London's Big Ben Loves Bengalis?

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Does the Big Ben find the Bong of its dreams? Follow the Big Ben on Twitter to find out.

How Well do you Know Your own Books?

The Guardian Books Blog has a post on the premise of Susan Hill's book: Howards End is on the Landing (read the first chapter here)— While digging around her bookshelves for an elusive book, she soon finds herself waylaid from her original purpose. She finds a book that she hasn't read, and that pulls her on to the next and then another one and the next and many more others. She realizes that she has numerous unread, long-unopened titles in her library and resolves to not buy books for another year. The year she would use to get to know her own books again.

The Guardian blogger than runs a "mental finger" down her own shelves and picks out books that she hasn't got around to reading yet. And invites us to check our bookcases, tables for unread books and read one of them over the weekend.

Well, circumstances prevented me from doing the second part of what she recommended — having come across the blog post only today morning. But I did rummage through all the books on my table (and decided to leave the shelves for later when I am feeling less lazy) and as expected came across quite a few as-yet-unconsumed books. There's Orhan Pamuk's Other Colours — an unexpected present from a friend. I do occasionally dipstick into that one, reading an essay or two. It is a slightly bulky book. The kind that is not easy to carry and read in Mumbai's crowded local trains. Most of my reading happens in the trains on my daily commute to and from office.

Just next to it, still wrapped in the plastic bag it was packaged in, I found Marjane Satrapi's awesome graphic novel, Persepolis. I assume it is awesome going by the reports and reviews. I haven't yet read it. Along with it was also The Complete Maus by Art Spiegelman. I had picked up both the graphic novels at a discount a couple of months back. Still hadn't got around to unwrapping them. On the top of another stack are a couple of books -- Stephen King's On Writing and Brenda Ueland's If you Want to Write — which a friend bequeathed to me before moving on to another city. Since, the person also happened to be my manager, who regularly plodded through and reviewed what I wrote in the line of duty, I am wondering what he is trying to tell me by giving me these books. I should get to them . . . hopefully sooner than later.

Buried under a pile of books, and long forgotten, were Vivek Tandon's A Blind Man's Map of Mumbai and Joseph O'Neill's Netherland. Under another pile was Devdutt Pattanaik's The Pregnant King — a retelling of little-known tale from the Mahabharata of a king who drinks a potion meant for his barren queens and becomes pregnant himself. I like the Mahabharata and regularly pick up literature associated with it, especially the subversive kind. I had bought a copy of The Pregnant King and I suppose I meant to read it soon. It needed some archaeological excavation to unearth it again. Also unearthed were Kankana Basu's Cappuccino Dusk and (what is happening to me!!) Milan Kundera's The Curtain and Amitav Ghosh's Sea of Poppies. Yes, as of yet unread.

There are also two (towering) stacks of books at one end of my table — books I have read, but which I need to read over and over again. For my studies (long in a state of stasis).

And I haven't investigated my bookshelves yet.

With most books, what happens, I suppose is, I pick them up, because I find them interesting and mean to read them. But there are always other books to be read too — the ones that I have borrowed friends and need to be returned soon. The ones I borrowed from my library and which if I don't return timely, I would be paying a heavy monetary penalty. By the time I am through these books, the ones that I have bought have been buried under new ones that I have bought or borrowed. I suppose, like most others, if I don't read something I have bought in the first few days, it soon makes its way to a corner in my mind, it goes under the radar, so to speak. Each time I come across them I tell myself, I will get to them eventually, after all I own them. There's no hurry. Meanwhile let me finish the ones which my friends have lent me.

I will read these, yes. Now that I am aware again that I have all these unread books, I will get around to reading them. Eventually. Just let me finish the first two books from Cassandra Clare's The Mortal Instruments Trilogy, City of Bones and City of Ashes. Post that, I promise, (if I don't get my hands on the third book in the trilogy or any other fantasy and sci-fi) I will get around to my stack of unconsumed books.

WTF! Experiences on my Road Trip

My road trip through Uttarakhand, Jim Corbett National Park, Agra, and Delhi was remarkable for the sheer number of beautiful landscapes, colorful birds, and remarkable animals that we came across. The trip was also enlivened by some notable experiences. While there were quite a few of these experiences, for your edification, I am describing two of them here.

Music for the Drive

We had hired a car for the duration of the trip. After all a road trip isn’t a road trip unless you explore a region by driving through it, slowly. The car came with a driver (chauffeurs are for really posh people). And the car came with a media player. And the driver brought his own collection of music to entertain himself and us on our long drives.

The music was. . .well . . . um . . . interesting and eclectic. Our driver's favorite play list was on this CD called Harayanvi DJ Dhamaka. The CD combined (or attempted to) the best of a few genres — the lyrics of what sounded like Harayanvi folk songs were set to the tunes of popular Hindi songs. To pep up the tempo, some random Bhangra beats were added. And to introduce an element of modernity to the entire thing (and probably to make the music appealing to the younger generation of Harayanvi drivers who would like to dance to trance while still remaining rooted in their culture) the songs also had some DJ mixing some western music as a sort of a background. It was, as I said earlier, interesting.

One of the songs went something like this. Now I don't remember the exact words but I can do you a gist . . . give you the main idea of the whole thing. Basically it had this female who was singing praises of her sasural (in-laws' home) and she conveyed the greatness on her sasural by pointing out:

Of what worth is Mumbai?

Or for that matter, Kolkata?

Even Amerrrrica is nothing,

When compared to my Sasural,

London too pales into insignificance.

Variations of this stanza constituted the rest of the song. You have to admit, heard at 2:30 AM in the morning, when you are half-crazed with the lack of sleep; the song has a strong appeal.

Another remarkable song was also a part of this wonderful collection of music. Again, I can but do you a gist. Here it is a guy convincing a girl to come out (possibly for a coffee) with him. So he tells her:

Come, sit in my Bolero.

It is a new Bolero; I bought so that I can take you out.

I went through much effort to buy this Bolero for you,

I sold my brother's cycle,

My dad's tractor,

My mom's bangles,

My brother-in-law's underwear (it sounded something like that)

So please come and sit in my Bolero.

The song went on for ages in the same vein with the guy listing all the myriad things he filched and sold off to buy this Bolero so that he can take his ladylove out for a spin. Finally in the last few minutes of the song, the girl sings to convey that she is impressed that this guy filched and sold off all those things (she too sings through the list) to buy the Bolero so that he can take her out for a drive. And she agrees to sit in his Bolero. And, I assume, they lived happily ever after.

You have to admit, Shakespeare's sonnets to his Dark Mistress are no patch on this.

Security Risk at the Taj Mahal

It was at the Taj Mahal that I probably had my most WTF! experience of my road trip. You have to pass through a security check and a body frisk before being allowed to enter the Taj complex. We duly lined up. One of my friends passed through without any hiccups: camera — allowed, cell phone — no problems. He was informed that no camera batteries are allowed inside the complex, but the security guy couldn't find any in his bag. My friend had kept them in a separate compartment in his bag, along with the charger and the data transfer cable. So much for the security check. My other friend also was cleared — the security check didn't find the batteries in his bag either. But they did find his camera's data cable. Somehow the data cable was dangerous and he was asked to deposit it in a locker some distance away. Next up for the check was me and I was smirking at my friend's fate — He would have to walk about 200 meters to deposit the cable and then walk 200 meters back. And then go through the security check again.

I was frisked and cleared. Then the security guy opened my haversack and immediately shook his head.

"No! No! You can't take these inside."

I was surprised, apart from my cell phone I wasn't aware that I was carrying anything that might be construed a security risk, and I said so to the security. He pointed to the two books in my haversack.

"Not allowed."

"But they are books!"

"Not allowed."

"What is the security risk of 400 pages of printed matter?"

"Only guidebooks allowed. You will have to deposit these in a locker."

"What!"

He pulled the books out, thumbed through them, scrutinizing them for any hidden weapons, returned them to the bag, and shook his head dolefully.

"Not allowed."

"How are two story books a security risk and a guidebook isn't?"

"Not allowed."

Well, there was nothing else to do. So my friend and I walked 200 meters, deposited the cable and the books in a locker, and then walked the 200 meters back. We went through the security check all over again. The batteries in my friend's bag remained undetected.

Why Fiction is Valuable: Two Economists Discuss Fiction

Tyler Cowen's and Robin Hanson's opinion: It’s about signaling (a term of art in economics). Your preferences in fiction, and the way you articulate those preferences, signal your attitudes, values, and ideas to others. Fiction thus serves as a way of “getting people in touch with each other.”

Basically, they are saying, you read the kind of stuff you do because of it serves as a social marker: it benefits you personally by helping you connect with similar people.



Cowen points out that the kind of fiction you read signals to the people what you are capable of learning about the world and that you look to form alliances and associations with people who also appear to learn the same things.

Does that explain why people (ok if not all, at least the avid readers) check the bookshelves of people they visit? I accept that Cowen's and Hanson's contention probably does explain a part of the picture. One thing that reading and choice of reading material allows you to do is to present to the others that "I am this sort of a person with these kind of tastes."

But I am not entirely convinced by the argument. The same can be postulated about virtually anything — music, movies, food.

Reading fiction is not valuable only for what it "signals" about you (as too is the case with music, movies, and food). I am sure pleasure plays a significant role in it — to be a part of worlds (and themes, values, etc) that you find interesting and appealing. And the opportunity to create and recreate these worlds with your own imagination.

The embedded video is only an excerpt. To view the complete video (or in case you are unable to view the embedded video) visit this link at Bloggingheads.tv: Does Fiction Weaken Your Grasp of Reality?

The Pursuit of Unhappyness . . .

. . . can actually be fun. Geetha Krishnan shows how to attempt Twittering for Sadness (or tries to. He is having way too much fun to be sad).

Training to Bring About a Behavioral Change

How effective is training in getting people to learn new behaviors? What if the expected behavior is contrary to the nature of the person? (Can you get a salesperson to actually listen to clients and not smother them in sales-speak?) One of the most articulate musings on the role and relevance of training in bringing about behavioral change: Changing Behavior.

If Fictional Characters Could Read

Over at The Publishers Weekly they are playing a game of guessing which books fictional characters might buy (and read) if they were browsing today's book stores. The Guardian too points to the PW piece while speculating on what Huck Finn and Becky Sharp would buy and feels that Sherlock Holmes "would have got on well with a good Agatha Christie." Read both the posts as well as the comments. 

You think a Harry Potter would have enjoyed reading a Percy Jackson? Percy Jackson, if he could manage his dyslexia and ADHD, probably wouldn't mind reading Samit Basu's Gameworld Trilogy. Basu's Silver Dagger would have enjoyed the intrigue at the Farseer Court but would have thought of poorly of Robin Hobb's assassin — FitzChivalry Farseer. Fitz ain't cool and smooth enough for the Silver Dagger. But one can imagine Le Guin's archmage Ged appreciate the detailing of Robin Hobb's world. 

It is a fun game. What books would your favorite fictional characters read?

Alexander McCall Smith's Secret Life

My real life villains ... are people with sloppy language habits, who don't articulate their words clearly, especially in call centres. Linguistic laziness is making it difficult for us to understand what our fellow citizens are saying.

More here: My Secret Life: Alexander McCall Smith, novelist, 60

Earlier posts on Alexander McCall Smith:

An Interview With Alexander McCall Smith

A Great Honour for Mechanics Everywhere. . . (Ink Scrawl Nugget 6)

Why Freud Doesn't Make Sense. . . (Ink Scrawl Nugget 5)

A Miss Marple in Botswana: The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith

Immense Irony Happens

The Vatican rejects the atheist notion that evolution proves there is no God as absurd. 

Why? Because it is not "proven." 

What proof of God's existence you may ask? Have some faith.

Do I Have a Girlfriend?

Regular readers of this blog (if there are any in that category still left out there) will know that my commute to and from the office offers some of the weirdest experiences. I have had my share of some incredible “WTF?!” experiences earlier — you either overhear something that is totally ripe or you are an unwilling participant in one. For a very long time there was nothing of note (it could also be that since I wasn't blogging, I had stopped being on the lookout) before something happened a few days back that was right up there in the “WTFness?! quotient.”

I have outlined my regular morning train routine in an earlier post: I board the train, take my seat, nod to a few of the regular commuters, pull out a book from my bag, stow the bag on the overhead rack, open the book, and start reading. Some minutes of this and I am ready to snooze till it is time for me to make my preparations (grab my bag, stuff the book back into it, and then struggle through the crowd) and alight from the train. Conversation, as you must have noticed, doesn't figure in the routine. 

I am not a great one for conversation even normally. But early mornings I am at my surliest — preferring to be left alone with my book. I am not much in a mood to engage anybody in a conversation (even my family, usually my sis-in-law, just sees me out of the door (gladly) in the morning without uttering a word) till I have had a couple of cups of extra strong coffee in the office pantry. Some people have caught on to this — my sis-in-law for one, my office friends, and some of my fellow commuters — and let me be till I am ready to be counted amongst the living. Some unfortunately haven't. 

There is this guy who boards my morning train at one of the intermediate stations. Over the last some months he has become a regular. Unfortunately (for me) he is one of those cheery and hearty souls who shouts out his “Good mornings!” and wants to talk to everybody he knows even remotely. He is also a bit (now, how do I put it politely?), “simple” and doesn't always get a hint. We have a sort of a nodding acquaintance (he talks, if I am awake, I nod). He knows my name; I haven't bothered to find out his. For some reason, he has taken a liking to me and tries to engage me in a conversation whenever he can. After he boards the train, and he has said his hellos to the others, he shouts his hello for me through all that crowd. I vaguely register that in my drowsy state. And often hear fellow commuters, who know I keep late hours in my efforts to keep this nation shining, chiding him to shut up and let me snooze. He takes a little notice though and tries his best to strike a conversation. Such opportunities for him, in normal circumstances, are however limited. By the time he boards the train at his station, it is packed and the only time we encounter each other face to face is when I am on my way out. He then uses those few precious seconds to talk, tell me his entire life story, and that of his office and kids. He is also extremely nosy so questions like “How much do you earn?”, “What is your age?”, “Do you get paid overtime for the late hours?” are often asked. In response, I smile politely, nod or shake my head, pretend to have not heard him in the noise, (sometimes when I am at peace with the world and with myself, I venture a word or two) before making my escape out of the train.

On that particular, day however, the circumstances were different. By some unexplained quirk of fate, that day, the train was extremely empty. It also turned out to be a day when I had woken up (more than usually) grumpy, low, and in a real lousy moody. It could have been a result of some long nights at work and little sleep (less than four hours) on the preceding days. Anyways, this day, after I had read a couple of pages and realized that I would have to read them all over again to understand them, I put away the book and closed my eyes and dozed off promptly. As I mentioned earlier, the train was unusually empty that day and so this fellow as soon as he had boarded the train found himself standing next to where I was snoozing. And he grasped me by my shoulder and shook me awake.

Him: (all cheery, bright, and grinning) Do you have a girlfriend?

Me: Uh!!? (then decide to forget him and close my eyes again)

He however had decided that he wasn't letting go of this opportunity to know me better. 

Him: (grasping my shoulder, shaking me awake again): Arre tell! Do you have a girlfriend?

Me: (seriously pissed off — the kind where you can make out that I am seriously pissed off) Why do u want to know?

Him: No, no . . . sometimes you look like you have a girlfriend, sometimes you look like you don't have one . . .

Me: (WTF! I manage to get my temper in check) Oooooookaaay! (breath out slowly and I close my eyes again)

Him: (shakes me by the shoulder again and when I force my eyes open) So, do you have a girlfriend?

Me: (deciding the time to be polite is past) It is none of your business.

I could see his brain working that out. A few seconds later, he had a light bulb moment.

Him: (stares at me for a few more moments, then makes a decision) Are you angry?

I shrugged my shoulders (I thought eloquently), closed my eyes and tried to get back to sleep.

Him: (shakes me by the shoulder again) I only asked if you have a girlfriend.

Me: And I have already told you that it is none of your business.

Silence reigned for a few minutes. I took the opportunity to go back to sleep. Suddenly, when my temper is under control and I have dozed off, he wakes me up again.

Him: Why are u growing your beard?

Now let me clarify, I shave rarely — about once a week is the norm. When this happened, I hadn't shaved for a couple of weeks.

Me: (seriously) My boss is bearded (which is true). All of us think highly of him (which is also true) and have formed a fan club (which is not entirely untrue — I have heard reports of two chapters of the club in two cities in India). The male members of the fan club have decided to grow beards (which is entirely untrue).

He considered me gravely for some time. I could make the processes and sub-routines working their way slowly but surely, till finally —

Him: Are you pulling my leg?

Me: No, no. . . really our boss has a beard so we all are growing beards.

That shut him up for some time.

In a few minutes, I made my preparations and moved to get into a position to escape from the train. I noticed that he was still contemplating me gravely.

About five minutes from my station, everything clicked into place and he finally mustered all his thoughts and courage and shouted across —

Him: You were pulling my leg about the beard?

Me: Oh well, yeah. Actually, I am just trying to save shaving cream and water.

For some reason he found that reasonable and shut up. I then averted my eyes and concentrated on getting myself in a position that would ensure that I would alight without too much of a hassle.

The train then pulled into the station where I got off. As I started towards the door, I heard him call out—

Him: Hey! You haven't told me if you have a girlfriend!

I made my escape.

Since then I have run into him quite a few times and while inquires have been made again of my salary, my late working hours (even my weight), he hasn't brought up the topic of my girlfriend again. 

Sometimes I feel like bringing up the topic myself purely out of curiosity to understand the crieteria he uses to conclude on which days I look like I have a girlfriend, and why on others I look like I don't have one.

The risk of encouraging him, however, outweighs my thirst to further my knowledge. 

——————

Some earlier commuting experiences:

• How Can (Dare) a Libran Read?
  
• Overheard . . .
  
• On Friendship
  

On Friendship

Overheard in the local train today morning:

When someone asks me to wait with him, I pause and think: Is he asking me to wait with him because he is waiting for someone? Or is he asking me to wait with him because he likes my company? If it is the second, that person is my true friend.

Another overheard conversation here. Other experiences in Mumbai locals here and here. Posts on commuting here and here and a book review of Jaideep Varma's Local which is about a protagonist who makes the Mumbai trains his home.

Meanwhile in my Hometown. . .

A visually challenged man has two wives and is planning to elope with his girlfriend. The two wives get together to cut girlfriend out of the picture. Drama unfolds at Ambarnath railway station.

Six days later . . .
Said visually challenged man pulls a bluff: He cons his two wives into getting his girlfriend out of a welfare center and elopes with her.

At first glance, this seems to be nothing more than another example of the kind of messy, tangled, and tragic webs we humans weave. But with a bit of imagination and a generous helping of artistic license, a good script writer should be able to fashion a story for a great masala movie on a love rectangle out of all this.

Ambarnath is happening. And how!

Sadly, not for me.

As my office friends helpfully remarked: Arre! But you spend more time in office in Andheri keeping India shining.


Immense feelings of loserliness overwhelm.

Help! Which is this Movie?

It was that time of the year again for me. The season changed and being the urban rat that I am — used to living in highly conditioned environments (and stare at the PC for hours on end) — I caught the first bug that has been doing the rounds since the rains started. I had been generally feeling low for much of the latter part of the last week. That developed into a proper fever and chills and all the other bells and whistles on Sunday. My doc sis-in-law who, since the events and episodes described here, hasn't had an opportunity to dose me too my gills with numerous medicines, rubbed her hands in glee and promptly drugged me with an extra big helping of medication. I suffered. But this post is not about that.

It is about something else. What do you do when you are unexpectedly home on a weekday and unable to move about much? There's of course much reading you can catch up on. However you may have the most interesting books at hand (I tried Wodehouse, some Asimov, and a whodunit), but it is a bit tough to read when you are more or less totally doped (on medicine). So I read a bit, watched the rain drizzle down for quite a bit, and MSEB's load shedding schedule (or the lack of one) permitting, watched some TV. Nothing great, but today after many, many years I watched this awesome masala flick.

I missed the opening credits, due to my desultory channel-surfing, so I don't know the title of the movie. It was being beamed by our cable operator — you know one of those local movie channels, probably illegal. But it was entertaining, at least all the bits that I watched were; I was snatching some time every now and then to read a page or two of the whodunit.

It was a Sunny Deol starrer. That was actually what made me pause my desultory channel surfing. With Sunny Paaji around you can expect a decent fight or two and a few blood curdling screams and some very entertaining dancing. Total vasool film.

The movie started (though I missed the opening credits, I am fairly sure I didn't miss much of the beginning), with Sunny Paaji being felicitated with a gallantry award by the Canadian police for saving many Canadian and Indian lives. It is a neat little scene with many wooden actors making speeches and apna Sunny Paaji also making a speech (in English) and assorted extras waving miniature Canadian and Indian flags.

Thereafter I turned to the book. When I looked up again Sunny Paaji was in army uniform in a place which we were supposed to take as being close to the Kashmir border. An inquiring glance at my sis-in-law, and she informed me that a flashback was happening. So we were being told how Sunny Paaji happened to win that gallantry award. Over the next few scenes it was established that Sunny Paaji was an intelligence officer (very funny that), and who was now gathering intelligence on Pakistani terrorists as a colonel in the Indian army. It was also conveyed that Sunny Paaji, being an intelligence officer, was a master of disguise — which basically means that he wears assorted beards and wigs and glasses and continues to look like Sunny Paaji, and we, the audience, recognize him as Sunny Paaji, but the idiotic terrorists and Pakistan's army and ISI officers don't.

Well anyways, I returned to my book. After reading a couple of paragraphs twice (so I could understand them) I looked up to see Sunny Paaji surrounded by assorted army lackeys talking to an obviously Muslim old man and a very coy and demure Preity Zinta. Actually it was the old man who was doing most of the talking with Ms. Zinta continuing to look coy and demure and Sunny Paaji looking serious. After some exchange, it was revealed by the old man that for lack of money the very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta had to discontinue her education. So serious looking Sunny Paaji opens his wallet and gives enough money to pay half a year's fees. You know what happens next. The very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta goes to school (or was it college? Doesn't matter), feels indebted to the army "Saabji" — Sunny Paaji, and falls in love with Sunny Paaji.

Then for some unexplained reason (I might have missed a few bits when I returned to my book), in one scene, the old man tells Sunny Paaji that the very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta is not a Muslim but a Hindu. Her parents had been killed by terrorists and the old man and his old woman had since then brought her up as their own daughter.

The next time I returned to the movie Sunny Paaji was convincing the old man that for some reason he needs the very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta to go across the border and work for a colonel in the Pakistan army there and spy on him. Old man objects, but the very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta has actually overheard it all and since it the Saabji Sunny Paaji who is asking and it is important to make sacrifices for the country she over rules the old man and agrees to go. Saabji Sunny Paaji assures the old man that he will train the very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta and in case "something happens to her" while on duty for the nation he will take her off the old man's hands and marry her. For some reason this statement ensures that his stock with Ms. Zinta rises up further.

This is followed by some army style training for the very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta to prepare her for the spying mission. I did wonder for a bit that instead of this crash course in crawling through (and under) barbed wire and jumping over pits and weapons training wouldn't a spy need to be trained in things like sending and receiving messages over the radio, ciphers and other things, but didn't dwell on it much. Anyways the very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta (carrying a radio transmitter, a buttonhole camera, and an ordinary camera) is soon across the border and joins the household of the Pakistani colonel as a general house-help — a sort of a Girl-Friday. In different scenes she is shown washing utensils (and stowing away the transmitter behind a couple of loose bricks), making tea, serving the tea to assorted Pakistani army officers and terrorists, and massaging the feet of the colonel's mother. Now the colonel, according to the logic of Hindi movies, being a Pakistani is a dolt. So top secret meetings with ISI officials and terrorists are discussed in his home — meetings in which the very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta serves tea and refreshments and photographs everyone with her buttonhole camera. Now this buttonhole camera is a nifty piece of technology for it not only captures high resolution video, but also crystal clear sound and beams it live to Sunny Paaji's bunker across the border. The colonel also keeps top secret documents detailing army plans and terrorist plans in an ordinary almirah in his home. For some reason the very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta doesn't use her hi-tech button hole camera to beam the document live to Sunny Paaji when she gains access to it. She takes the other ordinary camera and painstakingly photographs each and every page and keeps the film on herself.

Soon the inevitable happens. Amrish Puri and a few assorted terrorist types meet the colonel at his home to discuss the making of a noocleear bomb so that they can free Kashmir. In between discussing this top secret plan, naturally overheard by the very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta, Amrish Puri digresses into a tirade on Sunny Paaji and how this Indian intelligence officer is the only thing thwarting the success of their noocleear bomb and acquiring Kashmir. For a good measure he adds that he knows that Sunny Paaji is near the border with the Indian army and since he is so near and it is wrong to waste such heaven sent opportunity, it is resolved unanimously to send someone or a force to eliminate Sunny Paaji. Now naturally this worries the very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta after all the villains are talking of murdering her Saabji. So she is flustered and under the pretext of washing utensils transmits a message to Sunny Paaji across the border. For some reason, unfathomable to me, she is not using a transmitter that scrambles the message and so her transmission is picked up by a walkie-talkie wielding terrorist who is a part of the noocleear conclave in the colonel's house. Suspicion falls on the very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta but just when she is about to be stripped and searched, the colonel's mother intervenes, gives a lecture to the assorted army officials and terrorists of the noocleear conclave on Islam and the respect accorded to women under Islam's diktats and takes the very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta to her room (presumably to have her feet massaged by Ms. Zinta).

But Amrish Puri has not been fooled and he confronts the very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta when she is about to pass on the film that has the images of the top secret documents to an expendable extra so that it can be sent to her Saabji. Well, the extra is expended (but not before he makes a transmission to Sunny Paaji that Ms. Zinta is in danger thus ensuring that Sunny Paaji sets out on a rescue mission) but buys enough time for the very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta to escape towards the Indian border. So there is a night time chase and the Pakistani army being the Pakistani army is not able to capture the escaped Indian spy even though she is always running no more that a few feet in front of their many jeeps and trucks. Finally, close to border the entire Pakistani army surrounds Ms. Zinta. The Pakistani colonel, her erstwhile employer, even utters that time-honored dialogue, "Now let me see who will rescue you!" Poor guy. He was doomed the minute he said that dialogue for Sunny Paaji jumps into the middle of the entire Pakistani army, hoists Ms. Zinta, who now starts looking coy and demure again, on his shoulders, pulls out two pistols from somewhere and without any heed to the substantial automatic weapons fire by the Pakistani army, slays them all — everyone. He even issues a challenge after killing the last Pakistani soldier — "Is there anyone left?" When he gets no response, Sunny Paaji takes the very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta across the border to India. Now if you felt that all of these incidents and happenings took a very long while in the movie, you are mistaken. Along with a song or two (in which Sunny Paaji shows us his dance moves — including one where he flaps his arms and nods his head at the same time) all this is barely an hour into the movie.

Back in India, Sunny Paaji and the very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta sing a song at the army base and get engaged. But at the end of the song just when they are gazing particularly soulfully into each others' eyes, Amrish Puri's terrorists attack the base. There is a huge explosion and the very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta is blown into a very convenient and handy river which sweeps her away to Pakistan where she is rescued coincidentally by a doctor (or at least I think he was a doctor but he could just have been one of those model looking types). Now all this shock and trauma (the explosion and the belief that her Saabji has been killed in the explosion) has left the legs of Ms. Zinta paralyzed. So she is in a Pakistani hospital where her rescuer and his family pat themselves for doing such a noble deed in rescuing her — they already know she is an Indian and that she was engaged to an Indian army officer — and decide that they shouldn't inform the Pakistani army or police that they are harboring an Indian. Instead they discuss how Ms. Zinta should be taken to Canada where she will receive the best treatment and they proceed to make all the arrangements. Just exactly how they manage to get Ms. Zinta a passport, a visa, and onto an international flight without any hassle is not explained, but these are merely trifling details and shouldn't block the flow of the story.

Meanwhile Sunny Paaji is angry. His very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta is dead (or so he believes) in a terrorist attack. So he takes up a bazooka and some soldiers and starts destroying the terrorist camps. He is also looking for information on the noocleear weapon plan of the ISI and Pakistani terrorists. After destroying some hundred or more terrorist camps and Pakistani army bases, Sunny Paaji with his bazooka and his band of merry men land at this terrorist camp/Pakistani army base. Sunny Paaji blows a couple of vehicles and bunkers with his bazooka. His band of merry men meanwhile have got their hands on a Pakistani flag and are about to shred it to pieces and throw the shreds to the ground when Sunny Paaji intervenes and stops them. Then with bullets flying all around, Sunny Paaji delivers a short sermon to his band of merry men on the need of respecting the flag of your enemy because your enemy nation's people respect it as a symbol of their nationhood. So the Pakistani flag is left standing and having delivered his sermon, Sunny Paaji picks up his bazooka and blasts the incompetent Pakistani army/terrorists who all this while have been firing in his direction and that of his band of merry men without hitting anyone. Anyways at the base they find an important microchip which has the coded plans. A few taps of keyboard keys and the code is broken down and it is clear that Sunny Paaji now has to go to Canada to thwart the noocleear plans of the Pakistani terrorists. For the Pakistani terrorists have realized that its is not easy to buy weapons grade Uranium on the market and are hence synthesizing weapons grade plutonium in the lab of a pharmaceutical company of a Pakistani sympathizer in Canada. And while the plutonium is synthesized and extracted from spent fuel from noocleear power stations, the terrorists multi-task and also try to get the other parts of a noocleear bomb and blueprints to help assemble the bomb. They also are looking for noocleear scientists who will understand the blueprints and assemble the bomb that will free Kashmir from India.

So . . .

So Sunny Paaji travels to Canada as a world renowned nooclear scientist who is of Pakistani and Indonesian parentage and is now working for the Atomic Association of Canada or other some such similar sounding organization. Coincidentally Sunny Paaji and the now paralyzed but still coy and demure looking Preity Zinta are on the same plane (don't know how for it is shown that Ms. Zinta boards a PIA flight and Sunny Paaji boards an AI flight but they somehow end in the same BA flight), and are separated by only a couple of rows. But they never see each other on the flight. The same happens at the airport where they keep missing each other by about a second or two — you know how it is — one clears immigration and walks away just as the other is joining the line or how one gets into a taxi just when the other comes out of the airport looking for a cab. Very cruel fate is and it leaves us audience ruing fate and feeling very, very sad.

Sunny Paaji in Canada meanwhile gets into full intelligence officer mode and tries out all his disguises while following the terrorists and the pharma industry owner. So he has long dark hair in one scene, short blonde in one, blonde hair and dark sunglasses in another and all the while he keeps a few feet away from the terrorists and overhears and notes everything and is very brave in spite of the risks. In doing this him and the now paralyzed but still coy and demure looking Preity Zinta almost run into each other quite a few times. Alas cruel fate, they never meet. Then in one scene in a shopping mall while Sunny Paaji is following his terrorists the woolen scarf around his neck comes undone and flutters and falls down a couple of floors where it is picked up by the wheelchair bound paralyzed but still coy and demure looking Preity Zinta. She recognizes it as the one she had made for her Saabji (it has her initials or something like that) and suddenly there is HOPE in her life. She starts responding to treatment very quickly much to the surprise of Priyanka Chopra, the doctor who is treating her. Ms. Zinta explains it is due to the strength of her love and Dr. Priyanka who has lately fallen in love with a dashing noocleear scientist agrees that love is very powerful.

Anyway to cut a long story short (and without describing a scene which was later modified and copied by the Mission Impossible movies — you know the one where the hero is winched down from a height into a secure room where he operates a computer and steals secret encoded data), Sunny Paaji insinuates himself into the affections of Dr. Priyanka. This helps him get closer to her dad — her dad being the pharma industry owner in whose labs the plutonium is being synthesized (such a small world we live in). And during his wooing of the Dr. Priyanka, the good doctor keeps mentioning that Sunny Paaji should meet this patient of hers who is recuperating and healing at a super fast rate because of her belief in the power of love. Sunny Paaji looks serious whenever the patient is mentioned and nods. He does go to visit her one day but coincidentally when he reaches the hospital; the said patient has just acquired crutches and is hence perambulating around the hospital disgustingly happy that her love makes her move around and about. So . . . sigh! Fate can be so cruel.

Anyways Dr. Priyanka's dad is maha-impressed by this noocleear scientist beau of his daughter. Coincidentally the terrorists are also in need of a nooclear scientist who can get them blue prints of a noocleear bomb and then assemble it for them. So during a hilarious song sequence in which Sunny Paaji spouts shaayari, dances, and shows the terrorists that he is super smart and already knows their requirements and that he is the savior they were looking for, introductions with the terrorists happen (who don't recognize their arch enemy because he is in disguise) and Sunny Paaji finally infiltrates the noocleear conclave of terrorists. Mr. Pharma, dad of Dr. Priyanka, can't believe that his daughter has managed to snare such a useful fellow and so he pushes Sunny Paaji to marry his daughter (who of course doesn't know that her dad supports noocleear terrorism on the side). That will strengthen Sunny Paaji's ties with the family and they can then plan the freedom of Kashmir together. So Sunny Paaji agrees to marry Dr. Priyanka (Couldn't figure out if it was out of national duty or Dr. Priyanka's charms) and wedding preparations are made.

The very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta is by now totally healed and bounces around the venue at the wedding. She helps the bride get ready and then dances around and sings a song looking and behaving as if she was never paralyzed in her life (Ah! the wonders of modern medicine and the strength of love!). Soon it is evident that this is the occasion where Sunny Paaji and the very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta are finally going to run into each other and raise the drama in this very excellent story a notch higher.

Unfortunately, MSEB played spoil sport at this juncture. Load shedding, that bane of the life of a Mumbai suburbanite, started in my area. The TV had to be switched off and I spent the rest of the evening and wondering how it all ended. Do Sunny Paaji and the very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta finally get together? Then what happens of the very leggy (and innocent) Dr. Priyanka? Who "sacrifices" her love for the other? Is one of them bumped off — taking a bullet meant for Sunny Paaji? What happens to Mr. Pharma? If he marries Mr. Pharma's daughter, will Sunny Paaji kill his father-in-law? I know for sure Amrish Puri and the other assorted terrorists will be killed and that the noocleear bomb will never go off (remember the start?) but how will Sunny Paaji manage it all? And what will happen of the Pakistani model type and his family who had rescued the very coy and demure looking Preity Zinta and arranged and paid for her treatment in Canada?

So many questions, no answers. If I don't have these questions answered, I don't know how my "fevered" brain will take it. I need to pick up the VCD of this movie and see how it all ends. This, people, is a classic of its genre. For starters can someone tell me the title of this very excellent movie?

Update: Lunch time conversation in office revealed the title of this movie: The Hero: Love Story of a Spy.

Another gem was discussed, Sarhad Paar, starring Sanjay Dutt. We plan to get sozzled a bit and do a back to back viewing of these films sometime soon.

What's so Good About Reading, Anyway?

If you can't read your life is likely to be poorer in every sense.

And I suppose it would be safe to extend that observation to the many who can read, but don't.

Has our Prime Minister Lost it?

PM Manmohan Singh has asked businesses not to fuel a rich-poor divide with excessive salaries and greedy behavior:

Resist excessive remuneration to promoters and senior executives and discourage conspicuous consumption," he said. "Rising income and wealth inequalities, if not matched by a corresponding rise of incomes across the nation, can lead to social unrest.

He also added:

We cannot afford the wasteful lifestyles of the Western world. Conspicuous consumption must be reduced.

Seriously, is this guy an economist? As far as my limited knowledge of economics goes, spending and consuming is one good way (the best way) to ensure that the benefits of wealth are distributed to all involved in the manufacture of what (whether goods or services) was consumed.

Manmohan Singh's primary theme in his speech to the Confederation of Indian Industry (CII) seems to be the idea of equitable distribution of wealth. Hence all that beef in the PM's speech about "wasteful lifestyles" and "conspicuous consumption." The way to spread wealth is that someone spends it — whatever be that person's lifestyle. The wealth will eventually trickle down to all in the manufacturing and supply chain.

The way to ensure that the a rich-poor divide doesn't grow wider is not by recommending that the salaries of senior executives in any industry be limited but by making sure that businesses and industries have enough incentives to grow and create more and more jobs. If the government can do that, then perhaps it won't have to keep up the pretence of being humane and compassionate and the PM can stop being stupid and directing the industry about how it should be doing its business and paying its employees.

Why Fiction's Mischief-Makers are Attractive Reads

Eloise Millar wonders:

[. . .]
I'm sure I like them, but I'm not sure why. Is it because we readers love a bit of entertaining naughtiness? Is it because villains are often more full-bodied and complex than their upstanding counterparts? I suppose it might be a bit of both - and I also wonder whether it's perhaps easier to sympathise with the characters who share, if not our specific flaws, then at least our lack of perfection ... Oliver's perpetual goodness, for example, just doesn't seem real to me. On the other hand, I can far more readily perceive how poverty could turn me into a pickpocketing Artful Dodger. [. . .]

Why are the mischief makers and the unscrupulous rogues of fiction so interesting? Is it because they are so much more fun than the morally upright but bland heroes? Ever wondered why girls fancy Heathcliff? Why Falstaff may be fat but is also cool? Do writers also find their villains more alluring? Are you also one of those who marveled that Milton's Lucifer in Paradise Lost has the best lines ("It is better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven.") in the epic?

Why do bad characters make such good reads?

Seeing Past the Critics

There are some people, I suppose, who read book reviews in newspapers and think: that sounds like my kind of thing; go out and buy the book it - and it is their kind of thing. Well, this has never happened to me.

A good part of my childhood I spent reading the books pages of newspapers, but I lacked the money to read what I read about. Gaining access at the age of 16 to a fully stocked library, I finally got my hands on one or two of the most highly praised. Only then did I discover how cruelly I had been misled.
[. . .]

When you don't believe the critics, how do you find the stuff you'll enjoy?

New Job Designations

What happens when some instructional designers (IDs) and editors get together over some coffee in the middle of a hard, hectic day (on crazy projects the middle of the day is 7.00 PM) of reviewing storyboards, correcting punctuation, and fixing bugs:

[Of course for obvious reasons, names have been eliminated in this conversation all together.]

ID-A: Accha listen, ID-B and I are distributing important designations and portfolios.

Chief ID: Chief Idler for me please. And with a job description to match.

ID-A: ID-B wants Senior Fullstop-Putter.

Chief ID: I heard about that.

ID-A: And ID-C has expressed interest in being Deputy Hyphenation Manager. By the way, I have a job offer going for Head—Apostrophier. Care for it?

Chief ID: No, for a change I want a simple title. How about Comma—nder? A Comma—nder can do what he wants.

ID-A: Sounds good. So, does this person add more commas or delete existing ones? By the way, am also looking for Colon—izer and Semi-Colon—izer, if you have any suggestions

Chief ID: Colon—izer is a good title for Editor-1 (said Editor-1 is from the USA), except that it sounds a bit incorrect, politically.

ID-A: And since Editor-2 is half-Indian, she would be apt for Semi-Colon—izer. wot say?

Chief ID: Yup.

Wot to do? We are like this only.

You Know When. . .

You are Spending Way too Much Time in Office . . .
. . . when you see a buffalo on the road, note its sad expression, and remark to your friend, "That buffalo looks like its project manager has asked it to double its milk output on one-fourth the earlier allotment of hay and to do it twice in a day. Sad, na?"

Your Family has Really Low Expectations From you . . .
. . . when you shave your beard for the first time in four months and the family thinks it is an occasion worth celebrating. "We never know when you will do something as worthwhile," the head of the family helpfully remarks.

You are a Loser . . .
. . . when you have nothing to blog about and yet blog about sad buffaloes, shaved beards, announce to the world your "general loserliness" and expect readers to come back to your blog for more.

Why we Need Hardline Religious Leaders. . .

Some hardline Muslim clerics in Australia are encouraging their followers to cheat the tax system because they consider paying income tax contrary to Islamic law.

Now, will some right-thinking religious zealots (of whichever religion) in India stand up and do their religious duty? I am willing to renounce atheism and accept and pray to whatever god it is that you want me to.