Time for my random musings for the new year.
Let me begin with Kun Faya Kun. I tuned into the song quite late; however, I've been making amends by listening to it 20 times or more each day. I'm beginning to think that Rahman took every other step in his journey so that he can keep delivering Sufi songs to us. Had he not, at a young age, found new energy in a spiritual guide who followed Sufism, would his music have found its strength? And how much would modern Indian music have lost in the process?
The phrase Kun Faya Kun is straight from the Quran. It means: "Be. And it is." In the holy book, this phrase alludes to the power of God to will the universe into existence merely by imagining it. But perhaps there's another meaning here: that we - by which I mean puny humans like you and I - too can create any result in our lives merely by declaring our resolve to do so. In other words, we're prophets, all of us, and every time we generate a thought and back it up with actions, we will achieve the desired results. Perhaps that's one of the reasons we're supposed to seek the divine amongst our fellow beings. We may never know if we're made in His image, but we've been given the power to lead our dream lives.
Kun Faya Kun.
Half an hour before my plane descended into Bhubhaneswar, we crossed the Eastern ghats. From 36000 feet above MSL, I saw a veil of morning mist lift itself off a hoary series of mountains, each resembling the other to a shocking degree, as if seen from the proper vantage point, the world has a perfect design. No human eye can punch a hole in this tapestry, apparently.
Below me, to my immediate east, I also saw a cloud cover so uniform and vast that it looked like the salt pans of the Rann of Kutch. On this soft feathery bed of altocumulus clouds (I'm guessing), I could see shadows of cirrocumulus clouds that were hovering far above it. God, it seemed, had breakfasted well this Tuesday morning and was in the mood to create beauty and tranquillity.
The same evening, I heard on TV that Cyclone Thane was all set to hit the eastern coast. Landfall was supposed to be on the southern tip of AP. As it turned out, Puducherry and Cuddalore were the worst hit. I couldn't help but think about the tsunami. More specifically, I thought of the forlorn look worn by NH-45A from Puducherry all the way to Thirukkadaiyur. And the devastation that I witnessed in the village of Kuttiandiyur was something else altogether. Brr.
Let's move on to happy thoughts this new year.
Have you ever had chenna poda? If you've even heard of this dish, chances are that you'd have also heard an Oriya passionately claim ownership of that prince amongst sweets - the Rosagulla. If you thought the sweet originated in West Bengal, this article will make you think again:
Kling Canoes At Tamralipta
It's written by a Sengupta. And endorsed by another Sengupta (my friend Pat). And since two knowledgeable Bengalis have accepted that the Oriyas invented the sweet, I now consider the matter closed :P
Why this neither-here-nor-there topic? Because my daughter is half-Oriya and I must get ultra-familiar with elements that constitute the Oriya pride. And believe you me, a typical Oriya would sooner disown the Kalinga empire than lose ownership of the Rosagulla!
Incidentally, I feel distraught that my daughter's best friend will relocate to Mumbai for the next academic year. Must our children experience such a loss at such a young age? Anyway, happy thoughts. I clicked a lot of pics of the two girls together. Perhaps in the advanced digital age, they'd reconnect 20 years later and be more connected than today.
Did you hear about all the hoopla surrounding Sachin's 100th ton? You did? Well, that's because our performance Down Under has been dismal and we don't have much else to talk about. Had we performed superbly, well in that case, things would be different - we'd then hear about all the hoopla surrounding Sachin's 100th ton. What? That's just the same? Huh. How about that?
By the way, anybody wants to bet on another miraculous win at Perth?
Finally, let me describe a hypothetical scenario:
Suppose you're leading a project. A few people are assisting you in its implementation. You're allowed to make use of their skills, but you have been given no power to dominate them. No matter how badly they fare, you cannot blame them, get angry at them, put them down or bribe them. In other words, you can offer them neither carrots nor sticks. All you can do is be there for them, keep working with them and ask them, through your actions, to reconsider their attitudes even as you reconsider yours. End of the day, if you fail to produce results, your boss will ask you why you failed to inspire them.
Does this model sound too harsh? Does it have too many constraints?
Well, if you lead your life the way you're asked to lead this project, it will become extraordinary. It's just an idea. I'm requesting you to chew on it.
Have a fantabulous 2012, everybody. This year is gonna rock.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Sunday, December 11, 2011
A mystical eclipse
Yesterday, thanks to a last-minute invite from a friend, I experienced a magical evening that was Ruhaniyat. (Details available here.)
As the moon slowly disrobed its earthly shadow, I sat down to enchanting music, unable to decide what was casting a deeper spell - the music or the moon.
The evening began with a Kashmiri group, led by Abdul Rashid Hafiz, singing devotional songs that effortlessly blended Kashmiri and Sanskrit words. The one about Meera complaining to Krishna that she doesn't get enough of his time and attention was superb and filled with surprises such as the ticklish presence of the word soundarya in an otherwise wholesome Sufi melody. But I soon began expecting "unusual" words. After all, language is to music what religion is to spirituality - irrelevant!
The second group of performers was from Alandi in Maharashtra and led by Avdhoot Gandhi. I revisited my childhood in an attempt to catch the untranslated meaning of the three songs they sung. I more or less succeeded in this endeavour, finding myself moved by the suggestion that we need knowledge to distil the divine within ourselves, just like we need knowledge to extract butter from milk and sugar from sugarcane. Interestingly, Gandhi's lineage can be traced back to Sant Dhyaneshwar himself. Talk about pedigree endorsing performance!
The third group of performers infused the evening with a dose of high-octane energy. This group of Khans (led by Shakur Khan) hailed from Rajasthan. The standout performer, for me at least, was Daevo Khan playing the Khadtal. The instrument demands movements not unlike using a stapler in an angry mood. At first, I was reminded of shirtless kids in the Belapur-Kurla local trains who would click filmy melodies out of two pieces of ceramic tiles. I now know that the genesis of those tiles is the Khadtal which, in the hands of an artist like Daevo Khan, is mesmerizing. This man demonstrated the process by which Man and Craft merge together. Apparently all that's required is to develop a mad relationship with the art form and also the ability to stay in the moment. Khan's jugalbandi with the dholak player whetted my appetite for more. Perhaps we'll see this man on a larger stage soon, bonding with the best percussionists in the world.
I confess to zoning out when the next performer - Parvathy Baul - came on stage. I'm still trying to figure out why this happened. Perhaps the subtlety of this music form was lost on me after the energetic performance of Rajasthanis (who, I forgot to mention, also sang a Baba Bulleh Shah song). Perhaps I and my friends began talking shop at this point. I started paying attention again only when Ms Baul, who was performing in a trance-like state, was distracted by the discordant toot of a passing train.
After the Baul came the whirling dervishes from Turkey. And since the hostess explained the ritualistic dance before it began, one could make enough sense to feel wonderment.
As the universe and everything in it revolves, so do the dervishes. But always in the counter clockwise direction - that way, they're circling the heart and thus embracing love. I also learnt that the dervishes always point to the skies with the open palm of their right hands even as their left hands form arches pointing to the earth. In this way, they're collecting blessings from God and distributing them amongst the mortals.
It was a good debut for me in the world of dervishes. I'm still wondering whether the powder that was sprinkled on the stage floor before the performance had any ethereal meaning. Or was that just showmanship?
Finally, the qawwals from Jaipur, led by Shameen and Nayeem Ajmeri, took the stage. What followed were three spirited qawwalis that, time and again, touched upon secularism. During one interjection, Nayeem Ajmeri spoke about the non-duality of the human condition, about commonalities that cannot be dissolved by religion. His nonchalant reference to Ka'aba-Kashi and other such beautiful word-pairs touched my heart. The final memory of the evening was of Shameen Ajmeri reproducing the sounds of ghungroos using his mouth and tongue.
Before revving back home, I took a final peek at the moon. It was clear as a limpid pool. The soulful prayers performed at Jayamahal Palace had cured it of all earthly influences. Or so I'd like to believe.
As the moon slowly disrobed its earthly shadow, I sat down to enchanting music, unable to decide what was casting a deeper spell - the music or the moon.
The evening began with a Kashmiri group, led by Abdul Rashid Hafiz, singing devotional songs that effortlessly blended Kashmiri and Sanskrit words. The one about Meera complaining to Krishna that she doesn't get enough of his time and attention was superb and filled with surprises such as the ticklish presence of the word soundarya in an otherwise wholesome Sufi melody. But I soon began expecting "unusual" words. After all, language is to music what religion is to spirituality - irrelevant!
The second group of performers was from Alandi in Maharashtra and led by Avdhoot Gandhi. I revisited my childhood in an attempt to catch the untranslated meaning of the three songs they sung. I more or less succeeded in this endeavour, finding myself moved by the suggestion that we need knowledge to distil the divine within ourselves, just like we need knowledge to extract butter from milk and sugar from sugarcane. Interestingly, Gandhi's lineage can be traced back to Sant Dhyaneshwar himself. Talk about pedigree endorsing performance!
The third group of performers infused the evening with a dose of high-octane energy. This group of Khans (led by Shakur Khan) hailed from Rajasthan. The standout performer, for me at least, was Daevo Khan playing the Khadtal. The instrument demands movements not unlike using a stapler in an angry mood. At first, I was reminded of shirtless kids in the Belapur-Kurla local trains who would click filmy melodies out of two pieces of ceramic tiles. I now know that the genesis of those tiles is the Khadtal which, in the hands of an artist like Daevo Khan, is mesmerizing. This man demonstrated the process by which Man and Craft merge together. Apparently all that's required is to develop a mad relationship with the art form and also the ability to stay in the moment. Khan's jugalbandi with the dholak player whetted my appetite for more. Perhaps we'll see this man on a larger stage soon, bonding with the best percussionists in the world.
I confess to zoning out when the next performer - Parvathy Baul - came on stage. I'm still trying to figure out why this happened. Perhaps the subtlety of this music form was lost on me after the energetic performance of Rajasthanis (who, I forgot to mention, also sang a Baba Bulleh Shah song). Perhaps I and my friends began talking shop at this point. I started paying attention again only when Ms Baul, who was performing in a trance-like state, was distracted by the discordant toot of a passing train.
After the Baul came the whirling dervishes from Turkey. And since the hostess explained the ritualistic dance before it began, one could make enough sense to feel wonderment.
As the universe and everything in it revolves, so do the dervishes. But always in the counter clockwise direction - that way, they're circling the heart and thus embracing love. I also learnt that the dervishes always point to the skies with the open palm of their right hands even as their left hands form arches pointing to the earth. In this way, they're collecting blessings from God and distributing them amongst the mortals.
It was a good debut for me in the world of dervishes. I'm still wondering whether the powder that was sprinkled on the stage floor before the performance had any ethereal meaning. Or was that just showmanship?
Finally, the qawwals from Jaipur, led by Shameen and Nayeem Ajmeri, took the stage. What followed were three spirited qawwalis that, time and again, touched upon secularism. During one interjection, Nayeem Ajmeri spoke about the non-duality of the human condition, about commonalities that cannot be dissolved by religion. His nonchalant reference to Ka'aba-Kashi and other such beautiful word-pairs touched my heart. The final memory of the evening was of Shameen Ajmeri reproducing the sounds of ghungroos using his mouth and tongue.
Before revving back home, I took a final peek at the moon. It was clear as a limpid pool. The soulful prayers performed at Jayamahal Palace had cured it of all earthly influences. Or so I'd like to believe.
Friday, November 18, 2011
In Treatment
A phlegmatic therapist. An agitated patient. A none-too-sunny room. Three to four cameras. And an unwavering exploration of the human mind via memories, impressions and emotions. Has television ever been so compelling?
After watching three seasons of In Treatment almost non-stop, I'm willing to swear that the Israelis know how to create drama using minimalism. And I feel grateful that the Americans adapted this Israeli television series, put an intense Irish actor at the centre of it and made the concept sing.
Throughout the week, Dr Paul Weston (portrayed by Daniel Byrne) plays the dutiful therapist, concerned with the welfare of each of his patients, struggling to understand their motivations, aching to help them find happiness. But if any of his patients try to find out who he is, he becomes obtuse. If that doesn't work, he deflects their questions. That's when the viewer realizes that not all is well in the inner world of Dr Weston. And when he visits his own therapist over the weekend, the viewer realizes that he is a veritable mess. He has neither resolved his past nor considered his future. He is completely lost, just like most of us. But that doesn't stop him from practising his profession with the utmost sincerity. And one feels for his situation. He must combat an unhappy childhood and address his pugnacious attitude towards his parents. Moreover, he must come to terms with a failed marriage, a disastrous love affair and partial alienation from his own children. Paul Weston is as lonely as a human being can be. But Dr Weston is an engaging professional. And as he helps his patients come to terms with themselves, as he helps them close their loops, one cannot but feel admiration for the man behind the mask.
It's a pity this series is being aborted by the studio. Why can't we see Paul Weston complete his journey of self-realization and evolution? Can't we leave him in a state of contentment?
Perhaps some loops are meant to be interpreted and closed by ourselves, in a proactive manner. The ultimate lesson of In Treatment is that, perhaps, we must find our own joyous resolutions.
After watching three seasons of In Treatment almost non-stop, I'm willing to swear that the Israelis know how to create drama using minimalism. And I feel grateful that the Americans adapted this Israeli television series, put an intense Irish actor at the centre of it and made the concept sing.
Throughout the week, Dr Paul Weston (portrayed by Daniel Byrne) plays the dutiful therapist, concerned with the welfare of each of his patients, struggling to understand their motivations, aching to help them find happiness. But if any of his patients try to find out who he is, he becomes obtuse. If that doesn't work, he deflects their questions. That's when the viewer realizes that not all is well in the inner world of Dr Weston. And when he visits his own therapist over the weekend, the viewer realizes that he is a veritable mess. He has neither resolved his past nor considered his future. He is completely lost, just like most of us. But that doesn't stop him from practising his profession with the utmost sincerity. And one feels for his situation. He must combat an unhappy childhood and address his pugnacious attitude towards his parents. Moreover, he must come to terms with a failed marriage, a disastrous love affair and partial alienation from his own children. Paul Weston is as lonely as a human being can be. But Dr Weston is an engaging professional. And as he helps his patients come to terms with themselves, as he helps them close their loops, one cannot but feel admiration for the man behind the mask.
It's a pity this series is being aborted by the studio. Why can't we see Paul Weston complete his journey of self-realization and evolution? Can't we leave him in a state of contentment?
Perhaps some loops are meant to be interpreted and closed by ourselves, in a proactive manner. The ultimate lesson of In Treatment is that, perhaps, we must find our own joyous resolutions.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
The Big Bang Theory
Since there is such a thing as antimatter, there must exist an anti-Sheldon Cooper somewhere in the universe. But what will the anti-Sheldon Cooper be like? What's the opposite of a man-child who is exasperating yet lovable, insulting yet dependent, dismissive yet obliging, brilliant yet naive? When you throw a bundle of contradictions at the universe, will it not throw another back at you?
Well, since I'm neither a theoretical physicist nor a philosopher, I don't have to ponder over this conundrum. I can simply sit back, absorb the revelry that is The Big Bang Theory and enjoy Sheldon Cooper without dissecting him. And that's exactly what I've been doing for four years. Enjoying Jim Parsons' portrayal of Dr Sheldon Cooper. And applauding his two Emmys (although I also feel that Steve Carell and Alec Baldwin equally deserved the honour).
Lest we forget, TBBT isn't just about SC, although it can often appear to be so. It's about four geeks with a contrarian blonde thrown into the mix. As the characters take life, we learn that geekdom isn't a land of homogeneity. Geeks come in their own distinct flavours. They can be clumsy, starry-eyed, soft-hearted and aspiring for "normalcy" (like Leonard Hofstadter, the primary protagonist played by Johnny Galecki). Or they can be habitually vulgar, clinging to their umbilical cords and intimidated (like Howard Wolowitz, as played by Simon Helberg). Or they could be terrified of women, culturally-confused and made obnoxious by alcohol (like Rajesh Koothrapalli, played by Kuldip Nayar). What's the commonality in these characters? They're all insecure and desperate for a form of love they can relate to.
Enter the blonde. A no-nonsense young woman from the Mountain Time Zone, seeking to travel the magical Hollywood journey from being a waitress to becoming an actress.
Thus we have the makings of a character-driven comedy with endless possibilities. Explaining TBBT, therefore, becomes an exercise akin to explaining how to swim. Eventually, you have to take the plunge and let the water teach you.
If you're a novice to this sitcom, just listen to the title song rendered by Barenaked Ladies. The lyrics of the song remind us that we're all humans, no matter where we come from. And we're in this cosmic adventure together. When we were Neanderthals, we built tools. We then built the pyramids and the Wall. There is no mention of Africa, Egypt and China. It's WE who moved forward. And WE are here because 14 billion years ago, there was a Big Bang.
'Nuff said.
Well, since I'm neither a theoretical physicist nor a philosopher, I don't have to ponder over this conundrum. I can simply sit back, absorb the revelry that is The Big Bang Theory and enjoy Sheldon Cooper without dissecting him. And that's exactly what I've been doing for four years. Enjoying Jim Parsons' portrayal of Dr Sheldon Cooper. And applauding his two Emmys (although I also feel that Steve Carell and Alec Baldwin equally deserved the honour).
Lest we forget, TBBT isn't just about SC, although it can often appear to be so. It's about four geeks with a contrarian blonde thrown into the mix. As the characters take life, we learn that geekdom isn't a land of homogeneity. Geeks come in their own distinct flavours. They can be clumsy, starry-eyed, soft-hearted and aspiring for "normalcy" (like Leonard Hofstadter, the primary protagonist played by Johnny Galecki). Or they can be habitually vulgar, clinging to their umbilical cords and intimidated (like Howard Wolowitz, as played by Simon Helberg). Or they could be terrified of women, culturally-confused and made obnoxious by alcohol (like Rajesh Koothrapalli, played by Kuldip Nayar). What's the commonality in these characters? They're all insecure and desperate for a form of love they can relate to.
Enter the blonde. A no-nonsense young woman from the Mountain Time Zone, seeking to travel the magical Hollywood journey from being a waitress to becoming an actress.
Thus we have the makings of a character-driven comedy with endless possibilities. Explaining TBBT, therefore, becomes an exercise akin to explaining how to swim. Eventually, you have to take the plunge and let the water teach you.
If you're a novice to this sitcom, just listen to the title song rendered by Barenaked Ladies. The lyrics of the song remind us that we're all humans, no matter where we come from. And we're in this cosmic adventure together. When we were Neanderthals, we built tools. We then built the pyramids and the Wall. There is no mention of Africa, Egypt and China. It's WE who moved forward. And WE are here because 14 billion years ago, there was a Big Bang.
'Nuff said.
How I met your mother
There's a Ted Mosby in all of us. Well, not so much if one's marriage takes the BharatMatrimony route instead of match.com. Even in this disconnect, the common desire to find true love unifies us. We may marry the propah caste girl/boy with wheatish complexion, but we must eventually fall in love with her/him in order to be happy.
That's the premise of How I met your mother. The narrator of the sitcom is an older Ted Mosby (voiceover rendered by Bob Saget) and he somehow finds it necessary to share gory details of his past with his adolescent children. And, no, he will not jump straight to the episode of how he met their mother. He must tell them about the thousand frogs he kissed along the way.
Focal interest in the theme is generated by the endearing optimism of Mosby (played by Josh Radnor). This guy just won't give up till he has croacked out the bitter bile off of all his frogs in Manhattan. Great support is lent by Marshall (good-natured, child-like, mid-Western, monogamous), Lily (Marshall's wife, therefore monogamous, fiesty, control freak) and Robin (Canadian, goofy, emotionally unavailable). But the breakout character is Barney Stintson, played by Neil Patrick Harris whom people of my generation will remember as the overachieving child-prodigy of a doctor in Doogie Howser MD. Barney is a messiah of superficiality and casual sex. There are no frogs in his life. Just princesses on whom he casts a spell for one night. Harris' performance is all the more commendable because he's gay in real life. Kissing all those dumb princesses on screen must take some doing, I suppose. I, for one, can't kiss a dude for all the tadpoles in the world.
As always, I feel that the guest female actors are better looking than the heroines. Barring that, it's a wonderfully inventive comedy that refuses to follow a linear notion of time during most episodes. Situations are revisited multiple times with new insights and/or variations. The drama in each moment is therefore squeezed dry, much like the way our vendors treat sugarcane.
The only reason How I met your mother should remind one of Friends is that both sitcoms depict a dysfunctional, co-dependent group of friends. Otherwise, the genders are treated equally and the characters are allowed to enact some scenes in the open air, allowing for a more free-flowing narrative structure.
And for God's sakes, I'd like to know how Mosby eventually meets his children's mother. We already know so many things about this mysterious lady that I feel the desire to recreate her in my own imagination. I just hope she isn't the Slutty Pumpkin.
That's the premise of How I met your mother. The narrator of the sitcom is an older Ted Mosby (voiceover rendered by Bob Saget) and he somehow finds it necessary to share gory details of his past with his adolescent children. And, no, he will not jump straight to the episode of how he met their mother. He must tell them about the thousand frogs he kissed along the way.
Focal interest in the theme is generated by the endearing optimism of Mosby (played by Josh Radnor). This guy just won't give up till he has croacked out the bitter bile off of all his frogs in Manhattan. Great support is lent by Marshall (good-natured, child-like, mid-Western, monogamous), Lily (Marshall's wife, therefore monogamous, fiesty, control freak) and Robin (Canadian, goofy, emotionally unavailable). But the breakout character is Barney Stintson, played by Neil Patrick Harris whom people of my generation will remember as the overachieving child-prodigy of a doctor in Doogie Howser MD. Barney is a messiah of superficiality and casual sex. There are no frogs in his life. Just princesses on whom he casts a spell for one night. Harris' performance is all the more commendable because he's gay in real life. Kissing all those dumb princesses on screen must take some doing, I suppose. I, for one, can't kiss a dude for all the tadpoles in the world.
As always, I feel that the guest female actors are better looking than the heroines. Barring that, it's a wonderfully inventive comedy that refuses to follow a linear notion of time during most episodes. Situations are revisited multiple times with new insights and/or variations. The drama in each moment is therefore squeezed dry, much like the way our vendors treat sugarcane.
The only reason How I met your mother should remind one of Friends is that both sitcoms depict a dysfunctional, co-dependent group of friends. Otherwise, the genders are treated equally and the characters are allowed to enact some scenes in the open air, allowing for a more free-flowing narrative structure.
And for God's sakes, I'd like to know how Mosby eventually meets his children's mother. We already know so many things about this mysterious lady that I feel the desire to recreate her in my own imagination. I just hope she isn't the Slutty Pumpkin.
Two and a Half Men
Have you heard about the fable of the Ant and the Grasshopper? No, not the version in Aesop's Fables fed to children in order to scare them into a mould. I mean the version written by William Somerset Maugham. Using the same metaphorical characters and reversing their destinies, Maugham asks a simple question: do sincerity and hard work really deliver an agreeable winter? Paraphrasing, the question becomes: is the carefree grasshopper privy to a secret of the universe that has eluded the industrious ant?
It's a powerful question that challenges our pre-conceived notions about the nature of Life. Chuck Lorre - the Executive Producer of this and other sitcoms I've come to love - takes this reversed fable and delivers it with panache in Two and a Half Men.
At first glance, the format of the sitcom seems self-limiting. After all, it has only three primary characters. The first is Alan Harper - the hardworking chiropractor - representing the Ant. Secondly, there's Alan's dim-witted, gluttonous son Jake Harper who seems destined to remain half a man. And finally, we have the central character - Charlie Harper, Alan's elder brother - representing the Grasshopper.
And what a fabulous grasshopper he is. Charlie goes through life smelling of conditioner and bourbon. He barely does an ounce of work but owns a beach-house in Malibu, California. Gorgeous women fall on his lap like his birthright. And it never occurs to him that it's sinful to follow-up a 14-hour snooze with a liquor-soaked nap. Charlie is vain and shallow, and given the influence of his equally vain and shallow mother, too afraid to contemplate lasting happiness. To his credit, he redeems himself with his generosity and honesty.
Alan, on the other hand, has the irresistible urge to do the right thing. But when his wife kicks him out of his own home, he has no option but to seek refuge with Charlie. Alan both loves and resents his older brother, which provides plenty of comic fodder over the years. He blunders along as he watches Charlie saunter through a meadow of artificial tranquillity.
Neither brother is emotionally equipped to, when required, confront a woman, be it the alpha female housekeeper (Berta) or Charlie's stalker (Rose) or even Alan's vengeful first wife (Judith). Alan cowers into submission while Charlie escapes wherever he can. In this recurring theme, one discovers a hidden dimension of the sitcom: the evolving gender equation. The genders, it appears, have no meeting point. And Charlie must determine why this is so. He must navigate a labyrinth of neural landmines in order to find true love.
As always, drama in the real word accentuates the make-believe world. Despite the fact that Charlie Harper is played by the real-life brat Charlie Sheen, one finds the character alluring. Perhaps even more so.
I myself was disgusted by my first viewing of this sitcom. I couldn't understand why such a frivolous program was garnering top ratings in the Western world. And then I went through a phase of life wherein I began identifying with very many aspects of Charlie Harper's existence. For instance, an Indian writer-freelancer's routine can be remarkably similar to that of a Malibu grasshopper. As other parallels made themselves evident, I found within me a veritable dark-skinned facsimile of Charlie Harper. Along with that discovery came the desire to be released from the archetype.
Like Charlie, I wanted to escape an abyss of my own creation. And like him, I'm inching towards that goal.
It's a powerful question that challenges our pre-conceived notions about the nature of Life. Chuck Lorre - the Executive Producer of this and other sitcoms I've come to love - takes this reversed fable and delivers it with panache in Two and a Half Men.
At first glance, the format of the sitcom seems self-limiting. After all, it has only three primary characters. The first is Alan Harper - the hardworking chiropractor - representing the Ant. Secondly, there's Alan's dim-witted, gluttonous son Jake Harper who seems destined to remain half a man. And finally, we have the central character - Charlie Harper, Alan's elder brother - representing the Grasshopper.
And what a fabulous grasshopper he is. Charlie goes through life smelling of conditioner and bourbon. He barely does an ounce of work but owns a beach-house in Malibu, California. Gorgeous women fall on his lap like his birthright. And it never occurs to him that it's sinful to follow-up a 14-hour snooze with a liquor-soaked nap. Charlie is vain and shallow, and given the influence of his equally vain and shallow mother, too afraid to contemplate lasting happiness. To his credit, he redeems himself with his generosity and honesty.
Alan, on the other hand, has the irresistible urge to do the right thing. But when his wife kicks him out of his own home, he has no option but to seek refuge with Charlie. Alan both loves and resents his older brother, which provides plenty of comic fodder over the years. He blunders along as he watches Charlie saunter through a meadow of artificial tranquillity.
Neither brother is emotionally equipped to, when required, confront a woman, be it the alpha female housekeeper (Berta) or Charlie's stalker (Rose) or even Alan's vengeful first wife (Judith). Alan cowers into submission while Charlie escapes wherever he can. In this recurring theme, one discovers a hidden dimension of the sitcom: the evolving gender equation. The genders, it appears, have no meeting point. And Charlie must determine why this is so. He must navigate a labyrinth of neural landmines in order to find true love.
As always, drama in the real word accentuates the make-believe world. Despite the fact that Charlie Harper is played by the real-life brat Charlie Sheen, one finds the character alluring. Perhaps even more so.
I myself was disgusted by my first viewing of this sitcom. I couldn't understand why such a frivolous program was garnering top ratings in the Western world. And then I went through a phase of life wherein I began identifying with very many aspects of Charlie Harper's existence. For instance, an Indian writer-freelancer's routine can be remarkably similar to that of a Malibu grasshopper. As other parallels made themselves evident, I found within me a veritable dark-skinned facsimile of Charlie Harper. Along with that discovery came the desire to be released from the archetype.
Like Charlie, I wanted to escape an abyss of my own creation. And like him, I'm inching towards that goal.
A sitcom round-up
Apologies for the prolonged hiatus, especially to my mysterious readers from Russia, Latvia, Canada, Australia, the Netherlands, Germany, Nigeria and Belize. You hit my blog on a regular basis, but I have no idea who you are. I wish I did. Anyway, thanks for your interest and silent support.
Why have I been away? Well, I've been on a journey of self-discovery. If that isn't enough of a cliche, I must add that I took one small step this weekend and found my soul taking a giant leap towards sanity. I've looked long and hard at myself and have arrived at some rather unflattering conclusions. Remedial steps are being taken as of now and a better world seems within grasp. With that deliberately cryptic assertion, let me get to the point.
The makeover I'm attempting will require me to cut down on my indulgence in American sitcoms. I'll still sniff in the occasional episode of jest, especially when I need a lighter moment to survive the seemingly choppy sea of Life, but I think I'm done being a worshipper of this modern-age art form.
However, before I call it quits, I feel compelled to document my reflections on each sitcom that has moved me in the past 4.5 years. I will swerve away from this obsession with sitcoms just once, in order to explore a dramatic series called In Treatment.
So the next few posts may not be to the liking of all my readers. Sorry about that. All I can say is that I wouldn't have survived the previous phase of my Life without sitcoms and I want my blog to acknowledge that. And since I'll be reverting to my usual fare of politics, society etc, I hope my regular readers will find it in their hearts to forgive this detour.
Stay tuned please.
Why have I been away? Well, I've been on a journey of self-discovery. If that isn't enough of a cliche, I must add that I took one small step this weekend and found my soul taking a giant leap towards sanity. I've looked long and hard at myself and have arrived at some rather unflattering conclusions. Remedial steps are being taken as of now and a better world seems within grasp. With that deliberately cryptic assertion, let me get to the point.
The makeover I'm attempting will require me to cut down on my indulgence in American sitcoms. I'll still sniff in the occasional episode of jest, especially when I need a lighter moment to survive the seemingly choppy sea of Life, but I think I'm done being a worshipper of this modern-age art form.
However, before I call it quits, I feel compelled to document my reflections on each sitcom that has moved me in the past 4.5 years. I will swerve away from this obsession with sitcoms just once, in order to explore a dramatic series called In Treatment.
So the next few posts may not be to the liking of all my readers. Sorry about that. All I can say is that I wouldn't have survived the previous phase of my Life without sitcoms and I want my blog to acknowledge that. And since I'll be reverting to my usual fare of politics, society etc, I hope my regular readers will find it in their hearts to forgive this detour.
Stay tuned please.
Monday, October 24, 2011
A single Cook spoils the broth
A kinder assessment might pass on some of the blame to coach Andy Flower. But Captain Cook (Alastair, not James) deserves to go first in front of the firing squad. After all, he's used to the opening salvo!
Some of Cook's decision that have baffled me are:
1) Dropping Bell. Seriously? There are some players who react to Indian bowling like Popeye to spinach. Bell is one of them. He's a veteran of subcontinental conditions and has the temperament to belong to any international side. And yet, Bell has been warming the bench while the English middle-order has floundered.
On the other hand, I easily relate to Cook's faith in Bairstow. In the final ODI in Cardiff a few weeks ago, young Jonny whipped us senseless during a difficult run chase. The future belongs to him. Extrapolating, Cook decided: so does the present. Fine. But can't Bell replace some other bloke? Consider what happened in Wankhede yesterday. Samit Patel, primarily a plump spinner reminiscent of the Bedi era, was given just 1.1 overs to bowl on a slow-turning track. Which means that Cook doesn't have too much faith in his bowling, but finds him good enough to bat at number 6, ahead of Bairstow (as in the 3rd ODI). Yeah, yeah, with a pinch of salt, one might call Patel a pinch-hitter. Does that make him a better batsman than Bell? (I roll my eyes.)
2) Dropping Swann. This was a howler. If I'm the captain and the match is being held in the anti-spin Paradise, I'd still choose Swann over any other spinner currently playing the game. Forget his superior skill and 50-kilo weight advantage. I'd choose him solely for his chutzpah. The entertainment value of his press interviews are second only to Virender Sehwag's. He speaks his mind on and off the field. You might occasionally decode his bowling, but you'll never break his spirit.
3) His field placements. Cook has personified the adage bolting the stable door after the horse has bolted. The first slip is put in place after the new batsman has tentatively edged one to third-man. The legside has two fielders inside the 30-yard circle when the bowler is attempting a middle-and-leg line. An inside-out field comes into play long after the batsmen have settled into a groove. This list of unimaginative field placements is endless.
4) His decision to bat first at Feroz Shah Kotla. Hey, Cookie, here's a tip: check the ground stats before the match. Also, be aware that you're in the northern hemisphere and even sultry autumnal Delhi will produce dew in the evenings. Anyway, you won't forget that massive defeat in a hurry.
I end with my latest FB update that, I feel, summarizes the voyage of Captain Cook:
He didn't allow the Bell to toll. He found the Swann impure. Perhaps he'll banish the Barmy Army next. This Cook sure knows how to spoil the English broth.
To borrow Boycott's words, his captaincy is uotter rooubish.
Some of Cook's decision that have baffled me are:
1) Dropping Bell. Seriously? There are some players who react to Indian bowling like Popeye to spinach. Bell is one of them. He's a veteran of subcontinental conditions and has the temperament to belong to any international side. And yet, Bell has been warming the bench while the English middle-order has floundered.
On the other hand, I easily relate to Cook's faith in Bairstow. In the final ODI in Cardiff a few weeks ago, young Jonny whipped us senseless during a difficult run chase. The future belongs to him. Extrapolating, Cook decided: so does the present. Fine. But can't Bell replace some other bloke? Consider what happened in Wankhede yesterday. Samit Patel, primarily a plump spinner reminiscent of the Bedi era, was given just 1.1 overs to bowl on a slow-turning track. Which means that Cook doesn't have too much faith in his bowling, but finds him good enough to bat at number 6, ahead of Bairstow (as in the 3rd ODI). Yeah, yeah, with a pinch of salt, one might call Patel a pinch-hitter. Does that make him a better batsman than Bell? (I roll my eyes.)
2) Dropping Swann. This was a howler. If I'm the captain and the match is being held in the anti-spin Paradise, I'd still choose Swann over any other spinner currently playing the game. Forget his superior skill and 50-kilo weight advantage. I'd choose him solely for his chutzpah. The entertainment value of his press interviews are second only to Virender Sehwag's. He speaks his mind on and off the field. You might occasionally decode his bowling, but you'll never break his spirit.
3) His field placements. Cook has personified the adage bolting the stable door after the horse has bolted. The first slip is put in place after the new batsman has tentatively edged one to third-man. The legside has two fielders inside the 30-yard circle when the bowler is attempting a middle-and-leg line. An inside-out field comes into play long after the batsmen have settled into a groove. This list of unimaginative field placements is endless.
4) His decision to bat first at Feroz Shah Kotla. Hey, Cookie, here's a tip: check the ground stats before the match. Also, be aware that you're in the northern hemisphere and even sultry autumnal Delhi will produce dew in the evenings. Anyway, you won't forget that massive defeat in a hurry.
I end with my latest FB update that, I feel, summarizes the voyage of Captain Cook:
He didn't allow the Bell to toll. He found the Swann impure. Perhaps he'll banish the Barmy Army next. This Cook sure knows how to spoil the English broth.
To borrow Boycott's words, his captaincy is uotter rooubish.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
The importance of being intolerant
Ten years have passed since that sunny, temperate morning in Milwaukee. Seems like another lifetime. I revisited it last night by writing about my post-9/11 experiences in America. You'll find it here.
I find that I've gained a broader outlook on the event and its repurcussions.
I find that I've gained a broader outlook on the event and its repurcussions.
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