘Reasonably long and level in front; ‘machine’ the back and the sides, and leave it ‘natural’ in the back..)

For the uninitiated: Welcome to the Hair Cutters Guide to the Call Taxi. Two new terms you need to know in order to continue reading this hairticle:

Machine: A tool normally used to fleece the wool off a sheep; also finds use with hopeless barbers who can’t do a decently level cut with scissors and comb alone. A lot of hairy patrons actually ask for the ‘machine’ in order to avoid getting an ignominious scissor cut. Machines may be hand operated or electric. The hand operated one can do serious damage to your flesh if wrongly administered, while the latter can give you a shock. In spite of such perks, machine cuts come at a throw-away flat rate of Rs.30.

Natural: This refers to the job done on the back of your head, just above the neck. To leave it ‘natural’ means to leave it alone, so that at least one portion of your new hairstyle is not brutalized by the barber’s barbarism. If you fail to ask for a ‘natural’ (and by ‘ask’, I mean repeating it some 5 to 8 times in your loudest voice once he takes the blade in his hand, until he gives you a written agreement that he will leave it natural) he will give you a square cut in the back, that will make you look like a character straight out of Dilbert.

So, there I am – its time for my haircut cum shave. I describe the style I expect in great detail to the barber who takes it all in with a nod of the head and finally says, “You mean, the usual, Saar?” It’s funny that he asks this, because this is what I usually ASK him and this is NOT what I eventually end up with. I mention this idiosyncrasy to my man who with a non-chalant swipe of the comb says, “Never mind Saar, this time Rajni style for you.” I resign to my fate – there is little you can do when this is all this guy understands from my earnest requests for a decent trim.

He goes on to make a mess and a mockery of the cut. What he fashions out of my none-too-impressive head is diametrically opposite to what I wanted him to do. I asked him for machine level 1, he has done scissors (“No current saar, Maseenu work avaadhu”). I asked him for an Aamir Khan spike, he’s given me a porcupine finish. Needless to add, I fell on his feet and pleaded for a ‘natural’, he’s given me a square cut (Ada! Enna saar neenga?! This is latest Vijay style saar!). And finally, I asked him to cut the hair over my ears, he’s cut my ears. (Which is actually good, since I’d fallen asleep midway through the massacre and this sure did wake me up.)

Thank goodness for the shaving grace or there would be absolutely no incentive for visiting this guy at all. It must be mentioned here that, it is VERY tough to botch up a shave, unlike the haircut. In spite of the inherent difficulties of doing a bad shave, most barbers do succeed in their tireless efforts to achieve mediocrity and on an average, one in thousand customers end up with slit throats. As a mark of respect to these brave, unfortunate souls, all barber shops remain closed on Tuesdays.

I stagger out into the open and feel like pulling out the rest of my hair as well. It’s a vicious circle that catches you over and over again – today my friends will have a hearty laugh seeing the comedy show that is my head. But then, I’ll have my chance to get back at them… some day… except Tuesday. Looking at it objectively, there is only one way out of this hair-splitting issue:

A visit to Tirupati.

Grow Your Muscles

2005-07-28T19:47:00.000-07:00

Why does a gymnasium appeal to the average man?

This question needs to be analysed at a very basic level. To begin with, gyms are always filled with fearfully strong men (think, Arnold Shivajinagar), who with an accidental swing of their left arm could annihilate entire battalions of wimps (think, Yours Truly). Secondly, Gyms are home to abnormally dangerous amounts of iron (one gazillion parts per million) and other macabre metal implements, the sort of stuff which one Mr. G.W.Bush hoped to find in Iraq. Next up, Gyms (A/C and non-A/C) contain a good deal more than the socially accepted amount of human perspiration and the olfactory ills that go with it. Finally, male gyms never have girls inside them – not just because of the rules but also because women (surprisingly) display a lot of common sense in some instances and can recognize a stinky, dangerous, polluted no-entry zone when they see one.

Given the circumstances, it’s tough to see the reasoning behind a gymmer’s enthusiasm. Yet, any self respecting gym in the city almost always seems to have more than its share of muscle-maniacs.

True to their name, Gym(nasium)s come in all sizes. And shapes and smells. In fact, a man’s gym is a very accurate indicator to his socio-economic status. Every street and by-lane in Madras has its own gym, creatively named ‘Rambo-Vimal’, ‘Marudhapandi Muscles’ and so on. Coincidentally, most of these gyms are conveniently situated near TASMAC alcohol dispensaries (USP – The flowing blood of Madras). These gyms are predominantly patronised by testosterone rich guys whose daily life style involves pumping, flexing, bashing, gang warring and so on. Its fair to say that gymming is an occupational necessity for these kerchief collared executives. Middle class youngsters visit these gyms with abounding enthusiasm that wanes very fast since they can’t break ice with (or like) these people.

Then come the upper class Gyms that are sprouting in large numbers all over Madras. ‘Talwalkars’’, ‘Gymania’ and ‘Fitness’ might not sound as creative as their street side counterparts. But they make up for it with their higher end equipments, more cultured clientele and most importantly, air conditioned environs. The average customers to these gyms could be film stars, comedians, business-executives-with-no-time-to-use-their-memberships-goddammit et al. My brother Mithun who falls under the third category is a regular patron at one of these gyms, connected to a prominent star hotel. And he recalls hilarious encounters with a scrawny and uptight S.J.Suryah (first category) in the process of working out.

It’s pertinent to note two things here – firstly, we still have NO IDEA why people go to gyms. Secondly, does T. Raajendhar (second category) go to a gym? If yes, how do other people manage to even begin working out, in such unsettling company?

Last week, out of nowhere, the gym bug bit me. The reasons are pretty straightforward – Mithun’s biceps that now resemble a well proportioned pair of ‘ammikkal’ (grindstones) are giving me a real inferiority complex. But the real reason is that there is only so much time you can kill in final year B.E. doing crosswords, sudokus, swimming and visiting all the hotels in Adyar. So I decided to head gymwards and get some sinews growing.

College gyms probably come in between the star hotel and street side variants of the gym. While you can rest assured you won’t have ‘vague’ company to contend with, you won’t get sops like A/C either.

My baptism to gym-culture was vivid in the sense that I had this feeling I was entering a space ship or something. To begin with, I could not comprehend how each one of those things ‘worked out’. Thankfully I was with this guy who claimed spurious pre-gym experience, but I relented on the premise that something is better than nothing. After surveying the big gadgets, I decided to skip the work out and work out with the skipping rope instead. After treading safe waters on the tread mill, I did some more skipping and push-ups. At the end of all this, I felt sufficiently warmed up to go and flop on a bed.

But I resisted that temptation, since I was more interested in the ‘bigger picture’. After invoking the grace of the gym-god (Arnold Shivajinagar), I decided to bench-press. I lay down flat, took the handle and pulled. And pulled. The damned thing would not budge. That was the moment of realization when I realised three things:

“Surely, there must be another way to impress women, goddammit.”

“All men are born equal, some more equally muscled than others.”

“You can always reduce the loads on these instruments.”

I proceeded to reduce the load to infant level and operated the bench press thing with a sense of huge achievement. I then moved on to exercise my biceps, triceps, quadriceps, forceps, back, front, middle, bottom, top etc. using all the exercising devices adorning the Anna University Gym. Since then, there has been no looking back.

No, I mean, literally. I can’t turn back and I can’t move my limbs either. In fact, just getting out of bed seems like a major break-through. It’s now all the more difficult to comprehend the spell that a gym casts on man. In addition to all the ills initially listed out, it also makes one invalid. And apart from giving meat eaters an extra reason to gobble down more chicken in the guise of protein-rich diet, the immediate and far-reaching advantages of gymming are not very clear.

I could go on and on, but have to cut short here, since I have some (bench) pressing work to attend to. Do note that my intentions are good and that I say this only out of concern for mankind. Stay away from gyms.

At your own risk.

T. Raajendhar and Co. – here I come!

God.. bad.. ugly…

2005-07-20T10:54:00.000-07:00

I vaguely remember being initiated to the concept of God. It was something like my third summer on Planet Earth – drooling, smiling, crying, toddling toddler. My mom made me stand in front of the sacred Puja room with folded palms and implored me to ‘pray’ to the 100,000 odd Hindu Gods in front of me, requesting them to guard, protect and save me from the trials of life. (Literally – “Kathu Rakshikkane” in Malayalam).

This was totally unfair on her part - Coz try as hard as you might you will never get a solemn “Kathu Rakshikkane” out of three year old lips. At that stage I could manage a cheerful “Ka chicken ne”, and Amma assured me that God understands.

May be he does. However, seventeen years have passed, and I personally am yet to understand God. Not because of my innate rebelliousness, but due to absolute lack of evidence. There is in fact, a lot of evidence pointing AGAINST the godliness of God, some of which I seek to state here.

To begin with – the age-old precept that’s accepted in all religions – “God is everywhere.” I’ve looked and I’ve looked some more – I am yet to find him anywhere. I’ve taken clues from language, but I’m sorry to say, the only thing I’ve ever managed to find next to cleanliness is a tired woman, ala Monica Geller-Bing. I’ve not witnessed the act of a man proposing, but I’m almost certain that in those situations, the only person who disposes is the woman and certainly not God. To conclude that women are Gods from these examples is ridiculous, since it is commonly accepted that women are predominantly devils. (He he – I like non-controversial words like ‘predominantly’!)

May be when believers say “God is everywhere” what they actually mean is “God is everywhere, especially in places of worship”. This introduces the idea of temples, churches, mosques, synagogues etc. Believers tackle this seeming paradox with the famous idea that places of worship are for the benefit of the innocent masses who need a ‘destination’ or an ‘object’ to focus their piety at. Being a blue-eyed South Indian boy, I’ve made my share of temple visits – ranging from Guruvayoor of the fresh elephant dropping and chenda crescendo fame to Thirupathi famous for the Jaragandi tonsured thalai and juggernaut laddu, I’ve (mostly against my wishes L) had the good fortune of getting more than the atheist’s share of prasadam.

Temple rules – footwear not allowed inside. I ask WHY. Such a feudal, anachronistic rule probably makes sense in Tamil movies of the Chinna Gounder genre, but in the abode of God the great? Worshippers argue that you are asked to enter bare-foot in order that the temple is not dirtied by the filth on your soles. (Which opens a great pun-opportunity; many believers are such bloody hypocrites in real life that they pollute the temple with the filth in their souls, but that’s beside the point.) Such an argument makes me want to laugh, since temple floors, without doubt, are amongst the dirtiest pieces of terra firma on earth. Polluting them further would be a tough proposition even for Calvin’s soiledest sneakers.

Next up – the black box of the temple, literally the strong hold - the cash box - the treasury - the hundial. I don’t get it people, why do we put money in that box? Is it alms for God? Is it some form of temple tax, so that they can build flyovers and install telephone booths inside the temple? Or is it for the benefit of the priest, who is actually in no way different from us?

Correct me if I’m wrong, but from what I can see, the money that goes into the box is nothing but bribery. Not just the money, but every sacred pact with God, ranging from head tonsuring to body rolling, coconut breaking and coal-walking (of Mariyaatha movies fame) is palm greasing at its sacred best. What makes it worse is the ‘preferential blessing program’ that is a feature of all temples. Rs. 50 for an ordinary queue darshan, Rs. 500 for a special darshan, and Rs. 5000 for an A/C deluxe darshan that includes three course prasadam. Dear worshipper friends, if this is not ridiculous, then what is? What sort of sick God is it that quantises blessings on the basis of the money that goes into his box and helps his worshippers out of problems only if they agree to do stupid and painful things in return? Is such a God worth worshipping?

Rather – does such a God exist?

Worshippers again side step this point with that ‘I am enlightened by my spirituality and I have now cornered you’ look firmly on their faces – the footwear and the hundi rules are made by man, so don’t blame God for what man has done. Which brings us to the pivotal point on the argument against God? Every point in the God-funda, starting with his existence, is a work of man’s imagination - each one of them, an axiom stated without proof. And as a rational being with senses of my own I question them with all my heart.

We have remained skeptical about UFOs for want of evidence. We did not take Galileo or Einstein seriously until they were proved right. That being the case, why do we believe in God without any proof at all? Out of fear that he might gouge our eyes out if we don’t take him seriously? In that case what’s the difference between him and Adolf Hitler?

Almost all our wars are fought in the name of religion which would have never existed in the first place if we did not believe in God. I look at the world around me – I see some joy, some happiness, some justice. But I also see LOTS of pain, sorrow and enormous amounts of injustice. Even considering that God exists, it is fair to say he is doing a pathetic job of running this world, especially considering the amount of unconditional importance, worship and faith that he gets. Please don’t give me the karma bull shit and that all sufferers are paying the price for the crimes of their previous births. That would make God’s administration of justice slower than that of the Indian Penal Code’s. Please don’t give me the inconsequentiality of mortal pain and suffering in the bigger Cosmic picture, coz I really care zilch about the Cosmic picture, as do you.

In other words, “Ka Chicken ne”.

The new One Day Cricket – FAQs

2005-07-11T12:36:00.000-07:00

Q. What is new rule number one that has been introduced in One day cricket?
The fielding team can enforce field restrictions at any stage of the innings, in two blocks of 5 overs each which will be called Power Play 1 and 2. In other words, Ganguly can enforce such periods, when the weak and meek batsmen of the opposition are at the crease.

Q. So when can other captains enforce the Power Play restrictions?
When Ganguly is at the crease, stupid.

Q. What is a ‘field restriction’?
It’s the technical term for the period when the fielding team is performing so badly that the captain brings all the fielders closer to the batsman in order to save them from missiles thrown by the crowd.

Q. Why has this rule come up?
To make life easier for the bowlers.

Q. Serious?
Of course not. The species called bowlers is on the brink of extinction and the rules are designed to push them over the limit. The average bowlers will be made to look pedestrian and will be forced to take up new professions in the coaching department. (For further details contact Venkatesh Prasad. – veggiebowler@legcutter.com)

Q. And what about the really good bowlers?
Breet Lee and Muthiah Muralitharan will be put in jail on charges of chucking. Shane Warne will be banned once we release incriminating footage confirming that he is from Mars.

Q. Serious?
Of course not. Shoaib Akhtar is from Mars. Warne is from the Andromeda Galaxy.

Q. What are the sub clauses of this rule?
The initial block of fifteen overs of field restrictions will be reduced to another Power Play period of just 10 overs.

Q. Who suggested the term ‘Power Play’?
Navjot Singh Sidhu. He also suggested the terms (beep) and (beep) which were vetoed in public interest.

Q. What are the loopholes in this rule?
Nothing other than the worrying fact that Kevin Pieterson’s average and Strike Rate will rise to incalculable heights.

Q. What is New rule number two that has been introduced in One day cricket?
A rolling substitute (Power Sub) will be allowed to replace any player from the playing eleven at any one point during the match. The substitute could be a bowler, batsman, fielder, non-playing captain, wicket keeper, umpire or match referee. Minimum criterion of qualification is an appearance on the Shaz and Waz show.

Q. What is a rolling substitute? Illustrate.
People normally feel a strong urge to roll on the floor and laugh when they see Anil Kumble fielding. Now Mohammad Kaif will get an actual opportunity to do this on the field. Kumble meanwhile will be sent back to the dressing room to try and grow that swank Frenchie he used to sport.

Q. Serious?
Of course not. He will be sent back to the dressing room so that Sachin Tendulkar can teach him how to spin the damn ball. Tendulkar ofcourse will be in the dressing room tending to his elbow that will not heal until his voice breaks.

Q. No, I meant are you serious about the definition of a rolling substitute?
Again, no. The rolling substitute will actually help the groundsmen when they use the heavy roller on the pitch.

Q. Why has this rule been introduced?
To benefit India who normally concede 42 runs per over during the fifth bowler quota.

Q. Serious?
Certainly not – its more like 420.

Q. What are the loopholes in this rule?
Ravi Shastri and Wasim Akram might try to make comebacks based on the fact that they have maximum appearances on the Shaz and Waz show.

Q. How can the public voice their views on these rules?
The general public is requested to come up with their opinions on these rules. As an added attraction, they are invited to participate in the “break the rulz” contest by coming up with new rules that beat these on the stupidity index. Do you have it on you? Tune in to DD Wisden 2020 and leave your voice byte with Charu Sharma and Krishnamachari Shrikkanth who will actually rate higher than anything else on any stupidity index. Our panel of experts will listen to your opinions in vain, since the telephone line they use is hopeless and you people never reduce the volumes on your TVs when you call. First prize – three nights and four days, all expenses paid trip to Andromeda Galaxy.

Q. Is there anything you will like to add?
Yes. (beep).

Three Guys, a ‘girl’ and Multiple PERSONOLITTY Disorder

2005-07-04T11:54:00.000-07:00

Just when you thought Chandramukhi defined the limit for how ridiculous an MPD movie could be – presenting Onion: Shankar’s magnum opus attempt that wastes a lot of money, time and credibility to prove that mediocrity comes expensive.

An ‘easy to describe’ story – Ramanujam, a.k.a Ambi (Vikram) is a eunuch. Atleast that’s what he tries to be, though strictly going by the script, he is an Iyengar (male) lawyer and law abiding citizen who gets spat on by a loafer on the road who can’t stand his bad acting. In a fit of rage, he (Ambi, not the spitter) tries to stop his TVS 50 and in the process cuts his brake wire. He then desperately tries to save a dying man, (who dies later, apparently as a mark of protest against his bad acting), but can’t get timely transport to the hospital. Irked by this lengthening list of protests against his bad acting, Ambi goes online to watch some porn, but instead stumbles on a spooky website that he himself designed during leisure hours when he wasn’t ‘quite himself’. Enter Onion (Vikram) – as his name suggests, Onion (USP – know Sanskrit, will chant) stinks at acting and provides ideal understudy to ‘rules’ Ramanujam. Onion’s modus operandi is to administer hell’s death to people who can’t stand their (Ambi and Onion’s) bad acting and make some high funda anagrams. Literally, Ambi proposes and Onion disposes.

Shankar takes us on a pretty pointless trip to Thiruvaiyyaru at this point – film circles are desperately trying to figure out why exactly.

What’s a Tamil movie without a female lead, so enter demure Iyengar girl (SADa) who also seems to despise Ambi’s acting. Introducing ‘Ramp Walk’ Remo (Vikram) and by law of averages at least this one should act well – surprise, surprise he does (Phew!). Girl falls in love with urban Romeo, Remo and they dance to a couple of sinfully expensive songs whose budget alone equals the GDP of Amsterdam, where, incidentally another song is shot (to death). Meanwhile Ambi complains about the girl who despises his acting on the website and so Onion decides to finish her off. What follows is déjà vu as Shankar lavishes more money in a desperate attempt to prove that Kollywood will never reach the heights of Matrix. He probably didn’t know that we already knew.

The sheer exhaustion of playing three characters takes its toll on Vikram who faints. A confused SADa takes Vikram (Ambi, Remo, Onion) to a goatee sporting psychiatrist (Nasser) who, judging by his pronunciation of Multiple Personolitty Disorder got his Doctor’s degree by greasing quite a few palms. SADa’s confusion knows no bounds (as does at this point, the viewers’) and she accepts three face as her love interest. Remo, probably disgusted by the ineptitude of his bad acting alter egos, decides to leave the medium. Onion takes this opportunity to enlighten the flummoxed public at Nehru Stadium about his views on Life, the Universe and India in his discourse, ‘The Quality of bad acting’. Finally, FINALLY the police man (Prakash Raj) gets fed up with all the terrible acting to such an extent that he arrests Ambi and tortures him. He tries to get the truth out of him by distracting him with lies that he is actually a better actor than the big 4 of Tamil cinema and the trick works! Vikram finally realizes his follies and acts well in the engrossing climax sequence. At the end of it all, Nasser gives further proof of his inadequacy by failing to banish Onion from Ambi’s body. So all’s well that ends like ‘Tell me your dreams’.

It’s the Kollywood, billion dollar conundrum (rather, the 27 crore conundrum). What pressing desire makes Shankar repeat this story line of his, over and over and over again, without tiring one bit? He probably thought he could correct the ills of the society when he made Gentleman a decade ago. Ten years have passed, Indian and Mudhalvan have come and raked in the moolah and gone, but as far as the society is concerned not much has changed, despite his lavish attempts, so may be its high time he found a new storyline.
Vikram says he’s put in more effort for this movie than in any of his earlier attempts – he probably was referring to the gyrations in the 'Nokia' and 'Andankakka' numbers. As far as acting is concerned we have seen lots more effort than this from both Chiyaan and Chithan. As long as actresses like SADa are encouraged, its difficult to imagine why writers would choose to pen women-centric themes. Harris Jeyaraj has decisively proved what was doubted for long – that he can never fill A.R.Rahman’s boots. Vivek and Prakash Raj have done a creditable job but don’t have enough screen time to salvage the loitering screenplay.

Just why, Shankar? WHY??????

Orthodontist – “O, Don’t Sit Thro”!

2005-06-28T11:41:00.000-07:00

I’ve visited my dentist several times in this hitherto ill fated lifetime, thanks to a tryst with destiny that I had when I was 8 years old. I’m not going into the details, but the incident involved, amongst other things, a clumsy fall and a parapet wall that is to date branded with tooth-marks. And the predominant thought that comes to mind, during each one of these dental (dis)appointments is – “Why don’t I just get the hell outta here?!”
Easier said than done! Coz when it comes to dental health, most of us tend to think in similar terms to the health of any other part of the anatomy – the eyes for instance. According to a recent survey conducted by Idlers Anonymous, approximately 0% of eye patients around the world tend to walk out on their ophthalmologist halfway through their treatment. (Aw, thank you for poking the glaucoma out of my left eye Doc. Now if you could fix a pirate’s eye patch on my right, I would be on my way.)

However, in reality there is not much similar to dental and optical health and it’s fair to say that there is more to dental health than meets the eye. Anyone who has the fortune of sporting both spectacles and dental fillings will vouch for the stark difference between the two. What follows is a ready reckoner for the benefit of the unfortunate masses that are not aware of what a rendezvous with the dentist actually means.
A dental appointment can be roughly divided into three parts – Reception, Examination and Destruction. And when I say ‘roughly’, what I actually mean is ‘grotesquely violently’. Its tough to rate these three sessions on the basis of their sinister quotients, just like it is tough to rate Nehra, Prasad and Srinath on the basis of their fielding skills.

The reception area invariably has soft music playing in the background. At my dentist’s, the soulful melancholic melodies usually consisted of just instrumental and never had any vocal quotient to them – a straightforward solemn declaration from the dentist about what could happen to you, post-treatment. The reception room is never more than half-filled with patients and this reinforces the credibility of Murphy’s Law: at the one waiting room where you would not mind being delayed you won’t be delayed.
The prehistoric moth eaten edition of some dental health magazine (that was probably published when dental hygiene chiefly involved poking inter-teeth gaps with bird bones) keeps you in good spirits with a detailed essay on the advantages of flossing, before it is time for the last person who went in for his dental check up to come out. He looks like he has been in a pretty one sided boxing game with his eyes blind folded – not the most uplifting sight to look at before entering the ring yourself, but you have no time to think now.

In the Kingdom of irony that is the dental clinic, the patient’s reclining lazy boy mount is the Draconian electric chair. The most comfortable throne in the world is where you will be subjected to one amongst the most ghastly experiences of your life. The dentist is well aware that he is about to commit a serious crime against humanity and has the costume to cover his trail – a face mask and gloves. What follows is day-light vandalism. Almost, since that huge light that he beams on your face is intense enough to make you sweat.
What the stethoscope is to the Doctor, that spoon like mirror contraption is to the dentist. The expression on his face as he observes your not too well maintained teeth is not very encouraging. With a click of the tongue he decides to teach you a lesson using the sharp hook. The sharp hook is minor torture therapy used to wake you up and give you an idea of the kind of blood flow that could happen in the ensuing minutes. Battle hardened patients seldom flinch at the hook. If you survive the hook treatment, the fair minded dentist rewards you with a dose of anaesthetic that basically makes your lips swell to jumbo size and lulls your tongue to sleep.

After playing around on your ‘inflammatory’ gums for a while, the dentist employs the phenomenon of electricity for his next move. With a whirring metal grinding device that I’ve seen hawkers using to sharpen blunt scissors and knives, he makes a blistering salvo on your thirty two soldiers. The aim of this exercise is remove ‘plaque and tartar’ – two pretty harmless people (which they actually are, especially when compared to the dentist), but if the dentist is to be believed, they can give you cavities. The scene gets pretty gory now, and after making your entire body convulse in rhythm with the macabre motor of the grinding device, he orders you to ‘rinse your mouth’, which is the most euphemistic way to ask someone to spit blood.

The weapons come out, one after the other – the water spraying nozzle taunts and tickles your gums before they are assaulted by minor variants of the hook and the grinder. The net result of all this is that your hapless gums swell up and the upper lip suffocates you by obscuring the nose. The teeth themselves feel inexplicable – the tips of every one of them have this funny feeling that will not-too-subtly give way to horrendous pain when they come in contact with anything salty. The dentist leaves you literally licking your wounds, and it’s with a sadistic smirk that he hands you a tissue to soothe your mouth. There is no other go than to bite the bullet between the teeth and march on, after confirming the date for your next appointment, since this one was just ‘preliminary cleaning’. There really is no escape once you have your teeth on the grinding stone! As Ogden Nash did, one can only gnash their to- be-extracted teeth and put up with it.

The other option of course, is to stay away from parapet walls.