Sorry, your password must contain a capital letter, two numbers, a symbol, an inspiring message, a spell, a gang sign, a hieroglyph, and the blood of a virgin. Anon.

Last time I checked, I was the custodian of something of the order of thirty-seven passwords, and counting. That would be around thirty-five more passwords than any man or woman possessed of above average intelligence, can reasonably be expected to commit to memory. It’s an absolute nightmare.  I know, I know. You are about to bestow upon me a patronizing smile, and ask me why I don’t write them all down on a sheet of paper and cunningly hide it under my pillow, thus stymieing any would-be nocturnal password hunter with a sub-20 IQ. Or better still, secrete this precious sheet of password-scribed foolscap right on top of my work station, plumb spang in front of the desktop. Hidden in plain sight, as it were. By a strange inversion of logic, it would be such an obviously idiotic place to conceal anything that no one would dream of looking for it there. Except, of course, for the wife. Unless you don’t even want her to find it, in which case you are a fit case for the loony bin.

Honestly, not a day passes when I am not required to key in a password for a myriad number of important and often routine matters. Just to get into your internet on the computer or mobile phone for starters. Since this is an activity you perform virtually every day, the punching in of your precious password should not strain your faculties over much. The first thing you wish to do of a morning along with your steaming cup of tea or coffee, is to read the newspaper. As many of us are still wary of catching Covid from the newsprint, we have opted to take in the digital version. In fact, you have subscribed to the newspaper of your choice to appear on your computer screen. To open which, you are called upon to key in your username and password. The former is a breeze, the latter a giant headache. A quick aside. A smart aleck advised me, if I am keen on the real McCoy (the one with the smelly, newsprint ink), to give it the microwave treatment for 30 seconds to effectively destroy any virus that might or might not have attached itself to the Finnish imported newsprint. So, I did that. Unwisely. Unless you wish to have the edges of your favourite newspaper blackened and curled up at the edges, rapidly threatening an incendiary incident in your kitchen, you are well advised to steer clear of the microwave. Cup of tea or hot water, YES. Newspaper, NO.

The head scratching exercise for password recall now begins in right earnest. What was it? ‘67b&*duh5%’ or wait, wait, I tell a lie, it was ‘67c@*duh7#.’ Of course, you have written this down somewhere but damned if you can recall where you kept that blasted piece of paper. Your morning has already been effectively ruined by this password puzzle. Why couldn’t I have just devised a simple password like ‘dumbo1’? You couldn’t because your smart computer flashed a mocking ‘weak’ in response to ‘dumbo1.’ You then went for the complex numero / alphabetico option which your desktop heartily approved. ‘Very strong,’ it roared in assent. That’s how I dug a hole for myself. Of course, you have the option of saving your password on screen, but you then run the risk of any smartass nerd getting into the system and playing merry hell with it. Welcome to the digital world.

At times, sensing your discomfiture, the screen very shrewdly asks if you have forgotten your password. Have I ever? Anyhow, help is at hand. Get ready for the complex process of ‘changing your password.’ One thing bugs me.  If my system was that smart, why does it not just tell me what the bally password is, as my aunt is wont to say. Oh no, nothing as straightforward as that will do. I will now be asked a number of inane questions like what my favourite colour is, what the name of my pet cocker-spaniel is, where my distinguishing birthmark is emblazoned, and so on. Enough to drive one batty. As for the requested revelation of my birthmark, where mine is situated cannot be revealed to anyone, never mind how distinguished or distinguishing it is!

Then there is the all-important internet banking system that most of us nowadays have perforce fallen prey to. Again, there is the username to be filled in, followed by the password and if you have managed to enter both these panels to everybody’s satisfaction, you have now entered the hallowed portals of your own savings bank account. You go into the page, constantly looking back over your shoulder, just in case your housemaid or your driver has shimmered into the room silently, Jeeves-like, on padded feet and are looking intently at the screen and getting a load of all your ill-gotten gains. Actually, in my case if such a situation were to eventuate, my domestic staff will only be horrified at the appalling state of my finances and will stop pestering me for a raise.

Getting back to internet banking, if I do get to the stage where I wish to transfer funds to a third party, I will then be asked to provide something called a profile password, which I had forgotten all about, though I know it is there. Stashed away somewhere in that elusive sheet of paper. As if all this was not maddening enough, just when I am about to transact the money transfer, my mobile phone will go ‘ping’ and I will be given a One Time Password (OTP), which I will have to punch in, in record time (‘Where is my effing mobile?’) because the OTP will expire in seven seconds flat or some such hair-raising time frame, else I will have to request for it to be resent. Incidentally, have you ever tried to scroll down your SMS message to decipher the precious OTP, while keeping the home page displayed on your mobile active? Again, with an impossible, Damocles sword deadline hanging over your head? Whoever designed this system has clearly read Dante’s Inferno.

 I am aware that today’s IT generation kiddos can do all this in their sleep, but we senior citizens get the heebie-jeebies while going through the process. Finally, I am forever petrified about keying in that additional zero. I fret and I fume. Did I type in Rs.10000 or Rs.100000? In the days of yore, when we used our fountain pens to write out something called cheques, we could always tear it up if a mistake was detected. Now you have to watch your fingers, your keyboard and your screen like a hawk. One wrong move and you have made some undeserving sap a very rich man! Those with fat fingers, be ever mindful – they tend to overlap on the keys. Why can’t the algorithms or software, or whatever the heck it’s called, respond (prior to the completion of the transaction) with some timely warning like, ‘Are you sure you wish to splurge a lakh of rupees on this good-for-nothing wastrel?’ After that, you will always be doubly careful.

I think you get the point I am striving to make in my circumlocutory way. The password pestilence keeps bugging you all the livelong day when you visit Amazon, Flipkart, online service for anti-virus protection (not Covid but McAfee), Tatasky, credit card issues, mobile telephony, car rentals, travel bookings, dental appointments, Swiggy, Zomato – there simply is no end to it. Then again, being the smart one, I feel safe and secure. I have all my usernames and passwords, mushroomed to 42 since I commenced this column, ensconced, snug as a bug in a rug under my pillow. Perhaps I should consider slipping it into my pillow case. What care I if it makes a crackling sound each time I toss and turn in restless slumber? And snore. I am a sound sleeper, irretrievably lost in the Land of Nod but my sleep-deprived wife stares, ceiling-wards, wide-eyed. What’s more, my searches have provided me with the ultimate password solution through this anonymous quote – I changed my password everywhere to ‘incorrect.’ That way, when I forget it, it always reminds me, ‘Your password is ‘incorrect.’ On a more serious note, the words of celebrated American digital artist, Christopher-Stoll are salutary, Treat your password like a toothbrush. Don’t let anybody else use it, and get a new one every six months.

Crikey, I must remember to order my Oral B Cavity Defense Soft Black toothbrush next time I visit Amazon.

The ongoing palaver over the ‘idli is boring’ statement by an English historian is, frankly, getting a bit tedious. There’s a whole army of self-righteous voices on mainstream and social media, particularly the latter (surprise, surprise) who have decided to take up cudgels on behalf of India’s favourite breakfast dish. Make that south India’s. Edward Anderson, the errant historian from the United Kingdom is the ‘culprit’ who is being held guilty of this unpardonable solecism. This is what Anderson, to give the devil its dubious due, is purported to have said, ‘Idli are (sic) the most boring things in the world.’ The fact that Anderson’s wife is from Kerala, where idlis go down a treat, as they do in Tamil Nadu, Andhra and Karnataka, adds a piquant touch to this storm in a filter-coffee cup.

Speaking of Kerala, our man from Thiruvananthapuram, the silver-tongued Congress Party MP Shashi Tharoor naturally had to stick his loquacious oar in, if you’ll pardon the mixed metaphor. This puffed up gem from Tharoor went viral, ‘Civilisation is hard to acquire: the taste & refinement to appreciate idlis, enjoy cricket, or watch ottamthullal is not given to every mortal. Take pity on this poor man, for he may never know what life can be.’ As is his wont, the oratorical Tharoor delivered a mouthful there, prior to presumably bolting a mouthful of idli accompanied by a dollop of chutney. I had to look up ottamthullal, a traditional Kerala dance form. It is very like Tharoor to casually throw in an arcane reference, jolting the reader scurrying to the ubiquitous Google search. He could have said kathakali, for instance, which is more readily identifiable. The reference to enjoying cricket escaped me. Surely, the British gave us the game.

The fact is idli qua idli, can be a bit of a bore. In saying that, I run the risk of incurring widespread obloquy from my fellow south Indian gourmets or even, gourmands. By definition this white, round, spongy dumpling is tasteless. Well, almost. It is the spicy accompaniment of other condiments such as chilli powder (aka gunpowder) and oil or clarified butter (ghee), coconut chutney and sambhar that make the idli a delectable and wholesome dish. Anderson could wriggle out of his predicament by stating that he was referring to the idli, the whole idli and nothing but the idli. And he would have been right. The jury would have unanimously said ‘not guilty’ without having to retire to consider their verdict. As for those philistines who would insist on hyphenating the idli with mutton chops and the like, I shall give them the haughty ignore they richly deserve.

At the end of the day, what this idli brouhaha teaches us, once again, is that we Indians tend to be awfully thin-skinned if a foreigner says anything even mildly disparaging about us, even with his tongue firmly in cheek. Anderson being a Briton, belonging to a race known for its understated sense of humour, could quite easily be taking the mickey, to employ a Cockney colloquialism. He is probably laughing out of the other side of his mouth. Our response should have been equally calibrated and subtle. An ideal riposte would have been something on the lines of, ‘a tasty British dish is an oxymoron,’ or ‘I tasted haggis today, it tasted offal.’ That would be telling him! After all, if you eat tripe, you will talk tripe.

Take a near-fatal dose on rising, of course. But take a near-fatal dose the night before, in addition. Then numbness descends on numbness. Then you are two distances away from your reality. Martin Amis.

Celebrated author Martin Amis’ sage advice to those who are viewing an impending visit to the dentist, particularly if dental surgery of any description is involved, is not to be taken lightly. Valium. That is what he is referring to in advocating that near-fatal dose. Not unlike the poet John Keats’ drowsy numbness paining his sense, as though of hemlock he had drunk. It is abundantly clear that the coruscating writer (Amis, that is) of ‘the London trilogy,’ Money, London Fields and The Information, had got himself into a blue funk on the dreaded prospect of visiting his premolar extractor. At this juncture, gentle reader, do not be under the false impression, that I am mocking this literary icon for his apparent, lily-livered aspect in facing his pre-ordained sitting at the dental surgeon’s deceptively plush, pneumatically powered leatherette chair, with all the attendant trappings. After all, flowing from his own pen, it amounts to nothing less than a brave confessional. He can be pitied and empathized with rather than censured, but by no manner of means, made fun of. Let’s be brutally honest, none of us likes to hear those dreaded, hushed words from the receptionist at the dentist’s waiting room, ‘Doctor will see you now.’ ‘Who me? I am in no hurry. I am still reading this excellent article in the Reader’s Digest, Take care of your large intestine, and your small intestine will take care of itself. Let this comely, young lass go before me.’

Well done on the pretend chivalry, but no dice. The receptionist is having none of it. It’s your turn to face the music. As the bell tolls for thee, you shuffle into the dentist’s room with an unsteady gait, your sphincter muscles beginning to act strangely while you try in vain to put on your best, insouciant Alfred E. Neuman’s ‘what-me-worry?’ face. The reference is to the now-defunct Mad magazine mascot. Your dentist, with a saccharinely cheery female assistant in tow, is all bonhomie and good cheer. Like Santa Claus on one of his better mornings. If not actually chortling ‘Ho, Ho, Ho,’ he comes very close to it. ‘Good morning, good morning, lovely day we are having, aren’t we? And what did you think of last night’s game eh? I thought the Royal Challengers had blown it, but no, they pipped the Mumbai Indians to the post. A real nail biter. What’s with the glum face? It’s only a toothache.’ He went on in this hail-fellow-well-met vein for a couple of minutes, my orthodontist Dr. Gupta, for that was the worthy’s name, but all that small talk was not fooling me. I was contrastingly saturnine and mumbled a weak response and sat down on the dental chair, and before I could say ‘gingivitis’ the chair, apparently of its own volition, leaned back to an almost flat, just shy of 180-degree horizontal position. I was flying first class, and getting no joy out of it.

Meanwhile, Dr, Gupta was busy studying some X-rays, presumably of my gone-case dentures and kept making ominous, clucking sounds. Clearly, his diagnosis was more than just a toothache. After much frowning and peering into the black chasm that passed for my mouth, he declared, ‘I am afraid four of your upper back teeth have severe cavities but I can fix that with some drilling and filling. However, four other dentures will have to be extracted and replaced with false teeth. I’ll have to construct a bridge to hold your upper dentures in place, and your gums have been shot to pieces. Some minor surgery will be involved there, failing which you could walk straight into one of those Pepsodent commercials. You know, the guy with unbearable halitosis whom the girls shun and he doesn’t know why? Yes, my friend, you’ll be that sad sack with bad breath and even your best friends won’t tell you.’ As a related aside, I am always tickled pink whenever I come across that Sensodyne toothpaste commercial. The model bites into an ice-cream bar, writhes in pain and howls, ‘Ouch, sensitivity.’ I can think of at least a dozen unprintable expletives that sufferer could have screamed, but ‘Ouch, sensitivity’?

By now I was beginning to get really rattled. I was struggling to frame some kind of cutting retort to this avalanche of caustic criticism on the condition of my teeth and gums but Dr. Gupta had struck a rich vein of form and there was no stopping his flow. Not to forget that I was helplessly strapped to this luxury, swivel chair with only the nurse smiling at me in a fixed, plasticky manner, unable to move in any direction. I was also tongue tied and bemused but faked a casualness I did not feel, ‘Tell me Doc, what is the difference between a dentist and an orthodontist? It’s not a joke question.’ His response was swift. ‘Not much really. What’s in a name eh? A rose called by any other name etc. We do pretty much the same thing, only the orthodontist charges much more.’

So saying, the doctor droned on. ‘In fairness, I must let you know that all this will cost you and before I start any procedure, I must get your nod of approval.’ At which point he stared at the ceiling and went into a reflective reverie of calculation mutterings under his breath, which I could barely catch. The nurse officiously added her two-pice bit with staccato, conspiratorial exclamations like, ‘Doctor, don’t forget the follow-up consultations that will be required, at least six of them.’ Dr. Gupta was pleased. ‘Well done Reena, I almost forgot. Yes, if I take into account all the procedures, dental reconstruction, false teeth, bridges and crowns, Chinese implant imports naturally, and the consultation charges, I think we should come in at about a reasonable Rs.85,000/- give or take, and that’s excluding GST. Cheap at the price, I promise you. By the way, what have you been doing to your teeth? Didn’t your parents teach you anything about dental hygiene?’ I grumbled to myself that if it wasn’t for patients like me, he wouldn’t be swanning around in a BMW.

‘Let’s leave my parents out of this. As to your estimate, I am strapped to this chair Doc. I have no choice. By your own admission, your speculative, proforma estimate makes it plain that you are an orthodontist. Next time, I’ll be more careful and look for a dentist. Go ahead, do your worst. I am told you recently migrated from London, leaving a lucrative practice there to start your dental outfit here in India. Why?’

‘Our fees were fixed in the UK and patients were all on the National Health. There were limits to how much we could charge the patients. Mind you, I miss the pubs, feeding the ducks at St. James’s Park and the fish ‘n’ chips.’ My heart bled for him.

I was now in a black mood. ‘You mean here in India, you can fleece your patients dry, live in a luxury apartment, maintain a chauffeur driven BMW for yourself and a cute Alpha Romeo for the wife? All at my expense?’

‘Now, now Sir,’ proceeded the still genial dentist, ‘I know you’re in pain, but relax. Once this is over, you will feel like a new man.’ He then gave a silent nod to his nurse, who handed him a deceptively innocuous looking syringe, and the doctor asked me to say ‘Aaaah’ and uttered those immortal words, ‘Now this won’t hurt, you’ll just feel a slight prick in your gums, and then you’ll feel no more.’ Prescient words. Not only did I not feel any more, my lips had turned to blubber. I could sense spittle trickling down the sides of my mouth and could do precious little about it. Shades of Rowan Atkinson’s Mr. Bean at the dental surgery. Every now and then the doctor would ask me to expectorate into a Styrofoam cup placed by my side. All I had to do was turn my face towards the cup and a gooey amalgam of saliva, blood and phlegm drooled out of its own accord. All kinds of procedures were taking place inside my mouth, but I was blissfully innocent. After about thirty minutes of this, my dentist triumphantly declared, ‘That’s it. We are done for now. Clean him up, Reena.’ I could see Reena performing wiping motions at my oral area, but I felt absolutely nothing. For all I knew, she could have been wiping the dental halogen lamp just above me.

I had a final question before leaving the room. I wanted to ask him how long it will take for the anesthetic to wear off and whether there will be any pain thereafter. Instead, what came out of my mouth was, ‘Hwwllllngg wiittkkfss anspthook to weffoff amph wib I fib ang fcckkhing thoofake and pheng?’ Accompanied by a copious flow of dribble. Obviously, Dr. Gupta was used to this. No interpretation was required. Smilingly he replied, ‘A couple of hours at the most, and you will feel no pain. I have prescribed some painkillers, just in case. See you next week.’

Despite all my misgivings, and the big hole in my bank account thanks to this dental visit, I had to admit that Dr. Gupta knew his dental onions. I cannot swear to whether he is a dentist or an orthodontist but, in the famous (if paraphrased) words of the late British comic genius Tony Hancock, ‘By Cuspid, he is a fine dentist, once he got his teeth into it!’

A friendly fly on the wall has been privy to a number of recent interrogations that have been taking place in Mumbai in connection with the alleged Sushant Singh Rajput murder / suicide case (strike out whichever is not applicable), the Rhea Chakraborty angle along with her brother, the death of Disha Salian under mysterious circumstances followed by several other noteworthy names that have now surfaced. In fact, the murder investigation appears to have turned stone cold and the drug possession, consumption and peddling links have taken pride of place. We have the CBI, NCB, ED, the Police and who knows, perhaps even the FBI, CIA, MI5, ISI and KGB involved. I do not know the name of China’s primary dirty tricks department, but let’s bung them in as well, to show there’s no ill feeling.  Anything is possible. After all, when it comes to drugs, the international cabal must be thoroughly looked into and is rife with exciting and ominous possibilities. From drug peddlers to terror networks is but one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind (with due apologies to Neil Armstrong).

Now to get back to my friend, the fly on the wall, we’ll call him Fred. Fred the Fly has a nice ring to it. Fred has been hanging around those dank walls of police stations and other investigative agencies for several years now, and what he does not know about sleuths and their methods can be written on a pinhead with a pneumatic drill, as I have heard it described. And believe me, those walls are very dank indeed, as well as damp and peeling rapidly. A crummy environment is a sine qua non for criminal face-to-face interactions. Atmospherics is crucial. Fred is an authority on dankness, to say nothing of dampness – the last word, if you must know. So I decided to buttonhole Fred in order to get the lowdown, the real down and dirty on the ongoing skullduggery.  I requested him to buzz over to my club where flies can easily evade the membership committee and I did not have to sign him in as a guest. I ordered a beer and a nutty fruitcake, on which Fred (not one to miss a free treat) settled nicely, feasted well if not wisely and we were able to have an extended natter, with nary an interruption. I came straight to the point, without beating around the bush.

‘Right Fred, take a break from that nutty fruitcake will you? You are in danger of being smothered. I have some questions for you. What exactly did they ask Deepika Padukone? And what did she say?’

Fred brushed away a morsel of cake and replied, ‘I think one of those CBI nerds, or it might have been the NCB I can’t be sure, I was looking down from a high ceiling, was very keen to know if her backhand was as good as her father Prakash’s. All-England badminton champ in 1980, don’t you know?’

‘Listen Fred,’ I riposted, ‘I am not interested in Deepika’s backhand, or forehand, come to that. And I know all about Prakash’s exploits at the All-England. Stick to the subject matter, will you?’

Fred took another dive into the fruitcake and came up smilingly, ‘Look my friend, I am reporting the conversation verbatim. Can’t you see, the inspector was trying to put her at her ease with some casual small talk. Standard procedure. He had done his homework, or maybe he was a bit of a badminton freak. He could also have been angling for Prakash’s autograph, or even a selfie.’

‘Why not a selfie with Deepika? Get to the point, for God’s sake, Fred. You are wearing me down.’

‘I am coming to the point, just be patient. Can’t you get them to add a bit more chocolate sauce to this cake? It’s a bit dry. I like it sticky and sweet. All right, all right. Don’t get so nettled. The thing is, Deepika was refusing to play ball. They pushed her to explain words like “hash” and “brown stuff” found on her mobile phone chats, but she was equal to the task. The stunning starlet said she was sharing her breakfast menu with her socialite friends, hash browns being her favourite. I tell you, she’s a clever one.’

Truth to tell, I was beginning to get a bit nettled myself. ‘Listen Fred, I haven’t got all day. Let’s move on to this Sara Ali Khan babe. How did the NCB or CBI or ED or whichever alphabet soup was involved, get on with this scion of the famous Pataudi and Tagore family?’

Fred smiled through his nut crumbs and chocolate sauce. ‘What a combo, eh? The NCB chap was positively slobbering. “I would love to meet your Granny, Sharmilaji. I don’t know which was my favourite film of hers, Aradhana or Amar Prem. With Kaka Rajesh Khanna, they were just too good. That song in Amar Prem, sailing on the Hooghly under the Howrah Bridge, Chingari koi bhadke, aaahaahaa! Brilliant composition by Pancham.” Then this NCB bloke went on to tunelessly warble Mere sapnon ki rani kab aayegi tu from Aradhana.’

I could not believe what I was hearing. ‘Fred, you’re having me on, aren’t you? Stop joking and jerking me around. Next you’ll tell me Sara and this NCB hound danced around the office singing that Aradhana duet, Gun guna rahe hain bhanware, khil rahi hai kali kali. Get serious now and tell me all about the rubber truncheon and the third degree. I am sure Sara was in tears and begging for mercy.’

‘Anything but, my fine, feathered friend,’ retorted Fred, ‘au contraire, she was quick to spot the NCB guy’s weakness for celebrity spotting and hunting. She asked him if he knew about her Grandad’s cricketing exploits. You should have seen his face. He was the one in tears. Tears of joy. “Madam, Tiger Pataudi, my hero. With one eye and once with one leg, he hammered all those English and Aussie bowlers. What a handsome man! You have the same aquiline nose, Sara Madam.” The guy was beside himself. End of interview.’

I was more startled by Fred’s sudden infusion of French. Au contraire? Whatever next? ‘So that was Sara taken care of. What about this Shraddha Kapoor dame? What was her story? Come on Fred, so far I have got nothing from you but some stupid stuff on badminton, cricket and some Hindi film songs. You are a sorry excuse for a fly on the wall. More a fly in the ointment. What a waste of gooey chocolate cake?’

Fred was quick to take umbrage and remonstrate. ‘That is precisely my main grouse. The cake is simply not gooey enough. Where’s the chocolate sauce I ordered?’

‘Getting saucy, are we? Come on Fred. I am waiting. Give me the dope.’

‘Funny you should say that. That is exactly what the NCB honcho told Shraddha Kapoor. “Give me the dope.” Shraddha told him she had no dope on her and added, rather tartly, “I think we all know who the dope is round here.” That was telling him! That put the NCB chappie’s back up. “Listen young lady, just because you belong to the Kapoor clan and Raj Kapoor is your grandfather, don’t think you can throw your weight around.”‘

‘”I do not belong to the Raj Kapoor clan, you dolt. Nor to the Anil Kapoor brood. I am the proud daughter of the famous comic villain, Shakti Kapoor. Get your facts straight, before you accuse me of anything else.” Shraddha was livid. The NCB dolt was startled. “Daughter of Shakti Kapoor, my goodness! That guy was insufferable on screen. Now I am convinced you’ve been up to no good! I am sorry, I shan’t waste any more time on you. I will leave it to the Mumbai police to deal with you.” Shraddha left the room beaming. The Mumbai police will be putty in her hands.’

Fred the Fly looked exhausted after this latest revelation. He hopped on to the rim of my beer mug and quaffed a generous glug and hopped back to what remained of the gooey cake.

I needed to wrap the evening up. ‘Listen Fred, it’s time for your beddy-byes. Can you give me any last morsels of tidbits from whatever happened at the NCB’s den? What about Rakul Preet Singh? You left her out.’

Fred looked dead beat. The cake had taken its toll. ‘Never heard of her. Look, all I know is I saw some names and scribblings on the NCB ogre’s diary. My eyesight is not what it once was. Incipient cataract. For what it’s worth, I could make out stuff like KWAN, KJ, Kshitij, SK, SRK, AK 47 and all kinds of other rubbish I could not decode. So we’ll just have to leave it at that. There’s more gossip from Sandalwood regarding Sanjana and Ragini, but they are from south India, so they don’t count.’

So is Deepika from the south, but I let it go. Time was pressing. Instead, I persisted. ‘Was there any mention of Sushant Singh Rajput or Rhea Chakraborty or Disha Salian?’

Fred was quick to respond, ‘Look, that’s all old hat. No more newsworthy. Some television channels tried very hard to nail some actors. Now everyone is saying it was suicide, after all. What a bummer, eh? However, when the NCB chief came out to address the press, all he was willing to reveal was that he deeply appreciated the dress code all these hot-shot actresses adhered to. Sober pastel shades, matching masks, elegant kurtas and churidars were the order of the day. Saris would have been nice, but we must be grateful given what they have been accused of, that they did not turn up in hot pants and skimpy tops!’

So saying, Fred the Fly dived one last time into the chocolate cake, struggled to crawl out and collapsed under his own insupportable weight. A stiff, passing breeze blew him away. Fred was now one with the elements. His task was done. RIP.

 Moral of the story – you cannot have your cake and eat it too!

The ongoing pandemic (is it ever going to end?) has allowed many housebound men, women, boys and girls to take up a long-lost hobby and give full vent to their latent talent. Incidentally, rarely do you get two anagrammatic words (latent and talent) in close juxtaposition. Call it serendipity, but I digress. Take me, for instance. I have been writing for many years now, but I had to steal time from my other preoccupations to put pen to paper, in a manner of speaking. What pen, what paper, I hear you smirkingly ask. Well, if you must be a literal-minded dolt, I cannot hold out much hope for you. Getting back to my keyboard, and no more silly interruptions please, there are many who are writing. Like the end of the world is nigh and there’s no tomorrow. Essays, articles, novels, novellas, fiction, non-fiction – you name it, they are writing it. Bully for them, I say, and I include myself in this self-congratulating indulgence aimed at the amateur scribes and scriveners. The latter, the scriveners I mean, get their kicks drafting interminably long legal documents and generally notarizing things, but they do write, and many of them do so with the good old quill and ink.

It takes all sorts. So, let us not be patronizing and instead, doff our hats to ‘the amateur writers of the world.’ I grant you most of our efforts go largely unread, except for a handful of close friends or relatives who take the trouble (‘Oh no, not another one!’) to rapidly scan through the piece, and state their preference to ‘like’ or plonk a throbbing heart on their social media timelines. At times some of you even ‘share’ it on Facebook, Instagram or Twitter. Hallelujah! Like ‘the great unwashed,’ we are ‘the great unread.’ Fair point. We can’t all be J.K.K. Rowlings or Salman Rushdies, but we appreciate, dear reader, the strenuous effort you put in to plough through our plodding effort. What’s more, many of you do respond and are lavish in your appreciation, which is greatly appreciated. Others remain stoically non-committal, and we hack writers will have to draw our own conclusions.

So much for the writing epidemic that is currently gripping the pandemic landscape. However, that is nothing compared with the singing bug that has afflicted a very large portion of the population. The number of people who have taken to social media, like a duck to water, to display their musical skills is beyond our imagination. Not a day passes without Facebook or Instagram being deluged with people of all ages and genders warbling from an inexhaustible musical repertoire of their choice. Canaries can take their correspondence course from these musical mavericks. From a random survey I would say Hindi film songs, in particular of the ‘50s to ‘70s vintage, take pride of place amongst our wannabe Mohammad Rafis, Lata Mangeshkars, Kishore Kumars and Asha Bhosles. This is closely followed by western pop songs with The Beatles, Elvis Presley, Cliff Richard, Tom Jones and their ilk leading the pack. Being a Tamilian, I also come across quite a few bathroom singers letting rip with old Sivaji Ganesan and MGR film hits, not to speak of the more recent compositions of Ilayaraja and A.R. Rehman. A very niche audience, namely devotees of Carnatic music, can have their fill with most leading performers posting songs from their recorded concerts, and in quite a few cases, the singers actually performing from the comfort of their homes while engaging in a live chat with their fans on the intricacies of this hoary art form.

It is, however, the amateur singer, who quite fancies her vocalizing skills that greatly interests me. The availability of karaoke to provide background music, gives the singer a sense of security and confidence. So off she goes, standing in her drawing room, or on her balcony and launches into something from Aradhana, Anand, Kala Bazaar or Hum Dono. There are even some who do live shows and take requests online. These ‘live soirees’ are advertised over social media well in advance so their devout fans can be in readiness with their listener’s choice! Smileys and floating hearts go berserk while the performer struts her stuff. Since all this is happening on the internet, at times the connection can go awry and the singer often goes into a virtual freeze in mid-song and when she returns, the song is almost over. These are but minor glitches, certainly not enough to deter our doughty, brave crooners who carry on regardless. ‘If music be the food of love, play on,’ said the Bard. Spot on, William. With social media enveloping us all hours of the day and night, we can have music while food is constantly available to us as aid to our enjoyment of the fare on offer. A quick explanatory note at this point is in order. I employ the term ‘she’ or ‘her’ out of a sense of chivalry and to avoid the tedium of mentioning both sexes every time. I assure you the ‘he’ and ‘him’ are very much in the fray. If anything, with knobs on. Nothing invidious intended.

Then there are the babies. When I say babies, I include any toddler between the age of a couple of months to a mature five-year-old. Our social media channels are choc-a-bloc with these ‘cho chweet’ kiddies crawling, frothy spittle forming moustaches around their upper lips, ‘mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms’ (Shakespeare again), pulling the poor pet dog’s tail, pulling the angry cat’s ears (the cat bares its claws and the baby is frantically pulled away), three-year old Dolly singing and lisping ‘Inky, pinky, ponky,’ four-year old Bunty delivering lethal karate chops, precocious fourteen year-old Sabrina outdoing Whitney Houston with her vocal range and finally, all those birthday celebrations, cake cutting, baby’s face smeared with gooey chocolate. Truly a feast of entertainment for us to watch over and over again, if you are into that sort of thing. Speaking for myself, I can’t find a single grainy, sepia-tinted, grease-smudged picture of any of my birthdays being celebrated before I was thirty years old. And even after that, when I am now well and truly long in the tooth, the mobile phone has captured some of these moments to drool over, most of which are delete-worthy. If you ask me, I am immensely happy mobile phones with their prying, ubiquitous cameras were not around when I was a toddler.

Let me now turn to this Zoom pestilence. Someone from your family or circle of friends will take the initiative to plan a Zoom party, whereby all of us, often as many as 30 people, are intimated in advance that on a particular date and time, we will get together over Zoom to celebrate one of our near and dear one’s birthday, anniversary or simply, chumma chumma, just like that. If you opt out of this visual jamboree, you will be viewed as a spoilsport, frowned upon and not be invited next time round (a blessing in disguise). And what actually transpires during these Zoom chats? At least two or three participants will have connectivity issues, which will take a while to set right. Then much hoo haa about ‘Where’s Shanta, where’s Ram, we are not starting without them.’ Dress code? We have to be properly attired for the occasion, though we are at home. ‘For God’s sake, you look like something the cat brought in. Go and shave.’ This, from the wife. While we are all waving frantically at each other, staring in glazed fixity at our computer screens with no idea of who has spotted whom, one person decides to take the lead, suggesting a singalong. ‘Mala, you sing, come on ya, don’t be such a fusspot.’

Mala will make a face and say she’ll start but others must join in. Depending on Mala’s choice of song, a few will mumble unintelligibly and inaudibly along with her, the others will watch stone faced, the mumbling chorus will suddenly stop mumbling, and Mala will stop abruptly and announce, ‘I am not singing anymore, let Rakesh sing that lovely Ghulam Ali ghazal he sang at Mummy’s 65^th birthday.’ Meanwhile the Zoom group (30 of them, remember?) has managed to form its own sub-groups who are muttering sweet nothings to each other, a baby is propped up in front of the camera to universal acclaim and breathless exclamations. Invariably, there will be one or two cruising on a highway in their car, the engine sound drowning out whatever they are trying to say. Finally, a couple from Chicago will yawn, stretch and go, ‘Don’t know about you guys, but it’s way past our bedtime here. Good night folks.’ Black window on your screen where the Chicago twosome were. Another elderly couple, who had not opened their mouths throughout the affair, quietly disappear into the Kuala Lumpur night. Another black window. Next day we will get to know all about how stupid we were to quit at one in the morning ‘because Prema and Ravi enthralled us till midnight with their rib-tickling stand-up comedy routine. We nearly died laughing.’ With participants from five different countries and time zones, the question is whose midnight and whose one-in-the-morning?

In conclusion, let’s raise a toast to all amateur writers, singers and the Zoom zombies. These are tough times and we need to keep ourselves creatively occupied. Of course, one understands that you wish to share your literary and musical prowess with the rest of the world. By all means, do that. Only don’t get disheartened if the rest of the world is too preoccupied to take a blind bit of notice. As for all the Zoom zombies, go ahead and Zoom till you’re blue in the face. The technology is there, so why not use it? Just one caveat. I’ll sit this one out.

Growing up in the sixties and seventies in India, my musical influences were many. My family was wedded to the arcane and intricate wonders, with plenty of theology casually thrown in, of South Indian Carnatic music, as distinct from the more universally embraced North Indian or Hindustani music, popularised in the west by the likes of sitar maestro, Pandit Ravi Shankar and his celebrity star protégé, Beatle George Harrison. Carnatic music was a permanent presence in my waking consciousness and the sleeping sub-conscious. I know of hardly anyone on the maternal side of my family who was not touched by its omnipresence. I even studied its complex form and substance in its most preferred and popular vocal tradition. My mother, uncles, aunts, siblings, cousins, nephews and nieces – they were all connoisseurs and embraced the art form. It surprised no one that my nephew, Sanjay Subrahmanyan, is today an ace, trendsetting vocalist in the Carnatic tradition. The genes ultimately had their say.

Boarding school during the ‘60s in a distinctly British and Anglo-Indian environment, exposed me to the gay abandon and adrenaline-powered instant highs of western pop and rock music. From the testosterone elevating American Elvis Presley and his watered-down English mirror image, Cliff Richard and their ilk, we headily graduated to The Beatles and The Rolling Stones with their brilliant harmonies, vocalizations pitchforking the singer-songwriter to the fore. This was boom time and one also thrilled and trilled to the likes of ‘thinking’ composers and performers such as Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Simon & Garfunkel, Van Morrison and Joni Mitchell. I could name many more, but as exemplars of that magnificent generation, those names are quintessentially representative and will suffice.

However, it is the ongoing amazing legacy of the legendary Irish singer-songwriter Sir George Ivan ‘Van’ Morrison that I wish to focus on. Not least because his fame, strangely, has never quite matched the same decibel level as a Dylan or a Cohen, and more so because he will be marking his 75th birthday on August 31 and the whole of Ireland and Great Britain are already celebrating lustily with artists from all over the ‘sceptered isle’ singing his songs. If Van Morrison’s name does not trip lightly off the tongue, this can be attributed to his notoriously introverted nature coupled with a desire to let his music and words do all the talking. Or that he emerged from Northern Ireland and not from England or the American sub-continent, where traction is swifter. He has preferred to remain under the radar, but fame refuses to elude him. The Irish troubadour was a virtual unknown in India during the sixties and seventies as opposed to Dylan, The Beatles and The Rolling Stones. Even bands like Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Doors, The Beach Boys and Led Zeppelin held centre stage at different periods for Indian aficionados.

All this despite the fact that Van the Man was already producing path breaking records in the west. In fact, my own discovery of Van Morrison was during the late ‘70s when he appeared in a Martin Scorsese tribute film for The Band, ‘The Last Waltz.’ Most of the superstars of that golden era from the rock and pop firmament appeared in that film, but we in India vividly recall Neil Diamond, Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young and a clutch of others. Van Morrison’s dynamic, foot-stomping performance of his own composition Caravan, passed us by as the idle wind. It was only much later, when I heard his uplifting Into the Mystic, as part of the background score in the Glenn Close starrer Immediate Family, that I began to explore this unique and alluringly strange musician.

One other singular aspect of Van Morrison’s career is that, even in his mid-70s, he continues to record and perform live almost ceaselessly. His once nasal, high-pitched voice shows scant signs of age-related decline. Rather, like fine wine it has mellowed and matured into a smooth, purring vehicle. He draws avid fans from all age groups to his live shows. To be doing this for the best part of six decades, the commitment and energy involved in the longevity, beggars belief. Bob Dylan and Joni Mitchell lost the magic in their voices several years ago, and Leonard Cohen’s passing reminded us that he was much more of a lyrical poet than a musician. Like Dylan he wrote some wonderful songs, but words were Cohen’s thing. However, Van Morrison continues to delight us with his staying power, prodigiousness and amazing work ethic. We should delight in his offerings, cutting across genres like Rock and Pop, Blues, Soul, Jazz, R&B and quasi-Spirituals, while he is still at the top of his game. That said, his wonderful albums will always be a permanent reminder of what transcendence in music is all about.

Van Morrison’s songs have had a strange, indescribable effect on me, through his ability to meld words and music in a way that transports you to his world, while making you feel as if you belonged. Morrison’s patch is not my patch. Other than when he writes and sings about universal themes like love and human foibles, more often than not, he is completely stuck and grooved in an autobiographical world of his native Ireland, Belfast, childhood memories, nature mysticism, musical influences, growing up, pet hates (the record publishing industry) – issues that bear no affinity to anything I have known or experienced. We are separated by thousands of miles of geography. That said, I am able to sit back in a silent room in remote Bangalore, slip in one his 50 odd CDs and be transported to Cyprus Avenue, Hyndford Street, Orangefield, the pylons, Fuscos ice-creams, listening to Sydney Bechet and Mezz Mezzrow and reading Jack Kerouac’s On the Road and Dharma Bums or J.D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye, all the while lost in his father’s impressive collection of jazz, blues and soul records imported from America, featuring such giants as Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Mahalia Jackson and Ray Charles. I actually bought Kerouac’s Dharma Bums just to get an idea of what it was all about. He frequently name checks the likes of Wordsworth, Coleridge, James Joyce, T.S. Eliot and William Blake in his songs. Hardly surprising that some of his lyrics are pure stream of consciousness. Sample this from Astral Weeks, ‘If I ventured in the slipstream / Between the viaducts of your dream / Where immobile steel rims crack / And the ditch in the back roads stop / Could you find me? / Would you kiss-a my eyes? / To lay me down / In silence easy / To be born again.’ Stream of consciousness? Do the lyrics make sense to me? Does it matter? I am just floating with the ethereal music and the singer.

The lyrics of Morrison’s songs are a matter of record. They are available to be read and perhaps, even to be sung along with. The dreaded Karaoke will even provide the background score, if you are crass enough to want it. However, words alone do not a Van Morrison song make. It’s the way he fuses the words and the music, the way he frequently stretches the lyrics out, insanely breaks up the syntax and just grunts, scats, gasps and mumbles if he thinks that’s what it takes to get across his innermost feelings, literally spewing his guts out. He has admitted that he himself at times puts in words or phrases without knowing what they mean! You can only experience that when you watch or listen to one of his live performances.

Van Morrison’s music is not easily accessible, by which I mean assimilable, by the casual listener. In many ways, he sounds as if he sings solely for himself. He has oft been accused of turning his back on his audience. Therein lies the magic. It is hard to get across unless you happen to be a die hard Van Morrison fan. As he completes 75 years, his voice is still in great shape and he continues to pack quite a punch. Given all that and against his own inclinations, he is a superstar of our times and commands a devoted and impressive fan following, but I would be delighted if I can get at least a handful of music lovers here in India to start listening to this once-in-a-lifetime musician. And if you haven’t heard him and wish to sample his wares, go to YouTube or Spotify and look for these songs – Astral Weeks, Moondance, Into The Mystic, In The Garden, Caravan, Have I Told You Lately, Cleaning Windows, Memory Lane…after that you are hooked and there’s no escape. Van Morrison, ‘The Belfast Cowboy,’ is suis generis. The mould will surely break after him.

Happy birthday, Van.

The nomination of Kamala Harris as the Democratic vice-presidential candidate for the forthcoming elections in the United States this November, has set the cat among the pigeons here in India. People from various parts of Tamil Nadu, which is where Kamala’s mother, Shyamala Gopalan hailed from, thence migrated to Oakland, California back in the ‘60s, are now laying claims to be Ms. Harris’ kith and kin. It is a moot point, barring a few faded sepia-tinted recollections of walking along the Marina Beach with her grandfather, (presumably munching sundal and murukkus the while) if Kamala has any vivid recollection of India to share. I am sure she will reveal more of her ‘India experience’ soon. Kamala Harris’ husband, lawyer Douglas Emhoff remains a largely anonymous figure, rather like the self-effacing Denis Thatcher during Maggie’s hey days as the Iron Lady of Britain. Doubtless we will get to know more about Emhoff in the near future.

However, all that is of little consequence to her near and dear ones in Madras (I am partial to the old name) and elsewhere in the state. The fact that Kamala’s father is a Jamaican appears to have been completely ignored here in India. Nostalgia is kicking in. It’s a bit like the Sundar Pichai or Indira Nooyi syndrome – the former revisiting some back street gully in Ashok Nagar in Madras where he might have played tennis ball cricket or hop scotch, and the latter spotted a few years ago enjoying a Carnatic music concert at the Music Academy during ‘the Season.’ The bigger you become on the world stage, the more you pine for the little things you fondly remember, back in the day during your infancy. Flashbacks to our Prime Minister’s tea stall at a railway station in Vadnagar in Gujarat, or Captain Marvel M.S. Dhoni, the ticket collector in the Eastern Railway. Nothing like the railways to induce that lump-in-the-throat feeling.

Getting back to Kamala Harris, ‘She is one of ours,’ is the cry that is ringing out loud and clear in the hinterlands of Tamil Nadu. I shan’t waste precious column space dwelling on the circumstances surrounding Kamala’s mother’s migration to the United States and her subsequent betrothal to fellow activist and economist, Jamaican Donald Harris. All that and more has been well documented for posterity. Word is that this revolutionary (for those days) alliance was accepted by Shyamala’s orthodox but enlightened TamBram family without a murmur. No song and dance or breast beating. Every day brings some new nostalgic nugget from the office of the would-be / could-be Veep, ergo just a catastrophe away from becoming President. Among the gems from Kamala (Sanskrit for the lotus flower) was a request she sent out to her aunt in Chennai to break the auspicious 108 coconuts at the family’s chosen temple to keep the Gods in good humour and be favourably disposed when the time comes for the ballot papers (or its digital equivalent) to be counted. As a matter of abundant caution, it might be prudent for Kamala to request her aunt to break a further 108 coconuts as an insurance cover against the likelihood of her boss Joe Biden queering the pitch.

The man who could be king, Biden, we are reliably informed, has a tendency to become tongue tied at crucial moments or worse, let slip a few unintended gaffes, and the bright-as-a-button Kamala may not always be by his side to lend a helping hand. The second tranche of sacrificial coconuts might just make the divine difference and tip the balance in favour of the Democrats. That said, the present incumbent at the White House, gunslinger Trump who shoots from the lip, is not going to sit idle and allow the grass to grow under his feet. No siree, Bob! The numbers are not holding out much promise for Team Trump as we speak, but count on the big man to fire on all cylinders when crunch time approaches. Already he has Kamala in his crosshairs, questioning her credentials and right to stand as Biden’s second in command. And Joe Biden himself would be nothing short of cannon fodder for the loquacious President when they go head to head in public debates. Expect more fireworks. The best Biden and Kamala can hope for is even bigger gaffes from Trump for them to capitalize on. Which is entirely on the cards. All told, exciting times loom large.

In the meanwhile, during the coming weeks in the run up to the elections, I fully expect a slew of Kamala Harris’ friends and relatives, real or imagined, to come crawling out of the woodwork. Uncles and aunts recollecting misty-eyed, their frequent visits to the Gopalan household, meals enjoyed, regaled by Sivaji Ganesan films at the Midland theatre, elevated by an M.S. Subbulakshmi kutcheri at the Academy, little Kamala and her sister Maya paying a rare visit to Madras and everyone trying to teach them to lisp in Tamil and appreciate the eternal joys of thayir saadam – so many lovely moments to recollect and the social media avariciously taking it all in and spewing it all out. Mark my words, all this will and must happen. After all, how often does one get an opportunity here in India to celebrate in anticipation, the ascension of someone of Tamilian descent (all right, half-Tamilian) to the position of Vice-President of the US of A and, potentially, could actually move into the White House as POTUS. Mouth-watering prospect. They’ll be dancing on the streets of Mount Road, Madras come November.

Lest we forget, they will also be dancing on the streets of Kingston, Jamaica. After all, Kamala’s other half belongs to that beautiful West Indian island, which the cricket crazy Indians will remember for Sabina Park and the many sporting jousts one has witnessed there. Not to speak of those awe-inspiring names – Frank Worrell, George Headley, Lawrence Rowe, Michael Holding, Jeff Dujon, Chris Gayle and many more. And perhaps, arguably the most famous Jamaican son of all, Usain Bolt, the fastest man on earth and reggae king, the late Bob Marley not far behind. Donald Harris may have sung his swan song, ‘Jamaica Farewell,’ many moons ago, but they will celebrate his daughter’s new-found political stardom with a degree of verve and joie de vivre only the West Indians can so inimitably display. And should the Biden-Harris combo actually pull it off, which seems quite probable, given Trump’s pandemic woes coupled with the ongoing poll numbers, there will be high jinx all over Jamaica. As ‘whispering death’ Michael Holding, one of the greatest fast bowlers ever to grace a cricket field, now a highly respected television commentator might put it, ‘Obama opened the floodgates for black people in America. Now it is Kamala’s turn. Trump is clearly on the back foot. Now is the time to deliver that unplayable, toe-crushing yorker. Trump castled, all stumps out of the ground’ (pity I can’t do Holding’s delicious Jamaican accent here).

Guess what I am trying to tell my Tamilian friends is this. She may be called Kamala, but please don’t appropriate everything about her to Tamil Nadu and Madras. Let us share some of the bragging rights with our Jamaican brothers and sisters. Fair is fair. Finally, if the Democrats do oust Donald Trump and come to power, let us hope her Indian antecedents will have some positive bearing on the policy of the United States towards the geo-political dynamics of Asia and the sub-continent in particular. That would be far more significant than contemplating her preference for idli vada sambar over ham and eggs for breakfast.

Let me confess, straight off the bat, that I have not seen a single movie starring the late Sushant Singh Rajput. Since I have virtually stopped seeing Hindi films after the 70s, even the Shah Rukh Khans, Aamir Khans and Salman Khans have passed me by, like the idle wind. They are a closed book to me. Therefore, when the news broke that the young, aspiring star of the silver screen SSR (let us accord him the honour of an abbreviation, a la SRK) had taken his own life, I received the information with a degree of academic consternation and sadness. What his near and dear ones must be going through can only be imagined. My only recollection of SSR, given my interest in cricket, is confined to the M.S. Dhoni biopic, in which the young actor had portrayed the cricketing legend to wide public acclaim. That must have taken some doing because the immortally abbreviated MSD is a sporting icon the likes of which only a handful of Bollywood actors could have dreamt of coming close to. The actor had much to lose and little to gain in cinematically stepping into the former captain’s big boots. All said and done, the young actor’s untimely and unnatural passing has raised many an eyebrow while the cops across two important states of India are at each other’s throats, accusations and counter accusations flying thick and fast, the air generally reeking of suspected foul play, conspiracy theories, cover ups, financial finaglings and other unsavoury areas of speculation. The incident needed to be reported, given due prominence and thereafter, quietly moved into the background while the investigating authorities did their stuff.

However, that is not the way with our media, and I am here referring to our television news channels in particular. Once they smell scandal, they are like a rabid dog with the bit between its teeth, refusing to let go. For over two months now, virtually every channel has been monomaniacally obsessed with the life and times, not to mention the death and the dubious circumstances surrounding it, of young Sushant Singh Rajput. Covid has become so rampant it has almost ceased to be a talking point, achieving topical herd immunity; Ayodhya, after a brief flourish has taken a back seat; the Rafale jet has all but flown the coop; the fury of the monsoon floods is sporadically featured (to show there’s no ill feeling) and the near-moribund Rajasthan imbroglio has revived briefly thanks to a late intervention by the Gandhi siblings. Add to that the plane crash in Kozhikode, in which less than 20 people died, hence the media lost interest after a couple of days. In fact, I was completely taken aback when one particular channel, known for its undisguised support of the ruling dispensation at the Centre, headed up by an anchor whose second name is Garrulity, completely ignored the Ayodhya fanfare in its prime time show, on the very day the ‘Bhumi Pujan’ was in full swing, with our Prime Minister leading the ceremonies. I could hardly believe my eyes. Has there been a rift in the lute? Is there something amiss? I smell a big, fat bandicoot. Instead the said channel and a few others were reporting, 24 x 7, every single, often irrelevant minutiae of the SSR case. That continues apace even today, over two months after the tragic event. So much so that the average viewer has been completely turned off the subject, and forced to switch channels (if they can find one) to something entirely different, like the audience-deprived, sanitised Test series being played in England against the West Indies (just concluded) and now, Pakistan. Those who are into cable television greatly prefer its variegated options for entertainment of every possible description. I send up a silent prayer of thanks that the IPL has been given the green signal to be played in the Middle East.

Under the circumstances, why would anyone want to gawp, day in and day out, at half a dozen talking heads going hammer and tongs at each other about whether Rhea Chakraborty and her cohorts have stashed away huge sums of money at the expense of the deceased SSR’s recently acquired wealth, or if the poor little rich girl is being made a tragic victim of circumstances and being thrown cruelly to the wolves? Even the actor’s personal diary has been dragged with a fine tooth comb. The debate rages on and moves into more sinister territory suggesting the possibility of foul play with some big names from the film industry being slyly introduced into the discussion. To top it all, it’s now a right royal slanging match between the cops of Bihar and the gendarmes of Mumbai. The gloves are off and it’s a no-holds-barred contest with invective being freely exchanged. How can any channel resist this real life screenplay?

For their part, the television channels claim they are only doing their bounden duty in their attempt to ask the tough questions to help the nation get at the truth. They claim ‘the nation wants to know.’ Frankly I think the nation has had it ‘up to here’ and is sick to the back teeth with all the media hungama. The saving grace is that a couple of channels are still leading their newscasts with the China Syndrome or the continuing Covid crisis, which in their infinite wisdom, they consider more critical to our lives than Rhea Chakraborty’s to-ing and fro-ing from the police station. Who knows, even the Independence Day parade might be given short shrift! To add to the general melee, SSR’s ex-manager, Disha Salian hurls herself off a 14^th floor balcony just a few days before the actor’s apparent suicide, setting off further speculation on l’affaire SSR. A new version has it that she might have been raped and pushed off the balcony. As Agatha Christie might have put it, the plot thickens.

While all that is happening, it is not the self-righteous ‘truth seekers’ and their round-the-clock vigil that seems to be taking us nowhere, that gets my goat. The root of the problem, as television consumers, is the sheer inability of the TV producers to cotton on to the fact that there is something called the law of diminishing returns. If they insist on peddling the same thing, at the expense of almost everything else, then surely they must realise that people are going to turn the other way. Speaking for myself, I would much rather scan the morning newspapers to get a noise-free, balanced presentation of the news, which I can read at my own leisure without Arnab, Rajdeep, Sambit, Supriya, Sudhanshu, General Bakshi, the Poonawallas and sundry self-important individuals, all caterwauling and screaming over each other disharmoniously. Interviews with the actor’s physical trainer, gym instructor, head cook and bottle washer – they are all grist to the media’s insatiable mill. I sometimes wonder. Don’t the programme anchors ever watch recorded replays of their programmes? And cringe?* Or have they become completely inured to the madness? Is this the way they wish to project India to its citizens and to the rest of the world?

I have to arrive at the inescapable conclusion that they are fully aware of what they are doing, that it is the only way to increase their TRPs and the concomitant advertising revenues, and they have no intention of changing a winning formula. If that is what their research is telling them, I will have to question the intelligence of the average Indian viewer. Notwithstanding, I will not place the blame at the door of the viewer for his and her appalling taste. It is the programme designers who need to look at themselves critically before screaming from the rooftops that their channel is the most watched (our viewership is 757% more than our nearest rival!). Frankly, who gives a rat’s ass, as the Yanks love saying. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that the channel with the lowest viewership probably attracts the most discerning viewers. That’s food for thought. As William Hodding Carter II, turn of the 20^th century American author and journalist said, ‘Television news is like a lightning flash. It makes a loud noise, lights up everything around it, leaves everything else in darkness and then is suddenly gone.’

* As we go to press, we hear that Congress spokesperson, Rajiv Tyagi, died suddenly of a cardiac arrest soon after a particularly stormy and acrimonious TV debate. Tragic as that is, for his party members to attribute his untimely demise to the insane verbal fisticuffs on the idiot box, might be stretching things a bit. However, it does tragically underscore the point that we could all do with a bit more civility and decorum on these so-called debates.

I read voraciously. I write obsessively. The reading aids the writing. Any Rushdie will tell you that. The reading bug took hold of me, in a serious way, rather late in life; only about twenty years ago. Prior to that I read fitfully and my oeuvre was largely confined to P.G. Wodehouse and his ilk. The Master of humour wrote, for the most part, in a time-warped bubble of an innocently imagined England of a bygone era. He made me laugh out loud. LOL, as today’s social media generation would have it. And whenever I did write on any subject, Wodehouse’s influence was palpable, an influence I am loath to jettison, though I have striven hard in recent times to develop a voice of my own. Not easy, mind you, but as the poet T.H. Palmer so succinctly put it, ‘If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.’ It can be trying, but one keeps trying, if you catch my drift.

Latterly, I have been devouring the works of many authors, both contemporary and of an earlier vintage. Whether it was Damon Runyon, writing about guys, dolls and wise guys during the notorious prohibition era in America and who, astonishingly, wrote all his short stories entirely in the present tense, or the new age British glamour writers with a more literary bent, like V.S. Naipaul, Martin Amis (son of Kingsley ‘Lucky Jim’ Amis), Ian McEwan, Christopher Hitchens, Salman Rushdie (I see him as a British Indian, though he became an American citizen in 2016) and a handful of others who keep me elevated and entertained at the same time. One of these days, I’ll get around to Jane Austen – watching Pride and Prejudice or Emma on film doesn’t count. What is more, all of the above named, without exception, can turn out an ineffably beautiful sentence. It comes as no surprise that Salman Rushdie wrote copy for a reputed advertising agency in London, before raking in the shekels as a full time novelist.

That said, there was a notable gap in my reading of this highly decorated author. I was being asked by all and sundry if I had read Salman Rushdie’s 1981 blockbuster classic, Midnight’s Children, his breakthrough novel. Most of those who probed me had not read the book themselves, which I thought was a bit cheeky. I had read about it, of course, and I was reluctant to take the coward’s way out with that well-worn cliché, ‘I’ve seen the film,’ which I haven’t. I kept close tabs on reviews galore and accolades that followed the author, all of which made Salman Rushdie an international celebrity overnight. A few years after Midnight’s Children, Rushdie’s fame gravitated into the hallowed space of notoriety when he published The Satanic Verses, which was banned in many countries, including India, as these verses referring to pagan goddesses, were deemed anathema to the Islamic religion. The offending verses were believed to have been inserted by Satan into the Holy Book. Rushdie himself fervently denied any hurt intended or expressed towards the religion and issued an apology, but try telling that to the Ayatollah Khomeini who was not impressed and issued the ‘off-with-his-head’ fatwa. A price was placed on Rushdie’s head by leaders of the Islamic faith. All of which, naturally, made the book even more talked about, and it flew off the shelves like those proverbial hot cakes. If Midnight’s Children altered the course of Rushdie’s life bringing fame and fortune beyond his wildest dreams, The Satanic Verses brought more fame allied to notoriety, presaging danger to life and limb under the sinister ministrations of religious intolerance and fundamentalism. Like V.S. Naipaul before him, Rushdie’s most trenchant critics invariably never read the book. The poor chap, now a hunted man, had to become incognito and went into hiding for extended periods.

In spite of all this unwanted attention swirling around Rushdie’s head, or perhaps because of it, the Bombay born author became the toast of the literary world while others, more inimically inclined had their knives out and were threatening to turn him into toast! He even appeared in the odd film, most notably a cameo as himself in the hit comedy, Bridget Jones’s Diary. A cause célèbre, our Sir Salman. Yes, the icing on the cake was the knighthood he received for literature in the Queen’s Birthday Honours in June 2007. ‘Arise, Sir Salman.’, intoned Her Majesty, as she dubbed him Knight. An accolade that was received with unbounded joy by his admirers and, in equal measure, with unconcealed revulsion by those clerics who wanted him put down.

 Such was the ironic existence of this iconoclastic writer. Meanwhile, I was yet to lay my hands on a Salman Rushdie book, and this was beginning to irk and get me talked about in a distinctly patronising manner by the cognoscenti. ‘What are you telling me, you have not yet read Midnight’s Children? And you have the gall to call yourself an aspiring writer? Aspirated writer would be more the mot juste.’ This and variants of the same, I had to put up with on a daily basis. To my biting counter question, ‘Big deal, have you read Midnight’s Children?’ the conversation amongst the literati would adroitly shift to, ‘Is Arundhati Roy’s activism harming her writing?’ or the impending threat to the earth’s green cover or the ozone layer, not that anyone is in the least bit bothered about what happens to the ozone layer, with the exception of a clutch of environmentalists and the polar bear, I am guessing.

To get back to Midnight’s Children, I finally took the bold decision to buy the book. A couple of taps on my desktop keyboard, and the next thing I knew, the Amazon masked man was at our gates with the bulging parcel. I had to keep the bubble wrapped packet in home quarantine for 48 hours thanks to the pandemic, and at last I was able to hold the book in my hands. After riffling through the pages and smelling it, which I do with all new books (a schoolboy habit), I placed it on my work table and carefully considered this voluminous opus. It was a paperback edition, the imported hard cover would have blown a gaping hole in my bank balance. At 650 pages, Midnight’s Children weighed in impressively, easily qualifying as a heavyweight amongst books, literally and metaphorically. Off hand, I can readily think of only Tolstoy’s War and Peace or Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind, which packed in substantially more words. So there it was, Midnight’s Children, resting serenely on my bedside table waiting for my studious attention. I let a few days pass, allowing the book to marinate, in a manner of speaking, while I quickly flipped through Wodehouse’s Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit for the sixth time to get me nicely warmed up for the big ‘un.

The thing of it was that the 650 pages was proving to be a dampening deterrent. I was also concerned that long periods of holding the book in my hands could cause irreparable harm to my wrists, particularly the carpal and scaphoid bones, which need to be in mint condition to do pretty much anything mundane and routine. Every now and then, I would gently lift the book up, lower it down and put it back on the table, weighing up the options, thinking I would come back when I was good and ready. To read a book of the heft of Midnight’s Children, you need to be physically in shipshape order and mentally agile. Under such arduously challenging circumstances, procrastination was an easy option. ‘Let the weekend pass,’ I would mutter to myself, ‘and I should be prepared to dive headlong into it from Monday.’ Any time but now, about summed up my state of mind.

What is it about fat volumes that turns one off so? Whereas other past best-sellers like Love Story and Jonathan Livingstone Seagull barely went beyond 140 pages before Messers Erich Segal and Richard Bach decided to down tools. Lazy sods! Of course, Love Story was merely an unabashedly lachrymose tear jerker with a great opening line, and I cannot possibly place Erich Segal’s pot boiler alongside Rushdie’s monumental MC. It was just this illogical mental block that kept me from picking up MC and giving Rushdie the once over. Finally, finally I took courage in my hands and decided to break the deadlock. I started reading the blasted thing, digging in for the long haul. Let me quickly add, right here and now, lest you get ideas, that I am not going to talk about the book’s contents or even remotely attempt to review or critique it. I simply do not possess the literary or intellectual wherewithal. Suffice to say that, far from being a plodding, tedious drudge that books in excess of 500 pages usually turn out to be, this one was a blast. I finished the book in six days flat, far from my original apprehension of having to pore over it in instalments over six months. Put me in mind of Wodehouse’s wry observation that the problem with Russian novels was that you had to plough through 400 pages before the first murder took place in some remote gulag! Not so with Rushdie’s MC. I did not experience that sinking feeling that I had just run the marathon and collapsed unconscious at the end of it. Far from it. It helped greatly that the story was set in the Indian sub-continent, the protagonist taking us on a rip-roaring, hair-raising journey beginning ‘at the stroke of the midnight hour’ on August 15, 1947, all the way down to the Indira Gandhi dynasty’s shenanigans. The novel was a heady combination of ‘magic realism and historiographic metafiction’, as described by some literary pundit, and who am I to argue with that? That’s about as much as I am willing to divulge.

As for the 650 pages of Salman Rushdie’s brilliance, having gone through it like a breeze, I have drastically revised my biased opinion on fat books. Other than the fact that they pose serious problems in terms of space management in my home library, not to mention wrist sprain, I shall now warmly welcome corpulent tomes into my humble abode, without prejudging them purely on the basis of their obesity. To conclude, I can do no better than to quote Julius Caesar in Shakespeare’s eponymous play, ‘Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look……..Let me have men about me that are fat.’ My thoughts exactly, Julius. Only, my thoughts extend to the rarefied world of books.

 Therefore is the name of it called Babel; because the Lord did there confound the language of all the earth: and from thence did the Lord scatter them abroad upon the face of all the earth. Genesis 11:1–9.

According to the Eighth Schedule of the Indian Constitution, there are 22 languages officially listed and recognised in India. Unofficially, other sources credit our polyglot nation with figures running into well over a staggering 1500 languages, but this is almost certainly a gross misinterpretation that includes derivatives, dialects and local patois that differ from district to district and sometimes, even from neighbourhood to neighbourhood in the same town or city. Biblical references to the Tower of Babel only partially tell us why the world is possessed of so many linguistic variations, though India is not, unsurprisingly, included in its theological proclamations. Small wonder then, that ‘the Lord did there confound the language of all the earth.’ Without getting into a needless mental twist over it, we will accord due respect to our Constitution and stick to the stated 22 languages which, quite honestly, should be enough to be getting along with.

My current focus however, is not so much to get into the nitty-gritty of the intricacies and nuances of India’s linguistic multiplicity, but to take a somewhat left field, light hearted look at how English is spoken in different parts of our country, and how certain English phrases and expressions have been given a uniquely Indian flavour, which owes much to the idiosyncrasies of a particular regional tongue, as it could be Tamil, Bengali or Hindi, to cite three examples I am familiar with. The exercise here is to highlight some of the more commonly heard Indo-English phrases, a kind of pidgin combo, that tellingly mark out a person as hailing from this or that state. To give you a sampler, I might add that even the word ‘hailing’ which I just employed in the previous sentence is more commonly used in India (in that context), particularly in the south, than even in the United Kingdom. For instance, if you approached Mr. Ramaswamy from Tamil Nadu and ask him where he comes from, more often than not he is likely to respond by saying, ‘Sir, I hail from Madurai.’ The pride conveyed in pinpointing the place of origin in his voice is unmistakable. What’s more, Mr. Ramaswamy is likely to sniff in a superior manner if you told him you ‘hail’ from neighbouring Dindigul. As for my Bengali dentist, Mr. Ghosh, he would probe into my cavity with a sharp, pointy instrument and inquire solicitously if I felt any ‘pen’ and proceed to write out a prescription with his Sheaffer fountain ‘pain.’ Altogether a most ‘penful’ experience.

With that brief background let us dive headlong into our subject matter. A caveat. This is by no means an exhaustive or comprehensive list (none exists, as far as I know). Au contraire, they are merely turns of phrase or expressions taken arbitrarily out of my own memory bank. It can only be roughly representative. I have selected three languages to illustrate the essence of this piece – Bengali, Tamil and Hindi. I am sure you, dear reader, can add your own list culled from your personal experience. That said, here goes nothing.

Although born into a Tamil speaking family, I spent close to five decades in the mock-modestly named City of Joy – Calcutta. The steaming, teeming metropolis has now been officially accorded its original Bengali moniker, Kolkata, but I make no apology for referring to it as Calcutta, or even the colloquially anglicised, Cal. Old habits die hard. One of the many joys of living in that vibrant city is that you have no option but to learn to speak Bengali. A Dada ektu please here, a Dada khoob dhannobad there, they all add up and contribute towards keeping the wheels of progress well oiled. After all, even the regal former Indian cricket skipper (potentially a future Chief Minister), Sourav Ganguly, was known the world over as simply, Dada.  (Geoff Boycott has sole rights to the sobriquet, ‘The Prince of Calcutta.’)

A majority of the non-Bengali population who lived and worked in Calcutta spoke the local lingo with varying degrees of competence. A peculiar avenue of pleasure was to listen to the average Bengali, not the burra sahib corporate type who wined and dined at the upper-crust Bengal Club and spoke the Queen’s English while spearing into his grilled salmon. Rather, I am speaking of your everyday Bengali babu sitting behind a grimy, termite ravaged table in a bank, post office or even an advertising agency, often clad in the traditional dhuti panajbi. This sturdy son of the soil was never happier than when showing off his unique brand of English, while helping himself to a paper bag full of jhal muri (spiced puffed rice), dragging on a Charminar, swatting flies and keeping his perspiration under control with his hand held bamboo fan and a moist hand towel – all the while shaking his legs and even his entire body in a furious metronomic rhythm, a typically unconscious, nervous habit that evidently aids concentration!

Here’s the bank clerk – ‘Ore, Shubromonyom Saheb, please wait moshai! It is only ten phiphtin am. Will phinish my cha and carrom board game. You want Passh Book aapdate? Shamay laagbe. Reelax. You want matka cha? Bhery bhery teshty. Why you must hurry burry? Taara kisher? Always you want to raan raan raan. Ektu boshun. Read Teshmann pepper. Gabhashkar century mereche, aar Bishonath wattay stylish tharty phor, umpire phaltu elbeedubloo diyeche, shuar ka baccha! Tomorrow, amader jamai babu, Prosonno bowling korben. Daroon oph- speen bowler, saala.’ (Note: Prasanna was married to a Bengali which gave him special bragging rights in the affections of the Bengali populace).

My advertising agency Studio Manager – ‘Mister Shuresh Babu, what you are thinking? This is joke or what? Why you are so narvaas? You are saabmitting requisition today and you want phinished artwork tomorrow? Baa, baa, khoob bhaalo. I am not P.C. Shorkar for doing magic. What? Client is souting? You tell client, “Baadi jao.” What she is thinking about himself? Saala! Ek second. Oueels Filter aachhe? Give me two, bhaalo chhele. Khoob cheshta korbo my lebhel best to give artwork tomorrow.’

Two Wills Filter fags and you were home and dry. You would have observed that my ad agency studio manager had problems distinguishing the genders when speaking in English. This is a characteristic trait in Bengal. They get the ‘he’ and ‘she’ mixed up, primarily because the Bengali language does not make the distinction. Their gender is neutral, hence the confusion, which manifests itself when they speak English.

When it comes to Tamil, my mother tongue, I have always been grateful to my parents that they insisted on their children conversing in Tamil at home, as far as possible. I emphasise this because my younger brother and I spent much of our childhood in a predominantly English speaking boarding house, and left to our devices, we might have paid scant attention to Tamil. My older brother had no such issues since he grew up in Madras and was fluent in the local lingo. That said, your average Mr. Everyman in Tamil Nadu, possessed a strange penchant for injecting his Tamil sentences with a generous dose of his own brand of English. From the bus conductor who signals his driver to move on with a stentorian ‘Right, right,’ to the classic ‘Romba thanks,’ which is an indelible part of our lexicon.

Our General Physician, Dr. Srinivasan – ‘Hullo, young man. Enna problem? Stomachaa? Loose motionaa? Open your mouth, aaaaa kami. Good. Feverish? No? (places thermometer under my tongue, and hums a snatch of Bhairavi while waiting). Mild joram. Slight infection irukku. Nothing to worry. Strict diet for three days, okayaa? Plenty of fluids and buttermilk, seriyaa? Entero Quinol tablet prescribe pannaren. You can go.’ (As I leave, the good doctor begins to render, under his breath, Tyagaraja’s immortal Entero Mahanubhavulu in the raga Shree).

My father, a scrupulously upright banker (pouring his woes to my mother) – ‘That union leader Brahma, avan oru suddha blackguard! He should be called Brahmmahatthi. Cantankerous madayat*. 20% bonus declare pannalenna strike threaten pannaran, bloody fool of an ass. He thinks he is a periya pista, arrogant fellow. Mannangatti. Tomorrow naan Chairmana confront panna poren. He should be sacked, this Brahma idiot, illenna ennoda resignation letter readiyya irukku.’ (*Madayat, an ingenious combo of ‘madayan’ and ‘idiot,’ both meaning the same thing.)

At which point, my mother’s face turns ashen and she hares off to the kitchen, before the milk boils over.

To conclude, a brief look at our rashtra bhasha. Many regions, notably from the south, railed against the imposition of Hindi as the national language, but over time, they have all come to accept it as a necessary evil. Stands to reason. You can’t go around enjoying the antics of Amitabh Bachchan and Shah Rukh Khan, keep singing Mohammad Rafi and Kishore Kumar hits on social media, and not accept the language. Once again, I turn to my departed father. Despite his lengthy innings in Calcutta, there was no way he was going to learn to speak Bengali. That said, for the sake of survival, he was more than willing to struggle gamely with Hindi, grammar can take a back seat. And the devil take the hindmost! Here he is, taking our Bihari driver to task in chaste Hinglish! Shades of Mehmood in Padosan.

‘Again, tum itna late aata hai. Humka office meeting mein bahut delay ho gaya. Aisa karne se kaisa hoga? This is not good, Mr. Shiv Prasad, acchha nahin, bahut karaab. Punctuality bahut important. Once more aisa karne se strong action lena padega. Yeh final warning. Tum jaa sakta.’

That was about as tough as my father got with the domestics. The ultimate irony of all this is that most Indians will look askance at you should you attempt to speak proper English. As for those ne’er do wells who keep mocking me for employing words and phrases that are rarely used and bracketing me with the bombastic Shashi Tharoor, my stinging riposte is, ‘The words and phrases are there, somebody’s got to use them.’ I’ll leave the final word to Shaw’s immortal creation, Professor Henry Higgins –

Arabians learn Arabian with the speed of summer lightning
The Hebrews learn it backwards
Which is absolutely frightening
But use proper English and you’re regarded as a freak

If that makes me a freak, so be it. As my Bengali bank clerk might have pithily put it, ‘What goes my father, saala!’