Uneasy is the head

It is that time of the year that showbiz pundits call 'Road to the Oscars'. In a few weeks from now, what the Academy sees as 'cinematic excellence' shall be felicitated at its permanent resting place at the Kodak Theater. Being an annual fixture and being as I am self-proclaimed movie buff, I try my level best every year to acquaint myself with all the hype and hoopla that surrounds this extravaganza (even at the cost of coming across as the phoren-obsessed desi, but in my defense, I genuinely love the celluloid, ours or theirs). The process of my acquaintance is rather simple: take the most-talked about movies of the year and then make a judgement of my own. If the deserving ones end up winning, Uncle Oscar knows it all. If they don't, the Academy is a bunch of snooty, lobby and publicity driven bunch of fools. Simple, as I said.

Having the luxury and the liberty of the latest movies and TV shows at a few minutes' notice, courtesy the MDI LAN, I recently began my process of 'evaluation'. Up for screening today was a movie called The King's Speech. Without playing the role of spoiler, the movie is about 'Prince Albert (who goes on to become King George VI of England), his impromptu ascension to the throne and the speech therapist who helps the unsure monarch become worthy of it' (the sentence within quotes courtesy of IMDB). The movie is a moving portrayal of the trials and tribulations of a second-in-line and his consequent aversion to the throne, even when an ascendancy is promisingly imminent. The subtext of a Prince's growing acquaintance with a Commoner (and an Australian at that) and the apparent contradictions that it brings with it is peppered throughout the movie and beautifully captured.

The idea of royalty and nobility might appear somewhat dated and insignificant in today's world of the free market enterprise, but it still exists in most pockets of the world, and try as we may, the fact can't be easily dispensed with. But, what we often forget is that just as we feel 'deprived' when we compare ourselves with the Kings and Princes of the world, the same very Kings and Princes walk a thorny path to royal adulation. Anything and everything connected to their person has to answer one eternal question: 'How will this be viewed by the Commoner?'. Things that fail this litmus test must unfortunately be swept under the carpet and/or remedied, be it the childhood love with the Governess' daughter, the child born out of wedlock, the gambling addiction or the very fact that the Prince is left-handed (and therefore 'sinister'). The royal family must be everything that the Commoner can never be, even if it entails chasing perfection and failing miserably in the process. Letting down one's royal garb, even if for a fleeting moment, is akin to harakiri.

There is, of course, a larger issue at play here. In the post-colonial times that we live in, the blue blood and its relative importance may have considerably diminished. Yet, we intelligent, lesser humans have found a way to undo this royal decline- by coronating the celebrity. It satisfies our egalitarian ethics without sacrificing our fixation for the 'famous', since the ascent to celebrity is (somewhat) less hereditary than the ascent to royalty is (and therefore, only 'fair').

Make no mistake, its alright for us to idolize the rich and the famous, to take little snippets of their 'interesting' lives to spice up our own mundane ones. But, where do we draw the line, if at all? David Beckham, tired of his boxers and V-cuts, tries on his wifey's G-strings and it generates more news and commotion than the Pope's death. Sushmita Sen dons a huge solitaire ring and we all start wondering if she's getting any (and who from). When does harmless curiosity coupled with a dash of admiration turn into a dangerous obsession? The answer, unfortunately, is a curt but profound 'always'. Most of us spend far more time reading the Delhi/Mumbai/Calcutta Times supplement than we do reading the Business, International or even the Sports pages. And for a select few, these supplements are their only diet of daily 'news' and their only touch with 'reality'.

The recent past is agog with stories of the rising menace of the paparazzi (literally: the stinging mosquito in Italian). Freelance photographers in the west often complain of getting the rough end of the stick from the security guards of the celebrities. My question to them is: is it such a surprise? I can't imagine how differently we'd react, were we to be in their shoes. Nobody likes a camera shoved into their faces 24X7, not unless you're Kamaal R Khan from Bigg Boss. Thankfully, India's popular media isn't as intrusive as its American counterpart yet. But, what is alarming is that we're getting there, and blindingly fast at that.

I'm not justifying the excesses of the famous. If anything, these excesses are a direct result of attention and the importance we attach to them. I'm probably just as guilty as anyone else in the matter, but there needs to be a larger, collective awakening of the futility and the hazards of our trivial obsessions. True that a Manmohan Singh or a Hosni Mubarak doesn't have the zing and glamour that a Kareena Kapoor or a Kim Kardashian does, but when the time comes, who is it that will really matter?

Ephemeral

(Disclaimer: The latter part of this post is not for the weak of heart. It is a true account, therefore I may find it hard to sugar-coat words and feelings. I'm not entirely sure why I should post something like this, some may even view it as attention-mongering and an attempt to gain sympathy. It is what it is- a tale told straight from the heart)

The mood here at MDI Gurgaon is quite a festive one at present, with its annual cultural festival, Imperium, in full swing. A hundred bright lights dazzle the lush green campus on this cold winter night. There is a hint of joie de vivre in the air. As for me, courtesy my now-legendary virtue of inaction, I am a far-removed spectator in this celebration. Therefore, while some of my peers break cold sweat trying to ensure things moved in order, I find myself indulging in more frivolous interests.

Scene I

The highlight of my afternoon was the two hours spent watching a movie. The movie in question was Pineapple Express- a light-hearted tale of how one innocent little act sparks off a chain of situationally comic events. During the course of the movie, people get killed in an almost wanton fashion, like popping one bullet here and another one there.  But, I'm ok with that. What caught my attention, though, was how death was reduced to just another consequence- a recurrent by-product of everyday existence. The movie may have been in the lighter vein but it did raise some seemingly 'heavy' questions. I thought about it for a little while, and then sighed the thought away in a chalta hai sort of way.

Scene II


The night had well and truly set in. There was the sound of music in the air that was hard to miss. Energised by a three-hour evening siesta, I set out to give some meaning to a Friday night by doing something more active. After a small discussion on the matter with a friend and crossing out the things we did not want to do, we decided we'd go to a nearby Bar-and-Restaurant- an ironically named joint called Zaika. On our way out of the campus, just as I was haggling with the security guard for a hassle-free return, we heard a loud, silence-shattering thud. We instinctively turned our heads towards the direction of the offending sound. And what did I see? A large truck was stationary, not more than fifteen paces from where I was. Adjacent to truck's headlights was a bike tilted at roughly forty five degrees to the ground. At first sight, the bike seemed have no rider, but on squinting my eyes in the darkness I could make out a pair of legs on the gear and brake pedals of the bike and a body slumped across sideways, motionless.

It took me a moment or two for the situation to sink in to my faculties. And when it did, my heart skipped a beat. People, bystanders, fellow drivers all had converged to the site of the head-on collision, pulling the body up and arranging for medical attention. The 'wiser' of the lot stood at the periphery of the action, passing their judgement. Yeh toh gaya, they ruled.

I'll spare you the gruesome details of the account. My friend, who watched the sight more closely than I did, was visibly shaken. Not that I was left untouched either. My mind was racing with thoughts I did not want to have. Life, with all its intrinsic beauty and all its promises, is so inherently fragile, so momentary. We toil and toil away, each trying to fulfill a goal, and yet I can't say for sure whether I'll make it from one moment to the other. Every second on the graphical timeline has a mathematical discontinuity built into it, and we are just lucky that we weather discontinuity after discontinuity without dropping off the radar.

No, I'm not trying to scare anybody. I'm not spewing macabre nonsense to sound cool either. Tonight taught me a lesson: that of Carpe Diem- seize the day. It is bitterly ironic that in Black-and-White Chessboard of Life, it takes a chance encounter with death to understand how precious life is. I don't really believe in a Higher Being (my religious self being a non-practicing Hindu bordering on the Agnostic), but the events of the afternoon (where I almost questioned the gravity of death) unfolding into the events of the evening had a loud "Beware" written all over it- clearly too much to attribute to mere chance and co-incidence.


But, as is Human nature, things will move on. In a few moments from now, a new day shall break and the sun shall begin its daily ascent. The glass shards in front of the MDI gate will be swept away by some worker, remnants of the night decimated in one fell sweep. People will play Chinese Whisper about the events of the night before, with straight, sympathetic faces. The incident may find mention in a newspaper snippet or two, else it will be just another number to the Public Vehicles Department. Even I, so seemingly affected by the incident, may find something else to keep me occupied, matters more worldly, if you will want to call it that. And, Heavens forbid, when that happens, this post shall serve as a grim reminder that no matter how messed up life is, I'm still lucky to be living it.

The Urban Amazon

What does one really need to develop (not 'build') a city? When does a city get a life, in the literal sense of the term? These are some of the questions I have been asking myself ever since I set foot in the monstrosity called Gurgaon.

Before somebody tries to shoo the matter away either by attributing it to a culture shock people get when relocating to The North, or by quoting the more-popular 'This is Haryana' maxim, let it be known I spent four years of my life at NIT (formerly REC) Kurukshetra, in Haryana. Therefore, the rebuttal doesn't hold water for me on both counts. For one thing, Kurukshetra, despite being a sleepy agricultural town in Haryana, had a distinct identity (which could have been because of its many temples, but that's entirely besides the point). Yes, ladies and gentlemen, something is amiss. Or, as the Bard would've like to say in today's day and age: Something is rotten in the state of Gurgaon.

So, what is it? Well, here's my diagnosis. For a truly distinctive identity, it is my sincere belief that a city requires what I call Character - an inherent watermark in the city's culture, something that both defines a city and differentiates it at the same time- like the small three-tentacled star on the bonnet of every Mercedes. Every great city in the world has a unique star of its own, much like its DNA, but with the exception that there isn't a provision for identical twins. If you'll look around, you'll see it in all the major cities and towns of our country- Calcutta is the languid tram ride amidst the backdrop of its glory days of the British Raj. Delhi has the loud, throbbing, car stereo dhinchik dhinchik feel. Bombay is the crowded platform at CST, where if you don't move swiftly enough, you'll end up with a cold shoulder from people moving in both directions. Of course, all the cities mentioned have a character that can't adequately be described in the one line I did, but then, those were merely illustrative and not exhaustive.

One may contend that, after all, Gurgaon does have an identity, some character- the malls, the offices, yada yada. To that, I have only one rejoinder, that even sociopaths and raving lunatics have a character, so what? The point I'm trying to make is that when a city does nurture and develop an identity of its own, it resides in its people. Sadly for Gurgaon, there is no such thing. There is no unique quality, quirk of nature or mannerism that will make you snap your fingers and say "Aha, that's a Gurgaonwala". The city is, at best, an agglomeration of office blocks that mighty New Delhi carelessly threw away like a leftover, not in the least caring where it ended up. As luck would have it, the leftovers landed right outside Delhi's doorstep.

And it is this proximity to Delhi that is at the root of Gurgaon's lack of character. Delhi is the illustrious and successful elder brother to the kiddy younger sibling that is Gurgaon. The more Gurgaon aspires to be like Delhi, the more it slides into recess, so that it ultimately comes across as a cheap fake- like those dummy phones you see on display on Mobilestore shelves.

Those of us who have travelled on the NH8 on Friday evenings would have undoubtedly noticed (and suffered) the never-ending queues at the Gurgaon Toll Gate. I did too, once. On probing as to why it was so, I was told that it was Friday evening, and people of Gurgaon were going 'home'- to Delhi, Noida, Faridabad etc. "Really, they're going home?", I thought, raising my eyebrows by almost an inch, "I wonder what they call the place where they stay from Monday to Friday".

The rot is systemic, you see. When citizens really don't think of their city as their 'home', is it really a surprise that the roads resemble the aftermath of a meteor shower? Or that there is virtually no public transport to think of? As for the malls, they are to Gurgaonwalas what Opium was to the Chinese in the late 18th century. The mall, with its glitzy shops, chic restaurants, dim watering holes and gigantic movie screens breeds addiction. After office hours, it helps people take their minds off all matters worldly, just like the aforementioned opium. And the cycle repeats, day after day, night after night, till its Friday again and time to go 'home'.

Welcome to life in the new millennium, in Millennium City (bookings now open).