Extortion to Axetortion

You know, I often think of Facebook as a friendly neighbourhood. But that’s for another post, and I promise to link it here (I have finally figured out how to do it).

Today however, my aimless amble around my community turned into a hit and run when I was tagged in a picture for a gig this week at a club in the city.

The gig is called 'Axe-tortion' and indeed, it is promising to be night of face melting guitaring with four very prominent guitarists in the country! The montage of pictures of these four rocker men, were taken from various sources and put together in a line. Below the picture line-up was a list of their names. One of them is a friend of mine so I was able to immediately put the name to the face. That left me three more names and faces to match. However, something was amiss with the first two pictures and their names. The second name said Milind Deora. Milind Deora.. Deora, Milind.. And then my eyeballs began to grow unnaturally large as I took a closer look at the first guitarist. Was that a club dude waist coat, or I'll be damned, a neta suit? Or is that Mukesh Ambani? No fool, that's ridiculous!



Quick, give me Google!

So I googled his name. I had to be wrong, I'm sure I'm wrong, of course I'm wrong, I WILL BE WRONG!

I wasn't wrong.

Hello young India, guess what, your Member of Parliament from South Mumbai plays Jimi Hendrix.

My reaction to this news was violent to say the least.

So I YouTubed his name, and a long result of 'Milind Deora addresses parliament, Milind Deora on RTI' turned up… but then you hit the 'underound culture' that this side-parted MP also endorses. And you see his name in the same video title as 'Stevie Ray Vaughn', 'Freddie King' and so on.


You've heard of teenage girls turning starry eyed when they see their heroes haven't you?
Well it was like that for me (except that he's not my hero), only that my eyes were glazed and I suddenly received an image of a large tri-colour with a sex-drugs-and-rock-and-roll button badge occupying the central position. Oh sorry, in these days of sedition, it is distasteful to talk of such things.


Anyway, this is not some pseudo guitaring that he does, or some sympathy gigs he is given along with some paid audiences. He's actually playing- no sheet music, no hangs. He's playing real riffs, not faff like the odd chords that I play. And he's playing hard stuff, by blues legends.


He is not much of a performer, and maintains a largely impassive face. But this in itself sent me into fits. If I played footsie with him under the table, would I find him tapping to some song? If I stole his iPod, would I find BB King? Does he sing in the shower?

Ugh.

So to greet his screaming fans, his one hand does the open-palm sign of the Congress at a political rally and his other does a sign of the horns at a gig? And then he brings both those palms together in a namaste?


If I swore, I'd swear now. And spit.


I have a feeling I am the only one who finds these things funny. Why am I flipping about this? Politicians can't play music?

No no, politicians can. Like when Bill Clinton played the sax, see now that was cool.

But our politicians are usually more beast than human. Just like our film and sports stars are more god than human. If Milind Deora was proficient in Hindustani music, I wouldn’t be this aghast. If he played chess, made a damn good chicken curry on Sunday or pursued taxidermy, it would still be passable. But this is music that is said to be from the devil, it's foren music! There is nothing remotely politically correct about Jimi Hendrix. This, is like a ball of wool falling out of Manmohan Singh's briefcase causing him to admit that he knits all the sweaters for his grandchildren. It is as random and ridiculous as that.


As a young person who loves her music like any other young person, and is trying to be a good citizen like any… never mind that, I'm being honest- I am not so sure any more.

Like my mum always told me that clubs were not safe, and my daddy told me to never trust a man with a drink. But Ma, Pa, Milind Deora plays on a stage with a large Tuborg sign behind him!
"Ma, Pa, I want to serve my country. Politics?"
"NO!"
"Ma, Pa, I want to be a musician!"
"NO!"
"Ma, Pa, but Milind.."
"Ma, Pa, I want to be a political musician.. " *pleased at the sound of that*
"Dear Child… " "I never did like Dylan."

So you can be a nine to fiver and a nine to twelver also? Hahaha just who says!


This is more than just a gig, at least for Bangalore, and I see this as quite significant. Bangalore currently frowns upon alcohol and music at the same place [Don't look at me like that, yes it's true, you go figure and we are not discussing this here].
"This is the police. We're breaking up this party."
"Good evening gentlemen, my name is Milind Deora."


When men of steel and women of iron become flesh and blood, when they are close enough to touch the hems of their robes, what do you do? Throw your panties on stage of course.

Everyone was hopeful last elections, when we realised there were so many young people- Sachin, Rahul, Varun, Priyanka, Omar and Milind. Sounds like my best friends at college. And now one of them sits in the general spectator stands at the CWG and the other, well, I wont start all over again.


Hey Milind, I presume I can be on first name basis with you, and that neta suit makes you look fat.

Kapde- complexities and misnomers

Do you know the difference between the kurta, the kameez, the salwar and the churidhar? Do you know what Indians mean by the term ‘suit’?

For a long time when I was much younger, I acted, dressed and even sounded a lot like a boy. Wearing traditional Indian clothes, was not something anybody expect from me. I loved Indian clothes, just not on myself.

This last one year though, has seen my cupboards fill up, with kurtas that I pair with skinny jeans, a host of shoes/chappals, scarves and chunky jewellery to go.

I thought I knew my Indian clothes, but a recent conversation with a Punjabi friend unearthed some personally astounding facts.

She: “Hey, so do you have a saree ready? Have you stitched your blouse?”

Me: “No.. I’m not wearing a saree.”

She: “What?! But you’ll look great! You’re tall and thin!” (>_>)

Me: “Well erm.. I should’ve planned for it earlier. There’s no time now. But I got the material. I’m going to stitch a salwar. Its purple!”

She: “A what?”

Me: “A purple salw.. “

She: “You know.. all you people keep saying ‘salwar’ and it makes me so irritated. So what now, you plan on going only half clothed, with a bare chest?”

Me: “Huh?!”

She: “Salwar!! Salwar means only the bottom part.. salwar is only the pants! Kameez is the top part, the kurta!”

Me: “Oh, umm.. Well yea, that’s what I meant.”

Geez.. You think you know something..

Here's the next detail of Indian clothing I was unaware of.

While at the tailors (yet another Punjabi) to get my kameez stitched, she asked me: “So how tight do you want your suit?”

Me: “No! I said I wanted to get a kameez stitched!”

Her: “Huh?”

Me: “I don’t want a suit stitched out of my beautiful purple raw silk! I told you, I want a kameez stitched.. “

Her: “Ji, suit is same as kameez. Salwar-suit. We say like that na?”

Me: “Ah.”

A couple of weeks later, nearing the time of the event that my friend and I had been talking about earlier, I became desperate. I needed a matching white dupatta and white pajama to go with my kameez. I rounded up 15 aunties and accumulated a total of 17 dupattas (I was supposed to get another 8). They were all supposed to bring their clothes to church that week. My event was in a few days and it was very important that they didn’t forget, because I wouldn’t be able to collect it from them otherwise.

As for the pajama, I called up my best friend and said, “Hey, so can you bring me a white churidhar tomorrow?”

When I met her after service that day, I asked her for the stuff. She took out a giant plastic cover and showed me all the dupattas she’d brought me. “Where’s the white churidhar, like I’d asked you?” “What white one? I only have this one black chuddi.”, she replied, taking out a black kurta with silver embroidery.

I was fuming by now, that she’d been so careless, and panicking over what I was going to do for the event.

Me: “No no no! I’ve seen it! You wear it with this very same black kurta of yours!”

She: “Huh?”

By now, I realized what had happened. She thought ‘churidhar’ meant ‘kurta’, and thought that I had asked her to bring something she didn’t have. But churidhar is actually another type of pajama, worn by both men and women in the subcontinent, below their kurtas.

Aaah. I couldn’t blame her. I myself didn’t know the difference, until a few days before.

So I took a deep breath, and decided to educate her on the complexities of the kurta, the kameez, the salwar and the churidhar.

Millionaires off our own slums

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Slumdog Millionaire is all the buzz now. India is visibly excited about the movie. And the media hasn’t been helpful in distracting us from it either. If anything, they’ve been fueling us further on.

In the last 2 days running up to the Oscars, India’s most popular news channel NDTV, couldn’t get enough of it. The news reader today was unable to wipe the smile of her face, verging on coy at times even. All other national and international news was suspended for these last 2 days, with 15 minute bulletins, every hour or so. Instead, they repeated the same footage over and over, which their reporter in the US had sent them.

It wasn’t just the media who was celebrating. Several images and videos of families and random people, in a state of jubilation, because of the success of the movie, were being circulated.

Sometimes I feel so disconnected, and wonder if the problem is really me.

I wasn’t celebrating the success of the movie. And when it won the 8 Oscars that it did, I wasn’t happy. I was not jumping in my seat for the movie, because it is yet another white man making money out of us. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the world thrives on disparity.

The success of the movie was not ours. Indians nothing. It was directed by a non Indian. The screen play was by a non Indian. The movie was financed too, by a foreign company. Its their creativity that has been showcased in the movie, not ours. It happened to be about Indians, set in India and used stumble-upon Indian actors in it.

And yes, thank goodness there happened to be an Indian musician and sound mixer on set, who were talented and got recognized. Of course I’m happy for Rahman, Pookutty and the kids. But what if they had not won? We here in India were celebrating the movie even before news of Rahman’s victory. We were celebrating the movie because we thought it a big deal that such an Indian flavoured movie should have made it so far in the Oscar race, when several earlier entrants by Indian directors, had failed to cut it.

I was very agitated today, with this news. I picked up a conversation with a bunch of friends, but was literally asking for a fight, and wanted to find if I was judging this situation wrongly. One of my friends said something which accurately summed up what was going on in India. He said that people in India are seeing this as a Bollywood/Indian movie making it to Hollywood, when really it is Hollywood that has come down to Bollywood. And Hollywood won, but we think Bollywood did.

Danny Boyle doesn’t ‘love’ India, and so came with the noble intention of taking an Indian story to America. He came with the sole intention of creatively challenging himself. And the movie got points not because of highly unusual concepts, amazing special effects or jaw dropping acting. Sure it had a good story with universal appeal, and hey, there’s a million bucks involved! But this movie got points for the novelty of it. I don’t think even Danny Boyle thinks he has done India a service, by drawing attention to our immense poverty. He’s just made a movie. There’s nothing wrong with what Danny Boyle did. Nothing wrong in directing a successful film, that makes a lot of money. So I have no accusations of him. My only accusation is of the Indian public, that is being so gullible and weak.

Why didn’t Lagaan, Taare Zameen Par, or a much older Malayalam movie called Kala Pani get this far? They definitely had better stories, and great acting too (presuming these are some of the criteria involved in picking Oscar winners).Were they too brown for someone's liking?

Everything about this movie was characteristically Bollywood. If a person who was unaware of the details of the movie had watched it, he would have presumed it was directed by some Chopra or Mishra. There was song and dance. There was even a train scene at VT, so dear to Indian cinema.

Any Indian could have made this movie.

It so happened that the foreigner was smart enough to make Indians act in a movie about us, but in English, so that it reached a larger audience, who were intrigued by a culture they had never been exposed to before. He mimicked us. The style is ours, the glory is his. The slums are ours, the millions are his. He is the millionaire, from our slums. The foreigners are always smart. That’s why I’m so sore.

And what’s also sad is, that Indians have made movies about the trash in our backyards before. But we failed to appreciate and encourage it. As another friend of mine said, we here in India are always quick to rush off to Switzerland to shoot, when we have so much here that we can showcase. And finally, a wise white man came along, who saw the potential in our slums, and used it to his advantage.

Yet another friend said that no matter what, she was proud because ‘India made history tonight.’ I can give the movie credit as a movie. But saying that it is of historical importance to India or has ‘put India on the international cinema map’ is naïve. I just don’t understand how this was an honour for us.

When the Namesake began to do well at international film festivals and awards, was Australia celebrating because Jacinda Barrett had played a role in it? Are we celebrating every time Kal Penn gets a role in an English flick? Also, in the hypothetical situation of an Indian making a movie about Guatemala, it would only be a cause of celebration for India, if the movie won big. However if only won of the Guatemalan actors won awards for his acting, it would not be our party. And in a role reversal, it would be the people of Guatemala who will be celebrating.

The movie wouldn’t have been as effective if a rich man had won a million bucks. It needed a poor man in squalid conditions to win it. And welcome to India!

I know I cant generalize, but a lot of the western world already thinks India is over populated, polluted and under developed. A movie like this, even though it has only depicted the truth (and I don’t have a problem that it did), has perpetuated this notion of India being Third World, in thousands of under developed minds. And we are dancing in the streets about it?!

What I want us to realize here, is that in this movie, India was only a subject.

What of those children who were recruited straight from the slums, Rubina and Azhar? They are going to grow up thinking that a white man changed their lives. And indeed he did. But when they think that the white man saved them, they’re also going to think their country abandoned them, thus perpetuating the cycle, of us coloured people constantly feeling subordinate to the ones without colour.

Why are we clamouring so? Why are we fawning for attention? Why do we need a pat on the back from the white man, to feel good about ourselves?

Some of the ideals that Gandhi built this country on, are Swadeshi: of one’s own, self sufficiency and self reliance. These ideals do not just pertain to not purchasing of foreign goods and wearing of khadi. It also urges us to take more pride in ourselves, and what we have. Nothing we are today is truly indigenous. Everything is a leftover from an earlier invader. But when are we going to have confidence to be original and take pride in our own Indian kichidi?

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Gripped By Terror

**** Readers please note: 'Gripped By Terror' is one long article. I have divided it into 6 sections, in 6 different blog posts. But it is to be considered as one article and read from the top most post, that is this one, to the bottom. It has been divided to make it easier for reading, and also so that you could leave comments at whichever point you feel like. Do not regard the time stamps, and do not read it from the post at 1:12 am. ****

Everything that’s in my head and heart. I’m just pouring it out, in as coherent a form as I can make it.

Gripped by terror is exactly what I was, since Wednesday, the 26^th of November 2008.

Reason- Gunmen, terrorists, had opened fire at 11 locations in Mumbai, India.

Let me tell you how I came to know about it.

I had an exam on Thursday and was supposedly studying. I had fallen asleep over my books, when my phone buzzed at 10:55 pm. It was a message from a friend saying “Turn on the news.” I was a little irritated. “What turn on the TV?!” I said. But then I recalled that the last time I’d gotten a message like this.. it was from the same friend. And it was a few months back when there was a terrorist attack at the Mariott Hotel in Lahore. So I knew something bad had happened.

I switched on the telly to see pictures of the famous Taj Mahal Palace Hotel in Mumbai, in flames. Apparently, gunmen, terrorists, had opened fire at 11 locations in Mumbai, India.

“Its hardly news.” I replied to my friend. This was completely misleading of what was actually going on within me.

I was hooked. I could not drag my eyes away from the television. I don’t have any relatives and only one friend in Mumbai who stays far from the scene of crime. But I was glued to the TV and at 2 am in the morning, I was still watching.

It was only after several hours of watching, did I become conscious of what I was doing. Why was I so hooked? Was it because it was India? Maybe. That was when it dawned on me- this was a story like never before. This attack was completely different from anything that has taken place, not just in India, but anywhere in the world.

You know how people keep saying that terrorism is a cowardly act? In my opinion, this time it wasn’t. All the attacks we have had over the last few years, around the world, have been carried out by unknown assailants. At least no one knew who they were initially, and in a few rare cases, they were caught after tedious investigations.

All the previous major attacks we have heard of, have been hit and run. Bombs were placed and detonated from afar. Or it’s a suicide bomber who nobody expected would blow himself up, and not much could be found about the suicide bomber from his remains.

But this time, we had gunmen, directly involved in the attack. It wasn’t orchestrated from a distance. They didn’t merely send videotapes with demands. They were there. Right there. It was personal. They were conducting the whole thing themselves. And they were unmasked.

I asked my friend how he always seemed to be watching the news when something like this happens. He said that a friend’s friend of his had been shot dead. That’s how he knew.

I thought that that was the closest I know, of anybody who has been affected by terrorism. I didn’t think it could get any nearer.

I slept off some time around 3 am. When I woke up at 6, even before I opened my eyes, my hands reflexively reached for the remote. It had been about 12 hours since the crisis broke out. It was still not over.

Is this not different?

While going to school on Thursday morning though, I remembered another friend whose brother is in college in Mumbai. I asked her about it. She said he’s fine. Then she asked me something I really didn’t understand. She said, “Its happening all the way in Mumbai. Why do you care?”

Gripped By Terror - Part 4

I was watching the news when the first image of one of the terrorists was put up for the first time. It was the picture of a young man, who didn’t look older than 20, in a black T-shirt saying Versace, with a blue backpack. And an AK47. He had what appeared to be a line of blood on his face. And he was smiling. Not even in an evil sinister way. He was just smiling.

It scared me. It scared me because I was just thinking how he could have been my neighbor, or the boy who sat in the row behind me at college. He could have been my best friend’s boy friend. He could have been anybody. Of all the pictures of the terrorists that we have seen, it is surprising that not one of them had the trademark beard and traditional clothes.

The man/boy with the Versace T-shirt featured in nearly every photo taken. He was obviously not the most careful of the lot. I want to know what became of him.

None of them wore masks. Maybe they had no plans of escaping anyway? Maybe they had either planned to die in battle, or were aware and prepared to spend life in jail if they were caught alive. Why else would they not wear masks?

But what sort of indoctrination and brain washing prepares you for death or a life in jail?

I immediately thought of the parents of these young men. Do they know what their sons have done? Its usually a big deal for parents to be called to school even, when their sons have done something stupid like bunk class or get into a fight. But what about when their sons grow up to be terrorists?

Was it them as parents who failed? Or do they believe the same things as their sons? Was it religion who failed them? Was it us, who showed them too little love, for them to think there was any good in the world?

When I saw images of the guns being used, they looked familiar. Then of course I learnt that they were AK47’s. I don’t know anything about defense and arms, but I do know that model number. The news also mentioned that Bazookas were being used by the terrorists.

I was reminded of how I first learnt the word Bazooka. It was more than 5 years ago when we bought our first computer. I had asked some of my neighbors in the building, to give me some computer games. I didn’t care for them, but I thought that’s what everybody did when they had computers- they played computer games on them.

They installed 2 games for me that day (which I never played finally). One was an NBA Basketball game. And the other was this cops and robbers kind of game, where the bad guys had fancy cars and fancy guns. The boy who gave me the game played a few rounds to show me how it worked. And I remember him getting excited when the ‘bazookas’ were used.

That’s the story of how I learnt of bazookas.

I also remember an argument I had with a friend of mine a few months back, about video games. I swore that when I had kids, they were not going to be given those toy guns with the springs inside, that made annoying shooting noises when one pulled the trigger. They were also not going to be allowed to play boy-games that involved shooting and killing. And finally, there would be no watching of wrestling on TV.

My friend disagreed with my point of view. He insisted that there was nothing wrong with these things; he didn’t turn out wrong after all.

That’s not the point. If I had a choice, I would remove the word ‘hate’ and ‘kill’ from the dictionary. That would sadly not solve anything. Hate is in all of us. So is love. We are born with it. We are born into it. But I want for every child in the world, to not know of these evils.

That’s like asking for a dog’s tail to be straight. Its like that story about the man who raised a leopard cub, on vegetarian food all its life, but one day when the cub licked blood off a child’s wound, it knew what it was made for.

Gripped By Terror - Part 6

Remember when I said that I had thought that my friend’s friend’s friend was the closest I had come to being affected by terrorism?

Listen to this. I have another friend who has all her family in Mumbai, living opposite and behind one of the 11 sites of attack. They saw the place nearby catch on fire. They saw everything. The lights were off in their buildings. The force of the impact shook the entire structure causing the windows to shatter. One of their neighbors, a young married couple, panicked that their building wasn’t strong enough. So they decided to make a quick dash to the next building. They were shot dead. Both of them. Their bodies were lying in the street for around 2 hours. Nobody could leave their homes to drag the bodies to safety. And the ambulances were busy with all the chaos. She also had 2 other incidents that had happier endings- another family friend of hers was supposed to be working at the Taj on That Night. His shift was changed at the last minute. Further, one of her relatives was to arrive at CST That Day. Her trip was cancelled.

This is what is termed as ‘mindless killing.’ This is why I asked why terrorists not just killed innocent people, but also randomly.

I’m still trying to imagine what kind of doctrines these people are fed, in order to become this numb. Visualize this: the terrorists see a target in front of them. They take aim. They shoot. They watch the person fall dead. They shoot people on their left and right. They see dead bodies all around them. They walk through blood, step over bodies. Yet they kill some more. And they have peace in their minds, that they are doing the right thing.

I can only say that they see these things, but they don’t really see these things.

So how exactly do we root out terrorism?

In spite of all the hope and faith I have, some practical fibre in me tells me that this is something that will never leave us completely. Its like these microorganisms that are said to be immortal, because nothing can kill them.

Its like a horror movie, where you slice it once in the head, and 2 new ones appear.

As long as there is one left, there will be another.

So lets meet over coffee sometime.

And talk about how we are going to deal with this

On religion once again.

Its times like these that disillusion a lot of people, with regards to religion and faith. They ask where God is in all this.

Allow me to tell you what Mahesh Bhatt said.

“Don’t expect your gods and goddesses to come down and sort this out for us. We are the architects of this destruction.”

Doesn’t that make sense?

A far cry from ‘heaven being a place on earth’, like the Bangles felt it was.

One of my friends had on her Facebook status, that she is hoping for justice.

Justice? That word has lost all its meaning. This is not a fair fight. When innocent civilians have guns held to their heads, as a barter, that is not a fair fight.

According to the traditions of warfare, one never attacks an unarmed opponent. And one never attacks when the opponent is sleeping. Those were the good old days of chivalry and honor.. and justice.

Unless you are willing to wait for judgment day, there will be no justice. So, hold your peace.

Why is this happening to us?

This is not the kind of philosophy I would like to give a grieving person, or probably receive when I am grieving. But here’s what I think:

Know how they say ‘when you smile the world smiles with you, but when you frown, you frown alone’? Apparently this is not so. In fact the world doesn’t always smile with you when you are smiling, because the sight of someone else happy and successful burns them up. On the other hand, it is during times of grief that our hearts melt for each other. We make chicken soup for a person we don’t like just because we are good people deep down inside.

There’s a particular medical condition that some people are born with, in which, they cannot feel pain. You can put staples in their hand, or pluck out each strand of hair from their head, but they won’t feel a thing. Lucky for them you say? Not so. These people are at the disadvantage of not knowing if their body is burning or if they have lost a limb, because of this very same wolf in sheep’s clothing. And by the time they do realize it, it might be too late.

Pain is a necessary evil.

Times of happiness do not make humanity come together. Times of sadness do. Laughs, cries and music have no language just like terrorism has no religion.

To end, I want to say this.

Please love your neighbors more. He might just be a terrorist, in need of some love, and in need of someone to tell him the world’s not such a bad place.

I am praying for the terrorists. I’m praying for the world tonight.