ENTROPY - Design of Decadence: September 2003

Tuesday, September 30, 2003

Stars are falling like ninefuckingpins.

I am sick of Karisma Kapoor’s wedding. Who gives two fucks anyway? These many were invited. These many will turn up. So and so will come. So and so will be loyal to the Bachchans and will not turn up. There will be hazaar fucking food and karod types of alcohol. So? How is it relevant to the rest of the country? I pity the camera and microphone toting reporters who were standing outside RK studios waiting for a glimpse of these so called icons who graced the occasion. And possibly a miniscule little glance of the bride and groom too. Sheesh. What desperation. The rape of Journalism. But what do we do, ask reporters. Vajpayeeji’s consistent yawn-worthy listless reply to Musharraf’s bullshit in Washington is hardly worth harping about. And how much will we applaud India’s victory over Pakistan in the Asia Cup hockey final? And people keep dying of disease and freak accidents and unintentional murders in India, so that isn’t news. And we’ve already covered every nut-bolt of Sachin Tendulkar’s Ferrari. Point taken, says the audience. Now move over and let me stay glued to the TV in the hope that some news channel will flash what Karisma is wearing tonight so I can ooh and aah and copy the design for my aunt’s sister-in-law’s brother’s wife’s uncle’s daughter’s wedding. Bhayankar chutiyapa.

Most of us worship these Industry Gods who are taking our sensibilities for a dance-around-trees. Most of them don’t even know the right way to do their jobs. A few nights ago an online-editor friend was tearing his hair out over one wire-removal shot that’s the best example of complete lack of visual effect supervision I’ve ever seen in my life. The colour jumps were flabbergasting, and in one sequence there were some shots that were shot in bright sunlight, and others that were shot in dull evening gloom! And this is a multi-crore film that’s now been released and is running to packed audiences. Unbelievable.

Music and Lyrics. A few names stand out, but the rest are as tired as Saddam Hussain from all the running. And like him, they keep at it. Churning out utter gibberish about how love is like the cold in Delhi and Romance is spicy. Devdas is touted as a portrayal of our culture. Culture, my fucking belly-button lint. One over-actor, hamming throughout the film, his huge face all over the 70 mm screen as it always is in every film all the time … that’s our culture? Sure, I love the sets and art direction and camerawork and Madhuri Dixit (sigh) … but what good is all that without a fucking good screenplay?

Don’t get me started about ‘Boom’. Terrible acting, no story, what-the-fuck is the great AB doing in it, and a shameless attempt to replace complete lack of screenplay with generous display of tits and arse. Should’ve really been called ‘Boob’.

Huge stars who command crores and crores of rupees per film and enjoy Demi-God status. Directors who tell the same stories again and again. 800 films a year. But only a handful that can be really called quality cinema. The rest are a criminal criminal waste of film stock. That, my friends, is Bollywood. And Indians all over the world love this crap.

Kani nabe chhao cheebye.

posted by n.g. at 16:42 (0) Peg(s) of Whisky

Wednesday, September 24, 2003

Backdrifts.

I don’t have too many fond memories of Delhi. Arriving here on the morning of my 23rd Birthday to start a new job in a new industry in a new city, moving into a depressing hovel in the peak of summer with water and power cuts galore, working insane hours so there was no time for inconsequential things like dinner, reaching ‘home’ at uncivilized hours and realizing there’s no drinking water even, jumping the wall just to get to my room coz the stupid landlord forgot I existed and locked the main gate, spending Sundays at the office watching terrible Hindi movies coz I didn’t know anyone and I didn’t wanna stay home and it was too hot to go out, insecure seniors and overconfident juniors sabotaging my work time and again … these can hardly be classified as fond memories.

She was the only reason I stuck out the one year I was here. She was my support system. No wonder then, that all the fond memories I DO have about Delhi, involve her. Speaking to her for the first time over the phone and visualizing her as a hard core power dressing business woman type, and bursting into laughter when I saw her barking orders at production assistants, smoking away furiously, dressed in torn jeans and a scruffy white production-crew t-shirt. Sneaking away from the set for a cigarettes and chai break, which became an hour of meaningless chatter. She calling me up in the middle of the night to compliment me on my script for a music video, and us getting excited and practically doing a shot breakdown on the phone there and then. Sleeping over at her place, bitching about colleagues till the wee hours of the morning, and I’d be back up at 7 and she’d be out like a light till 11. Shooting a crappy commercial at the India Gate on a cold November morning, sipping chai and me jokingly telling her that I’m gonna ask her father for her hand in marriage. And finally, she dragging me out to the car park, away from an urgent, frantic pre-production session, to tell me excitedly “Sun na yaar … I met someone yesterday …”.

How strange is it to meet the husband of a girl you felt something for once upon a time? All prepared to hate him, but after a long conversation, you realise that “Hey, he’s a real nice guy!” How strange is it to play with her 2 year old son in his room, and when there’s a power cut, her son grabs your hand in the dark *uncle … light bhush*, and both of you count the glow-in-the-dark stars on the wall
*One … two … three … seven*
*Noo baby … What comes after three??? Four!*
*Four … seven …*

How strange is it when before calling it a night, she tells her servant “Make sure to fix his breakfast and tea by 7:30. He’s crazy, he’ll be up by 7”.

*Gosh … she remembers*.

A tired song keeps playing on a tired radio
And I won’t tell no-one your name
I won’t tell ‘em your name.

posted by n.g. at 00:42 (0) Peg(s) of Whisky

Sunday, September 21, 2003

India Unlimited.

Imagine a mammoth piece of flatland. Imagine this flatland surrounded by gigantic mountains - some of their sides skimmed with sand, some of them topped with snow, and some of them glazed with green. Imagine a miniscule unpaved road perfectly bisecting this flatland. Imagine an MUV on that road.

Imagine yourself in that MUV.

En route to Pangong Lake, which is a 5 hour drive from Leh, we came across this overwhelming spot. And all I could do is get out of the MUV, stare agape at the mountains, and shoot a nice pan of them on my DVCam.

Pangong Lake by itself is a freak of nature. At 15,000 ft, in-between huge unending clusters of mountains, is this humungous lake. And it's the bluest thing I've ever seen. Maybe it was the reflection of the clear blue sky on the lake ... or vice versa. But it is just ... BLUE. That lovely aquamarine blue one only gets to see in tourist leaflets. Doc went shutter happy and finished off several rolls of film, while I practiced my framing for film with my DVCam. The lake has a history of its own - after the 1965 Indo-China war, the Chinese usurped 30% of the lake, so now only 70% of it belongs to India. I mean, how juvenile is that? These Chinese how like dat one? It's like, I like someone's shirt, but since I cannot steal it while he's wearing it, I just tear off his pocket and feel happy for myself. So, we were about 40 miles away from the Indo-China border, and the only reason we didn't go all the way there, was because there was no semblance of path/track/road left anymore.

Back at Leh, we met this Spanish couple (FINALLY someone other than French folks). She's a chemist, had already traveled down south before coming to Leh and when I told her I'd spent the past two years in Singapore, she said she'd been there 3 years ago, and had found it 'nice', 'clean', 'a bit TOO clean' and finally 'antiseptic'. Apt choice of words there, coming from a chemist. "But India is so different, no?" she asked. I couldn't resist a smile just about then. "Here, there is so much to see, so much to do, just ... SO MUCH!"

Hell yeah. :)

And finally, at Leh airport on our way back, Doc pulled off a blinder. Coz we were both freezing our arses off at 6 in the am and there was no tea/coffee vending machine, he put on his best "I'm just a normal guy who only looks like a serial killer but who's currently freezing to death" look, went up to the Airport ground-staff, and requested her for two cups of tea. A bit to his surprise, she actually arranged for them, and we both stood smack in the middle of the departure hall sipping our piping hot tea, much to the envious eyes of all the other passengers.

I, of course, made it a point to return the favour. I flashed her a nice big smile. After all, I look like a movie star, you know. Probably made her day even.

posted by n.g. at 23:13 (0) Peg(s) of Whisky

Wednesday, September 17, 2003

Over a cyan sky.

Yes. A cyan sky. Not red, not orange, not yellow. Cyan. And this incredible display of sky is yours to marvel at, ONLY one place in the world. Ladakh. On the flight from Delhi-Leh, to be precise. And that, until the clouds take over. Strips of white candy floss, with snow-capped mountains sharing pride of place with them.

This is how Ladakh holds you spellbound even before you land in Leh. And once you do, you realise that Leh, at 8 degrees at night, is inversely proportional to her people. The cab driver who offered doc his entire pack of cigarettes when doc asked if he could bum one. The aunty at the tea stall who told me, a complete stranger, to pay her later coz i didn't have change. The family in the cab ahead of us, when, while coming down from Khardungla pass, there was a roadblock *We might be stuck here for an hour. Do you want some lunch?*. The dear caretaker of the guest house who takes pity on our city bred arses to heat up two buckets of water for us to take a bath with. The incredibly cute Ladakhi women, with their pretty pink cheeks, shy eyes, warm smiles that reveal slightly crooked teeth (imperfection was never this beautiful) and lovely browinish-black hair. And the even cuter Ladakhi kids, with their big grins and loud uninhibited laughter.

This morning, at the town square for breakfast, I got chatting with a huge bunch of kids waiting for their school bus. Within minutes, little Shehnaaz told me she's a 4th grader, fluent in Ladakhi, Hindi and English, loves school but hates science. Her friend Nikhat begged to differ about science. 1st grader Meenaxi told me proudly that her red sash meant that she was on 'duty', and had to ensure that all the kids boarded the bus in an orderly manner. Yet another asked me in all sincerity "Uncle, are you a movie star?". When I laughed and said no, she looked disappointed. "But you look like a movie star ...". Soon, their bus arrived and they boarded it in under Meenaxi's supervision. Looking back at me, and waving and screaming "Bye Uncle!!!!" as they did.

Just a while ago, while returning to my room, a bunch of kids greeted me with the local greeting 'Jule'. (Pronounced 'Joo-lay'). And one of them pointed shyly at my DVCam, and asked if I would take his picture. I twisted the screen around, and with all the kids surrounding me and looking at ourselves on the screen, we just giggled. For about 30 seconds. Back in my room, I tried to recall the last time I had giggled like that. I couldn't.

Sure, I've been popping headache pills since I got here. Leh is 10,000 feet above sea level. It got especially worse at the Khardungla pass, which at 18,000 feet, is the highest motorable road in the world. But, when I got out of the cab at the road's end, and held snow in my hands for the first time, it was magic.

Unlike the so-called developed world I come from, for the people of Ladakh, feelings of kindness, genuine concern, humanity and love are not mere examples of exception ... they're the norm. A couple of days ago, in a moment of expansion, I told a dear friend that i'd either clear up my head in Ladakh, or be blown to bits in a terrorist bombing. I've been proved wrong on both counts. My head has always been clear - i've just been too afraid and too caught up in the rat race to admit and accept it. And about the terrorist bombing, as a Ladakhi would say "Chi Choen?" (What's the point?)

Jule.

posted by n.g. at 18:47 (0) Peg(s) of Whisky

Tuesday, September 09, 2003

Closing Time.

My last week here has been, without a doubt, one of the most diverse. I've been packing, and the thought that i'll be paying almost as much as my air fare for excess baggage is only made bearable by the fact that Doc took all my books back with him when he left yesterday ... a bag that weighed 20 kgs. I've been shopping, which, i can safely say isn't quite my idea of fun and leisure, I met someone who's the epitome of courage and faith in the Almighty, and I realised how incredibly cute Korean-Australian women look when, during a conversation about ambition and investment banking, they sit with their feet up on their chair, their hands around their legs, their chin resting on their knee, their head tilted to one side looking at you.

So it's time to go. And because i've already covered how i'm gonna miss all my friends here and how much I love them and how much it breaks my heart to not know when i'll see them again, I won't talk about that. Instead, i'll post here an email that a dear friend-cum-colleague sent out to a whole bunch of people after I quit. It's quite funny.

Subject : Wanted

Lonely Singaporean Indian content producer, (male, late twenties) seeks companion to bitch about movies. Applicants of all ages and sexes are invited, although preference will be given to slutty girls.

The position's prerequisites are as follows. All applicants must be able to ...

1) play cricket with an umbrella and a miniature sepak takraw ball
2) scream "THIS IS THE WORST FUCKING MOVIE I'VE EVER SEEN" so loud that people at ESPN (on the level below) can hear it.
3) verbally abuse the resident South Asia Programming Executive on a daily basis.

Please forward your resume to (his email ID).

I agree with all the above, except for the slutty girls bit. Slutty girls can't play cricket.

So thats it. My romance with Singapore is over. It was great while it lasted, and I can safely say that its been my longest relationship. Too bad we gotta go seperate ways though, coz I think i'm in love.

Cheers to endings. And new beginnings. Coz as 'Semisonic' explain in the favourite last-song-of-the-night at Johnny Two Thumb Tatoo Pub, "Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end."

posted by n.g. at 08:20 (0) Peg(s) of Whisky

Friday, September 05, 2003

Prophecies.

Some of us lead perfect lives. With our perfect jobs, grande lattes, PDAs and Plasma Tvs. Some others are constantly searching. For perfection, for reason, for satisfaction, for the fire, for themselves. Neither kind is wrong or right, its just a way to be. A personal preference. An individual's perspective. A difference in thinking. I'll be what the fuck I want. Kind of thing.

I picked up a few of Nitin Sawhney's CDs yesterday, and like I always do, I read the inlays through. Sometimes, one gets to read about the artist's inspirations, his thought process while creating the music, his influences ... or if it happens to be a Madonna CD, one gets to see nice pictures of her in various states of undress. Either ways, its nice to read inlays.

I'm posting here something that NS wrote in the inlay for the album 'Prophesy'. When I first read it, I smiled, pondered, read it again, read it out to Ave, and hearing myself read it aloud, I felt a strange ease. You are not alone.

Technology is a drug. We can't get enough of it. We feed it to our kids and watch them grow on a forced diet of desensitization. Switch on the TV and someone will tell you 50,000 people died in India. Two seconds later, you're watching a comedy. Technology can do that. It gives us simulated releases that make us oblivious to the real world. Heroin does the same thing. So do most class A drugs. Basically, we are all addicts. Addicted to the comfort and convenience that technology provides. Addicted to the notion that progress is directly related to the size of your computer screen. Of course it is. We must be right. We come from the developed world. We're already developed. Sure. Then again, wealthy kids in America shoot each other. Poor kids in Soweto can't stop smiling.

So who's developed?

I met an Aborigine in Arnhemland, Australia - his nephews showed me symbols where I saw trees and rainbows through smoked glass. They could see fish through clouded water. I couldn't even see my own reflection. I must have forgotten how.

When I look in front of me, I see two paths - spiritual or material. Two worlds - developed or developing. You decide which is which. We're still in the wake of millennium paranoia - earthquakes, floods, end of world scenarios, cult suicides, viral diseases that eat into our computer realities. This is our developed world.

Then, as Nelson Mandela says, 'We are free to be free'.

I guess we make our own prophecies.

This happened after a conversation that can safely be termed as 'complete and utter cock-talk' (pun intended), what with Yanni speaking in her own exclusive sign language, and the rest of us translating it for ... the rest of us. And yet again, YET AGAIN, I thought to myself about how I didn't have enough time with these amazing people ... how I really should've met them earlier than I did. But as Ave told me of her plans, with that gleam in her eyes, I fell upon my constant endeavour to look on the bright side of things, and affirmed that it's better to have met them late than to have not met them at all.

I'm gonna miss you, Ave. And you, Yanni. And no, you do not get my TV and Cellphone. Not gonna happen.

posted by n.g. at 10:39 (0) Peg(s) of Whisky

Wednesday, September 03, 2003

These are the days.

Firstly, thanks to Neha for the 'Trainspotting' and 'Lock Stock & 2 smoking barrels' DVDs. (Director's Cuts, some more. With Deleted Scenes, behind the scenes and tonnes of special features, some more.) PERFECT timing too.

I am now officially a 'Social Visitor' in Singapore. Thats what the stuck up old mechanical hag stamped on my passport. For a moment it felt strange, suddenly being here on a Social Visit, after spending two years working here. Just for a moment.

So, what does a social visitor in Singapore do? I've got my final paycheck, said my goodbyes at work (except for Sharon ... "No Goodbyes. Keep in touch." Warm fuzzy feeling.) And i'm meeting all the people I must meet before I go back to desh. Had dinner with Jess last night. Just had lunch with Jackie and Vidya, the extended Indo-Chinese family. Missed Stephi :( But Jackie had a replacement for Stephi's sweetness. Sticky Date Pudding at Tanglin Mall.

Oh.My.God. Vanilla ice cream sandwiched between two thick slices of cake with date sauce poured generously all over. Wuh liao way. If I wasn't in Singapore, i'd have thought I'd died and gone to heaven. One portion is like a meal. Just couldn't finish the whole thing. Vidya : Eat up. You're a growing boy. OK Teacher.

Being on a social visit is nice. Maybe this is what they call a VACATION. I gotta take more of these. And no, i'm not gonna go to Sentosa, or the Zoo, or the Night Safari, or Botanic Gardens. Though I might go down to East Coast Beach one of these days. I'm not much of a sightseeing person. So, when you guys come down to Bombay, i'll sign you up for one of those day-city-tours, coz honestly, I haven't even gone sightseeing in Bombay myself. And don't intend to. But yes, at night, i'll take you to Ghettos where we'll meet practically the entire media industry, get drunk and then we'll go to Bade Miyan for Barbecued eats. Shiok.

I've finally booked my ticket. There's still some stuff that I've gotta buy. And I've gotta pack.

But first, I gotta watch Trainspotting.

posted by n.g. at 14:50 (0) Peg(s) of Whisky

Name: n. g.

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