Despite the fact that my Marathi is pathetically rudimentary, I make numerous valiant attempts everyday to speak the language. I fumble with the basics, feel my heartbeat do an Usain Bolt when I go beyond my tried-and-tested phrases (side la ghya , kiti? et al) and, much too often for my own liking, abjectly capitulate to using Hindi or English.

I’d be lying through my teeth if I said it wasn’t a struggle. However, the labor has been one of love. Making a successful linguistic transaction in Marathi suffuses me with a sense of pride. It makes me feel at one with the people and culture of the state I have long since come to regard as my own.

Before you write me off as a rabid right-winger or one with political ambitions, I hasten to tell you that my desire to speak the local language (and hopefully graduate to using the chaste form) comes from my conscience.

United though we are in patriotism for the great Indian nation we all love, each of us comes from a unique culture, one of the many vibrant shades that form the beautiful mosaic we rightly revere. If it weren’t for the hundreds of cuisines, arts, languages and other cultural mores that seamlessly come together in a spirit of mutual respect, we’d be one of the many culturally nondescript nations that few know of.

Isn’t it natural that we take a certain amount of pride in the contributions of our respective regional cultures to the national culture? I personally find that it puts me in even greater awe of a nation so diverse, yet so united.

It is for this reason that I disagree with those who fulminate against the people they’ve labeled ‘outsiders.’

However, it’s in the same vein that I urge the so-called ‘outsiders’ (a canard that no Indian with a sense of decency should use) to learn the local language of the region in which they live. It isn’t so much an obligation as it is a mark of respect for the cultural ecosystem to which they now belong. In a supportive atmosphere of encouragement and patience, one would be only too happy to imbibe some of the local culture, which would serve to improve intercultural understanding and help strengthen the foundations of this great nation against the corrosive effects of misplaced bigotry resulting from an equally misplaced (and profoundly ugly) sentiment of xenophobia.

It’s imperative that we uphold the noble value of Sadbhavana lest the national fabric become frayed ; there are many a nefarious element waiting to tug at the first loose thread they see.

Jai Hind.

“Are you from Kerala?”

“No, I am Tamil”

“Whatever. What’s the difference?”

Were this a conversation from the sixties or thereabouts, a pardon would certainly be in order. Most Indians on either side of the Vindhyas had only a cursory idea of the other. To the folks from the south, the North Indian was a strapping, fair-complexioned wheat-eater. Their North Indian brethren considered them as belonging to a land of strange languages, funny scripts and names as long as those great Express trains run by the Indian Railways.

Over the ensuing decades, the concept of networking became popular, a certain Tim Berners-Lee came along and the Internet sprung into existence. Soon enough, India began rolling on the Information Superhighway, discovered the joys of Google and became acquainted with Wikipedia as a source of material for college assignments and suchlike. Greater numbers of Indians began taking to the Internet to read the news, create unintentionally hilarious profiles on Orkut and send out email in a language that should be added to the Eighth Schedule – Internet Chat Lingo. Post those growth pangs, the Indian footprint in cyberspace comprises e-commerce websites, social media, Web 2.0 services and digital marketing.

Yet, few in India have ever bothered to run a quick Google Search to figure out what the folks up North, down South or over in the North East speak, eat or do. Talk about cultural black holes.

Guess it’s time for me to put down a few stereotypes.

For one, Madrasi is not a language. Nor does everybody with a nice long name speak the same lingo. Tamil, Telugu, Malayalam and Kannada are independent languages in their own right, with each possessing a hoary literary tradition. Those jalebis are quite variegated, you see. If it’s squiggly, it’s South Indian, but isn’t necessarily what you think it is. It might be Tamil, Telugu, Malayalam or Kannada.

Equally amusing yet heart-wrenching is the complete ignorance of many of my fellow countrymen as regards the folks who come from the North East. Often called Nepali, Chinese and the very derogatory Chinkie, our North Eastern brethren are often at pains to assert that they are from the Seven Sisters, a group of Indian states to the east of West Bengal that have a population of Mongoloid features.

Indeed, we are a nation of engineers (probably one too many), scientists, businessmen and academia, but we also harbor a population of desi rednecks. A bunch of stereotype-mongers who desperately need an education in India’s diversity. Mind you, these folks aren’t concentrated in a place that we might conveniently label Rednecknagar or Redneckapalli: they live in every part of the country and are terribly ignorant. So ignorant as to merit a slap on the face, perhaps, but that came from the angry young man in me.

A bit of cultural education ought to solve the problem, eh?

Driving in India could be a harrowing experience for the neophyte. Although copiously worded, the rules of the Indian road are actually nonexistent, allowing you to do as you please as long as nobody dies or winds up on a hospital bed. A traffic jam in India often assumes a great deal of similarity to a rugby scrum or a five-way Mexican standoff : a dent is just one bad move away, not to mention a bruise or two at the hands of a brutish driver and, if your car happened to caress the body of a bike, a free-for-all bash-a-thon in which everybody in the vicinity gleefully partakes. And we run through red lights with impunity, wondering why the municipal corporation wastes electricity on those usually-ignored lightbulbs.

However, what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. As long as you don’t find yourself honking at The Pearly Gates, you will grow in character with every kilometer you clock on the odometer. Should you hop into your car one morning and realize that you have driven over a thousand kilometers, declare Enlightenment and start your own religion.

Although I am as prone to hyperbole as your usual bored Indian, I mean every word when I say that driving in India makes you a stronger person. Here’s how it works.

• Zen and the art of fine driving : As you drive in India, you will find yourself tempted to yell your lungs out at that idiot who just swerved into your lane ahead of you or that stupid woman who began crossing the road just when the green light came on. Even if you are only slightly bipolar, your first fortnight on Indian roads could turn you into a psychopath. 

         That said, you will attain a Zen-like tranquility if you get through this phase without   killing anybody. No matter how fiendishly unnavigable the traffic becomes, you will only smile as you hum a tune or drum the steering wheel to the beats of the song playing on the radio. You will not want to ram the crook of your elbow into the nose of the driver honking away behind you or make that errant pedestrian wish he was never born. And you will wave at the guy who just pulled up beside you and began mouthing expletives in three languages. As you begin relegating your driving stress to the back of your mind, you will find yourself being able to do so in every sphere of your life. After all, you have learnt that pulling at your hair in frustration would be supremely futile in solving the problem.

You may even show a friendly middle-finger, but that’s not advisable unless you drive a tank or a giant SUV.

Use social media to make public your musings on the road. As your followers notice that you are on your way to nirvana, you will find them turning into devotees. Happy guru-dom!

• Decide fast, follow through:   Face it – you aren’t going to get much out of following the rules of the Indian road. The supercilious sense of good citizenship you obtain by stopping at the lights will soon turn into mortification as a number of cars zip past yours and the not-so-kind words of the drivers behind come floating through the windows. Refuse to change lanes or pass a vehicle from the left and you will reach your destination an eternity behind schedule. Once you come to that realization, your creativity kicks in, working in tandem with the dexterity you have acquired navigating Indian roads. Before you know it, you will be making snap decisions so great that they make Ivy League graduates blush.                                                                         It’s one thing to take a decision and another to see it through to completion. The latter is best honed on Indian roads. If you’ve decided to switch to the oncoming lane to overtake the slow-moving truck ahead of you, you had better put on a burst of speed and prepare yourself to artfully dodge the vehicles in the lane and swerve back onto the lane of your direction. Should you suddenly begin second-guessing halfway into your overtaking bid, the insurance policy of your vehicle might just come into play.

         Your decisions on the road will often be in utter contempt of the ‘rules’, helping you unfetter your thinking. I believe it would be a great idea for Harvard or Wharton to offer a course in desi driving as an elective in their MBA programs.

• Defy the mob: There’s more to driving in India than traveling from point A to B. With a bit of creative license, Disney could easily produce a wonderfully inspirational movie about an Indian driver who defies the diktats of traffic to reach his destination.

        As you reach a junction, you will be vying for right of way with scores of drivers. The pushier ones will attempt to intimidate you by blocking your path, leaving you gnashing your teeth as they drive past you at a cruelly slow speed.  In a different situation, you might seethe as the cars on the road perpendicular to your direction simply refuse to stop for about three seconds and let you drive away, never to be seen again. The drivers flash their lights, honk loud and then a little louder, pulling out all stops in their bid to intimidate you into submission. At other times, you will have trouble trying to drive straight as a hundred bikers simultaneously turn right or left, blocking your path until the red light comes on again.

Jiski laathi. Uski bhains.  Unless you dig in your heels and refuse to be cowed down by the bullies of the road, you are never going to reach your destination. You must put your car on first gear and drive into the melee, demanding that you be allowed to pass. In the car-eat-car world of Indian driving, you must let Hannibal whisper “either find a way or make one” into your ear. And you must ensure that your honking is no whisper and that your flash is not a quick blink.

 A healthy dose of impatience is required on Indian roads, as is a near-fanatical desire to get to your destination. It’s rough-and-tumble : you will never get home or to work if you don’t demand in the clearest terms that you want to get there.

Driving in India isn’t a humdrum chore. It’s a lesson in dealing with the vicissitudes of existence with equanimity, perseverance and creativity. It’s a world in which your decisions must come good in the face of peril. It’s a pity that no business leader has taken stock of what can be learned on the streets of Delhi and Bangalore. Combine the values imbibed behind the wheel with a good education and you will be on your way to becoming the next Jack Welch or Warren Buffet.

Imagine walking into a pizzeria in Italy and ordering a wood-fired Pizza Neapolitana. Borne in typical European elegance by a tuxedo-clad waiter, it comes your way, looking as authentic as it possibly could. As you take a bite into it, you revel in the delights of freshly-baked mozzarella, juicy tomato and….garam masala! There’s only a hint of it, though ; it only serves to augment the divine experience for your Indian palate.

Vishwaroop proves that the Indian spy flick has finally come of age : no more flashy lights going amok before the bomb detonates or Indian agents zipping to foreign shores before one could say “Visa”. The guns fire as they would in the real world, the action sequences are reminiscent of the finest in Hollywood (as reported by many a dazzled Indian reviewer) and the settings are brilliantly detailed. This isn’t your usual high-budget bluff and bluster from Rajni-land ; Kamal Haasan evidently ensured that the big cheques reached the right accounts. The authenticity of the details is as breathtaking as the scraggy mountains and urban locations in which they play out.

Haasan plays a Research and Analysis Wing agent with a chequered past. Living in New York under a false identity and with a P.hD wife who married him only to get fast-tracked to Permanent Resident status, he gets wind of a plot to destroy a number of countries with dirty bombs. Gulp.

What follows is a bevy of punches, gunfire and, in a few scenes, gut-wrenching gore. That trusty device of the Indian filmmaker, the flashback, takes you to your spy’s past in Afghanistan. Having infiltrated the ranks of Al Qaeda, he trains them even as he plants NATO trackers in bundles of opium and creates discord in the ranks. With plenty of allusions to Afghanistan’s woes in the past and present, it makes for a gripping watch.

As the plot oscillates between Afghanistan and New York, Haasan transitions from Mujahid to urbane spy as he dashes about The Big Apple with his R&AW colleagues. His better half, whose secret lover turns out to be in league with the baddies, continually reels from shock as her effeminate husband and seemingly-normal social circle reveal what they do for a living.

The climax is too delicious to be revealed on a lowly blog ; watch the movie if you want a taste of the Mission Impossible curry.

Kamal Haasan is at his brilliant best, as are Rahul Bose and Shekhar Kapoor. Pooja Kumar puts up an immensely enjoyable performance while Andrea Jeremiah plays the tough female agent convincingly. The only letdown is the plot, which remains, for the most part and save the climax, mediocre despite the embellishments.

A classy movie that catapults Indian cinema to unprecedented heights, Vishwaroop is not to be missed. Or watched on home video, for that matter. The wider the screen, the better the experience.

8/10

Cast and poster courtesy Wikipedia http://http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Vishwaroopam_poster.jpg

…. lies the sort of genius that only meets the inquisitive eye. Most sights, sounds and experiences that readily spring at us are , unbeknownst to most, mediocre. A desire to sample the best must lead one down lanes that one would otherwise walk past.

If you live in Pune, you are undoubtedly familiar with this. The true Punekar would hold the offerings of Frito Lays in scorn against the savory delights of Budhani Wafers. Save the younger mall-hopping generation, most people in this still-laidback city would find themselves on Fashion Street or Hong Kong Lane whilst shopping for fashion accessories. Never in a glitzy store on MG Road will you find a gramophone of the sort your grandfather would cradle as if it were a newborn.

I confess I had never, until recently, held the so-called hole-in-the-wall shops in high esteem. If they were capable of dishing out excellence, I would reason, they would not be the sort of ramshackle establishment that the quality-conscious (post-enlightenment edit: snooty snobs) wouldn’t approach with a barge pole. How could a tapriwaala compete with the likes of Costa Coffee and Gloria Jean’s?

Such thoughts held court in my mind as I avoided the potholes, puddles and sleepy mongrels on a lane as narrow as a cross-section of a drinking straw. I was on my way to Ramgir Tailors, a shop by which my father swears. I thought lovingly of the air-conditioned interiors of the typical upmarket store as I stepped into the creakiness of a small shop.

My misgivings were compounded by the presence of a masterji-esque man running a sewing machine. The sight didn’t quite mesh in with my perception of haute haberdashery. I was sure I was about to yawn through a collection of a ho-hum selection of shirts and trousers before thanking the man for his trouble and stepping out in the hopes of being able to find my way out of the maze.

My father was warmly greeted by the proprietor, a courtesy that was immediately extended to me. Squirming on account of my dislike of being addressed as ‘sir’, I had him pull out a few shirts that, in his opinion, would hold me in good stead at a party.

Little did I know that an epiphany was about to strike.

The shirts were as classy as anything worn by the swish set. Wonder-struck, I took a close look at each of the shirts, wondering whether I could buy them all, budgets and other such trifles be damned. Rationality and desire seemed set to fight each other to the death. It took me quite a while to come to the aid of the former.

A velvety blue shirt transfixed me. It looked so regal that I wouldn’t dare touch it if it were on display at a Zara store. So enamored was I that the feel of the fabric somehow drowned out the patter of the shopkeeper. I quickly paid for the shirt, (Rs. 500-ish),  fearing that I would soon find myself tempted to purchase more shirts than I had come for.

The plastic bag that contained my purchases brushed against my left leg as I walked, chastising me for my ignorance. I regretted the day I had labeled the small shop ‘ramshackle’. I replaced the word with ‘unpretentious’. I have since appended ‘class’ to it.

Driving home from the airport earlier today, I realized that I needed to purchase a sherwani for a wedding to which I had been invited. A few minutes later, I pulled into a parking lot after dog-fighting a competing car for the only available slot. A few minutes later, I was in that labyrinth of lanes, hoping my memory would take me to my destination.

It did.

As he pulled out yard after yard of various types of cloth with a flourish, I smirked at the hollowness of the pretense put up by the apparel stores not a kilometer away. His smile suddenly mirrored mine as he asked what I was thinking about. I shook my head.  “Ek ladki toh patt hi jaayegi” he muttered, his eyes twinkling as he measured my dimensions. In retrospect, I hold that possible, given that the sherwani he’s crafting for me will feature sumptuous sequins lovingly sewn onto a white fabric that “has a hint of pista-green”.

If you are tired of spending mucho dinero for sartorial excellence, sneak into the lane between Victory Theatre and the golf store on the other side. Upon reaching Moledina School, ask a passerby where Ramgir Tailors is. Do not forget to take your smile along.

It’s a pity that the rain has come to be seen as a botheration, an indiscretion by nature that ruins schedules and white shirts alike. The much-eulogized sound of the raindrops hitting terra firma no longer inspires in us the joy our forebears felt when the skies poured. We curse the clouds on waking up to a rainy morning and wonder just how wet we will get on our way to work as we dash about the house in search of a raincoat. The overcast firmament does little to cheer us up when we look at it, impatient to see the blue behind the grey.

The R-word evokes images of potholed roads, traffic snarls and people running for cover. No longer do we see it as our agrarian forefathers did. Annoyance and irritability are on the cards, as is the possibility of a profane outburst should one inadvertently step into a puddle or get drenched when the wheels of a passing vehicle meet a waterlogged crater.

Feeling surly already? Snap out of it before the next shower hits your city. Call a truce with the rain. Try falling in love with it if you are so inclined. The rain is not an adversary ; it keeps you alive and hale.

Make light of it – my father once attributed the rain to “the gods pissing after drinking too much beer.”! Revel in the coolness of the breeze that follows a spell of rain – it brings along the chirps of happy birds (in stark contrast to those angry avians on your iPhone) and the gentle warmth of a timid sun. Grab a hot cup of chai and a plateful of bhajiya ; the rain makes them tastier.

Few acts are as rejuvenating as that of walking in a drizzle, the Public Relations exercise of the monsoon. Hum Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head as you let the drops turn your stress into bliss. Jog, skip, sing and break into the Lagaan dance. It matters not that some might believe you are off your rocker – your moments of nirvana are as alien to them as clothes are to Playboy models.That, however, is not to suggest that you may frolic in a state of undress ; being carted to the mental asylum would almost certainly rain your parade (pun intended, you ask?).

Revisit your childhood – float a paper boat or two. Get artsy by painting a blustery urban landscape. If you fail to find yourself creatively inspired, call in sick and watch TV all day – the rain offers a host of plausible excuses.

If it’s drizzling outside as you read this, take your eyes off this dreary blog and step out. Having you do so would be my good deed for the day.

There’s something about watching a flick with friends that turns the most dispassionate moviegoer into a red-blooded critic. The tub of popcorn bears witness to the pithy adjectives that pop out by the frame, much to the annoyance of the people around.

The piquancy of Rowdy Rathore brings a worn plot to life. Prabhudeva pours liberal amounts of rasam into a movie that smoulders promisingly in the first half before turning positively incendiary. Peppered with loony action choreography and comedy that will have you clutching your belly hard enough to leave welts on it, it is a great tribute to the surrealism that South Indian directors swear by.

Set in rustic India (read Bihar) and Mumbai, Rowdy Rathore is replete with elements from a gamut of movies. Akshay Kumar plays two roles – an ACP itching to liberate a one-horse town from a thug’s stranglehold and an unremarkable thief who is identical in appearance to the former. Their paths inevitably cross and our small-time hoodlum finds himself in the boots of a savior.

Were it not for the sparkling screenplay and eye-popping action, the movie would be as damp a squib as Poonam Pandey’s latest promise. Thankfully, Prabhudeva hits the bull’s eye on every count. Akshay does justice to both his roles and Sonakshi Sinha proves that there’s more to her credit than a superstar father. Not once does the plot become flaccid ; it stays crisp throughout. The paan-chewing ganglord (Nassar*) provides comic relief and moments of outrage in equal measure. On the flip side, the soundtrack, which is by no means a letdown, has one song too many.

Rowdy Rathore is the kind of fare you would expect at a chaat stall – not remotely nourishing or nutritious. However, it’s a superbly spiced movie that demands that you bounce on your seat, whistle, clap and cheer when a goon falls on his face. Do watch it at a multiplex and with multiple tubs of popcorn – your jaws will work overtime as your eyes and ears take in Prabhudeva’s genius.

8/10
*Cast names: Wikipedia

Much has been exclaimed about India’s emergence as an industrial and economic powerhouse. Most of us have heard at least one ‘made-in-India’ success story. Entrepreneurial acumen has finally found favor in Indian society.

Allow me to hold the alarm clock to your left ear. It’s time you woke up ; the truth is a far cry from this fanciful Indian dream.

The average twenty-something Indian is tethered to the great middle-class calling : getting a secure job. His ambitions are dismissed as quixotic or stupid. After all, it’s almost impossible to survive a stampede in a crowd numbering in the billions.

Inquisitiveness assumes painful proportions in middle-class India. The neighbors want to know whether your parents’ offspring has finally begun getting paychecks.

“Where does your son work? Mine works for Tata Motors. He’s a marketing executive.”

“Have you graduated? Great! Where do you work?”

“Oh, I have founded my own company. Two friends of mine are my partners in this venture.”

The aunties and uncles in the neighborhood do not find you enterprising or intelligent. Never does it dawn on them that founding an enterprise is infinitely more fulfilling than living from the last day of one month to that of the next.

You have blasphemed. The Cult of The Paycheck does not brook insubordination.

Without a salary coming in every thirty days, you can kiss your shaadi prospects goodbye. Your girlfriend’s parents do not want their princess roughing it out with a man whose finances won’t be in the green for the foreseeable future.

What they don’t see, alas, is a man who hasn’t shredded his passions to appease the world. They banished their ambitions so long ago that they have forgotten that the stars seemed within arm’s reach when they were younger.

How many entrepreneurs, artists, writers and musicians has India lost to her middle-class’s security mania? Must every Indian with a passionate soul venture abroad to find boots that fit?

The great Indian middle-class must stop looking at the ground. The sky begins where their ankles do and rises beyond human comprehension.

An axis of power in the underworld comes off its hinges, resulting in a power-struggle between the two biggest factions. A cop (Rana Dagubatti) turns vigilante and guns down a baddie only to be suspended. Meanwhile, the Police creates a secret department to rein in the warring gangsters and recruits our trigger-happy friend. Deja Vu? Bollywood serves up yet another plateful of cliches.

Although all but done to death, the cops-versus-gangsters premise isn’t all that bad when executed well. Alas, Ram Gopal Varma’s obsession with unorthodox production continues. The cameras whirl, spin, do cartwheels and occasionally give the feel of a sting operation. ‘Nauseated’ wouldn’t be an inaccurate description of how I felt as the frames hit the 70 MM screen.

The plot, which begins quite promisingly, quickly becomes horribly confusing as the various elements coagulate into an incomprehensible disaster. Amitabh Bachchan’s portrayal of the stereotypical don-turned-politician is, to put it kindly, jarring. Sanjay Dutt pulls off a good performance as the turncoat cop. Vijay Raaz’s effort is best described as passable. Watch out for Madhu Shalini*’s portrayal of the tough gangster’s moll and partner in crime.

The dialogues are tepid, the songs torturous and the costumes unconvincing. The fight sequences are rendered in Kollywood-esque kitsch. Rana Dagubatti ought to work on neutralizing his accent : his South Indian pronunciations dampen an otherwise-crackling role.

Watch Department if you like the sound of bones snapping and guns going off every five minutes. Do stop by at the chemist’s on the way ; you will need an aspirin to survive this one.

5.5/10

* Cast names: Wikipedia.

One is often exhorted to ‘get off the beaten track’, ‘think out of the box’ and ‘be a trailblazer’. The aphorisms spring up dime-a-dozen ; let your mind glue a few words together and you will soon be able to contribute to the list.

However, it’s rather tough to do what nobody else has done. The unknown often disconcerts the human mind. There are no roadmaps or signposts. The denizens come from a mixed bag – the samaritans are often indistinguishable from those who wish to ensnare you.

Is that reason enough to cozy up in the rut? I think not!

An envious man’s agony is much worse than that of a person who has been stung by a bee. Those who see you coming up on their rear-view mirrors will do their best to ensure that they don’t show on yours.

On the other hand, overconfidence has damned many an enterprising soul. One who aspires to chart the uncharted merits applause, but one mustn’t forget that there could be impediments along the way.

There is no GPS in the wilderness of ambition. Sensibility is your guide. However, the overbearing emotion of panic often cloaks itself in ‘common sense’, compelling you to cast away the best opportunities. Prudence and paranoia aren’t first cousins, let alone siblings.

Your aspirations are beautiful. The zenith awaits you. With patience on your side and your conscience watching over you, your ambitions shall certainly embrace you in their glorious arms.