Those of us who are interested in the infinite variety that life has to offer, ‘a man (or woman) of many parts’ we are occasionally described as, are more to be pitied than envied. It is true that, sitting in front of my state-of-the-art television set (which cost me more than an arm and a leg, festival offer notwithstanding), I have a mind-boggling choice of programmes to watch. In Hi Definition, no less.  And therein lies the rub. Do I dive into a BBC murder mystery serial or watch the interminably long Oppenheimer in three instalments over three evenings? Old Tamil and Hindi films beckon, as do some new crime drama in Punjabi or Kannada which ‘you simply have to watch, they’ve got subtitles, it’s mind-blowing.’ Not to forget the ubiquitous YouTube which offers an endless smorgasbord of music, drama and, if the mood takes me, some gent or lady in pink tights showing me how I can get rid of back pain. And that is not even scratching the surface.

Then again, the Australian Open has just commenced, and I cannot take my eyes off the exploits of Djokovic, Alcaraz, Swiatek, Sabalenka and all the other tennis bigwigs of the day. Federer and Nadal fans, eat your hearts out. Cricket, frankly is beginning to pall. Without batting an eyelid, I can give the India vs Afghanistan clash the miss-in-baulk, if you will pardon my drawing freely from the Master’s canon. In this context, if you do not know who the Master is, you are beyond help.

That being the case, this plethora of choice is really an almighty headache. You  yearn for the days gone by, when we had Krishi Darshan, Chitrahaar, and the DD News every evening (‘agricultural production up by 3.6%, exports down by 6%, train crash near Balasore junction, 35 dead, Gavaskar notches up yet another century’) and we all went to bed by ten. But no, I have squandered much of my hard-earned moolah on this Sony Bravia 55 inch, a thing of beauty ‘that takes vision and sound to the next level with Cognitive Processor XR, that understands how the human eye focuses, cross-analysing images to give real-live depth, extraordinary contrast and beautifully vivid colours.’ And some unintelligible guff about delivering ‘pure black.’ After a spiel like that, and having shelled out a prince’s ransom, I have to make every rupee count. So, I sit and wonder what to watch. A Hamletian dilemma. Even my regular reading must take a back seat.

After all that cogitating, tearing my hair out and agonising, my smart remote quivering in my hand, I fall back on our news channels on national television. That is just to give me some breathing space while I decide what to watch on OTT. There is our beloved (for some and not for others) Prime Minister in saffron robes deeply involved in some rituals prior to the big, impending Ayodhya jamboree. Here are some leaders from the opposition parties pooh-poohing the PM’s demonstrable piety as little more than an elaborate election stunt. In the blink of an eye, one of the channels rustles up a quick survey to share with us what the public thinks of all this and how ‘this’ might or might not affect the fate of the respective political parties at the upcoming hustings. The PM’s party wins hands down! So what else is new(s)? At which point, I upbraid myself. Surely, I did not need to blow a large hole in my bank account to obtain this monster television set, merely to watch our anchors and political pundits going hammer and tongs at each other. I can get all that on cable or even a common-or-garden TV set. And if you want the verbals to get really down and dirty, there’s always Musk’s X factor.

I have my conscience to answer to. ‘Go back to Netflix,’ my conscience goads me. ‘Every minute you spend on Arnab Goswami, Rajdeep Sardesai or Navika Kumar is a gross waste of your hard-earned cash spent on this brilliant TV set,’ my conscience-keeper rubs it in. Sometimes I think it is the TV itself, in the garb of my inconvenient conscience, that is chiding me for my irresponsible splurging and viewing habits. It is a smart TV after all. Thank heavens AI has not yet intruded into my life, but that is only a matter of time. AI may already have surreptitiously insinuated itself without my even being aware of it. Scary.

As it happens, being a music lover, my smart TV also has the Spotify app, to which I have subscribed. To make it clear, Spotify is actually free-to-air, but a subscription will ensure a screechy advert does not interrupt right in the middle of one of M.S. Subbulakshmi’s divine Meera bhajans. Spotify gives me endless music across every conceivable category. Literally at my fingertips. I tell myself that I shall now sit at my desktop and type out a few lines of sketch for my next blog and to provide a bit of background inspiration, some soothing instrumental music is called for. Vocals need undivided concentration and will not aid the process of writing.

That being the case, perennial favourites Bob Dylan, Van Morrison, Joni Mitchell, Rashid Khan and Sanjay Subrahmanyan will not be among the shortlists. So, I flirt around with Lalgudi Jayaraman, Ustad Vilayat Khan, Miles Davis and John Williams. JW’s sublime guitar-plucking on Rodrigo’s Concierto de Aranjuez (colloquially known as ‘Orange juice’) or Vivaldi’s immortal Guitar Concerto in D is just what the doctor ordered. I guess the point I am making is that even when it comes to electing to listen to some good music on my Sony’s super sound system, with a Bose soundbar to add fidelity and heft, I am still at a loss to arrive at a swift decision. In that respect, I envy some of my relatives and friends who are monomaniacs on just one stream of music. Depending on which part of the country you come from, it just has to be Suchitra Mitra’s Rabindra Sangeet or Semmangudi Srininvasier’s essay in the raga Sriranjani. Or even, Pandit Kumar Gandharva’s celestial bhajans. And their ilk, naturally. Makes life simpler.

In the final analysis, my quandary remains unsolved. Lashing out good money on fancy home entertainment gizmos is all very well. However, if your upbringing constantly makes you hop towards and away from a variety of different forms of entertainment, like the proverbial chamois on the Alps, then you begin to question your wisdom. Which is exactly why I fished out my My Fair Lady DVD, gave it a good wipe and played it through my new system. Luscious photography, brilliant acting, superb songs and the film was released in 1964! Ah bliss! Old is gold! I have got my money’s worth. Paisa vasool!

Postscript: Since I touched upon the forthcoming Ayodhya celebrations where music will doubtless play its part, I am baffled as to why Carnatic music’s revered saint composer Tyagaraja’s compositions have not found a place in the programme schedule, at least to the best of my knowledge. I bring this up because the good saint composed almost all of his songs in praise of Lord Rama and these kirtanas form the staple diet of almost any Carnatic music concert since the beginning of time. They were all in Telugu but that matters not a whit. What could be more appropriate than a choice selection from Tyagaraja’s wonderful oeuvre to present on January 22^nd in honour of Ram Lalla? Think on that Ayodhya committee and let us have a strong whiff of south India as well in your proceedings.

If one were to ask 50 people at random in India if they knew who Diane Morgan is, one will almost certainly draw a blank. I myself had no clue about this anonymous Diane till I began to research her. And why was I researching this virtually unknown lady, who is clearly something of a mini-celebrity in the UK? This is where things begin to get interesting. Which leads me to another question I will pose to those self-same 50 respondents who failed to enlighten me on Diane. Do they have any knowledge of who Philomena Cunk is? This time I detect faint signs of recognition on some of the faces. Reason being this person, Cunk, pops up on YouTube frequently, and asks all sorts of people incredibly daft questions with a straight face, and her respondents, all very distinguished personages, play along and keep answering these silly questions with a poker face, holding their sides and trying all the while not to burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter.

The point of this entire TV series appears to be to convey silliness and stupidity without actually being aware of it. As an entertainment idea, it has a Mr. Bean-like lunacy without the universal appeal of the former for obvious reasons given the ‘grave and serious’ subjects Ms. Cunk deals with. By now, even the dim-witted would have figured out that Diane Morgan and Philomena Cunk are one and the same person – the latter the screen name of the former. It took some doing to actually come up with a name like Cunk, but it fits. Snug as a bug in a rug.

Our protagonist Philomena Cunk conducts these brief Q & A sessions with such moronic aplomb that this new brand of comedy has won her a massive fan base and she could well be on her way to bagging several Emmys, if she has not already done so. Having watched many of her shows myself like Cunk on Earth, Cunk on Britain and Cunk on Everything, I would strongly recommend you check her out for yourself. I appreciate one can never account for tastes, but if you do not fall about with helpless mirth on viewing her film snippets, then you should qualify eminently to be interviewed by one of the dumbest interviewers you could hope to come across in a month of Sundays. By saying that, I am flattering her.

Here is Morgan describing her own Cunk character, ‘A lot of people fantasize about being able to say whatever they want and not care. She genuinely does not give a toss, and that’s almost like a superpower.’ Her scriptwriters had a challenging task in conveying vapid stupidity through their anti-hero without coming across as stupid nerds themselves. Cunk’s dry, wide-eyed, almost naïve performance steals the show and gives stupidity a good name. The fictional Cunk is confident, impertinent and almost always wrong. Then again, she is irresistible.

To give the reader a few examples from a typical Cunk exchange, here she is interviewing a nuclear scientist in the firm belief that nuclear bombs do not actually exist. On inquiring if nuclear bombs are completely harmless and merely fired blanks, the interviewee, a nuclear expert disabuses her and ‘assures’ her that nuclear weapons with real bombs do indeed exist and that Britain is also a nuclear power. Cunk breaks down at this horrid ‘discovery.’ When she recovers, she urges, through her sniffling, the nuclear expert to change the subject and asks him if he likes Abba and is thrilled to learn his favourite song is Dancing Queen. How is that for a sanity-restoring non-sequitur?

In another sequence Cunk, in all seriousness, asks a distinguished musicologist, if in his later years Beethoven ‘was profoundly dead.’ To which the startled interviewee responds, ‘Deaf, D-E-A-F, not dead.’ Cunk does not give up. ‘No, no I have the producer’s notes with me right here. It clearly says in his last years Beethoven was profoundly dead. So, you are telling me he was deaf, not dead, when he composed all those symphonies he did compose. Interesting.’ Collapse of stout party, as Punch magazine might have put it, had it not been dead. 

There are many more such mindlessly amusing snippets, but I will just leave you with a very irreverent, almost blasphemous one. Cunk, with a perfectly straight face, asks a historian why is it that all paintings of Jesus Christ portray him either as a baby or shows him being crucified. ‘Are there any paintings of Christ being crucified as a baby?’ The historian is left dumbfounded as she stammers a ‘No, I don’t think so.’ At which point Cunk delivers the punch line, ‘Well, they missed an opportunity there. Could have played the sympathy card.’ Black humour? Perhaps, but go and check her out for yourself on YouTube.

I then fell to thinking about how it would be if we could invite Philomena Cunk to India to do a series of television shows going face to face, or head-to-head, with India’s common man and woman from all walks of life, chosen at random. The BBC could take on the responsibility for producing the programme. The comic possibilities could be endless, although many of India’s powers-that-be would be laughing out of the other side of their mouths at Cunk’s unique line of questioning and her dunderheaded response. This is the way I see things going for Philomena in Bharat, that is India.

As she embarks on her British Airways flight from London to New Delhi, she approaches a fellow lady passenger, apparently an Indian by the looks of her.

‘Madam, if I might trouble you, which part of India do you come from?’

‘I am from Bristol,’ says the slightly startled passenger.

Cunk does not give up. ‘That’s as may be, but where in India do your parents live?’

‘My parents live in Bristol. As do my grandparents, who migrated there from Kenya several decades ago. We are third generation British. Not unlike Rishi Sunak.’

‘But his wife is Indian, from Bangalore and not Bristol. So, you have nothing to do with India? Then why are you going there?’

‘The Taj Mahal?’ She is clearly irritated.

‘There’s no call to be rude, Madam. I am just doing my job. Just a simple answer would have sufficed.’

‘I am sorry. Actually, I work for the UK Trade Commission, meeting my Indian counterparts in Delhi. Now, if you will excuse me, I am looking for some overhead luggage space.’

As the flight lands in New Delhi, she confronts the overworked immigration official ready to stamp her passport.

‘Excuse me officer, but I couldn’t help noticing that you belong to the Sikh community. Why do so many of your brethren live in the UK and Canada? Why not in India, where there’s so much more space? By the way, love the turban. National colours and everything.’

The immigration chap is not best pleased. ‘Listen lady, I have had a very hard day. I do not have time for small talk. If you want to talk to Sikhs, you will find many in New Delhi or you can even visit my hometown, Patiala. Welcome to India. Next!’

‘Patiala? Like the peg? Oh, and one last thing. Where does Bharat come in?’ She does not wait for an answer.

Cunk, with her camera crew, then hops into a spacious SUV ferrying them to their hotel. Never one to miss a trick, she decides to chat up the chauffeur.

‘Good morning. The card on top of the dashboard says your name is, and I am spelling it out, S-E-N-T-H-I-L-N-A-G-E-S-H-W-A-R-A-N. God almighty, how do you pronounce it?’

The driver answers laconically, ‘Senthilnageshwaran., but you can call me Senthil or if that is too challenging, even Sen will do, though I am not a Bengali.’

Cunk exhales, ‘I am going batty here. That’s a relief. Where do you come from, Senthil or Sen, who is not a Bengali?’

‘Chennai.’

‘So why are you in Delhi?’

‘I work here, driving taxis for curious people like you.’

‘Cheeky, but I like it. May be next time I will visit Chennai and find a Sikh taxi driver there.’

‘Unlikely in Chennai, but you can try Kolkata. Loads of Sikh taxi drivers there.’

‘Last question. Is it true that two million babies born in India over the past six months have been named either Rama or Sita?’

‘Also, Lakshman, Bharathan and Shatrughan. Not forgetting Narendra.’

‘I think I understand’ says Cunk, not having followed a word of what the driver had just said, and immediately drops off to sleep. It’s been a long flight and it’s going to be an even longer day tomorrow.

So many more interesting people to meet and stupid questions to ask.

The much-anticipated music season has just kicked off in Chennai. As the season of ‘mists and mellow fruitfulness’ in the words of John Keats, ripens into a mélange of melody and soulfulness, the days will pass and it will all be over before you can warble in Sankarabharanam, Svara Raga Sudha Rasayuta Bhakti. Which, of course, was one of saint-composer Tyagaraja’s top hits. The purists could have me drawn and quartered for describing one of the greatest compositions in Carnatic music as a ‘hit,’ but there you are. I have said it, I meant it in the best possible spirit and I shan’t backtrack. Just harking back to Keats’ quote, mists in Madras are clearly a non-starter though the music could bring us some mellow fruitfulness. Just prior to the strains of Todi and Kalyani drenching the culturally-evolved city with musical outpourings, Chennai itself was literally drenched, thanks to the unrelenting pouring of the north-east monsoon.

It is a supreme irony that the rain gods, who have been paid an everlasting tribute through the raga, Amritavarshini, created specially in their honour, reputedly by Muthuswami Dikshitar, should choose to return the compliment with floods and misery. The many organisers of this festival must be keeping their fingers and toes firmly crossed and crooning ‘Rain, rain go away’ in an appropriate raga of their choice. If they choose to go with Amritavarshini, on their heads be it. Quite literally. As we speak, the rains are pelting down on other parts of Tamil Nadu but Chennai is mercifully dry. Even the gods need to enjoy the music without having to sail in rubber dinghies to the concert venues!

Every time the music season in Chennai is ushered in, writers with a special interest in Carnatic music fill our newspapers and social media with their views on what to expect, the stars who are likely to shine, new faces emerging on the horizon, interviews with artists who have been honoured by various sabhas, a large dollop of nostalgia, one or two light-hearted pieces on the canteen scene and, of course, actual reviews of concerts which is ongoing throughout the month. In fits and starts, over the years, I have also participated in this journalistic voyage. As evidenced by this piece. Been there, done that.

Noted singer Bombay Jayashri, recovering from a serious illness, and being designated Sangita Kalanidhi by the Madras Music Academy on its inaugural evening, was an emotionally-charged moment for her fans and family members.

It is therefore a challenge to wrack one’s grey cells to figure out what fresh insights one can bring to the table while writing on the December, or Margazhi, music fiesta that somebody else has not already covered. The pandemic came and went and the scribes went to town writing in a vacuum about what it is like not to have a music festival. ‘Woe is me,’ being the reverberating emotion. Waves of nostalgia poured from the metaphorical quills of scribes. If there was nothing to talk about in the present tense while the future looked tense, the writers decided they might as well wax eloquent looking over their shoulders, and took to the past tense. The arts and culture sections of the newspapers were full of articles accompanied by nostalgic sepia bromides of those who have given Carnatic music its pristine sheen.

Meanwhile present-day musicians, not to be outdone, took to the digital medium and flooded YouTube with chamber concerts at home and in other safe venues where the dreaded virus was held at bay. Those who had a strong brand franchise, monetised (and merchandised) this activity thereby ensuring their income stream did not dry up altogether. Those musicians who were less fortunate, found help from different altruistic segments of society to keep their home fires burning.

 Happily, we were able to give the Covid 19 scourge a swift kick in the pants. There are still threats emanating from places like Kerala, where the pestilence threatens to raise its ugly head. With any luck, this time round it should peter out without raising too much ‘alarums and excursions.’ With most of us having been jabbed three times, we are able to look the bug in the eye with fortitude. I find it eerie that it is always during the Chennai music season that some form of catastrophe or the other lurks round the corner to spring a nasty surprise on an unsuspecting public.

Hopefully all that is behind us and the music loving hordes from all over the world are once again congregating to this Mecca of music (if that is not an inappropriate term) to enjoy a full month of non-stop performances by musicians of all groupings. Those striving hard to make a mark, those that are on the periphery of breaking through, those established stars who are firmly in the saddle, and those approaching veteran status who might be left wondering when they will be put out to grass by the all-powerful sabhas. This season, in an innovative curtain-raiser, some of our ladies and gentlemen musicians even sashayed on a ramp in a first-ever Carnatic music-inspired fashion show! Whatever next? Social media went ballistic!

Speaking for myself, every time I step off the train or plane in Chennai during December, the strains of Carnatic music envelope me in a way no other city can manage. It is something in the air. It also happens to be the harbinger of Christmas and New Year. They do it differently in Calcutta or Bangalore where clubs and hotels get bands and pop musicians to strut their stuff till the witching hour. That happens in parts of Chennai as well, but in the cloistered and sanctified atmosphere of the Music Academy the celebrations are strictly a day-time affair. We recall with fondness the late veteran violinist Sangita Kalanidhi T.N. Krishnan inevitably ending his morning solo recital with Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way, as he wishes the packed house a very merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Not a dry eye in the audience and a fist pump for pluralism. I echo the same joyous sentiments to our readers, as I raise a tumbler of hot, filter coffee to health, happiness and plenty of music.

As published in Deccan Chronicle issue dated 22/12/23.

I do not wish to seem fashionably blasé or anything and, crucially important as these issues are, abrogation of Article 370 with the Supreme Court putting its rubber seal of approval on it, and the Hitchcockian suspense surrounding the appointment of Chief Ministers to the three Hindi heartland states bagged by the BJP in the recent assembly elections, concluding with the ultimate denouement, i.e. the names being named – there simply was so much of it on television that my head is still swimming. Sorry about that very long and convoluted opening sentence, but I am just keeping in step with the way political developments unravelled last week in India.

As for the eyebrow-raisingly surprising names of those new Chief Ministers appointed in Chhatthisgarh, Madhya Pradesh and Rajasthan, ask me again in about three months’ time and I just might be able to recall them. For now, the Prime Minister, with his penchant for pulling rabbits out of hats, could well be quoting south Indian superstar Rajinikanth, ‘Enn vazhi, thani vazhi,’ or loosely translated without transliterating, ‘It is my way or the highway.’ I am sure Modiji, who never misses a trick, would make the effort to learn that line in Tamil, should he get the opportunity while campaigning next in Tamil Nadu, but the ‘zh’ sound as in ‘vazhi’ could prove to be his Achilles heel, as many other Indians have discovered, Tamilians included. Not that that will stop the great man. He will bash on regardless. He recently loosed off a couplet or two in Telugu, while addressing his party faithful in the capital, willing his words to be heard in distant Telangana. One can only take his word for it that he was speaking in Telugu. Two marks for effort!

That said, I am giving a wide berth to the election results and Article 370 (or 35A, come to that) for the time being. Instead, I am turning my attention to the all-important subject of bottom pinching, touching or patting. Yes, you heard that right. Before you get the wrong impression about me, allow me to explain. I am not a weirdo. I am only responding to a prominent news item in a prominent daily headlined, ‘Man held for a day for touching woman’s bottom.’  Now, in the normal course of things, if such an announcement were to occupy a couple of lines at the bottom (that word again!) of a page under ‘Miscellany’ or some such section, that would be understandable, but only just. However, perverted behaviour of this nature to be hogging the headlines was a bit much. Tantamount to scraping the bottom of the barrel. I am on a roll here!

So what was it that so excited one of our leading newspapers to find this salacious morsel worthy of making banner headlines? While it would be up to the editor to answer that question, he or she not being readily available to answer flippant questions in response to their flippant headlines, I have taken it upon myself to speculate on the motive behind the newspaper’s thinking. This is entirely from my fevered imagination and most likely bears no relation to the actual facts. Then again, truth is stranger than fiction.

We are in the conference room of the esteemed daily and all the editors, sub-editors and cub reporters gather round late in the evening to discuss the next day’s issue and topics that merit attention. I have not actually worked in a newspaper organisation but I am reliably informed that this is the normal practice to prioritize the contents for the following day’s issue. To add verisimilitude, I would have liked to say that it was a smoke-filled conference room, the men and women dragging on their Wills Filter fags or some fancy hand-rolled tobacco and downing cups of coffee to keep their frayed nerves under control. However, that romantic Raymond Chandler inspired image would be grossly inaccurate. These days, smokers are treated as pariah outcasts, banished to the streets where they can finish their smoke and get back, huffing and puffing their carcinogenic lungs out and sidle bashfully back to the meeting. Coffee (or tea), however, will be consumed at the rate of knots. And so to the meeting.

The editor opens the proceedings. ‘Good evening, ladies and laddies. We have no time to waste. We have to put the paper to bed by 11 pm, so that the early bird can catch the worm, if you get my meaning.’

Some of the junior subs break into titters, but the editor resumes. ‘This is no laughing matter. Right, what am I bid for state election results taking pride of place on the front page?’

At this, one of the bright sparks pipes up. ‘You mean sir, after the actual front page carrying the party-political advert? Followed by the second front page featuring the Christmas / New Year Sale advert from one of our largest retail brands? Not to forget the vertically-cut half front page carrying some news which no one reads?’

‘Cheeky,’ the editor interjects. ‘I like someone with a bit of spunk, but don’t cross the line. Let us get back on track. State elections, it is. The Israel / Hamas unending conflict can take a back seat. Ditto the Russia / Ukraine imbroglio. We will paper over them, ha ha.’ As the editor laughs at his own weak joke, the others join in awkwardly.

The boss man continues. ‘While we are about it, will someone arrange a quick survey, and I mean really quick. Talk to about 100 people on phone and project what these state elections could portend for the forthcoming general elections in May. What was that? Not a representative sample? Who cares? We won’t reveal the sample size. People like surveys. Let us give it to them. TV channels are feasting on them. Right, that’s pages 1 and 2 taken care of. Moving on to page 3. Any thoughts?’

The senior deputy editor draws the meeting’s attention to the crypto-terror attack on the Lok Sabha. ‘In my view this should go on the front page.’

The editor, irritably. ‘Look we are through with the front page. And we have received feelers from the Home Ministry not to play up the security breach affair in Parliament. Crossing the Home Minister is not good for health. Not for my health, at any rate. Don’t we have anything exciting to play up?’

A young girl in jeans and a bright, yellow ‘I love SRK’ tee-shirt clears her throat. ‘If I may Sir, this bottom patting incident needs to be highlighted.’

‘How much?’ The editor was slightly shocked. ‘Did I hear you correctly? Speak up, young lady.’

‘I am not sure what you heard, Sir. I am talking about this nasty incident on one of our Mumbai trains, where a man was caught and handed over to the cops for repeatedly patting or pinching a lady’s bottom.’ She had everybody’s attention.

‘What was it? Patting or pinching? We need to be accurate. Or was it just accidental touching? Crowded train, sudden braking, people keeling over each other. That sort of thing.’ The editor was quite animated, his eyes gleaming.

‘Not accidental, Sir. The guy was a perv. There were witnesses, including the victim’s husband, who helped in apprehending and handing over the criminal to the police. I do believe, with due respect to all concerned, that this should be highlighted properly in our paper.’

One of the other colleagues intoned, ‘But this sort of thing happens all the time in our country. I think a brief mention should suffice.’

‘Rubbish,’ cried the editor. ‘I completely agree with the young lady. Let us place it on top of page 5, and a minimum of two columns of copy. Anything else? You can write this story.’

‘Thank you, Sir. I already have.’ The young reporter was quite flushed. ‘In fact, I have information that the Metropolitan magistrate was severe when the case was brought to his notice. He said with reference to the victim’s complaint and I quote, “No lady will put stigma upon her merely because somebody touched her buttocks and without any reason.”’

The editor was impressed. ‘The Magistrate’s English may not have been up to scratch but he makes a telling point. People cannot go around touching or patting other people’s buttocks, with or without reason, and that’s that. We have our story. Well done, dear lady. You have distinguished yourself. It’s getting late and you will have to burn the midnight oil and post the story for tomorrow’s edition. Someone kindly see to it that she gets a drop home. That concludes the meeting. Rest of you can take care of sports, film reviews, business page etc.’

As the meeting broke up, the editor turned to his deputy, ‘It’s things like this that make my day. Bottom pinching, eh? That will take care of another 10,000 copies, d’you think?’

‘Actually, it was patting or touching, not pinching.’

‘All right, let us not split hairs. I want you to keep a close watch on that girl’s progress. I can see her rising rapidly. Bottom pinching today, interview with the PM tomorrow. She gets preferential treatment. I do not want some rival tabloid pinching her. Ha, ha ha!’

The two of them walked out of the conference room, the editor laughing his guts out, his deputy looking wan and pale. His hands were itching to pinch his editor’s bottom. Wiser counsels prevailed.

Absent friends, may they stay that way. Christopher Hitchens.

I ran into an old friend the other day. Acquaintance might be a more accurate word as I had not met him for the best part of twenty-five years, so we had to pick up the pieces gingerly after the usual round of ‘Good God, surely you can’t be…’ and ‘You are? I would never have believed it. What happened to your hair?’ and that sort of stuff. You know what I mean. Truth to tell, he wasn’t that great a friend of mine. He just happened to be in the same social circle that I moved in during my early working days. I will allow that he was more than a nodding acquaintance, but once you had said that, there was not a lot more to be said. Anyhow, I always knew him to be a hard-boiled cynic. Nothing was ever good enough for him. The glass was always half empty. Obviously, decency prevents me from revealing his real name, which I had completely forgotten, till we reintroduced ourselves.

I shall therefore refer to him by the monicker we employed behind his back, namely, Scoffer, on account of his unfailing tendency to scoff and sneer at just about anything and everything. For the record, and I am not doing this to show off, it is believed according to legend that, ‘a cynic was a member of a school of ancient Greek philosophers founded by Antisthenes, marked by an ostentatious contempt for ease and pleasure.’ Boy, am I glad to get that off my chest!

So there was Scoffer and here was I, bumping into each other, totally out of the blue. As I had indicated earlier, after the initial bumbling around, recognition dawning slowly but surely, we pumped hands and decided to get nostalgic over a tall glass of the chilled, frothy stuff. I was not expecting this tête-à-tête to rise to the level of a feast of reason and flow of soul, but one had been well brought up and one had to be civil. It was clear from the outset that I was buying the beer. He made no protest, not even for form’s sake, so that was that. Perhaps he had fallen on hard times. He did not seem in particularly conversational mood. Nursing some secret sorrow, I daresay.  I decided to break the ice.

‘So my friend, good old Scoffer. Fancy running into you like this. I say, you don’t mind my calling you Scoffer, do you? Force of habit.’

‘Whatever,’ he responded laconically. ‘You never called me that to my face, always behind my back but I shall let it pass. After all, you are paying for the beer.’

Perhaps he did possess a grim sense of irony, not that I ever had an inkling of that earlier. Still, the passage of time can bring about changes. Like balding. I clung on to this hope.

I pressed on. ‘What have you been up to all these years?’

‘This and that,’ he mumbled.

I was not letting him get away with this. Or come to that, that. ‘I thought you might say that Scoffer, but exactly what kind of this and what sort of that?’

‘To cut a long story short, I have been dabbling in all kinds of things. Couldn’t hold down a job, marital status a bit wobbly, if not actually on the rocks, played the stock markets recklessly and am deep in the red. Net result, I am suffering from hypertension and do not make for very good company, I am afraid. Not the ray of sunshine you might have been expecting.’

Frankly, I did not know what to expect, but this was proving to be a right, royal dampener. A wetter blanket, you would have been hard pressed to find. I was already regretting this accidental reunion. He appeared so forlorn, any moment I was expecting him to start blubbing into his beer. If things continued like this, I might have had to pop across to the nearest chemist for a strip of anti-depressants myself. I decided to take him out of his lugubriousness and engage him in some matters of current interest.

‘Right Scoffer, I am sorry to hear that. Marriage on the rocks, did you say? My commiserations. Why not chase that beer down with something stronger on the rocks? No? All right, let us shelve your sob story for now and turn to something more cheerful. I know you were a cricket buff, a Kapil Dev fan, so what did you make of the World Cup final? 2023, not 1983. India fashioning defeat from the jaws of victory?’

At this abrupt change of subject, Scoffer brightened up. ‘Are you out of your mind? Were you even following the game? How do you mean fashioning defeat from the jaws of victory? We were never in with a shout. The blasted Aussies had us by the jugular from the outset and never let go. Get me another beer.’

This was better. He was properly riled, but at least, he cast off his morose shackles and became animated. That’s what cricket does to people in our country. I signalled for another beer and goaded him on.

‘Yes, yes, I am aware of all that, but we lost the toss which was a bit of a blow. At least, that seemed to be the opinion of most Indian commentators.’

Scoffer remained unimpressed. Took a large swig revealing a lush, frothy moustache and continued, becoming much more voluble. ‘Stuff and nonsense. The big occasion got to our players and we played like sissies. All very well gloating about having won 10 matches on the trot. Got a bad case of the trots when it mattered most. Who ever remembers the runners-up? Everyone recalls Edmund Hillary as the first to climb Everest. Who remembers the second guy?’

‘Tenzing Norgay?’

‘Of course, you know the name, as do I. We won quiz competitions in Calcutta, remember? How about the rest of the world? I rest my case.’

Scoffer was now in fourth gear, cruising. I got back to the original subject. ‘All right, but I must say it was good of our PM to lend all the players a shoulder to cry on after the game. Dressed in blue as well to go with the players’ dress code. In any case, they got the blues after the defeat. The PM would have loved to hold aloft the trophy with the Indian team, that too in his home town Ahmedabad, in a stadium named after him. Big photo-op denied.’

‘You can’t have everything,’ countered Scoffer. ‘Anyhow, since you brought up the PM, the smiles were certainly back after the recent assembly polls. Whose side were you on?’

I was not really prepared to get into a political debate, especially in these polarised times but I kept the conversation going, hedging my bets. ‘What more can I say than that the ruling party swept the polls?’

‘Swept the polls? scoffed Scoffer, ‘you could say that, which is stating the bleeding obvious. They wiped the floor with the opposition. Make no mistake, The Man is coming back in 2024. God help the misalliance.’

‘And God help us all. Dear me, I can detect those capitals a mile away in your emphatic prediction. The Man, eh? You could well be right, but those poll numbers, they were off the charts. Should we be worried about EVMs?’

Scoffer became so agitated, he knocked down the empty beer glass, stood up unsteadily and gave slurring speech, as though he was addressing the entire pub along with the huddled masses. ‘Look here, we lose a cricket match and you blame the pitch and the toss. The PM’s party trounces everybody else at the assembly elections, and you start talking about EVMs. How about Telangana? I have had it up to here with you. Goodbye, and may our paths never cross again.’ Scoffer stormed out, literally frothing at the mouth. At the exit door, he tripped over the threshold, was helped up by the liveried doorman and limped off. I was left to settle the bill, but I bore no ill will towards my misanthropic friend. He was more to be pitied than censured.

 Cricket and Politics. Two topics in India that can bind or break friendships. In this case, this Scoffer disease was never a friend to start with and I deeply regret the fact that he is well ahead of the game, having quaffed several beers at my expense. Not cricket. And not very politic.

There is a tendency amongst many of us hack writers to attribute any slick proverb to Shakespeare. The Bard of Avon came up with so many smart lines befitting any occasion, that one can be excused for giving him the credit for aphorisms he did not even write. My proverb of choice for this essay is ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ I diligently researched the saying to ensure it was not one of Shakespeare’s nuggets. In fact, it was William Congreve who came up with this beauty in his Restoration play, The Mourning Bride, way back in 1697. Congreve is also credited with the other famous quote, ‘Music has charms to soothe a savage breast,’ which has often been misquoted as ‘Music has charms to soothe a savage beast.’ Dear reader, I can see you getting all fidgety and going, ‘That’s all very well about Congreve whoever he was, but where are you going with all this? We haven’t got all day, you know.’ My apologies. I will come straight to the point.

I recently came across a news item that a woman in the city of Pune was so incensed with her thirty-something husband that she punched him in the nose, so hard that the poor fellow died. Probably of nasal asphyxiation, if there be such a term. She almost certainly did not mean to total her hubby but that, tragically, is what happened. Apparently, it was the young lady’s birthday and she had set her eyes on a shopping trip to Dubai. When it became clear that no air and hotel bookings for Dubai had been made, and that the husband was planning to fob her off with some flowers and a dinner date at a nearby restaurant, all hell broke loose. You would not be far wrong in saying the gloves were off.

The better half, for want of a better term, hauled off and delivered a vicious right hook to the unfortunate chap’s nasal bridge that would have made Mike Tyson proud. She punched his lights out and not only did the husband see stars, he was soon one among the stars! Evidently, the husband had also promised her expensive jewellery and luxury perfumes, but nothing was forthcoming on the big day. You can see where the hellish fury was coming from, but hey, she could have confined her aggression to a few tight slaps or something less fatal than a bleeding, blocked nose resulting in the bread winner’s last breath. The police are now trying to piece together the whole unpleasant episode. The killer widow must be full of remorse and crying her eyes out. Next time, if there be a next time, she must learn to go easy on the wrist work and follow through while delivering the punch. Better still, the stomach would have been the least fatal target what with its natural cushioning and inherent give. Which is sooner said than done. ‘Heat of the moment’ will be her plea to the cops and the courts. My own take is that she will not face the ultimate wrath of the law, though a verdict of manslaughter could well be on the cards.

In a reversal of roles, an irate husband in Bangalore hurled a pressure cooker full of boiling sambar at his wife, causing severe burns and injuries. I am not making this up, cross my heart and hope to die. This after not being able to push her over the balcony or finding a knife handy to stab her mortally. And the provocation? Apparently, the family was skint, unable to pay the rent and living from hand to mouth. The man of the house was an electrician and the distraught wife requested him to help a neighboring senior citizen with some electrical repairs, thereby earning an honest wage and keeping the wolf from the door. Why this perfectly reasonable suggestion should have shocked the electrician to such an extent that he should himself have turned into a werewolf, reached for the sambar-filled pressure-cooker and performed a discus throw with it, is a moot point. His wife was rushed to hospital.

Last heard, the wife was recovering and the husband was headed for the hills, tail between legs, being pursued by the local gendarmerie. So here we have an instance of a woman, not quite scorned, but scorched and scarred by sambar. I would suggest she follow her Pune counterpart, viz., find the blighter, and with hellish fury punch him with all her strength right on the nose. And let the devil take the hindmost.

For the most part, domestic physical violence has a been a conspicuously male preserve. Never a day passes without the media reporting a man abusing his infinitely better half for the flimsiest of reasons. Like the chappatis were too cold or the tea was too hot. Once in a rare while, we get refreshing news of the tyrant getting his comeuppance, bobbitised by his partner in the dead of night. Such cases are few and far between. However tragic the consequences of the Pune lady’s pugilistic approach towards her husband, she was probably taking out her frustration for being ignored or rebuffed over long periods of time. The anger was building up to a crescendo. However, that is only me playing guessing games. I do feel a pang of sympathy for the unfortunate husband who was merely trying to keep the home fires burning by not splurging on expensive foreign travel and shopping sprees in Dubai. Truth will out. It is one thing to literally have one’s nose put out of joint, quite another to have the breathing apparatus rendered hors de combat forever.

Moral of the story. Next time your wife insists on a foreign holiday and a visit to Cartier or Gucci in Paris or Venice, keep your guard up and stand at a safe distance away from her before saying ‘No.’ Above all, learn how to duck and weave.

As published in the Deccan Chronicle dated November 29, 2023.

I recently spent an enjoyable holiday in Sri Lanka with my extended family. The weather was hot and humid but we were put up at a comfortable hotel in a seaside resort in Kosgoda. Seafood aplenty, washed down with lots of beer and generally lying about like beached whales under umbrellas and getting our quota of Vitamin D. I am not much of a one for crabs, lobsters, squids, clams, oysters and other delicacies from our mighty oceans, but everyone else was gorging the stuff like there was no tomorrow, while I nibbled away more conservatively at some veg and eggetarian fare.

I don’t swim so I could only admire the sea from a safe distance, except to allow a frothy wave to lap at my feet and ankles. Poet Sylvia Plath’s wonderful quote came to mind, ‘A second wave collapsed over my feet, lipped with white froth, and the chill gripped my ankles with a mortal ache.’ That is stretching it a bit but then, Ms. Plath was rather big on mortal aches. Played a bit of ping-pong, after decades, in the evening and one or two of us nearly came to grief attempting ambitious forehand and backhand smashes, managing only to fall heavily on our posteriors. Happily, no fractured limbs or mortal aches and we are still here to tell the tale.

So much for a brief synopsis of a somnolent holiday. The real reason for this piece is something entirely different. To my regret, we discovered that Sri Lanka was now offering entry for Indians into their lovely island country without having to pay an entry fee for visas. The regret stems from the fact that we had already obtained our visas a few weeks earlier, and had paid our USD 20 per head with no hope of a refund. Not that the fee was extortionate but still, one felt somewhat diddled out of something for nothing.

Now that I am back home, I was happy to learn that as many as 60 countries are offering Indian tourists visa-free entries. It was the work of a moment for me to study closely each of the 60 countries to prepare for my next holiday. What a delightful prospect awaits all Indian citizens. They can just flash their passports and waltz into any of these wonderful countries. One has watched with envy Europeans and Americans do that all the time at London Heathrow, JFK or Charles de Gaulle or wherever. Let us take a closer look at them, shall we? I mean the 60 countries, not the Yanks and the Europeans.

Taking it alphabetically, we kick-off with Albania, about which I know next to nothing. As a budding child philatelist, I liked their colourful postage stamps. The country is located in the Balkans abutting the Mediterranean not far from Greece, so I am guessing the scenery and food should be good. And with any luck, cheap. I will salt Albania away for future consideration.

Moving on to sunny Barbados in the West Indies, how can we cricket-mad Indians not want to visit the home of Sir Garfield St. Aubrun Sobers in Bridgetown? I believe the great all-rounder, arguably the greatest ever, is hospitable and happy to pose for selfies. If pressed, he just might invite you home for tea. Rum might be on offer if you are there when the sun goes down. Barbados, you betcha.

Bhutan is virtually like travelling in India, so it won’t count.

To the British Virgin Islands I shall give a wide berth, as it will be no different to travelling across to Sri Lanka or Goa. And anyway, it is in the Caribbean, where I already plan to visit Barbados to discuss cricket and raise a glass or three with Sir Garry. One can have too much of a good thing.

Cook Islands next. It is somewhere in the South Pacific, and if you are prepared to fly for close to 30 hours, take another 48 hours to recover from jet lag, only to stare bleary-eyed at the ocean and some mountainous scenery, well, good luck to you. Perhaps I should not be so pessimistic. This is the South Pacific we are talking about. Who knows, you may spend Some Enchanted Evening on the golden sands and you may see a stranger. The rest is up to you.

Dominica, El Salvador, Fiji, Grenada, Haiti and Jamaica are really more of what we have already talked about. Of course, if you are seeking a quick divorce, then Haiti is the hot spot for getting it done in the blink of an eye. Americans, who plan their divorce even before taking their marriage vows, were seen frequently landing in Haiti to effect a lightning quick separation, clearly a much more arduous process in the United States. And the icing on the cake? You can also get married again to your new flame almost immediately after the divorce papers are signed! It’s an all-in-one marriage and divorce package in Haiti. Avant-garde rock musicians Steely Dan, said it best when they sang these memorable lines from their funky number Haitian Divorce, ‘Oh, no hesitation / No tears and no hearts breakin’ / No remorse / Oh, congratulations / This is your Haitian divorce.’

Kazakhstan, Macao (SAR China), Micronesia (how much?), Mauritius, Montserrat, Nepal (that is virtually India, and sometimes China), Niue (never heard of it) so might be worth checking out. Oman, Qatar and Senegal do not greatly appeal to me. Saint Kitts and Nevis, Saint Vincent, the Grenadines and Sri Lanka are like going to Goa. Trinidad & Tobago (we can check out Naipaul’s house for Mr. Biswas) and Tunisia, Thailand (aren’t we fed up with all those massages?), and what on earth, come to that where on earth is Vanuatu?

 We then come to Botswana, Bolivia and Burundi. Not terribly keen. Cambodia is worth a visit. Don’t know much about Cape Verde Islands and Comoro Islands, though. What is with this obsession with a profusion of islands? Perhaps the tourism industry has been under the cosh and these islands wish to make it easier for people to visit them, buy some property and settle there permanently. Fugitive jeweller baron Mehul Choksi is holed up somewhere in one of these islands, so there just might be a darker agenda to this visa free lark.

I am not sure how observant you are, but we have gone clean off the accepted alphabetical order. When I say ‘we,’ I am referring to some functionary in Delhi’s North or South Block. I mean, how do Botswana and Cambodia come after Vanuatu, wherever that is? The government moves in a mysterious way, its wonders to perform.

However, we trudge on manfully. Or should I have said, personfully? A red line appeared below that word as soon as I typed it in, but what the hell? If Microsoft is ignorant of gender etiquette, there’s not a lot I can do about it. Back to these destinations that our government is so keen we should visit. Any takers for Mauritania, Mozambique and Myanmar? Didn’t think so. Mind you, I was two years old when my dad was posted briefly in Burma (now Myanmar), and I do have one or two faded, sepia bromides to remind me. I guess I will just stick to those memories and let sleeping Burmese lie.

Palau Islands? Again, with the islands, this one a closed book to me. Rwanda and Samoa? No, thank you, not even if you fly me first class at government expense. That goes for Sierra Leone and Somalia as well. These are what Wodehouse (bow in reverence) once described as 78 rpm countries (revolutions per minute). Seychelles only reminds me of that school boy tongue-twister, ‘She sells sea shells on the sea shore,’ but little else. Bringing up the rear are Saint Lucia, Tanzania, Timor-Leste, Togo and Tuvalu. Really?

Hurrah and huzzah, just two more to go. Two familiar names – Uganda and Zimbabwe. Whatever its current situation Uganda, part of East Africa, I shall always associate with Idi Amin, whose very name gives me the collywobbles. Beheaded human trophies in his freezer and so on. Nevertheless, among many Asian British passport holders who migrated to Britain from East Africa, notwithstanding Enoch Powell’s tantrums, were Rishi Sunak’s parents. Their boy has done well, hasn’t he? And he married that nice, rich girl from Bangalore. Not that the well-heeled Richie Rich Rishi is scraping the bottom of the barrel. That does not mean I will visit Uganda, but I shall fly to Britain. Once more with feeling.

The list ends, predictably on Z for Zimbabwe. I may have fleetingly considered Harare to take in a bit of cricket, but Zimbabwe’s cricket has taken a nose dive and they do not appear to be too interested in the game. Mind you, they once beat India in a World Cup fixture in England, but that was just one brief, shining moment. I have a simple question for Zimbabwean cricket. Where have all the Flowers gone? Perhaps I should focus on big game hunting, for which that part of the world is celebrated. Must watch Hatari! again.

If those 60 nations, which have come up with this generous bilateral agreement with India to let our denizens enter their ports without let or hindrance, are not quite to your taste, you can always opt for visa on arrival (which could involve some tedious form-filling at their airports) for such destinations as Azerbaijan, Benin, Colombia (you may never return), Djibouti, Kyrgyzstan, Lesotho, Tajikistan, São Tomé and Príncipe amongst others. More well-trodden nations like Singapore and Malaysia are on that list.

As for the United Kingdom, United States, France, Germany and all the other glamour countries in Europe and elsewhere, you will continue to pay through your nose, run from pillar to post, and when you finally do obtain your visa, you will wonder if it was all worth the trouble. Our Foreign Minister, Dr. Jaishankar had a Deepavali tea meet with his Japanese wife at 10 Downing Street last week. Presented Rishi with a cricket bat autographed by Virat Kohli. Surely that alone is worth the price of a visa-free entry into the UK for Indians? Not all Indians can get married to British ministers, leave alone Prime Ministers. Prime Minister Modi, only you can make the waters part. We are waiting.

Cast: Mohawk Mata as herself / Hero-none-the-wiser as himself / Joy Dehradun as himself and introducing Henry the Rottweiler as his dog self.

This is a short one-act, off-key musical play about a feisty parliamentarian, her ex-boyfriend Joy Dehradun, a Rottweiler named Henry and Hero-none-the-wiser, a wealthy, off-shore industrialist (at least, he seems to spend much of his time off India’s shores) who has access to the feisty, at times hysterical, parliamentarian’s official login id, through which he can periodically feed awkward questions for the over-the-top parliamentarian to parrot faithfully, and histrionically, during (un)parliamentary debates. The general idea being to bring disrepute to some other fat cat industrialist, and through him, to the supreme head of our government, hoping to make him squirm and with any luck, fall. Not just fall from grace, but fall period. Like the Roman empire. Let us see how they get on.

(As the curtain rises, the stage reveals a fierce-looking, black Rottweiler sitting on a plush sofa and gnawing contentedly on a bone. Enter stage left, a youngish lady, sporting Randolph Amelia shades and dressed in a colourful sari, with a Louis Vuitton bag ostentatiously slung over her shoulder. She is our feisty parliamentarian, Mohawk Mata, waving her LVMH bag to go with her Gucci scarf. Her western fashion accoutrements are contrastingly set off by a prominent large, red bindi on her forehead. Her joy knows no bounds upon seeing Henry as she breaks into song, while hugging and slobbering all over the canine. Henry joins in too, as you will see).

Mohawk Mata – ‘There’s a hole in the cushion, dear Henry, dear Henry / There’s hole in the cushion, dear Henry a hole.’

Henry – ‘Then mend it, dear Mohawk, dear Mohawk, then mend it, dear Mohawk, then mend it. I am trained to gouge out holes in cushions. How is that for a doggerel, Mohawk?’

Mohawk Mata – ‘Very cute. But it was you that bit into the cushion, dear Henry, dear Henry. Why should I mend it, dear Henry, you naughty, naughty boy?’

(Readers will have observed that they have gone clean off script from the original song and have started improvising. The rest of the song goes to pot, while Henry goes potty on the sofa).

Henry – ‘Because, dear Mohawk, you did not teach me how to mend cushions. You taught me how to bite and chew, which is what I do for a living. Mending is your affair. All that once bitten, twice shy nonsense does not apply to me. Anyhow, sitting at home, I see that you are quite adept yourself at biting, chewing and spitting out bits of your opponents’ flesh in parliament. The cameras are never off your scarily mobile face. But mind, you tend to froth at the mouth. People might think you’ve contracted rabies. Not from me, thank God, but clearly, I have taught you something.’

Mohawk Mata – ‘Yes, my dear sweetie-kin, you have taught me so many things. My bark is now fiercer than my bite. Oops, there goes my mobile. Excuse me, Henry, I have to take this. Oh God, that is Hero-none-the-wiser on the line. I shan’t be a tick, Henry. Ok, ok, I will attend to your ticks in a moment. Hullo, hullo, is this who I think this is?’

As Hero-none-the-wiser is calling from Dubai, his voice is heard over the theatre sound system.

Hero-none-the-wiser – ‘Like you didn’t know. Listen Mohawk, I am in deep excrement, thanks to you. Why couldn’t you keep your trap shut? How much more do you want for questions? This ‘cash for query’ nonsense is hitting the roof, and I am tired of having to answer awkward questions from the media with that same old ‘I have said whatever I want in my affidavit.’ For crying out loud, tom-tomming to the whole world about your Italian handbags and your Ferragamo shoes, not to mention your French perfumes. Look where it has landed you? And me. All over social media as well.’ At this point, Hero-none-the-wiser, on cue, breaks into a recent Van Morrison hit song.

‘Why are you on Facebook? / Why do you need second-hand friends? Why do you care who’s trending? / Or is there something you’re defending? / Get a life, is it that empty and sad? / Or are you after something you can’t have? / Did you miss your fifteen minutes of fame? / Or do you not have any shame? / Put yourself in the frame / For what some people work very hard to attain / Or are you looking for a scapegoat to blame / ‘Cause you’re a failure again / Why are you on Facebook? / Why are you on Facebook?’

As the chorus line fades, Hero-none-the-wiser waits for Mohawk Mata’s response.

Mohawk Mata – ‘Catchy song Hero, but you have been had. Spilling the beans under pressure from ‘we-know-who’ in your affidavit, what were you thinking? So I gave you my login and password. Big deal. Everybody’s got everybody else’s login and password in parliament. Nothing to make a big song and dance about. By the way, I am more an X (ex-Twitter) person than a Facebook fiend.’

Hero-none-the-wiser – ‘You mean you were a twit and you are now an X-twit.’

Mohawk now throws her head back and begins to warble, a la John Lennon with a streptococcal infection.

‘Here I stand, head in hand / Turn my face to the wall / If he’s gone I can’t go on / Feeling two foot small / Everywhere people stare / Each and every day / I can see them laugh at me / And I hear them say / Hey, you’ve got to hide your love away / Hey, you’ve got to hide your love away.’

As the song comes to a close, Mohawk Mata’s erstwhile boyfriend enters stage left, Joy Dehradun. On seeing him, Henry the Rottweiler leaps from the sofa straight on to Joy Dehradun’s chest, knocking the handsome lawyer base over apex, simpering, whining and licking the poor man all over his face.

Joy Dehradun – ‘There, there, who’s a good boy then Henry? You love me? Of course, you do. You see, Mohawk. Henry is mine and there is not a damn thing you can do about it. He is coming home with me.’

Mohawk Mata – ‘Like hell he is. He stays right here with me. I have put out several videos of me and Henry virtually rolling in the hay, in a manner of speaking. Once the judge sees that, you will have about as much chance of canine custody as a snowball in hell.’

Joy Dehradun – ‘Henry it’s now or never. Remember that Elvis Presley classic?’ Joy begins to sing.

‘It’s now or never / Come hold me tight / Kiss me my darling / Be mine tonight and forever / Tomorrow will be too late / It’s now or never / My love won’t wait. Come on Henry, jump into my Merc.’

Henry – ‘I can’t come with you now, Joy. The Ethics Committee has called me for a hearing this afternoon. They’ve got a bone to pick with you, Mohawk and that Hero-none-the-wiser fellow, Mr. Moneybags. So they have promised to throw some chunky bones for me to pick on. I think I shall spill the beans, if not the bones. And please Joy, don’t try to cover Elvis, if you want me to come with you. Much better if you can belt out that old classic, How much is that doggie in the window, bow-wow. That is more within your vocal range. And mine.’

Joy Dehradun – ‘That is perfectly fine, Henry. You give that Ethics Committee hell but tell them your future lies with me. I will be waiting outside in my Merc. Just jump in at the back.’

Henry – ‘Who is that guy sitting in front? Didn’t know we had company.’

Joy Dehradun – ‘That is just my good friend, Rishicant ‘Scooby’ Dooby, who has been firing a few hot ones at Mohawk in parliament. Don’t worry, he is on our side.’

At which point, Mohawk Mata goes into a convulsive epileptic fit, recovers and dials that former cricketer’s son from a leading news channel and fixes an appointment for her 16^th interview with that same network. She then jumps on to the sofa where Henry was reclining and begins to wail her swan song. For a dog lover she elects, rather incongruously, to tearfully render Memory from Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cats. However, the lyrics are appropriate and poignant, as the curtain comes down. There is no curtain call.

 ‘Memory, all alone in the moonlight / I can smile of the old days / I was beautiful then / I remember the time I knew what happiness was / Let the memory live again.’

The emotional impact of the song is completely ruined by the sound of a dog barking behind the curtains. Which respectable dog wants to hear a cat singing?

                                           THE END

My younger brother and I were kiddies between the ages of 5 and 9 when we spent a few years in Singapore and Kuala Lumpur in Malaya, as it then was. The reason being that my father, who worked in a private commercial bank (later nationalised), was posted in that part of the world for several years during the 50s. If I am still here to tell the tale, then you would have divined dear reader, with that sharp acuity that so characterises you, that I am well stricken in years. Not quite senile and doddering, but decidedly long in the tooth. As a family, we do have in our vaults, some faded black and white photographs taken during that period, to remind us of one of Britain’s many outposts that we called home for the greater part of a decade.

Prior to Kuala Lumpur and Singapore my dad was also stationed briefly in Rangoon where my older brother and I were with the pater and mater. I was too young to remember anything of Burma and my younger brother was still kicking and making a nuisance of himself in my mother’s womb. The photographs were not of the highest quality, and I am not just referring to the inevitable fading and spotting involved with bromide prints of that vintage, but also in terms of composition and character. ‘There, that’s me sucking my thumb on the far, left corner and that’s my brother sticking his tongue out as the cameraman asked us to watch the birdie.’ Not exactly from the Cartier-Bresson school of photography, but useful to spend an idle hour going through them. Particularly when you plan to revisit your past.

During these periodic reminiscences of mine, I have had occasion to go back and do a flashback on cities like Calcutta and London, and pen my thoughts as to how certain gradual changes have taken place in these cities. Always remembering that I am now based in Bangalore, a city I went back to, to put down roots, having spent my post-Far East childhood there. Nostalgia keeps claiming me for its own no matter how hard I try to stay rooted in the present. When you try to rediscover a city like Kuala Lumpur, having last lived there over six decades ago, expecting to instantly recognise familiar landmarks in a trice, is unrealistic. As I was to learn on this visit a couple of weeks ago.

To be perfectly honest, I had no real plan or desire to visit KL. ‘Let the dead past bury its dead,’ is my motto, as Longfellow put it so eloquently. Rediscovering something that happened within ten to thirty years ago is doable. The memory bank over that kind of time frame holds you in good stead, and the changes wrought in the city of your choice are never that drastic that you ‘have about as much chance as a one-armed blind man in a dark room trying to shove a pound of melted butter into a wild cat’s left ear with a red-hot needle.’ Now I put that in quotes because I have lifted it from one of Wodehouse’s gems. I have my principles. I do not go around pinching other people’s quotes, trying to pass them off as my own. Not cricket. To get back to the subject, my feelings on arriving at the capital city of Malaysia, where I had spent four years eons ago, was not dissimilar to Wodehouse’s one-armed blind man.

Nevertheless, I landed in KL to be met by my younger sibling, who had arrived earlier from Chennai with his better half, and her close relative settled in Malaysia. We were to spend about a week in the capital city, keen to visit every possible landmark that our fading memory and sepia-tinted old photographs would permit us to do. Our friends and relatives had thoughtfully drawn up a programme in advance to make our voyage of rediscovery as smooth as possible. However, there was a catch. The streets where we had lived all those years ago, the few landmarks to identify them by, had all vanished without a trace. More of that in a bit. One or two well- known tourist spots are still there in full splendour. Take Batu Caves for instance.

Batu Caves, the house of Lord Murugan, son of Shiva and his consort, Parvathi and brother of elephant-God Ganesha, was the scene of thousands of visitors. There was a temple at the base of a steep hill, and another darshan could be had if you had ventured to climb several hundred steps leading to the caves, to pay obeisance. Discretion won over valour and we decided to admire from afar and gaze in wonder at the gigantic, grand gold-painted statue of the presiding deity that towered over the entire area. Monkeys frolicked around, full of mischief, reminding one of the many temples in India. We also visited one or two Chinese places of worship and frankly, one looked just like the other. Chinatown was a must, selling all manner of cheap knacks and gewgaws, and most of the stalls were manned by Bangladeshis! Their Chinese masters just sat back, scratching themselves, enjoying their smoke and endless cups of tea, while raking in the ringgits.

My brother had an address we had apparently lived in, on the arterial Klang Road. We only had his word for it, though we did have a couple of photos of our bungalow with the entire family posing in front of it. Our friends showed great patience driving us around the vicinity of what might have been the location of our residence. What we came across instead were multi-storeyed buildings galore, a couple of shopping malls and a few tennis courts. I gave it as my considered opinion that those tennis courts might well have once been our picturesque bungalow! And if you don’t believe me, I can show you the pictures of those tennis courts. If that fails to convince you, you can view the photos of our bungalows. I have all bases covered.

Lest I forget, there was old La Salle School, which my brother and I attended for a couple of years, probably 2^nd and 4^th standard respectively. Our hosts reassured us that the school does indeed exist and is flourishing. Off we went, hunting for the school we barely remembered, aided only by a class group photo of mine which displayed the school banner at the back, but little else to mark it out by. On arriving, the guard at the gate firmly refused to let us in. I could not recall the school song, if there was one, else I would have sung it for him. I showed him the photo, he remained unimpressed, told me visitors not allowed. So, I stood outside the gate and clicked a few snaps. Frankly, for all I recalled, it could have been any school, but at least, I have something to show folks back home, how I first learnt a smattering of bad words in Malay and Chinese.

On some of our longer drives to Malacca and Genting (a pleasant resort with a casino attached), we hired a charming young Chinese couple to drive us around and act as tour guides. They were called Chini and China, I kid you not. Indeed, they were like a couple of cute Chinese pandas and I am guessing the latter was the man and Chini his wife. China (pronounced Cheena) could only drive and his English was non-existent, necessitating his young wife to be the official interpreter. Well, full marks to Chini for trying, but she might as well have been speaking to us in Mandarin or Cantonese or whatever. I tried a few bad Chinese words I had learnt in La Salle School on them, and they giggled. They both giggled a great deal which kept them and us in good spirits, and they got their Rs and Ls reversed (turn light, then reft and stlaight), an Oriental speech impediment we were familiar with and could decode. Happy campers. Incidentally, the Malaysians add a ‘la’ after every sentence. It is a kind of informal term of endearment. ‘KL is really hot, la. All twelve months, la. No winter, only rain. Even then very hot, la.’ Welcome to la-la land. By the way, try as we might, we could not find a souvenir shop in Malacca selling their storied Malacca cane of legend and song. Maybe we did not look hard enough. Too hot, la.

As you would have rightly concluded, my friends, our journey to Kuala Lumpur to delve into our past turned out to be somewhat of a non-starter. That said, our hosts and friends who remembered my parents with much fondness, were most hospitable, made us feel at home, took us round various parts of the city, and kept us well fed. We posed in front of that glitzy, architectural marvel, the imposing Petronas Towers, where superstar Rajanikanth and his ilk have often shot many of their action sequences, we posed in front of the even more imposing edifice of Lord Murugan (aka Subramanyan) in Batu Caves, a sprawling golf club here, a pan-Asian restaurant there, the ubiquitous Saravanabhavan hotels everywhere – all good. As to spotting anything even remotely resembling 88 Klang Road, our hearth and home circa 1955 – 58, we were chasing a mirage. A nice mirage, though. At least, we have the photographs to invest the mirage with some life.

So, if you are visiting Malaysia any time soon, never mind which part of the year, it will be hot. Too hot, la! But the people are velly, velly fliendry.

Carnatic musician T.M. Krishna has recently held forth on the perils, as he sees it, of music lovers inexorably leaning towards consuming the art form through a plethora of streaming OTT channels and eschewing live performances. Sitting comfortably at home, one can order entertainment, à la carte, often through state-of-the-art sound systems. Not to mention the all-pervasive mobile phone. ‘Spoilt for choice’ is an oft-repeated phrase. Krishna’s gripe is that increasingly, music lovers are becoming disinclined to attend live concerts, thereby denying themselves the opportunity to experience, along with others in the auditorium, the immediacy and thrill that a live performance promises. And, with caveats, delivers.

What Krishna posits is inarguable in theory. The facts on the ground may or may not bear this out. Since I have chosen to cite a Carnatic musician’s views, let me stick to the cloistered world of Carnatic music to take this discussion forward. Our world has come a long way over the decades, and there have been fundamental sociological and lifestyle changes. I am not an anthropologist, but that pretty much sums it up. I am keeping the Covid pandemic out of this purview, though it might have been a contributory factor in accelerating the process of keeping people out of concert halls. However, Covid was a black swan event and the scourge’s relevance to current behavioural patterns is virtually nil. Covid distorts the narrative.

YouTube and other digital platforms were not available back in the day, but radio was a hugely popular medium. All India Radio’s weekly National Programmes and morning offerings of Carnatic music were avidly anticipated. The tallest musicians gave of their time generously to these programmes, which only whetted the appetite of listeners to flock to concert halls to listen live to their favourite musicians. Vinyl records, cassette and spool tapes would circulate freely amongst friends and relatives who would wear them out listening to these masterpieces endlessly. If you were a Carnatic music aficionado back then, there was not much else happening to divert your attention.

Fast forward to the past couple of decades. If you look beyond the pandemic aberration, there are two factors that make attending concerts not quite the experience it once was. Just getting from one place to another has become arduous and a deterrent. In many metros, concert venues are located far apart and only those who live in the vicinity make the effort. Then there’s the parking woes, traffic navigation and the anxiety to return home. The exception is a city like Chennai, where many venues exist within shouting-distance of each other. This is particularly evident during the December music festival, when people move form venue to venue like those great historical migrations.

Krishna does make the point that a handful of musicians who enjoy box-office appeal, are the exceptions to the rule. I am not sure that this is a recent phenomenon. Even in the 60s and 70s, the venerable Music Academy Madras would find itself hard pressed to fill the hall for all but a few stars. It is possible that there were more stars then than there are now, though that is debatable. From about the early 80s till the mid-90s, there was a palpable lull in concert attendance, barring a few bankable artists. Thence, till well into the millennium years, there was a huge upsurge of interest with a host of young musicians breaking through the clutter. Concert halls were bursting at the seams.

This flies in the face of any sweeping generalisation that people are not inclined to attend live concerts. Quality finds its own level and rises to the top, like cream. Music lovers have become more selective and will attend concerts of artists they consider worth their while. The stresses and strains of modern life cannot be overemphasised. Then there is that hoary old chestnut, ‘are youngsters interested in Carnatic music?’ The question rhetorically suggests that they are not, but the conclusion is facile and fallacious. Sell-out concerts witness the presence of a more than respectable number of teenagers and those in their 20s and 30s whooping it up in their Ed Sheeran tee-shirts. ‘Awesome Kalyani, boss’ they WhatsApp to one another in the auditorium.

In conclusion, it is not anyone’s case that home viewing is a better form of experiencing music than a live performance, but needs must. Krishna opines, inter alia, that the virtual world is ‘a dangerous manifestation of reality, because it excludes person-to-person interaction. It is an intoxicating drug.’ That is a matter of opinion, but the virtual world is here to stay. Just as Krishna himself has self-avowedly admitted to being an integral part of that world, warts and all. An intoxicating drug? Many users are mainlining on it.

Deccan Herald, October 7, 2023.