Mister Prime Minister, with all due respect, I’d like to know why it has to be the US Secretary of State, Condoleeza Rice, who has to do the tough talking on your behalf? Why, in spite of corroborated reports and testimonials from Kasab, the lone mujahideen taken alive, (and evidence ratified by the Indian as well as US intelligence) we must still entertain dialogue with a nation, which hasn’t taken the plotters of the Benazir Bhutto assassination to task a year after it was carried out? Why must we negotiate while dealing with a rogue state where the entire judiciary was once imprisoned in an hour’s notice on the rabid orders of a general who ambushed the country’s entire administration? What good is the fact that Mr. Pranab Mukherjee is crying himself hoarse while his Pakistani peers are busy strategising how to ‘plant’ Indian extremist infidels on Pakistani land? Must we still sweet talk a nation which had the temerity to label the morbid events of 26th November, self-plotted?
Why aren’t we instead channeling our energies on how to muster the UN’s express support and flush out the fanatics from their well-plumed hideout? I wage my money and my honour; infantry from the Lashkar-e-Toiba, Jamat ud Dawa or whatever it is they are called, are busy planning their next strike over kakori kebabs and recorded videos that talk about jannat and killing kafirs. Mister Prime Minister, act quick and hit hard, else we might soon have a short-haired loony woman who once proclaimed Kanshi Ram her father, in your esteemed seat.
Mister Vilasrao Deshmukh, you, supporter of agrarian reform, and head of India’s financial capital – could you not do better than be escorted by a once-brilliant-now-redundant Ram Gopal Verma on your rounds of the Taj? Sure, Riteish (I hope your son’s numerologist still spells his name with a single ‘R’) might have bagged a role or two, but look where it got you – no rounds of the Mantralaya with your Z Security bulletproof escort Scorpios in tow. People died in there, bullets in their heads, bodies rotting in six inch-deep water that was used to douse the inferno. And you chose a film-maker for your post samosa-chai rounds. I hope they make a film on you some day, why we even have a director; the ape that directed Deshdrohi, whatever the fuck his name is. You guessed it, sir; you’re in the sequel.
Mister Unnikrishnan, father of Major Sundeep Unnikrishnan, Sir. I had the fortune of seeing you on TV, your stoic acceptance of the fact that your only son was no more. Your bitter recount at the Shivaji Park congregation, of how a khaini-rubbing havaldar refused you entry to the Taj, where you wished to see where your brave son lived his final moments. The havaldar didn’t recognise you; I’ll be damned if any of us ever make that mistake. It would be an honour if someday you told us, students at the ISB, how Sundeep lived. Because his was a life that is truly one in a million.
Mister Narendra Modi, you’re an ace at negotiation. No sooner had the Tatas pulled out of Singur, West Bengal, you had Mister Tata and his history-creating vision, Nano, at your doorstep in Sanand, Gujarat. But I hope Mrs. Karkare (wife of slain Anti-Terrorist Squad Chief Hemant Karkare) showed you one thing. You cannot negotiate with the souls of heroes. No sooner had Hemant Karkare been killed, you flew down to Mumbai, announcing a rupees one crore cash reward to his family. And just about a month back, you were condemning the man for doggedly chasing the culprit behind the Malegaon blasts. Mrs. Karkare doesn’t need your charity, Mister Modi. (And she rightly refused.) The countless Muslims whom you had murdered in 2001, do.
Mister Ratan Tata, sir. I’m sorry the grand old lady of Mumbai, was raped, burnt and torn the way it was. However, hats off to you and your staff, who came fighting back in less than a month’s time. Hats off for initiating a fund that assists not just those who were maimed at the Taj but also those who suffered at VT Station, Cafe Leopold, outside Metro Cinema, and at the Trident. It just shows your generosity and if I may use the word, pedigree. Thank you, sir.
To you, dear reader. Let us question what happens after. Where our votes go, and where our tax money does. Why we must surreptitiously still slip that wad of hundred rupee notes to get that ration card, that telephone connection, that tatkal passport and the driver’s licence? And for heaven’s sake, let’s keep religion out of this. 40% of those killed in the attacks were followers of Islam. They were, like you and me, waiting at VT Station to get back home to their loved ones and watch the latest movie songs over dinner. They were like us, downing a pint to celebrate a raise, an engagement or simply a good day at work, at maybe Leopold Cafe or at Wasabi, The Taj. They were just marked by destiny and time. I’m glad it wasn’t particularly one of us. I’m haunted by the notion that it could be. I don’t know whether a particular branch of the Oxford bookstore banning books by Pakistani authors is right or wrong. (Especially after I saw Harvard and Oxbridge educated Pakistani nationals convincingly voice their idea that the Mumbai carnage was orchestrated by India) I don’t understand how any of this violence begets anything but more violence.
But there’s one thing I’m certain of. The answers have to be had. Be it Pakistan extraditing the culprits to Indian shores to be judged by the Indian Penal Code (which will never ever happen, given Pakistan’s posturing at the moment and if history ever teaches us anything (the Parliament attacks) be it UN (read US) sanctioned pinpointed attacks on mujahideen and terrorist hideouts across Pakistan and Pakistan-Occupied-Kashmir; guns must go and fire, without trial or negotiation; because the moment of negotiation has long gone, and too much patience is but the virtue of an ass. I have seen my country whipped silly for way too long, without occasion, and it’d be a slap on the face of the soldiers, policemen and civilians who died ...if the day of trial (by fire) is not close at hand.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Moi
Five things you could say to people right now:
1. Love is the answer. I don’t have the question.
2. Dear Santa, I want:
a) a bungee jumping cord that won’t break b) a metabolism that doesn’t give away my habits
c) someone to seriously take politicians (in power and the ones in corporate houses and around us) to task
d) a buoyant economy when we pass out
e) to be able to be you someday in some measure
3. Listen. Open the door. Walk on the outer side of the kerb. Speak softly. Say ‘thank you’. Pass the salt.
4. Wait.
5. If we all liked each other equally, I’d be dead by now.
6. How about a ‘thank you’? Not a lunch, beer, or a DVD or some such perishable. Just a thank you, you piece of shit?
1. Love is the answer. I don’t have the question.
2. Dear Santa, I want:
a) a bungee jumping cord that won’t break b) a metabolism that doesn’t give away my habits
c) someone to seriously take politicians (in power and the ones in corporate houses and around us) to task
d) a buoyant economy when we pass out
e) to be able to be you someday in some measure
3. Listen. Open the door. Walk on the outer side of the kerb. Speak softly. Say ‘thank you’. Pass the salt.
4. Wait.
5. If we all liked each other equally, I’d be dead by now.
6. How about a ‘thank you’? Not a lunch, beer, or a DVD or some such perishable. Just a thank you, you piece of shit?
5 ways to win your heart:
1. Keep me interested. Write a book I won’t forget or make a meal I’ll talk about.
2. Prove to me that the product of beauty and brains is not a constant.
3. Improvise. Surprise. And be game for a mutual turn.
4. Respect is non-negotiable two-way traffic.
5. Be around when I’m close to the ground.
Seven things that cross your mind a lot
1. It could have been better.
2. It could have been worse.
3. Every man is an island.
4. How do they do it? How are they like that?
5. Why wasn’t I born in the forties (so I could be in my twenties when Woodstock 69 happened) Why am I not Jack Nicholson?
6. The possibilities in five years.
7. 9 to 5 isn’t it.
Four turn-ons.
Depth, words, beauty, intellect.
Three things you want to do before you die:
1. See the world, make the world see me.
2. Be of some good to very many.
3. Live life many times over and have the power not to let it affect me.
One confession:
Drinks don't affect me, so ot's never coming. Haha
Sunday, December 14, 2008
pre-ISB etchings
I could never imagine I’d ever stop loving writing.
Flashback seven years back, if you will, and I can see myself, 22, a bit on the heavier side, (not the ‘lazy-flabby’ heavy sorts but the heaviness that comes with days of an office-hotel regime and bad but inexpensive permutations of chicken sagwala-butterchicken-chicken lazeez-chicken dopiazza-i don’t-care-as-long-as-its-chicken at inexpensive eateries. 22, with a 7feet by 5 feet plywood girdled apology of a hotel room at Crawford Market, Mumbai, where for a month, assaulted by smelly farts from the loudmouth salesman in the next room, I almost contemplated going back home to Kolkata.
But then, mercifully, I discovered the Gateway of India and Marine Drive. 11 pm sharp, everyday, armed with my pack of Wills Navy Cuts, I’d lean against the metal board at the Gateway that reads ‘Mumbai’ and smoke my mandatory two ciggies. Watch the waves lap the stony banks, watch tongawallahs throatily haggle the day’s last ride and champi wallahs clink their glassy wares. On occasion, get a lucky glimpse of Gautam Singhania escorting stilletoed angels on his speedboat for a party on his private yatch. Ah, well, someday maybe. Maybe never, but there’re no taxes on dreaming.
For six years, I wrote, re-wrote and saw on billboards and dailies, the adverts that validated my existence as a copywriter. Advertising award books, blessed with the brilliance of greats such as Bill Bernbach, David Ogilvy, John Hegarty, Saatchi, Burnett, David Droga, Marcello Serpa, and lesser-known but equally competent men and women from South America, Singapore, London and Thailand, crippled my bookshelves with their weight. But that was then.
Then came the crutches of the inept – ‘hinglish’ to begin with. I scoured the papers for a single decently written ad, my search coming to nought. Hinglish, opiate of the masses (What your bahana is) while a fantastic tool, became a damning formula. Writers stopped reading. Clients stopped listening. Popular phrases that made a mockery of all things noble include: ‘Make the logo bigger.’ ‘Gimme a direct headline’, ‘How about so-and-so star? His going rate’s cheap.’ I Wonder whatever happened to clean, entertaining, well thought-out ads. Craft became secondary, scoring with the new servicing trainee or where the weekend party would be at, took over. Before I’m misunderstood: I too love nursing a tall drink in good company, I love boogeying just as much as any man who makes an honest living, I’m all for a good time, but good work is essential before the beer tastes like beer. I couldn’t think of a single adman I could look up to, and the ones I worshipped had chosen voluntary isolation.
I couldn’t imagine I’d lose my love for writing, but there, creativity by consensus mothered my dreams. So be it. I could do better.
An industry shift seemed a clear way out. Wait, an industry shift where I could leverage my prior experience. Voila, the magic 3-letter word. So this year I applied to the ISB. Slaved over the essays, and Zumba notwithstanding, got the interview call. To cut the long story short, the interview went well, all of its 21 minutes, and I finally got the ‘yes’ that seemed sweeter than a beloved’s. I still love advertising – you only have to youtube ‘Citreon’, ‘Nike’, ‘Ikea dog’, ‘Johnnie Walker Android’, ‘Skittles’ or ‘Halo 3’ to know what I’m talking about. But till the time I meet someone who can actually pull off these gems, I’d rather take charge from the other end of the table.
And now, if you’ll kindly excuse me, there’s this chicken reshmi kebab that requires my urgent attention.
Flashback seven years back, if you will, and I can see myself, 22, a bit on the heavier side, (not the ‘lazy-flabby’ heavy sorts but the heaviness that comes with days of an office-hotel regime and bad but inexpensive permutations of chicken sagwala-butterchicken-chicken lazeez-chicken dopiazza-i don’t-care-as-long-as-its-chicken at inexpensive eateries. 22, with a 7feet by 5 feet plywood girdled apology of a hotel room at Crawford Market, Mumbai, where for a month, assaulted by smelly farts from the loudmouth salesman in the next room, I almost contemplated going back home to Kolkata.
But then, mercifully, I discovered the Gateway of India and Marine Drive. 11 pm sharp, everyday, armed with my pack of Wills Navy Cuts, I’d lean against the metal board at the Gateway that reads ‘Mumbai’ and smoke my mandatory two ciggies. Watch the waves lap the stony banks, watch tongawallahs throatily haggle the day’s last ride and champi wallahs clink their glassy wares. On occasion, get a lucky glimpse of Gautam Singhania escorting stilletoed angels on his speedboat for a party on his private yatch. Ah, well, someday maybe. Maybe never, but there’re no taxes on dreaming.
For six years, I wrote, re-wrote and saw on billboards and dailies, the adverts that validated my existence as a copywriter. Advertising award books, blessed with the brilliance of greats such as Bill Bernbach, David Ogilvy, John Hegarty, Saatchi, Burnett, David Droga, Marcello Serpa, and lesser-known but equally competent men and women from South America, Singapore, London and Thailand, crippled my bookshelves with their weight. But that was then.
Then came the crutches of the inept – ‘hinglish’ to begin with. I scoured the papers for a single decently written ad, my search coming to nought. Hinglish, opiate of the masses (What your bahana is) while a fantastic tool, became a damning formula. Writers stopped reading. Clients stopped listening. Popular phrases that made a mockery of all things noble include: ‘Make the logo bigger.’ ‘Gimme a direct headline’, ‘How about so-and-so star? His going rate’s cheap.’ I Wonder whatever happened to clean, entertaining, well thought-out ads. Craft became secondary, scoring with the new servicing trainee or where the weekend party would be at, took over. Before I’m misunderstood: I too love nursing a tall drink in good company, I love boogeying just as much as any man who makes an honest living, I’m all for a good time, but good work is essential before the beer tastes like beer. I couldn’t think of a single adman I could look up to, and the ones I worshipped had chosen voluntary isolation.
I couldn’t imagine I’d lose my love for writing, but there, creativity by consensus mothered my dreams. So be it. I could do better.
An industry shift seemed a clear way out. Wait, an industry shift where I could leverage my prior experience. Voila, the magic 3-letter word. So this year I applied to the ISB. Slaved over the essays, and Zumba notwithstanding, got the interview call. To cut the long story short, the interview went well, all of its 21 minutes, and I finally got the ‘yes’ that seemed sweeter than a beloved’s. I still love advertising – you only have to youtube ‘Citreon’, ‘Nike’, ‘Ikea dog’, ‘Johnnie Walker Android’, ‘Skittles’ or ‘Halo 3’ to know what I’m talking about. But till the time I meet someone who can actually pull off these gems, I’d rather take charge from the other end of the table.
And now, if you’ll kindly excuse me, there’s this chicken reshmi kebab that requires my urgent attention.
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