Lapses of lingy…

The BAFTA awards were WAY MORE interesting than the Oscars this year.

So, whilst Oscar compeer Ellen DeGeneres cracked silly jokes and vacuumed people’s feet, compeer Ross Jonathan, a film reviewer by profession (amongst other things), delivered such clever lines, which were extremely well-informed, not to mention, a delightful mix of raw sarcasm and humour.

He expressed how cultural nuances and local humour are lost in translation due to shitty sub-titles and how since, he happens to be a huge fan of Asian cinema, The Departed, which won several awards, was an inferior remake of the original, a Hong Kong film called ‘Infernal Affairs’. Or something to that effect.

On a lighter note, he described one of the award-givers, this blonde Brit actress as one of those women who look sexy in anything. Not surprisingly, she walked on to the stage wearing the strangest looking gown ever. And yes, she still looked like a million bucks.

He also discovered, since the release of the movie, that the Queen (of England), besides all her worthy attributes, is supersexy too.

Aamir Khan gave away an award along with a Brit actress, whilst most obviously reading out his lines from the tele-prompter, in staccato mode. The camera panned for a brief second to Ronnie Screwwala, the big boss of UTV, which produced Rang De Basanti, starring Ammir Khan. Is it coincidence or serendipity, that both these gentlemen were present?

Ann V Coates, a film editor who was awarded a lifetime award-type, gave a fantastic speech, not forgetting to mention how one who gets to look hotties like George Clooney and Robert Redford in the eye, cannot enjoy her job.

The venue for the BAFTAs was the scintillating Royal Opera House, and I mean it was scintillating. On top of the stage, was mounted a humongous replication of the BAFTA award, a golden mask.

The ceiling had a mirror. Hence, it felt like there were two BAFTAs, one on the floor and the other on the ceiling. Thus creating a dramatic effect.

And yet amidst such grandeur, there was immensely humility in that there were no sexy gown-clad gals whose primary job it is to look sexy, whilst waiting for the award-givers to announce the names of the winners, before handing the statuette to them to be given away to the awardees. No sir-ry.

Here, the award-givers had to walk onto the stage bearing the weight of the BAFTA award, themselves.

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My friend S has the most exquisite elfin features. Think Natalie Imbruglia. Dolores O’Riordan (lead singer of the Cranberries). She also has a classic sense of style, wit, intelligence and common sense. But her parents who are desperately tried to marry her off, think she needs to gain weight, because they’ve for some reason, equated her single status with her thinness.

So, they registered her for a weight-gain programme by a media-savvy fitness moghul whose fitness chain in my opinion is a first-class con job. Besides spending a ton of money on this, she is to take vitamins regularly. She also got a teeth job, to give them more shape. They also suggested rectifying her chin, which means nothing short of surgery. Finally, my friend put her foot down and refused this violation of the highest order.

When she gets annoyed, the parents look hurt (and in fact are hurt) and the atmosphere in the house deteriorates exponentially.

This should explain why S post Class X has constantly found an excuse to live away from home. First for studies, then a job in the same city, which was too far from her parent’s home, and then a job out-of-station.

Now, she lives in Mumbai. They live in another metropolis. The folks were down recently and I popped over for a visit. I expected two immensely annoying individuals. But surprisingly, they were warm, friendly and greeted me with parent-like affection. I found it difficult to believe that two people who were as evolved as this, could suggest a chin job for their daughter! How must it make her feel? Angry or ugly?

If she’s angry I’m not worried. But if she starts feeling ugly, then I am severely worried. It turns out that she is outraged when subject to this constant barrage. And the anger manifests in the form of tears, which she literally chokes on. But, every now and then she does fell ugly and the alternation between these states is proving to be a constant battle. A guy can make her feel ugly, by simply rejecting her — until better sense prevails. Luckily the lead-time is less these days, courtesy constant reminders by another friend and myself, whom she confides in, that is indeed exquisite, in looks and personality.

One day my friend left for work early, and since I stayed over, I got chatting with her parents about life and its complexities over breakfast. Her mom began eulogising about how her daughter has lost weight and what she could do to make it put it back on. Her father explained how she gets extremely upset when they suggest methods of improving her physical appearance. Whilst their mentality annoyed me, I did not doubt for a second that they genuinely cared about this child,
in their own twisted way.

I brought up the issue of self-esteem, and mentioned that the gradual erosion of it is the most dangerous outcome. One’s self-esteem is like a child’s laugh in Peter Pan. When the latter shattered into a million pieces, each piece turned into a fairy. But when in real life, your self-esteem shatters into a million pieces, there are no fairies.
Each piece pricks your spirit, one at a time.

They listened intently to what I had to say. No nagging, only encouragement, I suggested. Yesterday, when I spoke to my friend she said that since she got back from an outstation trip, they’ve been at it less.

I hope this attitude is not short-lived until the next marriage proposal falls apart.

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Most of the male contestants on American Idol seem to have severe ‘boy band’ hangovers. But five of the women contestants are vocal powerhouses.

Lakisha Jones has a BIG voice and a ballsy style of performing. Reminds one of the saying: It ain’t over until the fat lady sings. This lady is fat, but seems very comfortable with her abundant proportions, and wore a sexy, cleavage-hugging cocktail dress, sensuous makeup and bold accessories to match. Two other well-endowed women are making headlines this year — Jennifer Hudson and America Ferrera, the gal from Ugly Betty (power to the fat women of the world!!) Simon, who’s totally bowled over by Jones, a single mom with a four-year old girl, suggested in his usual know-it-all manner that the other 23 book their flights back home.

Another 17-year old (a Mahua-from-Viva lookalike, who also reminds the roomie of moi) called Jordin Sparks, belted out a SPARKLING performance. She’s a bundle of zealous energy and spirit, and her voice is sure to ripen like good vintage wine, as the episodes go by.

And then there’s Melinda Doolittle, whose voice and sheer grit is anything but little. Sabrina Sloan and Stephanie Edwards were impactful too.

Now, Lakisha is black and Melinda is Black and Stephanie is black.

And I’m guessing that Jordin Sparks with her big lips and powerful voice and Sabrina Sloans’ frizzy hair (or is it permed?) and bluesy attitude are both courtesy a teeny-weeny bit of black blood (besides the Latina looks).

AND they are all women.

So, will the this year’s American Idol be a black woman, or at least a woman? Me thinks so.

Interestingly, even though Simon’s honesty often borders on bitchy, the man is the most respected judge on the show, and I mean by the participants, the one’s subjected to his choiciest brickbats. If you visit the web site and read interviews of the participants, everyone of them names him as their favourite judge because he is brutally honest.

He is obviously the best critique of the lot because unlike Randy he doesn’t merely say ‘it doesn’t work for me’. His critique is very tangible and he will be specific about what isn’t working.

Randy’s expressions say more than his verbal feedback, which has a lot of ‘I don’t know man’ and ‘it didn’t work with me’.

Paula has something nice to say about EVERY participant. Now, I suspect it isn’t because she’s ditzy or even benevolent. I this gal’s brief (by the producers of the show) is to be nice, sort of tip the scales, so that the participants are still left with some semblance of self-worth post Simon’s brutal honesty.

Now coming back to Paula this gal seriously needs to fire her current stylist. First, she must get rid of all that big, 70’s hair. Next, no more frocks on the show or big jangly earrings and hip-hop chains. A pedicure to wipe of that ‘gothic-look-gone-awry’ nail polish, which does not complement chubby fingers. Last but not the least, she MUST resist the urge to clap her hands every 30 seconds like a 5-year old, after the clown act.

Beneath the ghastly wardrobe probably lies a nice person, who to her credit stands up to Simon’s megalomaniacal persona.

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Yesterday, I got to listen (by default, courtesy a book award event) to Taufiq Qureshi, an extraordinary percussionist who does fascinating things with his hands, cheeks, mouth and breath

And I by that mean he modulates his voice and breathing rhythms to create the most electronic techno sounds.

Or reproduce the sound of a train slowly chugging along by slapping the hollow of his cheek, really hard, with his hands. As the train leaves the station and gains speed, he alternates his wild movements by beating a drum-like contraption, equally wildly.

Finally the clapping of cheek and drum explode into a crescendo, as the train thunders down the track.

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Yesterday at work an ‘ideas’ meeting eventually degenerated into this ‘us married people with kids’ versus ‘singles’ debate. One married lady passed a severely clichéd statement with full authority: ‘If you don’t get married by a certain age, you never well’. Another married person agreed.

I resisted the urge to blurt out something to the effect of ‘Excuse me but we’re not a statistic, you married cow’.

The discussion brought to mind my good friend K. I met K in 2001 when I first came to Mumbai. She was my colleague, and senior to me by about 4 years, age and work-experience-wise. This gal had a nightmare of a boyfriend; he borrowed a ton of money from her to get started on his business. The business went bust and then he kind of vanished. It was a betrayal of the worst kind.

She split up with him in 2004, a case of good riddance to bad rubbish. Thus began the quest for love and marriage — in that order.

She registered on a matrimonial portal and met several candidates who looked quite worthy online. But once she met them offline, the image quickly disintegrated to ‘the chap with a social IQ of zero’ etc etc. She took a shine to a colleague of hers, but in my opinion she needed to raise the bar and quit noticing such losers.

Simultaneously, her dad placed an ad in the classifieds section of a national daily. It received a response from another anxious father with a son from the same community. K recognised the name of the son, because it turns out he is a prominent designer from Mumbai’s fashion/Bollywood circuit. So, K set out to conduct an inquisition of her own before her parents could enquire further. She mentioned the name to her boss and quickly realised that this chap is gay. Obviously his parents either did not know or they are oblivious to his preferences.

Last October K, aged 33, tied the knot. Apparently her friends introduced her to this chap and the two liked each other, immensely. I could not make it for the wedding due to a prior engagement, but the two popped over to visit me.

It turns out he is not just a ‘nice guy’, but what one could term in society terms as ‘a catch’ — articulate, interesting, tall, lean, loves dogs, books and travel, the usual stuff.

When it comes to that special someone clichés like ‘it is now time to make up your mind’ just work. I can’t sit with a list of wants and tick them off every time I meet someone. The only barometer for love is what you (and by that I mean me) feel for the person and vice-versa, when you stripe him off all that cash and the other consumerist trappings.

Then all you are left with is this chap’s brain. If that doesn’t do it for you (and by that I mean me), forget it.

It’s a fundamental thing, the difference between the way Elizabeth and her best friend Charlotte view life in Jane Austen’s Pride And Prejudice.

I, of course, pride myself on being Elizabeth.

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Relatives have begun plotting their matchmatching strategies once again.

However, as they say one can only bring the mule to the water, but you can’t make him drink.

Because he’s mule-headed and knows exactly what he wants.

I cannot understand this intolerance towards the status of single mules.

At this point the mule is happily choreographing his (or her) own love life.

The mule wants to date whom-so-ever he (I mean she) pleases.

The mule wants to travel and see the world.

The mule wants to make lots of money, write (a book) and sing and experience all those wonderful things that pass most married mules by.

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Being in the same room with not one, but three women who all claim to be PMSing is not a pleasant prospect for any man.

Read that as blaming voracious chocolate cravings and a chronic urge to snap at anyone and at everything, sans provocation — on temperamental hormones. Alicia Silverstone described this condition more glamourously as ‘surfing the crimson wave’ in Clueless.

One unlucky chap, a male friend of the roomies, let’s call him M, was subject to such erratic behaviour most of yesterday. Usually, Slug and the roomie are the ones who make a beeline for chocolates. Slug is the kind of person who buys you a bar of chocolate and then eats it herself. ‘It was calling me’, she says, with a woebegone expression and a whiny sort of tone of voice. The roomie dreams of living in a chocolate house (or some fantasy like that). However, yesterday, I was the one eyeing chocolate. 5-Star, Dairy Milk, any tasteless excuse for a chocolate would do.

The maid conveniently shirked her Sunday morning cleaning. Hence when we got home, our state of hell was further aggravated by the heap of unwashed utensils and grime, in the kitchen sink.

Besides this, the freezer has not been working forever. And the roomie’s hormonal imbalances scaled unbelievable heights – she ended up buying a new fridge. I on the other hand, in a fit of agony, discovered that the erring freezer was mostly to do with the regulator pointing to ‘minimum’ for the past three months or so.

In the midst of a heavy, mooning session about our volatile state of being, M looked on rather sheepishly, obviously thinking that women lack common sense at this particular time of the month.

For long time he could not get in a word, sideways. Then he quipped something to the effect of “I think most women use it as an excuse to get away with anything”.

According to the roomie, her mom gets away with blaming her pop for everything, these three days of the month. And he’s an absolute sport about it.

I added that PMS does make one do strange things. However, some women exploit this condition most effectively. Touché!

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I’ve never been one to swoon over fancy gadgets. But the Sony Ericsson W810i TV commercial, struck a chord, literally.

The ad depicts people in cities who tend to be alone a lot and spend eons of their week commuting by public transport. “I love my commute” goes the punchline, as the visual makes these solo activities seem less cumbersome, with music in one’s ears. I knew that I had to bid farewell to my 2-year old, rickety-looking Nokia 6610.

Music is that one tangible thing, which can uplift spirits, make a moment seem more interesting, tap emotions and feelings that you thought you could never feel again.

Though I’ve never bought anything commercial said by a commercial or for that matter bought the product it is trying to sell, I picked up the W810i, because I loved the commercial. It told a story I could relate it. It played music that stirred something within me.

I wondered if my new acquisition would make me more disconnected and oblivious to the events taking place in my vicinity. Instead, the impact is exactly the opposite.

When I listen to Joan Osbourne’s What If God Was One Of Us or an old Kenny Rogers’ song, I am less consumed by my own thoughts. Instead, I’m noticing every activity taking place in the vicinity VERY closely.

Who’s getting on the bus, who’s getting off, the beggar children scuttling about at the signal, Amul Butter’s take on the latest controversy or scandal on the billboard at the corner of Lucky restaurant.

I love my commute.

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Saw Anurag Kashyap’s Black Friday based on ex-Midday crime reporter S Hussein Zaidi’s book on the 1993 bomb blasts.

The treatment is very different from Parzania. And the situations portrayed are diagrammatically opposite. In Parzania Hindus kill Muslims. In Black Friday Muslims kill Hindus. But both events were reactions to something which happened before, a case of violence breeding violence, a vicious cycle that never leads to peace.

The saddest part is that it is always the innocent and poor people who suffer the most.

Both these films though different in treatment and scenarios, are also similar because they try to tell the truth. This takes so much courage and I applaud the producers, actors and crew who made it happen.

Aditya Srivatav is superb as the impressionable, rebellious and finally desperate villian-turned-police approver Badshah Khan, who testified against Tiger Menon, the mastermind behind the blasts.

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We got to watch Sivamany’s wizardry at Kala Ghoda, last week. He single-handedly banged away (with precision of course) on umpteen percussion instruments, to produce some pretty thunderous sounds. Into the programme, he placed a shield on his chest, very gladiator style, and beat the crap out of it. Of course, the impending racket was music to our ears.

He managed to produce distinct tunes using some of the instruments. and his replication of typical Punjabi and Maharashtrian tempos was great fun. What could have added to the experience was a huge screen, displaying a close-up of the instruments.

But the time one-hour performance began the steps of the Asiatic Library were packed and the fight for a piece of ground to park on, was worth it.

Post Sivamany, Nishant and I headed to Café Paradise, a cosy, little Parsi joint that’s been around in Colaba forever. So have the waiters and owner, according to Nishant.

It’s about the size of Café Churchill, less snazzy though.

We ordered the Sali Ki Murg, a spicy chicken preparation with potato chips sprinkled on top. It went well with roti. Next, a bread pudding with a creamy texture, with a few nuts on top.

As my dad would say, the meal was cheap and good.

What took the cake though were three paintings on the wall. They featured two comic-looking Neanderthal-types, a man and a woman, who are basically, well, naked. In one painting the man was chasing after his gal J Now, WHAT was THAT about?

Larissa and I checked out the lunch buffet @ Rs 222 at Ginseng, a new ‘oriental lounge’ in Khar, right behind the Louis Philippe showroom on Linking Road. We like the price, and ‘oriental lounge’ does have a nice, lazy-Sunday ring to it. The spread comprises appetisers, soup, a soft drink, main course and desserts. The ambience is pretty peaceful, the staff is warm, friendly and polit, but the food is insipid. We uninamously decided not to head back, unless they change the chef.

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