Instant justice: How an argument crumbled

(April 19, 2015)

The heat was oppressive. And it’s just April. Identity politics and its attendant vulgarities -- jingoism, mob justice, religious bigotry -- are in full display. And its just the dawn of muscular nationalism in Indian democracy.

I’d be vain if I claim to paint a holistic picture of the scourge. Perhaps some day;  not this weekend. Frustrating episodes tenaciously dog us hacks. This weekend is for deconstructing one such instalment.

10.15 pm, Friday. An hour ahead of crescendo, the temperature had begun to rise at the newsdesk. Nothing unusual. At this leading daily, its always taut nerves in the two hours approaching 11.15pm. Yet, nothing prepared me for the next 15 minutes of stomach churning. 

It began with a news report of what appeared to be another gruesome case of rape and torture. After Jyoti Singh’s forced martyrdom, any story remotely resembling it was “must carry”. 

This instance involved the violation of a three-year-old by the lover of her mother. Reading the headline, copy editor P, desk head R and I let out a collective sigh of horror. It read: “3-year-old raped by mom lover, assaulted with iron rod”.

That hellish image of Jyoti Singh’s innards being pulled out with bare hands by one of her rapists hammered its way back into my mind -- I presume other minds too. God, not again, I thought. Three-year-old. Iron rod inserted into her privates (like in Jyoti Singh’s case). The story was promptly slotted for the opening page of our section. Downhill from thereon.

It would have been an innocuous remark if made by a neighbourhood uncle or aunty. Coming from R, a man who had given 20 years of his life to the profession, it was shattering: “Such people ought to be shot dead. No questions asked.”

Copy editor P agreed with the by now freely used expression. I demurred, but remained unnoticed.

“Now some bloody human rights activists will hold forth on the rapist’s rights,” R continued. “It should be done in Che Guevara style. ‘Did you do it?’ ‘Yes’. Bam!. Instead we will now have a trial that will go on and on.”

I disagreed again, this time assertively.

P let loose. “Why shouldn’t it be? This is so gruesome. There should be no mercy.” R agreed: “There shouldn’t be any shilly-shallying.”

I reminded P of the many cases our own  newspaper had reported where convicted persons were found to be innocent years after he/she had served the sentence.

“But this is a clear cut case,” P protested. Nothing can be “clear cut” until it goes through judicial scrutiny, I said, not bothering to add “sometimes even after judicial scrutiny". P shook her head in disgust.

I continued, “The process of law cannot be circumvented because you and I are emotionally charged.”

P had more though: “There are so many cases where the case has been going on for years.” Notice that she has nothing to say about the investigation and the prosecution here. The blame is implicitly on the court.

I asked, “Show me one such so-called ‘clear-cut case’ where the trial has extended for long.”

At this instance, R chipped in to take the discussion to a whole new level, “How about Kasab? Can there be a more clear cut case?” (20 years in the profession. don’t you see the qualitative leap from petty theft to rape & murder to arson to terror attack to war?)

I remind him, Kasab trial was completed in record time. I added that the 9/11 attack trial was yet to begin in the US. Pat came R’s unbelievable answer: “But look at how they responded. They destroyed a country in retaliation. They destroyed the al-Qaeda. And what are we doing about Hafiz Saeed?”

Incredulous, I said, “R, that is war! Here we are referring to a local petty crime.” Using the word “petty” didn’t do any good. Not at all.

P retorted: “You think this rape was petty?” I said, “Compared to a war it is.”

P switched the self-righteousness button on: “You know what? You are so inured to rapes after reading about them day in and day out.”

I said, “That may be, but the comparison itself is superfluous.” At this point, R walked away in disgust, “You are arguing for the sake of argument.”

I held back, returned to my page. The edition, and Friday, were put to sleep. Soon we headed home. Usually I read in the cab on my way back. Early Saturday, I wasn’t reading. I didn’t realise it till I reached my drop point.

I tiptoed in home around 3pm, changed, washed up and lied down to read and eventually sleep. Didn’t seem to work. Something had rattled me. I tried to figure out what and traced it to R’s, “You are arguing for the sake of argument.”

Was I? I retraced the points I had made. R was wrong. Nevertheless, I was still tossing and turning; didn’t know if I was hungry, but the tummy burned. Gulping down water didn’t help. Reading didn’t. Not even my prayer beads. 4.30am

An old spiritual companion restored sanity. 30ml of Old Monk eased my nerves. And I was thinking more clearly. Retracing the sequence of events, everything fell into place this time. The key lay not in the argument itself, but in what happened after I pulled back. 

Flashback:

The rape story was slotted finally and P began working on it. Shortly, she said, “Boss, this is turning out to be something else. The mother knew her three-year-old daughter was often raped by her lover. He used to beat the child up with the rod when she protested. Nothing extra-ordinary.”

R comes in, “Oh, I thought it was like Nirbhaya. Then it doesn’t carry much.”       
Eventually, the rape story was demoted -- from the top half of the opening page in the first edition to the bottom corner of the last page in the second. Why? It was not gruesome enough to warrant an opening page slot. In other words, it was a petty rape. Not a big one.

Nevertheless, I wonder if P thought about this: If, after being subjected to the simplest of filters applied by a mere copy editor, this rape case turned out to be completely different from what was expected, why should the far more elaborate and consequential judicial process be grudged?

The headline conjured up images of something vastly different from what it eventually turned out to be. The first impression evoked cries of “shoot him on the spot”. Ultimately it was “no big deal” -- at least compared to other important stories of the day.  

There are umpteen cases rubbished by various levels of judiciary, besides the ones that reach the point of conviction, of course. So why shouldn’t a case -- however  gut-wrenching and “open & shut” it may seem -- be subject to judicial scrutiny? Can we really afford quick fix justice, if you can call that justice in the first place?

Most importantly, can journalists afford to be inclined to mob justice?  

Word, words, and words

The idea of this blog post is to find elements of similarity/commonality words from various languages -- perhaps even hint at a common root word.

1. Farohar/Faravahar/Fravahar:

Ancient Farsi/Parsi/Persian symbol. It is usually a feathered disc, sometimes depicted with the bust of a feather-robed Archer symbolising the Parsi god Ashura.

The "feather" perhaps indicates the ability to fly/travel/move (even if in a spiritual/transcendental sense). 'Far' sounds the same as the English 'fur', but is closer in meaning to the Hindi 'par'. 'Par' means wing. Perhaps the English 'fur' and the Hindi 'par' have the same root -- some kind of hairy growth on the skin.

Now, Farohar itself is said to represent the king's Fravashi. Faravashi is the Avestan personal spirit of an individual, whether dead, living, and yet-unborn. The fravashis of an individual sends out the urvan (often translated as 'soul') into the material world to fight the battle of good versus evil. On the morning of the fourth day after death, the urvan is imagined to return to its fravashi, where its experiences in the material world are collected to assist the next generation in their fight between good and evil.

This brings us to Urvan -- the soul. In Tamizh, Uyir means the breath of life. A person losing his 'uyir' implies, he is dead. Is there a connection? Considering that that the Pallava dynasty, which made southern India its home is said to have Persian (Parthian) origins. The Iranian Shah's dynasty itself was called the 'Pahlavi'.

2. Nonplussed

As strange or awkward as the word sounds, what is stranger is its meaning.

Some words are spelt differently by the British and North Americans. For instance, 'organise' and 'organize'. Another example could be 'flavour' and 'flavor'.

Now, here's a word that is spelt the same on both sides of the Atlantic, yet means exactly the opposite on either shores.

In British English, nonplussed means a state of bafflement or perplexity. Yet, in American English, it commonly means (not standard yet) not disconcerted or unperturbed.

It is said that this usage may have resulted from the mistaken assumption that the 'non' in nonplussed is the usual negative prefix like in non-vegetarian or non-stop.

3. Mirage & Mareech

There certainly is a link between the two words -- both based on the visual faculty. In a sense, both mean "what seems to be...", be it the desert phenomenon or the Ramayana's Rakshasa-turned-golden deer.

4. Gene

The word has its root in "Gen", which means to beget. A related Armenian word apparently is "Chanim." Possible connection to Janm and Janani of Sanskrit.

5. Prandial, Praathal

It means something related to meals. "During or relating to dinner or lunch," says the online Oxford dictionary.

Interestingly, there is one  word in Malayalam--the native tongue of Kerala, the southern Indian state--which almost means the same-and sounds the same too.

A section Kerala natives, especially the Namboodiri (Kerala Brahmin) community, use the term Praathal for breakfast. While the usage is probably fading out, it does exist.

6. Iraq, Irakkam (Malayalam)

Etymologically, Iraq could mean "The lowland"--as opposed to the plateau of Persia (Iran). The Malayalam word for a descent is Irakkam.

Not that the two words are necessarily connected, since Irakkam is a derivative of Iranguka (to descend). Yet, I don't see why we should completely discard the possibility of a connection. The Tamil word Irakkam, though, means mercy.

Iraq is also said to have derived from Uruk (Ur meaning a settlement -- village, town, et al).

7. Moshe, Moses, Moshai, Mahashay

Not sure if anyone has explored this, but there seems to be an obvious connection between Moshe and the quintessential Bengali Moshai, as made popular by Hrishikesh Mukherjee's Anand.

Going by a basic Google run, Moshe refers to a respected or high-born one... Mahashay or Moshai also refers to a respected one...

Master also has its etymological roots in "the greater one". If so, then the Malayalam version of Master, "Maashe" is both etymologically and phonetically close to Moshai, Moshe, and even Moses.

8. House

The Mongolian Ger, which is basically a round hut, means home. So does the Hindi ghar, although this word is apparently derived from graha, which means both house and planet.

In Arabic Bait/Beit/Bayt is house. Like in Bait-ul Haram or the forbidden house.

Can the Dravidian "veedu" be a derivative of that word? Curiosly, the Telugu word Baytiki means the exact opposite: outside of home or any enclosure, whereas a home in Telugu is "Illu".

9. Khumar/Kumhar/Kumar

Khumar, which is Urdu, means a pot/jar of wine, and implies a "high" or intoxication. Its root lies in the Arabic Khumm, which means a pond. Kumbh in Sanskrit is a pitcher of water. Kumbh Mela is about ritual bathing. 

Kumhar in the Hindu caste system is the potmaker.

Not sure if the surname Kumar, meaning a young boy/man, is connected. The "intoxication of youth", jawani ki Khumar, is a possible tangent to explore. There is also the Skanda-Alexander connection to explore, too.

10. Maha/Mega/Maga (Tamizh)

11. Chhand-Zend: One meaning of the Hindi word छंद (chhand) is Veda. Another meaning is "meaning" itself. (Otherwise it means pronunciation). "Zend" in Zend Avesta means commentary on Avesta.

12. Kosambari, Kachumber, Cucumber: Kosambari is a pulses salad popular in the Indian state of Karnataka. It has a refreshing effect, especially in hot weather. Kachumber is a type of salad made in northern India and Pakistan -- and is said to be similar to Mediterranean and west Asian preparations. Cucumber is often used in Kachumber as an ingredient. 

Chennai flood and the 'south Indian' victim

Now that Chennai is slowly getting back to its feet, here's something I thought about the north-south divide that raised its head during the latest calamity.

Some north Indians (or should we just call them non-south Indians?) seemed to have gone to the extreme of celebrating the deaths of Tamilians. These guys are obviously the cretins all societies have.

However, I also saw a number tweets, posts and memes that cribbed about the north Indian's apathy to a major south Indian city's plight. That was hugely misplaced and even hypocritical.

The manner in which people -- commoners and celebrities -- from Kerala, Karnataka and Andhra took the initiative to help Chennaiites and Tamizhnad in general was indeed remarkable. Funds and relief material was collected and transported with alacrity. My own family did its bit -- perhaps the first time a collective action was taken by us during a natural disaster in some other place.

Yet, I don't remember this kind of mobilisation of resources from Bangalore or Kerala or even Tamizhnad during the Assam floods or the Uttarakhand floods or the annual Vidarbha drought. I, for one, don't remember sharing as many posts, contact details, or anything related to the floods as I did during the Chennai disaster.

Neither do I remember the Assamese or the "north Indians" cribbing about "south Indian apathy". If anything, I recall a certain cretin's govt seeking out ONLY its own people to rescue.

So, proximity of an event is obviously a big determinant of our response. Madras has a huge emotional connect with most south Indians. Tomorrow if Bangalore was to face a similar situation, my own response would perhaps be much more intense. It's got nothing to do with any hidden antipathy.

People need to get over this victim complex. South Indians did a good job in helping each other at such a massive scale. Don't crib about what north Indians did.

(I agree about the media's irresponsibility. Some senior journalists -- even those sitting in Chennai -- who could have made a difference to the coverage in the initial days of the catastrophe displayed shocking reluctance to do anything.)

A plain shirt, gunshot burns and a camera

Mumbai was under siege. Paris was seven years away.

That November day, it began with a few rat-a-tats and explosions. Soon, from the newsroom windows, we were watching the silhouette of a man walking inside Mumbai's CST. Kasab had just played his part in the city's grisly rendezvous with death.

26/11, even for some of us who witnessed parts of the macabre proceedings live, was a distant spectre on that day. But there were others who just managed to live and tell the tale.

Late in the night, when a clearer picture had emerged, one man returned from the field, gait nonchalant as usual. Camera in hand, the perpetual lost look in eyes, Hoshi Jal's appearance in the newsroom evoked a few frightened shrieks.

Brushing aside the anxious and shocked cries, he set to work, slotting and uploading photographs of the city's macabre tryst.

Worried colleagues making a beeline to his cabin annoyed him, but the man didn't throw a fit as he was wont to. Some of us sitting far away didn't know what the fuss was about.

Much later, as the night wound down, Hoshi passed by my seat. That's when we saw it.

His plain full sleeve shirt. Bullet burns. Shots missing his chest and tummy by a whisker.

Malayalee-Bengali

A few weeks ago, I found myself mildly agitated over a shared Facebook status message. It had a Bengali animal-lover venting her anger against the reported mass-culling of dogs in Kerala. The culling was said to have been ordered by the state government to tackle rising stray dog menace.

What annoyed and amused me was not her anger itself, but the nasty racist terms she used to express her indignation -- referring to the “dark-skinned Malayalees’ dark hearts”, as evidenced in our treatment of the strays.

I questioned the need for such vitriol in an otherwise appreciable concern for mute beings. Several Malayalees (including my relatives and friends), Bengalis and others understandably “liked” it when I raised that question. Some Malayalees even chose to pay her back in the same coin.

Today, I am inclined to look inward.

For a long time now, among us Malayalees, animosity towards Bengalis has been simmering. It is palpable.

Our primary grouse seems to stem from the presence of an increasing number of them in Kerala. This calls for a bird’s eye view of the situation. According to 2013 figures, our state has around 25 lakh domestic migrant labourers -- growing at an average of 630 persons per day. This is ironically more than the 16 lakh Malayalees who have famously moved to the Arabian Gulf and beyond over the past many decades.

The largest group of domestic migrants seems to be from Bengal, most of them toiling away in almost every known field -- construction, eateries, masonry and even jewellery designing.

Paddy fields that have for ages been worked on by the next-door farmhand now have Bengali tillers. The neighbourhood coconut tree climber, who once endearingly plucked tender-coconuts for us along with the harvest, is nowhere to be seen. He has been replaced by someone who speaks a strange language, finds it rather difficult to follow instructions, but is diligent and hardworking.

So, when we non-resident Keralites go home on our annual vacations, chances are that we would be served by a boy who is yet to differentiate between a "ney-roast" and a masala dosa.

Racked by poverty and helplessness back home, for the Bengali, the salubrious environs and high income make Kerala his own "Gulf".

For many of us, especially the Gulf Malayalees, his presence is disconcerting though.

This is breeding resentment. Indicative of this resentment is the profusion of “Bengali labourer in Kerala” memes on social media. Almost all of them choose to highlight the Bengali’s supposed astounding ineptitude. Never mind that this may be in complete variance with reality.

This hypocricy conveniently neglects glaring facts:

The Bengali labourer has only filled the gaps left by Malayalees who chose to migrate.

The Bengali is as industrious, hardworking and diligent (or alternatively, inept) as any of us.
Malayalees themselves have been victims of such resentment in other places. The most infamous examples being Maharashtra under Bal Thackeray’s exceptional "guidance", Tamizhnad and other parts of north India.

Though the farcical resentment is yet to peak, we are getting there. For long, we have accused other communities of being intolerant. We were then the victims. Today, we are beginning to demonstrate the same attributes. It is perhaps only a matter of time before we nurture our own Thackerays.

Unless we pull ourselves back from the brink of course.

But till then, in terms of honesty, that Bengali lady who abused us “dark-skinned” Malayalees will remain a notch above those of us who camouflage our vileness with seemingly harmless Facebook memes.

What price, loyalty?

If you thought the vindictive publishing of email IDs of a million Indians by TRAI was a fluke, think again.

About a year ago, PM Narendra Modi promulgated the first ordinance of the NDA-II government to get former TRAI chief Nripendra Misra as principal secretary in the Union government.

Till then, rules prohibited the TRAI chief from taking any official position in the state or central governments within two years of demitting the TRAI position. This was to ensure that the TRAI chief does not take any official action expecting future benefits.

However, Modi changed the rules of the game.

Now, do we have a TRAI chief doing exactly what is expected of him -- browbeating dissenters into submission? And that too without any threat of the Union government getting tainted? 

If you still harbour any doubts over TRAI chief Khullar's attempts to butter up Modi, then good luck!

We perhaps got another glimpse of the 'Modis Operandi' when Justice Sathasivam was made a governor. Soon we had another Supreme Court Chief Justice, H L Dattu, dumping constitutional propriety and praising the PM. (Sathasivam himself acted smart. Just after his retirement, the man got a story on himself planted in TOl, which said he was going back to farming in his native village -- evoking both admiration and a sense of wasted talent)

This kind of favoritism did wonders for Modi as Gujarat CM. The Gujarat model is on full display now in Delhi.

They want to see me broken: Santhosh Pandit

It didn't take much time to get Malayalam filmmaker Santhosh Pandit on the phone. For one, his phone number was displayed along with credits of his movies. He was on the other side of just a couple of calls and an SMS. The man was circumspect though, not the least because he receives innumerable such calls from people pretending to be fans, journalists and event managers. Yet, there was a certain confidence that Santhosh displayed once the guard was down. From the time the interview was recorded, which is almost two months now, to this day, Santhosh's career and image seem to have progressed, going by media reports. However, I believe, I was able to capture the essence of the man. So here's the full transcript of the interview (to make reading easier, I have done away with the questions I asked. So the entire thing is just Santhosh speaking, with a few explanations by me in brackets):

  

Please don't harass (Santosh has received several abusive calls in the past). But please free to criticise.

I have made four movies till now. My first film "Krishnanum Radheyum" was a super-duper hit. It was released in October 2011

Then "Superstar Santosh Pandit" in 2012, "Minimolude Acchan" in 2013, and "Kalidasan Kavitha Ezhuthukeyaanu" in 2014. Basically one movie every year. But 2015 will see two films being released. My 2nd, 3rd and 4th films have done average business, with the last one doing slightly better. 

I wanted to be a director; always wanted to be an all-rounder. When I was in Class 12 and pursuing my degree, I realised the possibility of low-budget movies. People discouraged me back then. So essentially it was to prove myself that I ventured into films for the first time.

My father was a PWD engineer in Kuttyadi, Kozhikode. Dad died when I was in Class 11. I have a sister. Mom to died soon. I too got married when I was 22-23. My wife was a bank manager. I have a son. He is called Navajyot Pandit. He is under my wife's custody. We got divorced around six years ago. I entered films after that. 

I am a civil engineer by training. I have a degree in English, MA in Hindi. I have done my typewriting, stenography, software, hardware. I have also pursued my bachelor of academic law. Currently I'm completing MA psychology from Annamalai University.    

Basically, I do not have a great family background.

I have heard from my elders that my family migrated from UP several generations ago. I am a Nair. I still go and give sermons in temples. The surname Pandit comes from my supposed original caste. 

I am completely happy about my time in cinema. When my first films was released, mine was the second-most searched name on the internet, after Facebook. I don't calculate much about the movie business. One thing I realised was that more than producing a movie, marketing it was more important. I understood this from the industrial psychology lessons I took. 

I understood that creating curiosity about the movie was very important before releasing it. There is need to differentiate. That is industrial psychology. Even the songs in my movies are based on that theory. Both my supporters and critics agree on one point, that I am unique. That is my identity.

I do things with a social orientation. Profit is important, but not the central focus of my work, (Quotes "Karmanye va Adhikaaraste").

My audience fall in all categories. Typically, my movies have eight songs. One for kids, one romantic bit, one a fast number etc. I cater to even those who don't like movies. 

I am a member of the producers' association, but not AMMA. You should ask AMMA members about their relationship with me. I had approached them for membership after my first film. But then they said I need to make at least three movies before getting membership. 

Not all TV shows are aggressive towards me. Those who are, please ask them why they are aggressive towards me. Their aggression is not really genuine. They craft it that way to gain TRPs. They provoke me based on a planned script. They actually ask the participants to provoke me. I am human, so often I too get provoked. Like I told you at the beginning of the interview, I tell as them to avoid harassing me. But then they claim what Kerala audience are looking for is harassment -- I do not agree with that though. For instance, a recently-married woman actor was taunted about her husband's looks. She broke down and the channel made money from that.

When they tell me about their plan, if it crosses the limit, I refuse to take part. But then what the channels do is edit out the normal parts and broadcast those where I am agitated following the provocation.

The short route to avoid all this is for me to break down, which is what they want. They have actually told me things like "if you just break into tears, we will avoid harassing you". I think the problem lies with the audience which is looking for such kind of entertainment.

There are people looking to destroy me. There is no doubt about it. When people are not able to succeed in even one job, here I am taking on several roles in a movie and succeeding. 

For instance mimicry artists lament that they have been in the field for decades and yet no nobody wants a photograph taken with them, and here I am, just a few years old, and already a superstar. They even fill up the chat show audience with fans of other stars. People keep asking me why I go for such shows just to get pilloried. Getting interviewed is my job. I am paid for it. Now I am tired of such shows so I started my own show, "The Santosh Pandit Show", on YouTube.

There is a difference between their approach in using me as bait, and mine in caricaturing myself. For instance, in one of the chat shows to supposedly discuss the problems of Malayalam cinema, they didn't get a single owner of the 1,000-odd cinema halls that shut down in Kerala in recent times, leaving just 500 of them functioning today. Instead they discussed me as a punching bag. That's a negative approach. However, what I do before movies is not that. For instance, I upload a normal video and give it a titillating title. Like a video of my putting on make-up inside a moving bus is titled "Santosh Pandit new hot video in bus". This gets my movie huge publicity. Nobody is hurt by what I do.

Even my movies do not have anything wrong to convey. There is no abuse. No drinks, no smoking. My movies are all positive.

I think I do have enemies. You see, to be a hero you need enemies. 

I do not worry whether anybody is working against me. My focus is my work. I want to work from morning to night. 

I have been for 200 inaugurations. During my first inauguration after the release of my first film. Someone threw an egg at me, but it actually hit a policeman. A TV channel made a big issue out of it. It wasn't really a big attack. Nobody is universally loved. I almost feel the channel guys organised the so called "attack". The incident took place after the inauguration and when I was leaving. The reporter waited for two hours after the inauguration. The camera was placed exactly behind my back. The cameraman actually shot my reaction just when the egg was thrown. I didn't complain to the police. So how did the channel know it was an attack. Besides, the TV presenter was smiling as he showed the news. Do you smile when someone is attacked?

I didn't take action against that channel because I didn't want to spoil my ties with that channel and jeopardise my movies' prospects as far as the channel was concerned. Besides, if it becomes an issue, then the credibility of TV media is put at stake. 

I am all for criticism. But even that should be dignified, respectful. It should be constructive. Whereas if someone gets abusive with me, I react. 

So this image of mine of being a subject of ridicule is actually created by TV channels. 

I watch shows in cinema halls because people would crowd in to watch me live. That increases viewership. 

Nowadays, I am not getting the criticism that I got for my first film. That is creating trouble as people are not curious. Recently a director himself created a row by talking about the original delivery scene of his lead woman actor. If people had asked me "how dare make a movie like this" this would have been easier for me. Basically, I don't have a "villain" now. 

My favourite actor is Mohanlal in Malayalam, Akshay Kumar in Hindi and Suriya in Tamizh. 

The reason why I give out my phone number with my name in the credits is that when people have something to say to me, they should be able to. Why should anyone worry about people reacting -- be it positive or negative? 

I employ around 100 people for every movie. 

I like cricket. I read non-fiction, mostly psychology. 

I am 32 years old. 

Please provide my email ID and mobile number in your article. carnival555@gmail.com

I would like to be known as the world's most open and communicative filmmaker.   

Grandpa's Angel

A few years ago, as a rookie reporter, I covered a book-reading session of Vijaypat Singhania's "Angel In the Cockpit". The event at Mumbai's Taj Mahal hotel, if I remember rightly, had all the glittery ingredients -- celebrity audience, with names like the Kapoors of Bollywood among them, excerpts read by Shobha De, a smashing introduction of the author himself and so on.

While the book was about his passion for flying and the hours spent in air, the "angel" in the title was a reference to his granddaughter.

In one of the chapters, the old man describes a mid-air crisis when he stared at near-certain death. At that point he could only look at a photograph he had stuck inside his cockpit, and wait. The picture was of his granddaughter Ananya, then a baby. Once the crisis passed, Singhania came to believe that it was that "angel" who saved his life.

Reading through these line, at one point Shobha De paused. We in the audience could see that she had to give the overwhelmed grandfather a moment. He was wiping his tears, or perhaps hiding them.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Reading the newspapers this morning, I realised times have changed. Along with her sisters, Singhania's "angel" Ananya, now 26, has taken her grandfather to court over property.

Shobha De's poignant pause was pointless after all.

And Then One Day: A Memoir -- Naseeruddin Shah

Irreverent, witty, nonchalant, breezy and yet profound. That’s Shah’s book in short. Coming after Dilip Kumar’s underwhelming work, this was a sparkler.

Be it his taut relationship with his father, or his bizarre first marriage, Shah spares few. Where he does let readers down is when the few he spares are mostly the Bollywood biggies (It’s not AB, if that’s what you are thinking, though there’s not much about him either). 

Shah is arrogant and knows it. He is judgmental and shows it. And boy he can write, and proves it.
Anyone who disagrees with his views is free to write a ‘counter’ book. Till then, this one will remain a benchmark for Bollywood icons.

The short epilogue of the book is one of the best I have ever come across till date. Consider this:
“Ever since I was fifteen years old, following my triumphant turns as Shylock and Lear in school, when I actually began to dare to think of myself as an actor I have always had this waking nightmare: one day I meet up with a wise old man who, after watching my work, says to me, ‘Well… doubtless everyone has always said you are a very good actor but…’ And I still have no clue what he says after the ‘but’…

I think I have reached the stage that when I look in the mirror I get a hazy glimpse of him and he’s looking right into my eyes.”

Take a bow Ramchandra Guha for goading the man into completing the work.

An old friend swims away

The wobbly jamboree swarmed in to nibble at anything that was dropped into the algae-laden water. Anything. Pebbles, dead insects, leaves. Even spit. Particularly spit. Our mucus was their favourite.  

Within weeks of the first showers, they were omniscient like the moisture, like the blood-red kunnikkuru – millions of Cadbury Gems-like seeds scattered across the landscape.

She and her friends appeared out of nowhere even as the intense monsoon air cafuned me, when the fine, incessant drizzle played mist in my part of the world. Hitherto dead and muddy water bodies sprang forth with life every June. And when the ponds and canals filled up, she would slip into the ancient lanes and pebbled paths with the gurgling overflow.

For years we were companions. Many were the damp, lazy afternoons of my boyhood and teens 

when I watched over her, tried to hold her, as she frolicked without a care.

We never got introduced though.

Not when I sneaked out of home with twine, hook and earthworms dug up from the backyard of my elderly abode, just to meet her. Not when a cousin named her Thuppaloothi – broadly, spit-eater – for me, just to avoid elaborate explanations. Not when my friends called her Sooli. Not even when she was the star resident of my aquarium.  

Yes, I was in love with her. How could I not be? Pale ochre, with an unmistakable black and red strips

running across her lithe body. For a long time I was convinced that the ethereal one had descended from the skies with the rains. Just like the abrupt profusion of foliage – the medicinal communist paccha, the leathery and ferocious-looking chena-ila, the shy thottaavaadi and the sensuous thumba.

So enamoured was I that once, asked to buy sugar from the corner grocer for the evening tea, I spent three hours leching at her. Indeed, I almost had her in my palms that day, only to be startled by my furious grandpa’s booming voice and that ominous cane.

Thuppaloothi was never alone. The Kannanchaathan was a loner. But he was the smartest too. He would jump out of the water and land at another spot, leaving predators baffled. Paddy fields and temple ponds were home to a variety of Parals and Blaappys. Packs of catfish – Muzhu, Kadu and Etta – were the most slippery, with slithering bodies and stings.

 

Schools of goldfish-like tiny ones indicated the presence of the mighty mother Vraal right underneath. She was the bigger boys’ favourite catch.

As others of my age dived from ever higher jackfruit branches, their fall broken by climbers and creepers, for me, it was the smaller drains and tanks. ‘What lies beneath’ held the allure for me. I felt lifting that veil of mystery by going underwater would spoil it. Truth be told, I was just pathologically scared of chest-deep waters.

Often I would be dipping my palms into the very gutter that would have someone peeing into it just a few metres away. Let’s believe the water flowed in the direction that left no disgust.
 

But that was my world. My own world. Of Kumblakottans, cuckoos, cashew apples and bicycles hired for Rs 2 an hour.

Today, the neighbourhood pond lies unused and lifeless. Bathrooms are the new attorneys of modesty. No more careless frolicking – neither us, nor her. Many of her companions vanishing, Thuppaloothi too seems to be in her last lap.

A few years back, when she was tagged on the IUCN Red List of Threatened Species, I finally got her name. Denison’s Barb, the freshwater fish species, is among the biggest conservation challenges of the Western Ghats.

They tell me the mistiming monsoon still brings down its version of the mist on the undulating landscapes of my hiraeth. But it misses its progeny.

A monsoon sad and lonely.
 

Thuppaloothi
Born: In my boyhood

Died: Before I do

Dilip Kumar: Missed Opportunity

Dilip Kumar’s “The Substance And The Shadow: An Autobiography” is underwhelming.

He may be a great actor. But the book is plain boring. It may be either due to his advanced age, wherein he couldn’t recall much. However, I suspect he chose to keep it that way. It is a please-all venture with major lacunae, bad proof-reading and certainly conceited in parts.

The discontinuity in the narrative is palpable and some of the most important parts of the 92-year-old icon’s life are missing. Even where he chooses to reveal uncomfortable episodes, he keeps them obscure and confusing, maintaining a facade of decency.

The man obviously takes immense pride in his being a virile Pathan -- a package that supposedly comes with in-built dignity, machismo, fearlessness and good looks, besides of course the inescapable sense of honour. Yusufsaab almost has a fetish for his “manhood” (he just can’t stop describing his body hair).

However, his Pathan self-image comes across as jarring when he passes unguarded comments on other communities, be it Bengalis, Tamilians or the British.

The biggest gap in the book involves some of the giants of the era completely missing from his narrative. The third pillar of the matinee triumvirate, Dev Anand, has little more than a mention here and a picture there. The singing icons Mohammed Rafi, Talat Mehmood and Mukesh, who played a humongous role in Yusufsaab’s popularity are not even named.

He makes no comment on the period and upheaval of the partition, despite the fact that he paints an extensive picture of his hometown Peshawar, where he spent his childhood. Important characters in his early life – his grandmother, his home – disappear mid-way.

No mention of the bloody riots that plagued Mumbai at the time he was already a rising star. No insights on what post-partition India felt like for Muslims with roots in Pakistan.

However, there are some three chapters on one topic – his wife, Saira Banu. He is clearly enamoured. Beyond a point it becomes outright boring.

The second part of the book has a series of write-ups about him by famous personalities and others close to him. They all sound the same – like the Gandhi family ‘yes-men’. Can’t blame them; after all, they can’t be critical of him in his own autobiography, can they? 

There's so much more one would expect out of an autobiography of India's premier movie legend. What a wasted opportunity.