Borat - a review (of sorts)

I finally did it - I went and saw Borat. Against my better judgement, I might add. What possessed me to fight my instincts and go watch it? Well, peer pressure (from friends back home who fear they won't get to see it themselves) and curiosity (because of the rave reviews it got in practically every reliable newspaper/magazine here).

I went off, hoping to be pleasantly surprised. Was Sacha Baron Cohen going to come up with anything more inventive than his staple "lets pull a fast one on this presumed religious bigot"? In all honesty, I can't say he really did manage to come up with anything surprising. Sure, there were some funny bits - but I found myself laughing mostly because I had paid money to laugh - I expected to have a good time.

The only surprising thing I took away from the experience, was the reactions of the audience around me. After all, 'Borat' is as much a spoof on Kazakhstan (or Romania, depending on how you look at it), as it is a critique of contemporary America and its people. So, why was everyone laughing?

A few weeks ago, while watching the Bill Maher show, Maher and his guests were discussing the implications of the Senate elections. Did the Democratic victory imply that the US was not as conservative as everyone thought it was? Or did it point to a liberalism inherent in the country, that was finally making its presence felt? It seems like a terribly fine point to debate over, but the point was made (even if there was no consensus on what the election ultimately meant).

As I heard the chuckles and guffaws around me that evening, I asked myself the same question. Of course, anyone who willingly went for the movie was open to being scandalized and laughed at. I couldn't help but feel, however, that maybe these popcorn munching, coke-sipping Californians around me were, somehow... not quite in on the joke.

Indeed, what is comic or funny? How does comedy work? I was asked these questions years ago, by my decidedly humourless Belgian French teacher, who was trying to deconstruct 'La Cage Aux Folles' (the Bird-Cage). She made the observation that comedy strives to push its audience's buttons, prodding us to laugh at ourselves, while ostensibly, laughing at something outside of ourselves.

Could this explain the hype generated in the US about 'Borat'? Was watching the movie some kind of cathartic experience for liberal, open-minded Americans, many of whom habitually claim to feel embarrassed (and even ashamed) of their citizenship? Or does 'Borat' operate on a sense of camaraderie, its audience distancing itself from identification with Borat's 'victims' just long enough to laugh and jeer at 'their' foolishness?

Perhaps the answer is a combination of all of these factors. Perhaps Americans are more liberal than we give them credit for. Perhaps we are all, American or not, implicated in some larger scheme of Cohen's.

The Straight Story

There is no such thing as 'normal' - as a wise madwoman/ philosopher on a bus said the other day, "Normal is a setting on a wash cycle". As someone living in what is known as 'the gay mecca' of the world, I have come to understand 'how the other half lives', in a way I had never been able to before.

Which makes me sympathize greatly with a high-profile signature campaign being staged in India, aiming to get rid of Article 377 of the Indian Penal Code that considers sodomy (and, in effect, homosexuality) a crime. But, while I agree that a law that criminalizes homosexuality is misplaced and wrong, the gay community are not the only victims of India's middle-class morality - we all suffer from it.

Anyone who has lived in New Delhi for even a few months knows that women do not have it easy there. Venturing out alone after dark is an absolute no-no in India's (rape) capital, and sexual crimes - be it eve-teasing or actual rape - take place in broad daylight. Added to this are the jeering stares young couples often get. PDA is not taken lightly in Delhi - at best, you can get away with a crowd of at least 20 people staring at you if you so much as hug a member of the opposite sex. Young couples often resort to cuddling beneath overgrown trees in parks, or furtively holding hands in restaurants. Anything more, and you come across as a "loose character".

I also remember an occasion when a family friend was relating to us how he caught the daughter of a colleague of his holding hands with her husband on their honeymoon. He then went home and called the girl's father (his colleague) to report his daughter's 'disgusting' behavior in detail.

I would like to believe that these interfering individuals honestly think that they are benefiting someone when they take on the role of being society's moral policemen/women. But schadenfreude is intrinsic to most Indians. Its a crying shame coming from the land of the Kamasutra, the Mahabharata and the Ramayana.

Famous Last Words

My father has a whole storehouse of maxims, which he draws from when he needs to either nag me (the natural duty of every parent) or commiserate when life hands me its lemons. When I was a teenager, the most common refrain was "MTV will rot your mind" - ok, so that's not a maxim exactly, but it should be - its every parent's national anthem. Another one (related when I am in need of sympathy) is "the man who has nuts has no teeth; the man who has teeth has no nuts". Its a proverb and really needs so explanation, does it?

But the most distasteful for me, a late sleeper, is - "no one who ever achieved anything woke up later than 7 O' Clock". Ok, so this also is not exactly a maxim - but in our household, it has been given the status of one.

You should now have a fair sense of my father, no sergeant by any stretch of the imagination but something far worse - the product of a South Indian boarding school. Which is why he believes in waking up at 6 am...or that when you ask JNU to mail you your transcripts, they will actually be mailed.

Although the serpentine path to registering and de-registering from JNU have taught me better, I nevertheless expected that my final transcripts would have at least been put in an envelope by now, four months after we took our final MA exams. It turns out that I must be more like my father than I realized - the transcripts appear to not even have been printed yet!

This news comes right after I had a dream (I kid you not) where I was back in the offices of my department, getting ready to (alternately) cajole and chastise the impassive bureaucrats to get moving on my papers. In my dream, I was trying to look as assertive and reasonable as possible, while standing in front of the stocky little paper-pusher we all came to hate. I was just about to begin my speech about wanting to speed up the process for handing out our degree (which usually only follows 2 years after the course is completed) when Mr. Grumpy smiled a rare and ominous smile, chuckling as he jeered - "2 years? Don't you know it takes 5 years now!?" - at which point, I woke up screaming, covered in sweat. Ok, not exactly. I did wake up at that point though (at 10 am).

And considering that we have a case of unprinted transcripts on our hands...or rather, not in our hands, the 5-year plan doesn't seem all that unlikely.

Which brings me to a public art project hosted by JNU last year. One of the art projects was all about people...their hopes, their dreams...their inner beauty... Yes, I thought it was cheesy too. But it gave me and my cynical friends many opportunities to snicker at the people who were interviewed and photographed for the project, one of our primary targets being - you guessed it - Mr. Grumpy himself. A photograph of his square, cruel face was mounted up on a tree, with a few lines expressing his fundamental beliefs printed below. Here is the gist of what he said:
"When I wake up in the morning, I always have the same thought - how can I best serve the people in my community? I always try to be kind and good to everyone."

Right, service with a smile, eh? Or beauty with a purpose? If I didn't know any better, I'd think Mr. Grumpy was practicing for the question-round of 'Mr. JNU' (yes, there is an actual Mr. JNU competition and one of our classmates had won the title in 1999).

But the question that remains is - what time does Mr. Grumpy wake up? I wonder where my father would start with him.

A Confession

Yes I know - its been about 2 months since I wrote anything new. My friends keep asking me what happened; my sister (ever the optimist) still checks my blog everyday and turns away in disgust when she sees the same old entry from July. I have tried several times to write something new...but...(and here's the confession, so brace yourselves...) - this city just ain't that funny. There, I said it.

When I started my blog, I had no real plan but one guiding philosophy - that it was going to be funny, or at least anything but depressing. But, surprisingly, I've found that its been a struggle to come up with anything funny to write about here...I mean, sure, I could write about the soliloquies of the homeless, or what its like to find myself living with my parents again...but neither of those things are really funny. And no sooner would I begin writing about one or the other, then I would stop and gaze unhappily at the words I had written, watching my sentiments descend into whiny complaints - and that, as I'm sure you'd agree, is never funny.

And so here I am, with my confession...and with a proposal - to travel back in time. To travel back to a happier, funnier place, where nothing ever happened the way you wanted it to...where thoughts of murder crossed your mind almost daily...where getting a signature was a triumph worthy of a meal that cost more than a dollar...but where you smiled your way through it all, content in the knowledge that it would make for great ammunition to write about one day. Yes, we're going back to JNU.

Back to Blogging

Hello all! I'm back after a two month hiatus, during which I wondered (amongst other things) how and when to resume my bloggerly ways. And then, eureka - I found it! LudaKrishna and Vikram MC - the sweetest thing to hit the stage since mango chutney! I'm glad its attracted some bloggers (including the notorious HFP).

I've moved to the US and have been trying to adjust to the move ever since. In some ways, its great to be here - after all, I am living in the city they call the Paris of the USA. It really is a gorgeous city - quaint, colorful houses, undulating streets which make for sudden spectacular views of the bay...and it has the best second-hand bookshop I've ever been to. By the time I leave here, I'll have an enviable book collection...

The people here are easy on the eye too. Most of them look like they've stepped out of some glossy magazine. Seriously, if you walk down Fillmore (one of the swankier neighborhoods in town), you'll start to wonder how on earth anyone came up with the notion that Americans have weight problems. At practically any time of the day, you'll come across at least three people jogging up or down a street. It doesn't sound like much, but think about it - its pretty weird.

What I love about this city is that the streets sparkle. Not all the streets - just the sidewalks downtown. They're mixed with these little glittery chips that reflect the light and so they look all sparkly and twinkly. What a simple way to beautify concrete.

What do I not like about being here? Well...I'll spare you for today and talk about that some other time. For now, I'll walk down a glittering path to the glittering bay.

The coolest thing to come from India since mango lassi! YENJOY!

The revenge of the toilet-paper snatchers


Eight years ago, my father was posted to a country in East Africa, renowned for its natural beauty and relative political stability.

Although I was living in the 'heart of darkness', there was little to engage and mystify me in the 'dark continent' - people are just people anywhere in the world. Except for one odd couple who visited us during our stay.

Hailing from good ol' England, this couple was as English as you can get. The woman, a quintessential horsey Brit, looked strikingly similar to her Majesty the Queen (to whom she was distantly related), while the husband looked like any typical artistocratic fop, with his ruddy cheeks, limp brown hair and slightly cock-eyed, inebriated look. What with their royal lineage and Oxbridge education, you would hardly expect them to be anything other than the perfect (if ever so slightly condescending) guests.

Alas, it was not to be. Although the couple were perfectly charming during dinner and tea, they were hiding from us a dirty secret, which we would have never known had it not been for our Sri Lankan maid, Darshani, who was put in charge of cleaning their room. Darshani, I must add, was the very antithesis of our guests - she was loud, her English was a thing of her own invention, and she was undiplomatic to the core. She was pretty much the queen of faux-pas.

The first faux-pas occured while we were all sitting around the living room after dinner on the second night of their stay, sipping on coffee and liqueur like perfectly civilized people. Darshani strode in to clear the cups, her silver anklets tinkling noisily.

"Oh Dur-shi-nie", the horsey woman spoke up, "Could we have another roll of toilet paper in our bathroom?"

"But I am putting already!" Darshani exclaimed, adding "You are already using?". The woman's thin crimson lips twitched uncomfortably, and my mother quickly intervened, instructing Darshani to add another roll of toilet paper immediately. Darshani turned away, muttering something we could not comprehend.

The next afternoon, our lovable lady drew Darshani aside and asked for another roll of toilet paper. Darshani knew better than to say anything to her, although she couldn't resist mentioning this to my mother, who was surprised by her friend's request. "Another one!?" she asked rhetorically, then worrying that their stomachs were upset. "Maybe the spices in my food irritated their bowels", she mused disconsolately, deciding to cook something blander for the evening.

My mother needn't have worried - no one could have conceivably consumed as much toilet paper as they did over the 8 days of their stay with us. We calculated that they must have used about one and a half rolls every day. And my mom's food ain't that spicy. Poor Darshani struggled to contain herself.

When they finally left, we all wandered into their room in curiosity, trying to figure out where all that toilet paper went. Had they been creating some massive papier-mache sculpture to surprise us with? Were they trying to wall-paper the room?

The room bore few answers, as did the bin. Indeed, when the trash was taken out, there was no trace even of those cardboard rollers on which the toilet paper is hung!

The case of the toilet-paper snatchers has remained intriguing and unsolved. We have tried, over the past years, to figure out what happened. How on earth could someone consume so much toilet-paper? Where did it go? What was it used for? The only thing we can come up with is that maybe they just really (and I mean REALLY) liked the quality of the paper. If only we had paid more attention to the shape of their bags when they were leaving, looking out for certain cylindrical shapes or curious grooves. As of now, I don't know what happened....its an enduring mystery.

What do you think?*

* [the most creative answer will get special mention on my blog, apart from satisfying my curiosity].

Just in case you guys are expecting a post from me this week, I might as well tell you that its not going to happen. Blame it on 'Hillary-for-President'. His never-ending supply of ludicrous comments and ideas have (despite myself) trapped me into responding to him with the utmost disdain and sarcasm I can muster.

Not that I'm pissed - no way! I've never been this rude to a complete stranger and the experience is wonderfully liberating. Plus, I take comfort in the thought that Veronica believes he is actually a brillaint genius (ok, maybe that's a tautology), who is just enjoying taking our trip (as much as we're enjoying taking his). So, if you want to read about what I've been up to, check out the comments on all three of our sites, and feel free to add your own (we are running out of ammo).

Oh yeah, and I guess no one is reading my actual posts anyway, so this way, everyone is happy! On that note, I'm off to write another one of my nasty comments...

At Barista

Final exams are 3 short days away, and guess what I'm doing (apart from updating my blog)? That's right, catching up on gossip at the cafe 5 minutes away.

Its always like this. The three musketeers (Veronica, Jezebel, and yours truly) decide to form study groups. Jezebel and I decide to get a head-start on the studying...but five minutes later, we're suddenly hungry and dying of thirst (which takes an hour to quench), so we decide to be good-samaritans and wait until Veronica gets to our room. An hour later, Veronica storms in, ranting that we aren't studying and what are we doing waiting for her, she'd been counting on us blah blah blah (sorry V)...and we skulk out of the room, feeling mildly guilty.

We all pile into an auto-rickshaw a few minutes later (after haggling with the moronic auto-driver), and arrive at Priya Complex. We are about to head of to Barista, when Veronica demands a Kebab. "I haven't fucking eaten anything all day and I'm starving", she announces. Now, what kind of friends would we be if we ignored her hungry appeals? We march off to Zaika's (the cheapest Mughlai food joint in Priya), and sit down, determined to help our friend in need.

The waiter comes over and hands us three menus, and, staring at the cursive writing, we start feeling hungry too. Before we know it, we have huge platters of food in front of us, which we are attacking with ravenous appetites (at first) and grim determination (when we are fit to burst). After another hour and a half (the Indian sun has long set), we waddle over to Barista, ready to hit the books.

After carefully deliberating on what coffee to order, we finally settle down, lugging our serious looking books and photocopies onto the delicate wooden tables.

Before I know it, my towering latte is over, I'm sucking on ice with my straw, and I'm super hungry (as you may gather by now, I live for food). I look up to check if anyone else seems distracted. Veronica is looking at me through her camera-phone lens and the Kimchee Queen (if she has braved our company) is languidly blowing out her cigarette smoke. Only Jezebel is valiantly fighting her natural lethargy, busily reading and highlighting some dreadfully theoretical text.

"Hey, does anyone get what a sthayibhava is?", Veronica asks in exasperation. Jezebel perks up and starts to explain at length the intricacies of Indian aesthetics. "See, in vyabhicari bhavas, the feelings are just physical, whereas in a sthayibhava, feelings come from our personalities", J explains eagerly to a bunch of blank faces. "This is so stupid", pipes in Veronica. I nodd absently while thinking about whether I should go ahead and buy that chicken sandwich.

"Do I have a super fast metabolism or just tape-worm...?" I'm wondering, glancing down at my watch to check the time. It's 10:30 pm. We left the campus at 6 pm. Its turned out just as always. "When will we ever learn?" I ask myself, smiling at the hopelessness of our non-existent study-sessions.

"Hey, hold that pose!" Veronica says as I hear the camera-phone clicking my picture.

Going to America

Exactly one month from today, I am going to go to the country everyone hates to love (or loves to hate) - The United States of America. Yes, I am going to be one of those Indians.

Over the past couple of years, I have seen many close friends and family (my sister, Kitty Kate) go off to the States, ostensibly to study but really, to start a whole new life there. Before they all left (weirdly enough, they all left the same year, within a few months of each other), I recall one evening when KK (my sister) and a friend (Mr. Prissy Pants) were hanging out in our apartment, talking about what it was that we were looking forward to about the States. All of us came to one unanimous subject - the food.

Now, I know this sounds odd. After all, we all know that American food is hardly of the Cordon bleu variety. When I told Veronica about this, she wrinkled up her pert little nose and said "My country has the shittiest food in the world - everyone knows American food sucks!"

I suppose our fascination with American food comes more from Hollywood than from actual experience. I always wondered, for example, how it would feel to casually eat out of those oh-so-hip Chinese take-out boxes. Hollywood stars always handle their chopsticks with such panache.

The other thing me and my friends ached to do, was to eat one of those "floppy pizzas" (as we termed them). You know the kind - the ones that are so huge and thin that they flop over when you pick them up (think Joey in Friends). And we had to do the bucket-of-ice-cream-in-front-of-the-TV-thing. I love how these svelte, gorgeous women casually open their gigantic freezers and take out a generous bucket of ice-cream (they would never scoop it out, oh no), settle into a couch and eat it with an absent-minded, languorous air (spoon poised tantalizingly mid-air). Sheer heaven (and envy)!

The final thing-to-do on our agenda, was to buy a hot-dog from a hot-dog stand. This was the only thing I didn't do last summer (when I visited my sis). But hey - there's always this summer. Which brings me back to the start. Summer. Ice-cream. Hot-dogs. Floppy pizzas. And its all only a month away.

The Moonlit Cow and other stories

Did you know that cows are amongst the top causes for global warming? Cows release up to 200 liters of methane per day in farts.

The facts stated above are just one of the reasons why I hate cows. Veronica, my so-called friend doesn't understand me. She parodies my intense hatred for them with statements such as this -
"I fucking hate cows. I'm scared of them. When I see a cow I scream like a little bitch and run away. " And today, after trying to buy some milk to drink with our chocolate cake, she added,
"Damn those cows! And damn Mother Dairy for not even having milk." If only people would stop making fun of me about this.

I think it all began when I was in primary school. I used to walk down with my dad and sister to the bus-stop where my school bus arrived. Inevitably, a big, fat, lumbering cow would saunter by, and my father and sister would (for some perverse reason) jeer "there goes your friend!." Ok, ok, granted that this hardly keeps me awake at night, tossing and turning between firfulls of sleep and nightmares...still, the effect these kinds of comments had on me as a 7 year old are, well, quite clearly manifest today in my abhorrence of cows.

And, of course, cows hate me. Sometime last year, I was walking around campus late at night with good ol' Veronica (I swear she has something to do with this), when, out of nowhere, this huge, filthy cow charged at us (at me) from the bushes. The sight was enough to freeze anyone with fear - its horns were twisted at strange, grotesque angles, foam spilling out of its mouth, while it grunted and groaned. It was a hitherto unknown species of cow - it was the rabid cow.

I, of course, screamed. I screamed and ran away (like the brave little toaster I am). Veronica soon followed suit, although she claims she was only trying to keep up with me, as I sped away in utter fear from the rabid cow. I think they smell fear.

Another incident happened just the other night. Me, Veronica and Jezebel were sitting around the campus dhaba (a tea-shop), chatting away about some pretentious topic or the other. We noticed after some time that a cow (my arch foe) was skulking around in some bushes far away, scouting around for some garbage (the filthy beasts). I turned away from the scene, focusing instead on my two compatriots, so that my back was turned on the cow. I was animatedly telling the two a story, when I suddenly noticed a queer expression on Veronica's face. She half-motioned towards the distance, whereupon I turned and saw, to my utmost horror, that the cow was only inches from where I sat. For a few seconds I sat, paralyzed with fear, watching as the cow slowly walked towards me, its white body eerily reflecting the moonlight. As I came to my senses, I screamed "mummy!", and ran to hide behind Jezebel (yes, I am not very brave). The cow sauntered by nonchalently, while my 'friends' laughingly berated me for being so 'foolish'. But they didn't catch the glimmer in the cow's eye as it passed by our group.