Waka,Waka,it is June 2010,and indeed,it is time for Africa,with South Africa hosting the world's most widely watched sporting event,the Football World Cup.As the tournament progresses,however,another fiercely contested battle is going on behind the scenes,and it may well go down to the wire: the title of IDIOT OF THE TOURNAMENT is at stake,and for now,there are many bidders.May the best man win.
Leading from the front is Brazil's in-form Luis Fabiano,who seems unable to understand that hands---oh yes,HANDS---are NOT to be used in a game of FOOTball.Well,nobody ever told him that,did they? Or else,why o why would he have handled the ball TWICE to score that now-ignominious goal against Cote d'Ivoire? In doing so,he has inspired not just his countrymen (we saw another ludicrous Hand of God attempt against Portugal),but also the gritty Serbs( They did it twice,mind you.No competition on that count.) as well as the Argentine Diego Milito,who (inadvertently?) pushed the ball with his hand for Demichelis to score against Greece(Dear,dear,everything's going against the Greeks these days,innit?).Now,if the referee was correct in allowing that horrendous goal,which merited a yellow card if nothing more,then why Kaka was sent off for the gentlest of pushes is anyone's guess.
Which brings us to the next big talking point: the refereeing we've seen in this World Cup is in a class of its own.Welcome to the era of trigger-happy officials.Free kicks doled out for fun and bookings for offences as serious as a heated conversation.Get a grip! Football is a contact sport:there will be words,there will be the hard tackle.C'mon,they are integral to the game!What do you expect? "Cho chweet,the cuddly defender kissed the cutie striker for scoring a goal...Mmmwaaah!" You want to hear that,ref? Geez.
And yes,let's hear it for France,whose soap-operatic fortunes have put Ekta Kapoor permanently out of business,what with Anelka and Co. making saas-bahu squabbles seem so,so yesterday.Italy,too, have crashed out,with their 'water-tight' defence evidently in the hands of the wrong plumber.England,too, have had embarassing situations of their own,not to mention Robert Green's expert goalkeeping.
The noisy (mind if I say IRRITATING?) vuvuzelas,that embarassment of a ball (the Jabulani,in case you are still groping for appropriate swearwords) and the dour,defensive football on display form the perfect backdrop for a contest of idiocy on an unprecedented scale.Of course,Argentina's breathtaking game,Portugal's magnificent 7-0 and Maicon's/Villa's wonder strikes do provide the semblance of a silver lining,but by and large,World Cup 2010 has been an eyesore,with even mighty Brazil opting for a goalless stalemate versus Portugal.Yuck.
Now for the announcement.Hold your breath.
And the winner is...you guessed it,sour old Raymond Domenech. He is our undisputed IDIOT OF THE TOURNAMENT so far(as on June 26,2010).The French manager stormed out of the tourney,refusing to shake the hand of his opposite number,the coach of the victorious South African team whose coup-de-grace effectively shattered whatever wild dreams the wretched French side still entertained.The Bafana Bafana didn't seem to mind,however,having eked out a historic win to bow out on a high.
But then,it isn't over till it's over,and we could still be in for a masterpiece of idiocy.Remember 2006? Zidane's ridiculous headbutt came as late as the final,that too,with hardly any time left on the clock. Greater idiots may yet step forward and rob dear Raymond of his prized position.Watch out.
Till then,Monsieur Domenech,heartiest congratulations.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
RED ALERT :How to tackle the Maoist menace...
The defining image of the week is of a victorious West Bengal police officer carrying a bamboo pole, the corpse of a slain Naxalite tied to it, his face exultant, his body language (appallingly) euphoric. To quote the Times of India, “The Centre rightly criticises the way the bodies were borne. Suggesting lack of respect for the dead, the images aren’t good PR.”
This unspeakably barbaric, insensitive act, apart from bringing a bad name to security personnel, also indicates a failure of the imagination: is this the way we are going to fight the (in the Prime Minister’s words) “gravest internal security threat” facing the country? It seems as if security personnel are whipping themselves up to a frenzy of ‘korbo, lorbo, jitbo re’ (We’ll do it, we’ll fight it out, we’ll win!), a credo which is every bit as ineffectual as in the IPL for the hopeless Knight Riders. Even the army is---unfortunately--- following suit. It is reportedly drawing up plans to raise five divisions, or 50,000 soldiers, of crack anti-Naxalite commandos.
They are losing the bigger picture...Sorry; WE are losing the bigger picture. The fight against the Maoist menace is an exercise in tightrope walking, not an out-and-out conventional war. We are trying to redress a long history of torture. We seek to bring disillusioned tribals into democracy’s fold. And the path, ladies and gentlemen, is NOT a straight one.
The Naxalite problem is basically the result of terrible misgovernance in tribal areas. Corrupt officials/policemen/politicians (take your pick), unscrupulous forest contractors/land-grabbers (take your pick again!) and illegal mining have forced young tribals to take to arms out of sheer desperation. And to think, we expect to reverse all this through mere force... As in the northeast, as in Jammu & Kashmir, the deployment of the military can only aggravate the problem, creating a perception of the Indian state at war with its own people. This, interestingly, is PRECISELY what the rebels want. Are we willing to concede them this victory?
Yes, the Red Corridor needs to be won back inch by inch.Yes, we need an iron hand sometimes. But the only road ahead is one by which tribals can finally get the security, development and good governance they deserve. Easier said than done, but that is the only way out, the ONLY way to address the grievances of the tribal populace. Individual states have to raise highly trained local anti-Naxalite commando force in the Greyhounds to tackle the Maoists, following it up with development (not just promises now, we need the REAL stuff, and quick) and an attractive surrender-and-rehabilitation scheme to wean off middle-level Naxalite cadre, a la Andhra Pradesh( the only state to have beaten the scourge so far).
Tribals make up a microscopic, if significant, minority of the population. Even the so-called “tribal states”, Jharkhand and Chhattisgarh, are only 26 per cent and 32 per cent tribal,respectively.So,the tribal colour is perpetually (and we realise now, conspicuously) absent in the Great Indian Political Rainbow.Tribals cannot look up to a Mayawati or a Mamata or a Karunanidhi for deliverance. This lack of political space creates a sense of emptiness that the Naxals, dressed up as Guevaras, so readily fill up. Grassroots-level inductment of tribal youth in local politics will succeed much more than a hundred armed commandos in furthering the counter-insurgency agenda.
Till then, we can best avoid parading corpses as trophies. In the war against the inhuman Maoists (who blew up the Jnaneshwari Express not so long ago), let our humanity prevail.
This unspeakably barbaric, insensitive act, apart from bringing a bad name to security personnel, also indicates a failure of the imagination: is this the way we are going to fight the (in the Prime Minister’s words) “gravest internal security threat” facing the country? It seems as if security personnel are whipping themselves up to a frenzy of ‘korbo, lorbo, jitbo re’ (We’ll do it, we’ll fight it out, we’ll win!), a credo which is every bit as ineffectual as in the IPL for the hopeless Knight Riders. Even the army is---unfortunately--- following suit. It is reportedly drawing up plans to raise five divisions, or 50,000 soldiers, of crack anti-Naxalite commandos.
They are losing the bigger picture...Sorry; WE are losing the bigger picture. The fight against the Maoist menace is an exercise in tightrope walking, not an out-and-out conventional war. We are trying to redress a long history of torture. We seek to bring disillusioned tribals into democracy’s fold. And the path, ladies and gentlemen, is NOT a straight one.
The Naxalite problem is basically the result of terrible misgovernance in tribal areas. Corrupt officials/policemen/politicians (take your pick), unscrupulous forest contractors/land-grabbers (take your pick again!) and illegal mining have forced young tribals to take to arms out of sheer desperation. And to think, we expect to reverse all this through mere force... As in the northeast, as in Jammu & Kashmir, the deployment of the military can only aggravate the problem, creating a perception of the Indian state at war with its own people. This, interestingly, is PRECISELY what the rebels want. Are we willing to concede them this victory?
Yes, the Red Corridor needs to be won back inch by inch.Yes, we need an iron hand sometimes. But the only road ahead is one by which tribals can finally get the security, development and good governance they deserve. Easier said than done, but that is the only way out, the ONLY way to address the grievances of the tribal populace. Individual states have to raise highly trained local anti-Naxalite commando force in the Greyhounds to tackle the Maoists, following it up with development (not just promises now, we need the REAL stuff, and quick) and an attractive surrender-and-rehabilitation scheme to wean off middle-level Naxalite cadre, a la Andhra Pradesh( the only state to have beaten the scourge so far).
Tribals make up a microscopic, if significant, minority of the population. Even the so-called “tribal states”, Jharkhand and Chhattisgarh, are only 26 per cent and 32 per cent tribal,respectively.So,the tribal colour is perpetually (and we realise now, conspicuously) absent in the Great Indian Political Rainbow.Tribals cannot look up to a Mayawati or a Mamata or a Karunanidhi for deliverance. This lack of political space creates a sense of emptiness that the Naxals, dressed up as Guevaras, so readily fill up. Grassroots-level inductment of tribal youth in local politics will succeed much more than a hundred armed commandos in furthering the counter-insurgency agenda.
Till then, we can best avoid parading corpses as trophies. In the war against the inhuman Maoists (who blew up the Jnaneshwari Express not so long ago), let our humanity prevail.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
The Enigma of Arrival
Sahasranshu died yesterday.That much is fact; but the rest is...
Okay,okay,you can’t blame the people,they hardly knew anything about the circumstances that led to his passing.At least not as much as I did.But have you really HEARD what they’ve been saying??? Whoa,talk about weird. Rubbish! He didn’t “succumb” to any metaphysical mumbo-jumbo,nor was he consumed by an obsession that led him to suicide...It’s simple: I KILLED HIM.
I’m Kabita, fifteen going on sixteen,five feet and six inches,dusky, successful student and unsuccessful dancer. I’ve known Sahasranshu for the past five years,since the day he told me I was VERY pretty.I was in turns his friend, confidante,inamorata,MURDERER and now---alas!---his obituarist.I’ve come to tell you his story: the story of an enigma,THE ENIGMA OF ARRIVAL.Allow me.
To tell you his story,you might want me to tell you our story;our passionate,but insincere romance that led to his murder and my vindication,details of how we held each other,details of this and details of that.Sorry,I won’t oblige.I do not deal in the lurid,I’m soft-spoken,nuanced,a lady .Suffice it to say that we were close enough for me to know the exact date of his Great Escape,the exact location of the black spot on his lower lip,the exact pattern of his fingerprints on my legs and the exact moment of his death(Of course,he didn’t die as soon as I pressed the trigger,but that is besides the point).
I told him this,time and again,“Baby,why can’t you be normal for a change? Why can’t you be like the others? People think I’m dating a jerk!”.But would he listen?
He always dreamt of the Great Escape,he dreamt colourless,peaceful dreams of beauty,music and yes,of his tall,beautiful,unattainable desiree even as other people saw armies in their dreams(colourful dreams,powerful dreams,dreams full of activity,destruction and death):red armies blowing up jeeps and trains, green armies gunning down people in hotels and railway platforms, saffron armies burning babies,raping nuns...It wasn’t his fault,not at all. The time was at fault,the circumstances were(You see,he could NEVER be like everyone else,couldn’t even ****ing DREAM like everyone else),not him,not him...Born into a slaughterhouse of the senses with hope and despair fighting their violent battles before his eyes,day in and day out,he always dreamt of the Great Escape.He finally escaped on the day they bought the seventeenth Drum Of Hopelessness(Without so much as kissing me goodbye).He beat the odds and set sail,hoping to reach the distant Elsewheres of his imagination.BUT DID HE REALLY ARRIVE?
The day he reached the shore,he was too cold from the journey to hear anything.Thank Goodness he didn’t.The sound in the air wasn’t what he would have imagined: one of desolation,of mystery,of the emptiness of arrival.Contrary to his captain’s words(“There.You are there.Your journey’s over”),he was no longer Here,nor There,nor in those distant Elsewheres of his imagination he’d so desperately sought out.He’d become a citizen of a rootless,terrible Nowhere that would draw him in,eat at his soul.My only thought was: God help you now,my atheist Sehraan,God help you now.
Sure enough,he moved from that silence and desolation,that blankness,to a gateway---a gateway that led him to the noisy bazaars of the breezy City of Everlasting Hope(or so it ought to be),its roadside cafes,its art galleries and its state-of-the-art theatre of dreams(Big dreams,bigger dreams,dreams that shrink,dreams that bloat,dreams-that-are-just-dreams-and-nothing-else and of course,other kinds of dreams...)its pubs and discos,its criminals and heroes.He was overwhelmed,sucked in,delighted.He felt at home,even after having escaped from it(Though he did send me a letter now and then,oh-so-long and oh-so-unromantic, telling me how horrible it felt to be away,how desperately he wanted to come back ).He encountered all kinds of people there:fat men,who gave him food,gave him drink,chatted with him; thin men,who stroked their beards,beamed at him,and smiled at his accent; insufferable women who nagged him to misery; and exciting,alluring women who existed without really existing.
Then one fine day,he finally felt like a fraud,crushed under the weight of his lies and lost in a swamp of frustration,alienated,shown a final proof of his terrible uselessness.His feeling of adventure had given way to panic. He became aware of the rule of that cruel,ever-present breeze : he had to pay the price of entering the city.He had to attend The Lottery.He could win,which would send him back home(back to the cesspit of ignominy) or,he could lose,which meant staying on(further uprooting,further harshness,further torture): Quite a double-bind...In any case,he won.They led him to a door leading to the port of his arrival.BUT THE SHIP WAS NO LONGER THERE.He could neither stay,nor go back...He was left with nothing.No longer an energetic,expletive-spewing adolescence; but certainly not the all-knowing maturity of age.Neither rootedness,nor broad-mindedness.Neither comfort,nor adventure.Sehraan the traveller had lived out his life,but the enigma of arrival refused to stop tormenting him.
He couldn’t come to me,so I went to him,observed him as closely as I could.
He’d become a retard,lost to life,lost to human company.A wretch: mad,intolerable.
I asked him to come back,but he didn’t.He spoke about me to those who still wanted to hear,but waited patiently for that tall,beautiful aim.He dreamt the dreams that he was used to dreaming.He did not adapt to allow for me,to allow for a new life.I hated that.I hated him.I shot him down...
Yes,Sahasranshu died last night,and I KILLED HIM.
Okay,okay,you can’t blame the people,they hardly knew anything about the circumstances that led to his passing.At least not as much as I did.But have you really HEARD what they’ve been saying??? Whoa,talk about weird. Rubbish! He didn’t “succumb” to any metaphysical mumbo-jumbo,nor was he consumed by an obsession that led him to suicide...It’s simple: I KILLED HIM.
I’m Kabita, fifteen going on sixteen,five feet and six inches,dusky, successful student and unsuccessful dancer. I’ve known Sahasranshu for the past five years,since the day he told me I was VERY pretty.I was in turns his friend, confidante,inamorata,MURDERER and now---alas!---his obituarist.I’ve come to tell you his story: the story of an enigma,THE ENIGMA OF ARRIVAL.Allow me.
To tell you his story,you might want me to tell you our story;our passionate,but insincere romance that led to his murder and my vindication,details of how we held each other,details of this and details of that.Sorry,I won’t oblige.I do not deal in the lurid,I’m soft-spoken,nuanced,a lady .Suffice it to say that we were close enough for me to know the exact date of his Great Escape,the exact location of the black spot on his lower lip,the exact pattern of his fingerprints on my legs and the exact moment of his death(Of course,he didn’t die as soon as I pressed the trigger,but that is besides the point).
I told him this,time and again,“Baby,why can’t you be normal for a change? Why can’t you be like the others? People think I’m dating a jerk!”.But would he listen?
He always dreamt of the Great Escape,he dreamt colourless,peaceful dreams of beauty,music and yes,of his tall,beautiful,unattainable desiree even as other people saw armies in their dreams(colourful dreams,powerful dreams,dreams full of activity,destruction and death):red armies blowing up jeeps and trains, green armies gunning down people in hotels and railway platforms, saffron armies burning babies,raping nuns...It wasn’t his fault,not at all. The time was at fault,the circumstances were(You see,he could NEVER be like everyone else,couldn’t even ****ing DREAM like everyone else),not him,not him...Born into a slaughterhouse of the senses with hope and despair fighting their violent battles before his eyes,day in and day out,he always dreamt of the Great Escape.He finally escaped on the day they bought the seventeenth Drum Of Hopelessness(Without so much as kissing me goodbye).He beat the odds and set sail,hoping to reach the distant Elsewheres of his imagination.BUT DID HE REALLY ARRIVE?
The day he reached the shore,he was too cold from the journey to hear anything.Thank Goodness he didn’t.The sound in the air wasn’t what he would have imagined: one of desolation,of mystery,of the emptiness of arrival.Contrary to his captain’s words(“There.You are there.Your journey’s over”),he was no longer Here,nor There,nor in those distant Elsewheres of his imagination he’d so desperately sought out.He’d become a citizen of a rootless,terrible Nowhere that would draw him in,eat at his soul.My only thought was: God help you now,my atheist Sehraan,God help you now.
Sure enough,he moved from that silence and desolation,that blankness,to a gateway---a gateway that led him to the noisy bazaars of the breezy City of Everlasting Hope(or so it ought to be),its roadside cafes,its art galleries and its state-of-the-art theatre of dreams(Big dreams,bigger dreams,dreams that shrink,dreams that bloat,dreams-that-are-just-dreams-and-nothing-else and of course,other kinds of dreams...)its pubs and discos,its criminals and heroes.He was overwhelmed,sucked in,delighted.He felt at home,even after having escaped from it(Though he did send me a letter now and then,oh-so-long and oh-so-unromantic, telling me how horrible it felt to be away,how desperately he wanted to come back ).He encountered all kinds of people there:fat men,who gave him food,gave him drink,chatted with him; thin men,who stroked their beards,beamed at him,and smiled at his accent; insufferable women who nagged him to misery; and exciting,alluring women who existed without really existing.
Then one fine day,he finally felt like a fraud,crushed under the weight of his lies and lost in a swamp of frustration,alienated,shown a final proof of his terrible uselessness.His feeling of adventure had given way to panic. He became aware of the rule of that cruel,ever-present breeze : he had to pay the price of entering the city.He had to attend The Lottery.He could win,which would send him back home(back to the cesspit of ignominy) or,he could lose,which meant staying on(further uprooting,further harshness,further torture): Quite a double-bind...In any case,he won.They led him to a door leading to the port of his arrival.BUT THE SHIP WAS NO LONGER THERE.He could neither stay,nor go back...He was left with nothing.No longer an energetic,expletive-spewing adolescence; but certainly not the all-knowing maturity of age.Neither rootedness,nor broad-mindedness.Neither comfort,nor adventure.Sehraan the traveller had lived out his life,but the enigma of arrival refused to stop tormenting him.
He couldn’t come to me,so I went to him,observed him as closely as I could.
He’d become a retard,lost to life,lost to human company.A wretch: mad,intolerable.
I asked him to come back,but he didn’t.He spoke about me to those who still wanted to hear,but waited patiently for that tall,beautiful aim.He dreamt the dreams that he was used to dreaming.He did not adapt to allow for me,to allow for a new life.I hated that.I hated him.I shot him down...
Yes,Sahasranshu died last night,and I KILLED HIM.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Raajneeti does a White Tiger,kudos!
Raajneeti, the movie, does to Bollywood what Adiga’s Booker-winning “The White Tiger” did to Indian writing in English. It scrapes off of the much-hyped veneer of” India Shining”, showing instead the rotting, bleeding heart of the world’s largest “democracy”. With characters as gleefully amoral as Adiga’s Balram Halwai, Prakash Jha pulls off a coup with a modern-day Mahabharata spiced up with Coppola’s Godfather, making for a compelling and meaningful celluloid experience. Riveting fare.
Part family drama, part mafia war, it is a story teeming with wonderfully imagined characters: a fiery Dalit in Ajay Devgan, a wily opportunist/bloodthirsty Duryodhana in Manoj Bajpayee, an impulsive firebrand in Arjun Rampal, a sardonic Krishna in the inimitable Nana Patekar(he delivers such wry unforgettables as:”In politics, nothing is good or bad, we only work to serve a (Machiavellian)purpose”) and many others besides, and of course Ranbir Kapoor, yes, RANBIR KAPOOR as Bollywood’s Michael Corleone .Anjum Rajabali has written an inspired script, and the inspirations, Mahabharata and The Godfather, write most of the story themselves.However,it is in his interpretation of Ranbir as Arjuna that he steals everyone’s thunder. Not since Saif Ali Khan as Iago in Omkara has Bollywood seen such a virtuoso performance in a negative role, or indeed such a wonderfully conceived negative role. Ranbir is the suave NYU academic, the rookie who ends up learning the trade of realpolitik faster than everyone else. One scene stands out in memory: the conniving Ranbir sits at his Macintosh laptop, lit cigarette in hand, ostensibly at a loss for ideas. The very next day, he murders a former aide, arm-twists the national media to score a major victory for his camp, and offers to marry Katrina in lieu of financial assistance to his party: unleashing one bloody ace after the other with hair-raising aplomb. The female characters add much-needed emotional intensity to this epic narrative, with Katrina going further by doing a Sonia Gandhi at the fag-end of this blockbuster.Naseerudin Shah pitches in with an endearing cameo. The music is paisa vasool (Wayne Sharp delivers a memorable [and poignant] “Mora Piya”); the actors are stylized with the movie in mind (Thankfully! Imagine Ranbir in his trademark pink T’s in this role!!!); the cinematography is top-notch (Sachin Kumar Krishnan's camera creatively zooms both into the political and domestic arena.) and the dialogues are spot on…One heck of a movie, this.
Throughout, the spotlight is on the filth and gore of the Indian democratic set-up. Murders/rapes are de rigueur. Shakespearean mobs act as stand-ins for public opinion. The media is but a plaything, dancing to the tune of blatantly unscrupulous politicians. Law is flouted at the drop of a handkerchief. Katrina’s speech triggers a mandate on the validity of coasting to electoral success on flimsy sympathy waves. EVERY SINGLE CHARACTER is unprincipled and grey: there are, quite simply, NO good fellahs in the bad, bad game of politics.
Raajneeti is a must-watch, and might even bag an Oscar. Watch this space.
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