The television has dieted a lot over the years, and become a lot slimmer. Anorexic, rather. Subjected to a zero-fat diet, it looks frighteningly slimmer than the Bollywood heroine who dieted so much that even her dietician lost weight! A TV does not require space now, in that it has almost lost its third dimension.
Now that the context is set, this article is a tribute to yesterday's obese television, the one idiot box which could keep us greater idiots within its grip.
Reminescences from childhood, both remembered and reminded (and constant orders from other bloggers, that I continue blogging - thanks due to the person/s who compelled me to continue writing), forced me to write this article.
The television was most exploited on a Sunday, for there was "Dada ka, Dadi ka, Papa ka, Mummy ka favourites, aur Duck Tales mera!!!!" For those who recollected the Ajanta Toothbrush ad, commendable, read on. Others, please realize that the above line was adapted from the toothbrush's ad, and read on, too!
My Sunday used to start at 7:00 am, with toothbrush-in-mouth, and Rangoli-on-Doordarshan. Sunday was the one day mom could afford to wage a war with cobwebs at home. And, since this was a repetitive chore, she preferred to do it with Rangoli in the background. I would manage to seat myself among the remains, amidst the spiders' dwellings being demolished like buildings were in Delhi. Almost always, mom had a double chore of cleaning our house first, and then cleaning me of all the debris that I so laboriously gathered upon myself. A wash, a rinse and a couple of spins later, I used to emerge clean, all prepared for the two most awaited (and the only) cartoons on DD, Duck Tales and Tale Spin.
DETOUR: Readers, I put the next few sentences in Uppercase, for I want to emphasize the 'peace and quiet' of yesteryears. Jargon added, it is just a glimpse of the extent of the then trivial tranquility we have managed to sacrifice, for as bugging a concept as infra-red radiations carrying packets of 'voice and data' through the air, under the ground, and beyond the skies!!! Rewind, readers![<<]
1) NO 'TV REMOTE' FOR SOMEONE TO CHANGE THE CHANNEL.
2) NO OTHER CHANNELS TO CHANGE OVER TO.
3) NO LANDLINE FOR SOMEONE TO INTERRUPT THE VIEWING.
4) NO MOBILE PHONES! (THIS IS A BLESSING THAT WE HAVE LOST. THE 'SMS' IS ONE CONCEPT THAT IS FAR MORE LETHAL THAN IT LOOKS, AND MAY BE AVOIDED. YEAH, I AM SPEAKING FROM EXPERIENCE. SILENCE! NO MORE QUESTIONS, PLEASE! ;) )
5) A STREET SILENT ALL DAY, MORE SILENT ON A SUNDAY.
6) CLOUDY WEATHER, CHANCES OF A RAIN.
7) HOT CHAPATHIS IN THE MAKING, IN THE KITCHEN (Sunday was the 'chapathi day' at home.)
8) LOVELY BHAJI TO ACCOMPANY IT. MY UNCLE DIDN'T LIKE POTATOES, I DID, AND OTHERS PREFERRED TOMATO CURRY. THE WOMEN IN THE HOUSE ACTUALLY MADE THREE BHAJIS FOR ALL OF SIX PEOPLE, ACCORDING TO THEIR PREFERENCES! HATS OFF TO MOM AND GRANNY!
9) AN UNINTERRUPTED SUPPLY OF TEA AND SNACKS THROUGH THE DAY!!
10) COUSINS, WHO STAYED AT HOME FOR UPTO AN ENTIRE MONTH, DURING VACATIONS.
I dream to go back into such an era, where getting bugged took a backseat, and you needed to be one of those niche people to get irritated, by purchasing appropriate equipment like the telephone.
Flying back to Duck Tales, it was the one cartoon I longed to be a part of. I even wondered whether my one forceful entry into the picture tube would enable me become part of all the action!
9:00 am was Nirja Guleri ki peshkash - CHANDRAKANTHA. Believe me, I used to like Kroor Singh for his leadership qualities. OOPS!!! Did I say LEADERSHIP?! Little knowledge: part of an MBA course. Forgive me, dudes and dudettes (if any)!
Come 10:00 am, and I was shooed away with a menacing stick, the one tool which could enable me run to the North Pole, fast enough to actually beat Amundsen's flight!
12:00pm, and out came little Sarma from his study room, frustrated at the number of apples they had printed in his Maths book to depict the number 27!!
Meanwhile, the older generation sat glued, for their share of the News, and News was what DD gave, without worrying about whether an actress managed to chargesheet her ex-boyfriend for having... oh, leave it!
And if ever there was a sense of national integration, it was when DD showed regional films on Sunday afternoons, with subtitles, which enabled people to comprehend the essence of the film, irrespective of the region they hailed from. For a bit of trivia, they followed the alphabetical order in telecasting regional films. The order ran from Assamese to Tamil.
This was followed by a delink to the regional DD channels, to give regional programs their due.
An hour of news, in both Hindi and English, followed.
As a member of the Orkut DD Community pointed out, the 'good night' uttered at the end of the English News actually meant the end of the day for us kids (barring a Sunday, for there was Surabhi)! We were instructed to sleep, or dumped into bed if need be, but 10:00pm was the limit.
9:30pm: The one-of-its-kind travel program called Surabhi - the name says it all.
As I zip forward to the moment called NOW, it's already 10:30pm, but feels like evening, with a couple of glasses of tea in waiting, and sleep far from sight. This is a quote I have oft quoted, to many a person, in speech and in writing. BREVITY IS THE SOUL OF WIT. DD had time-slices for every "kind" of program telecast and so, had its brevity intact. The brevity is no more now, for we have an excess of every "kind" of program, manifesting itself as a "television channel". Barring a few quality programmes spaced far apart and strewn among various channels, we have but junk to fill the space.
The fragmented remains of DD's marvels can be found in YouTube. The small screen just turned smaller...
Friday, October 24, 2008
Yesteryears' Sunday, truly a DD day...
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Creativity choke!
First-hand advice to bloggers who plan to write long stories, especially ones which are wound around themselves, and portray their emerging victorious at the end of a struggle-so-straining! Please don't embark on such a mission on your primary blog. You may as well create a second account and continue writing it at your own pace.
Else, creativity chokes you. A brilliant idea flashes only to die out in the next second, for your conscience does not allow you to stop your novel mid-way. After all, who would want self-praise to abruptly terminate?!
Heard melodies are sweet, those unheard are sweeter. - John Keats.
Heard blogs are sweet. Those unheard are the sweetest. - Me!
Having said that, I am done with my mission of meandering around managing meetings, money, music and musicians. That attempt stalled my blogging, for an year and a half. Somehow, the shame of leaving a story incomplete for a couple of years made me publish the last two acts. What I lost in the process was a truckload of creative ideas. So, no more new novels in this blog. Short and sweet posts shall reign.
Playing music for the audience and penning words for the reader alone is a crime, and goes against the very purpose of art and its glory. I am borrowing this story from my dad, to illustrate how a sincere artist thinks and feels.
Ammannur Madhava Chakyar, an expert in Kootiyaattam and Chaakyaar koothu (both traditional art-forms of Kerala, earlier performed in temple precincts), used to render the Chaakyaar Koothu at the temple. Some days attracted a large audience, for he was a thorough master at what he did. There was a rare occasion when no one was present to lend an ear. The Melshanthi(the prime person who performs all Pooja at a temple) had retired for a bath, too. The sincere artist that Ammannur was, he continued his recital in its most elaborate and sublime form, only to attract the Melshanti's attention when he returned. The latter advised him to cut his recital short, for there was not an ear that paid attention. Ammannur's reply was quick and pointed:
"This divine lamp lit in front of me is both audience and inspiration. Art is divine, and transcends the earthly listener's presence, or absence."
Likewise, this blog of mine has been targeted at a blind audience to-date. What keeps it going is a pure passion for writing, independent of the presence (or absence) of a reader. I wish to extend my special thanks to Rohon Kuddus, my batchmate at NITC, for having taken time to read my blogs and for having considered to publish it in his webmag(www.sristi.co.in).
Though I have not been able to gain access to the URL from this cafe, I promise to contribute to the webmag in every possible manner, for art is divine.
Else, creativity chokes you. A brilliant idea flashes only to die out in the next second, for your conscience does not allow you to stop your novel mid-way. After all, who would want self-praise to abruptly terminate?!
Heard melodies are sweet, those unheard are sweeter. - John Keats.
Heard blogs are sweet. Those unheard are the sweetest. - Me!
Having said that, I am done with my mission of meandering around managing meetings, money, music and musicians. That attempt stalled my blogging, for an year and a half. Somehow, the shame of leaving a story incomplete for a couple of years made me publish the last two acts. What I lost in the process was a truckload of creative ideas. So, no more new novels in this blog. Short and sweet posts shall reign.
Playing music for the audience and penning words for the reader alone is a crime, and goes against the very purpose of art and its glory. I am borrowing this story from my dad, to illustrate how a sincere artist thinks and feels.
Ammannur Madhava Chakyar, an expert in Kootiyaattam and Chaakyaar koothu (both traditional art-forms of Kerala, earlier performed in temple precincts), used to render the Chaakyaar Koothu at the temple. Some days attracted a large audience, for he was a thorough master at what he did. There was a rare occasion when no one was present to lend an ear. The Melshanthi(the prime person who performs all Pooja at a temple) had retired for a bath, too. The sincere artist that Ammannur was, he continued his recital in its most elaborate and sublime form, only to attract the Melshanti's attention when he returned. The latter advised him to cut his recital short, for there was not an ear that paid attention. Ammannur's reply was quick and pointed:
"This divine lamp lit in front of me is both audience and inspiration. Art is divine, and transcends the earthly listener's presence, or absence."
Likewise, this blog of mine has been targeted at a blind audience to-date. What keeps it going is a pure passion for writing, independent of the presence (or absence) of a reader. I wish to extend my special thanks to Rohon Kuddus, my batchmate at NITC, for having taken time to read my blogs and for having considered to publish it in his webmag(www.sristi.co.in).
Though I have not been able to gain access to the URL from this cafe, I promise to contribute to the webmag in every possible manner, for art is divine.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Act VII: The end...
Thus ended a musical journey. A journey of trouble. Trouble everywhere, every minute, for twenty long hours! Crimson Chords packed up, with Bearded Schumi back at the wheels to take us back to Cct. The band was tired; the cash meant nothing to us, for it was after fights of sorts that we got it.
An “n-star hotel”; a term of luxury it normally is. Greater the value of "n", greater the luxury. Or so goes the normal perception. Inside, though, it’s empty. Get ready for a bout of special treatment, if you visit an n-star as a performing band. The following, in part or in whole, is what you will face:
1) Cash flows, but never reaches you.
2) Quality suffers, and no effort from your part to better it is welcome.
3) Event managers rob. Some rob even more.
4) Hotel managers criticize. But, they never know you. They never called you to perform. The Event Manager is the bridge, and a loose one at that.
5) As for idlis, they are but left-overs!
An “n-star hotel”; a term of luxury it normally is. Greater the value of "n", greater the luxury. Or so goes the normal perception. Inside, though, it’s empty. Get ready for a bout of special treatment, if you visit an n-star as a performing band. The following, in part or in whole, is what you will face:
1) Cash flows, but never reaches you.
2) Quality suffers, and no effort from your part to better it is welcome.
3) Event managers rob. Some rob even more.
4) Hotel managers criticize. But, they never know you. They never called you to perform. The Event Manager is the bridge, and a loose one at that.
5) As for idlis, they are but left-overs!
Act VI: Music, musicians and money
It’s more than a couple of years since we played at Kkm, and it’s really bad on my part to keep this story going unfinished for beyond two years. This drama, for the information of its readers (if any!), is declared completed as on 19th January, 2008.
We arranged for an urgent meeting with the katcheri group, wherein we were instructed to support the flow of the song, rather than try our own adventure. They roped in our drummer (that’s me!) and our keyboardist (let’s call him TJ). We set our instruments on the stage.
The stage was made of planks, and was set above a lake. It shook all the while, and the last thing I wanted was to drown while drumming! The sound was as bad as it could get. This was when I concluded: money is what makes an n-star worth its “n”! Money flowed all around us, be it beneath the plank, or above it. Quality never did. They never allowed it to flow, but rather kicked it out through the back-door.
Crimson Chords finally began its performance, forgetting all bygones, putting up with all torture they were subjected to. We began with a couple of western songs as the katcheri group wasn’t ready by then, and time wasn’t to be wasted. Crimson chords did err, in that it chose the wrong genre of songs to be played. But, no one ever told us. The only sensible guy was the hotel manager who came running to us, and reminded us that our songs were a tad too heavy to welcome a new-year. We agreed, but this was like telling a person halfway through his journey that he had boarded the wrong ship. What would he do with water all around?! We agreed to play the ‘lighter’ songs and then wind it up. By then, the manager had over-ridden the play list we had so skillfully re-scheduled. He wanted a dance program in between. Dance with acrobatics, which meant a great danger to our instruments. We pushed the instruments on to one side of the plank. The people in charge of sounds removed all the microphones we had so laboriously placed. Now, that called for a re-sound-check! I was getting tired of this and for a moment, I even hated performing.
When you undertake a task, your mind always tells you where it’s heading to. My mind always warned me of something fishy, though I tried to push it off as part of empty fear. Every fear of mine materialized. We played with the katcheri group, and that went on well. We gave room for a couple of other performances, and then played again. The audience was worth a mention, though. Never an applause, never a reaction. They just stared at us, as if in a trance. It was a pathetic crowd we were playing to. There weren’t many Indians in there, and the very few that were there had come for non-musical trivialities.
We covered three-fourths of our play list, before it began drizzling, and we made up our minds to call it quits. So disorganized the entire event was, that I longed to get back to Cct, without having any more devils crossing our path. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any dearth of devils, as everyone we came across was one. The instruments took shelter. Soon, it was 12, and Kkm welcomed 2006 with an assortment of fire-crackers costing beyond a lakh. We gazed at the spectacle and wished everyone including EM, a very happy new year.
Superstition so says, that what you do at the dawn of a new year will be what you would be hooked up on, for most of that year. To make it crisp, let us say that I spent all of 2006 arguing!! The “first hour-new year theory”!
The simmering fear I always had surfaced. I could see it coming, and it came at the very nasty moment it had to. On a very nasty topic called money. Oh! The country does but little justice to the poor Mahatma’s face printed on our currency! He is placed as a still, silent, sorrowful witness to the umpteen scams and scandals that happen in his name. Crimson Chords was not spared too, to say the least.
EM, inebriated to celebrate, came across to settle our cash. Clauses were changed, words were swallowed, and our WAGE read “Rs. 8000 including transport” instead of “Rs. 8000 plus transport”! The seemingly innocent replacement of a word meant a difference of Rs. 6000, to a group of poor church-mice like us! EM refused to budge, alcohol reinforcing his obstinacy, and kleptomania cementing it. The crackers in the background symbolically seemed to fizzle out. So did the spirit of the New Year. The time was 00:05, and Crimson Chords was all thumbs down.
The whole team was about to accept the muffled alcoholic verdict given by EM. I almost did the same, before I saw light at the end of the tunnel. The light of truth. Crimson Chords had committed the initial blunder of performing at such a low rate. But the option was a “take it or leave it” one. We thought that Rs. 8000 is better than no bread at all. The time was right to intrude, flare up, and do anything just and true, to get the money we deserved. Gathering all my courage, and borrowing more of it (I am not used to getting angry, and I had to ACT as if I was flaring up!!), I marched up to EM.
People reading the next couple of sentences would do well to accuse me of plagiarism! This wasn’t inspired, but blindly lifted from any regional action-film made to-date, to save the situation, to get the precious cash we deserved! “You have seen just one face of ours, the happy and smiling one, the one without any vengeance and vice towards anyone. The other, the more dangerous one, is one you wouldn’t want to see, for you would never tolerate it. It would do you better to give us the cash we deserve. Not a penny less, not a penny more. Learn to be true to your words. Else, it is the rage of a band of fifteen that you will face.”
I then turned back, only to hide my laughter! That should work, I thought, and it did. EM stood still for a minute, talked to his companion, shook his head again, muttered philosophy of sorts but this time, he paid up. “Rs. 8000 plus transport” is what we got, finally. Truth was, after all, with us.
We arranged for an urgent meeting with the katcheri group, wherein we were instructed to support the flow of the song, rather than try our own adventure. They roped in our drummer (that’s me!) and our keyboardist (let’s call him TJ). We set our instruments on the stage.
The stage was made of planks, and was set above a lake. It shook all the while, and the last thing I wanted was to drown while drumming! The sound was as bad as it could get. This was when I concluded: money is what makes an n-star worth its “n”! Money flowed all around us, be it beneath the plank, or above it. Quality never did. They never allowed it to flow, but rather kicked it out through the back-door.
Crimson Chords finally began its performance, forgetting all bygones, putting up with all torture they were subjected to. We began with a couple of western songs as the katcheri group wasn’t ready by then, and time wasn’t to be wasted. Crimson chords did err, in that it chose the wrong genre of songs to be played. But, no one ever told us. The only sensible guy was the hotel manager who came running to us, and reminded us that our songs were a tad too heavy to welcome a new-year. We agreed, but this was like telling a person halfway through his journey that he had boarded the wrong ship. What would he do with water all around?! We agreed to play the ‘lighter’ songs and then wind it up. By then, the manager had over-ridden the play list we had so skillfully re-scheduled. He wanted a dance program in between. Dance with acrobatics, which meant a great danger to our instruments. We pushed the instruments on to one side of the plank. The people in charge of sounds removed all the microphones we had so laboriously placed. Now, that called for a re-sound-check! I was getting tired of this and for a moment, I even hated performing.
When you undertake a task, your mind always tells you where it’s heading to. My mind always warned me of something fishy, though I tried to push it off as part of empty fear. Every fear of mine materialized. We played with the katcheri group, and that went on well. We gave room for a couple of other performances, and then played again. The audience was worth a mention, though. Never an applause, never a reaction. They just stared at us, as if in a trance. It was a pathetic crowd we were playing to. There weren’t many Indians in there, and the very few that were there had come for non-musical trivialities.
We covered three-fourths of our play list, before it began drizzling, and we made up our minds to call it quits. So disorganized the entire event was, that I longed to get back to Cct, without having any more devils crossing our path. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any dearth of devils, as everyone we came across was one. The instruments took shelter. Soon, it was 12, and Kkm welcomed 2006 with an assortment of fire-crackers costing beyond a lakh. We gazed at the spectacle and wished everyone including EM, a very happy new year.
Superstition so says, that what you do at the dawn of a new year will be what you would be hooked up on, for most of that year. To make it crisp, let us say that I spent all of 2006 arguing!! The “first hour-new year theory”!
The simmering fear I always had surfaced. I could see it coming, and it came at the very nasty moment it had to. On a very nasty topic called money. Oh! The country does but little justice to the poor Mahatma’s face printed on our currency! He is placed as a still, silent, sorrowful witness to the umpteen scams and scandals that happen in his name. Crimson Chords was not spared too, to say the least.
EM, inebriated to celebrate, came across to settle our cash. Clauses were changed, words were swallowed, and our WAGE read “Rs. 8000 including transport” instead of “Rs. 8000 plus transport”! The seemingly innocent replacement of a word meant a difference of Rs. 6000, to a group of poor church-mice like us! EM refused to budge, alcohol reinforcing his obstinacy, and kleptomania cementing it. The crackers in the background symbolically seemed to fizzle out. So did the spirit of the New Year. The time was 00:05, and Crimson Chords was all thumbs down.
The whole team was about to accept the muffled alcoholic verdict given by EM. I almost did the same, before I saw light at the end of the tunnel. The light of truth. Crimson Chords had committed the initial blunder of performing at such a low rate. But the option was a “take it or leave it” one. We thought that Rs. 8000 is better than no bread at all. The time was right to intrude, flare up, and do anything just and true, to get the money we deserved. Gathering all my courage, and borrowing more of it (I am not used to getting angry, and I had to ACT as if I was flaring up!!), I marched up to EM.
People reading the next couple of sentences would do well to accuse me of plagiarism! This wasn’t inspired, but blindly lifted from any regional action-film made to-date, to save the situation, to get the precious cash we deserved! “You have seen just one face of ours, the happy and smiling one, the one without any vengeance and vice towards anyone. The other, the more dangerous one, is one you wouldn’t want to see, for you would never tolerate it. It would do you better to give us the cash we deserve. Not a penny less, not a penny more. Learn to be true to your words. Else, it is the rage of a band of fifteen that you will face.”
I then turned back, only to hide my laughter! That should work, I thought, and it did. EM stood still for a minute, talked to his companion, shook his head again, muttered philosophy of sorts but this time, he paid up. “Rs. 8000 plus transport” is what we got, finally. Truth was, after all, with us.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Act V: All's well that begins... well??
Google is known for its "define:" keyword, whereby a user can get the definition of oft-used and relevant terms. It didn't turn out so lucky for me, for this is what I got on querying a definition for "event management": services that provide basic capabilities for the management of events, including asynchronous events, event "fan-in", "fan-out" and reliable event delivery! I've given up, for this narration can then be about what event management shouldn't be...
Let's name this guy EM. Now repeat it aloud, after me: EM for... Event Mis-Manager! That's better! He presented himself at 2pm, when we were at our wit's end, feeling and looking like fish taken out of water, and put on a footpath in hot Chennai!! We gave him a piece of our mind as soon as we shook hands with him.
Mankind has committed many a folly, all through what he's been calling technical advancement, a fatal mistake being the coinage of the word "sorry". This mean, unfeeling word is solution to all blunders done and all crimes committed. It's the easiest way to wash off one's sins, though it doesn't put the victim in any better a situation. By habit, he spat out the word: "sorry"...
EM never had the aggression that an event manager usually has, neither did he show any professionalism. That's when I realised it's more a game of money and contacts, than involvement in work or skill in execution. He made a mess of the schedule, told us to alter our playlist, was confused about which event to begin with, where our event should be placed, unable to answer half our doubts, and kept changing the topic when we asked about our wages (The usage is quite intentional, as that's the way everyone looked at it! Wages for the Gaanamela Troupe!). Descriptions help little in portraying the attitude of such a person, and all that needs be said about EM is he wasn't worth his salt.
The sylvan surroundings of Kkm were real good, and the hotel was very well maintained. A walk to the farther side of the hotel led us to a splendid view of the backwaters. The place is surely worth a stay, but it's quite another tale to be here as performers. You are grilled, ill-treated and trampled upon. It's insult upon injury, when you are expected to rise up, like the WWE superstars do on TV, and perform!
KK and I tailed EM like dogs, and we did much more than just performing a few English numbers on stage. We put on the coat of acting Event Managers. The programme for the day included a katcheri by a Carnatic troupe. The schedule placed Heavy Metal before Himagiri Thanaye! I was dumb-struck! We snatched the paper from the compere, and altered the schedule to make it look good. Chrimson chords was to blast out, playing heavy metal songs for two hours, but the schedule gave us half-an-hour! The next thing that struck me was:
Our new wage = (Our old wage / 4)!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It's a simple argument that would come up at the end! You played less, so you deserve less!
Our new wage = (Our old wage / 4)!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It's a simple argument that would come up at the end! You played less, so you deserve less!
We got our performance duration extended. EM never reacted, and he nodded to whatever we said, concluding every recovery operation of ours with a monotonous, annoying philosophical dialogue. East met West when the carnatic troupe wanted to play fusion, and approached us to do an impromptu on stage! I shivered at the very thought! Details follow in the next Act, the penultimate one...
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Act IV: Bearded Schumi and the outcastes' refuge!
I'm not starting with a reminder note this time, for it's obvious that an Act IV will be preceded by three other Acts!
PR's Pearl had to be side-lined. The college drum-kit took its place instead! That brought back the smile on my face, for the most crucial factor worrying a drummer should be the tone of his kit! A Swaraj Mazda took us to Kkm, a bearded man at the wheels. Quite a character he was. Just the kind of person you would associate the careful-with-this-guy tag. The introvert that he was, one never knew if he responded to your query, be it a request to turn the music player on, or an offer to share our snacks. A cold stare was all we got as reply!
The music system on-board sounded more like a buzzing bee! Another new proverb for music lovers: All treble and no bass makes any listener turn violent!!! Smoke On the Water droned(!) through the speakers, and it sounded like Ian Gillan was singing, holding his nose closed tight!
And then, our chauffeur brought the vehicle to a grinding halt. Key words would suffice to describe what went on:
1) A call on his... mobile?!!! A cell-phone, by definition, is an organ external to the human body, but one that is essential for the survival of the human species. Or atleast, that's the level of prominence people have bestowed upon the gadget!!
2) A Lajjaavathiye ring-tone: For clarity's sake, that's a song(?) which hurled South India off its feet. A mega-hit to the extent of cars hooting this tune while going in reverse!
3) The driver acted like he was Bill Gates, but for a second, though! He received the call, blurted out his name, and when he heard the word "Muscat", he said: "Muscat?! No, this is Cct! Wrong number!!" Situational comedy it was, and we laughed our heart out! Muscat!!
At 4 am in the morning, bearded Schumi was busy enquiring the route to Kkm. An hour later, we reached our hotel, at Kkm, where Schumi found solace on the nearest bench. He resembled the protagonist in any Adoor Gopalakrishnan film, face pointed upwards, eyes fixed at infinity, reaching eternal bliss at having discovered the route to Kkm!
We weren't assigned rooms! We were stranded at the reception, and there we waited, from 5 am to 10 am!!! No one attended to us, save the receptionist, trying in vain to use the word "sorry" and calm us down! The apology was more a result of training, than one of sympathy, blunt in delivery and blank in attitude!
The hotel manager denied having known us! We were referred to as the "gaanamela" people! That was annoying! It was akin to racial discrimination against coloured people. Late at the breakfast table, we were told: "The food's over. But we have idlis left-over! Care to have some?!" My heart was in my mouth. Hailing from one of the best technical institutes in the country, we were being served food claimed to be "left-over"... OUR food was always different from THEIRS. THEY, the residents of the hotel, had a buffet, where they could choose from an ocean of items! We had our food arranged with the staff!
PR's Pearl had to be side-lined. The college drum-kit took its place instead! That brought back the smile on my face, for the most crucial factor worrying a drummer should be the tone of his kit! A Swaraj Mazda took us to Kkm, a bearded man at the wheels. Quite a character he was. Just the kind of person you would associate the careful-with-this-guy tag. The introvert that he was, one never knew if he responded to your query, be it a request to turn the music player on, or an offer to share our snacks. A cold stare was all we got as reply!
The music system on-board sounded more like a buzzing bee! Another new proverb for music lovers: All treble and no bass makes any listener turn violent!!! Smoke On the Water droned(!) through the speakers, and it sounded like Ian Gillan was singing, holding his nose closed tight!
And then, our chauffeur brought the vehicle to a grinding halt. Key words would suffice to describe what went on:
1) A call on his... mobile?!!! A cell-phone, by definition, is an organ external to the human body, but one that is essential for the survival of the human species. Or atleast, that's the level of prominence people have bestowed upon the gadget!!
2) A Lajjaavathiye ring-tone: For clarity's sake, that's a song(?) which hurled South India off its feet. A mega-hit to the extent of cars hooting this tune while going in reverse!
3) The driver acted like he was Bill Gates, but for a second, though! He received the call, blurted out his name, and when he heard the word "Muscat", he said: "Muscat?! No, this is Cct! Wrong number!!" Situational comedy it was, and we laughed our heart out! Muscat!!
At 4 am in the morning, bearded Schumi was busy enquiring the route to Kkm. An hour later, we reached our hotel, at Kkm, where Schumi found solace on the nearest bench. He resembled the protagonist in any Adoor Gopalakrishnan film, face pointed upwards, eyes fixed at infinity, reaching eternal bliss at having discovered the route to Kkm!
We weren't assigned rooms! We were stranded at the reception, and there we waited, from 5 am to 10 am!!! No one attended to us, save the receptionist, trying in vain to use the word "sorry" and calm us down! The apology was more a result of training, than one of sympathy, blunt in delivery and blank in attitude!
The hotel manager denied having known us! We were referred to as the "gaanamela" people! That was annoying! It was akin to racial discrimination against coloured people. Late at the breakfast table, we were told: "The food's over. But we have idlis left-over! Care to have some?!" My heart was in my mouth. Hailing from one of the best technical institutes in the country, we were being served food claimed to be "left-over"... OUR food was always different from THEIRS. THEY, the residents of the hotel, had a buffet, where they could choose from an ocean of items! We had our food arranged with the staff!
I always find it easier to mingle with a crowd of ordinary people, and in fact, prefer to eat with them, but the wording and manner of the invitation doth tell a lot on how keen the host is, to play host. The invitation for lunch looked like they were rendering social service to us refugees! The whole band decided to boycott the lunch. We ate at a hotel nearby. My bill alone, was pegged at Rs.100, but I felt great paying from my pocket. It helped in shedding the refugee cloak!!
More of refugee treatment was in store, when instead of a room, we were given a house-boat! That was magnanimity on part of the manager, and negligience on the event (mis)manager's side. (We had never heard of the latter!) We freshened up, ready for the day's show. Just after lunch, we met the mystery-man, the event (mis)manager...
Friday, March 03, 2006
Act III... Pearl from PR!
To the reader: This post is the third in a series of narratives. Hence, it's binding on the reader to read the previous two posts (I mean, Acts!)... Sorry if I sound too text-bookish!!
Act III:
All Pearl drum-kits that glitter won't give out a good tone... For people not having much of a knowledge about drum-kits, Pearl is the leader in drum-kits and percussion accessories the world over. But, what about a Pearl drum-kit that has stood the test of time for 16 years? KK and I went to a drummer named PR, who rents out glittering Pearl drum-kits @ Rs.500 per day. A detour of considerable distance from the main road took us through three sides of a pond, a couple of hay-stacks, cow-sheds, a line of huts and last, PR's house. The colony was so silent that one could indulge in drumming or counterfeit note-printing without a soul knowing it! It resembled a villain's residence as portayed in many a Malayalam film! PR praised his kit sky-high. We believed him, and I had already started dreaming about the tone that would emanate from the drum-kit. Pearl, the two of us, the driver and the jeep made it back to college!
The other band members wanted me to practise on the rented drums. I set up the kit and started playing, only to see the three others in the music room place their hands on the appropriate sense organs to convey: "See no Pearl; hear no Pearl; speak no Pearl"! The bass drum looked like it was just out of a mob-fight, torn and bruised. It sounded eerie when played, and therefore, it was pointless to speak anything more about it! Being amateurs ourselves, we didn't quite have a sound knowledge about what tone a kit should have, though. Nevertheless, none of us liked the sound it gave. We reverted to the college drum-kit, which then sounded divine with a pleasing thud filling the whole room! CRIMSON CHORDS was beyond angry, and soon, expletives echoed from all corners!
Soon it was night-time, time to leave. CRIMSON CHORDS packed its bags, ready to perform for its first show outside college. A Swaraj-Mazda was arranged, and twelve of us (ten members and a drum-kit!) headed towards FSH, Kkm. The driver of the Swaraj-Mazda looked weirdly comical! More about him in the next Act...
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Act II: A band... without a name?
(N B: Please read the previous post titled Act I, as every post from then is inextricably linked with it!)
...named... Goodness Gracious! We didn't have one! All the competitions we took part in got rid for us the troublesome job of naming the band, as we were called WEOK008 or MAE005, enough to communicate to the judges our identity! And the only place where we did shows was our college OAT (Open-Air-Theatre), where we were known as "students of NITC"! This being our debut forage into the vast, ever-expanding world of music, we had to give our band a name. A day and more of arguments finally gave rise to the name "CRIMSON CHORDS". Our band finally had a name!
The next day, KK's cousin called on us to meet the middle-man, someone suspended somewhere between Cct and Kkm (understand them as a couple of places, that's it!) and one of the event managers... a weirdo named FK (name abbreivated too!!!). KK and I went to his house, only to be met by horror of sorts. FK removed his cap to reveal copper-coloured hair, cut short using some equipment as powerful and efficient as a lawn-mover. A hunter's gun adorned one of his walls. Five computers, three phones and two mobiles filled his room. He handled two totally unconnected jobs: he was both seller of rice(!) and event manager of shows!! Excerpts from the exchange of dialogues between "us and him(!)":
FK: What is your band's name?
Us: Blinked tight, swallowed, sighed and then blurted out in chorus: "CRIMSON CHORDS."
FK: OK. Crimson Chords is spelt as C-H-R-I-M-S-A-N K-O-D-S. Am I right?
Us: We put him back on track!!
FK: How many songs can you play?
Us: Sir, as promised, we can play for one hour, which may come to twelve songs.
FK: What about making it 24?
Us: !?!##@%... Sir, we aren't a professional band! We just play a couple of songs as part of college shows! We just can't do a song more than twelve. It's OUR LIMIT!
FK: OK. Cool down! I understand! Do just twelve! You will get 8k as your band's payment plus conveyance allowances...
Us: Took a very humble bow. I almost fell down doing it, while KK asked: Sir, any restrictions on the type of songs? What will be the type of audience present?
FK: Shrugged, shook his head sideways, then nodded and finally said: Play whatever you want. You needn't bother about all that.
End of a seemingly fruitful conversation. Fred dropped us at the main bus stop, and we were back in the music room, content that the deal had finally been settled. He called us again to know if a Matador would be sufficient to get us across to Kkm, which was when I got the impression that they meted out the same treatment to us as they did to any drama troupe out there: I fancied a maroon banner at the back of our van. titled: CRIMSON CHORDS. Musical Orchestra Team, Cct! Oh! My! That's hard on us, ain't it?
By the by, our college drumset wasn't sounding all that good. That was when CRIMSON CHORDS thought of hiring a kit. A drum-kit called Pearl, from a drummer named PR. Pearl from PR?!
...named... Goodness Gracious! We didn't have one! All the competitions we took part in got rid for us the troublesome job of naming the band, as we were called WEOK008 or MAE005, enough to communicate to the judges our identity! And the only place where we did shows was our college OAT (Open-Air-Theatre), where we were known as "students of NITC"! This being our debut forage into the vast, ever-expanding world of music, we had to give our band a name. A day and more of arguments finally gave rise to the name "CRIMSON CHORDS". Our band finally had a name!
The next day, KK's cousin called on us to meet the middle-man, someone suspended somewhere between Cct and Kkm (understand them as a couple of places, that's it!) and one of the event managers... a weirdo named FK (name abbreivated too!!!). KK and I went to his house, only to be met by horror of sorts. FK removed his cap to reveal copper-coloured hair, cut short using some equipment as powerful and efficient as a lawn-mover. A hunter's gun adorned one of his walls. Five computers, three phones and two mobiles filled his room. He handled two totally unconnected jobs: he was both seller of rice(!) and event manager of shows!! Excerpts from the exchange of dialogues between "us and him(!)":
FK: What is your band's name?
Us: Blinked tight, swallowed, sighed and then blurted out in chorus: "CRIMSON CHORDS."
FK: OK. Crimson Chords is spelt as C-H-R-I-M-S-A-N K-O-D-S. Am I right?
Us: We put him back on track!!
FK: How many songs can you play?
Us: Sir, as promised, we can play for one hour, which may come to twelve songs.
FK: What about making it 24?
Us: !?!##@%... Sir, we aren't a professional band! We just play a couple of songs as part of college shows! We just can't do a song more than twelve. It's OUR LIMIT!
FK: OK. Cool down! I understand! Do just twelve! You will get 8k as your band's payment plus conveyance allowances...
Us: Took a very humble bow. I almost fell down doing it, while KK asked: Sir, any restrictions on the type of songs? What will be the type of audience present?
FK: Shrugged, shook his head sideways, then nodded and finally said: Play whatever you want. You needn't bother about all that.
End of a seemingly fruitful conversation. Fred dropped us at the main bus stop, and we were back in the music room, content that the deal had finally been settled. He called us again to know if a Matador would be sufficient to get us across to Kkm, which was when I got the impression that they meted out the same treatment to us as they did to any drama troupe out there: I fancied a maroon banner at the back of our van. titled: CRIMSON CHORDS. Musical Orchestra Team, Cct! Oh! My! That's hard on us, ain't it?
By the by, our college drumset wasn't sounding all that good. That was when CRIMSON CHORDS thought of hiring a kit. A drum-kit called Pearl, from a drummer named PR. Pearl from PR?!
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Crimson chords in five-star soup...
A good day to everyone reading this post! I never can fathom how long this is gonna turn out to be. If it runs to a number of chapters, I might as well consider publishing it... on paper. Nevertheless, experiences need to be shared to allow people to learn from our mistakes. And if you are prepared to learn, I vow a four-credit subject is to follow! It's more apt to title this post as Act I, as it does promise to be one hell of a drama as the plot unfolds. Do read on...
Act I: To go or not to go?
Nokia's 1108 woke me up, partially successful in its attempt. Companies of today know for sure that man is, by the day, becoming lazier: the reason why they invented remote controls, robots and e-whatevers as agents promoting this avoidable quality. Add to these the Snooze option in a mobile phone! It lets you squeeze the pleasure of lazing in bed for an extra five minutes!
After snoozing to my mind's content, I woke up, had my breakfast (?!), and rushed to the class. Alarms don't work here, but the vibrator of your mobile does wake you up. Nokia's bee buzzed in my ear, and I saw such a message: prgrm t fsh... ply fr csh... 8k grntd. Vowels put in and phrases reconstructed with a dash of readability, the message read: "Program at FSH (abbrev. for Five Star Hotel)...play for cash... 8k guaranteed!"
Do allow me a small detour... I first mistook it for the ubiquitous AIRTEL offers, claims like: "STD to any number in India at Re.1 for 30 sec pulses. Offer valid till the 5th of January! Hurry!" And when does an innocent customer like me receive this message? 4th January, 18:52!
The fourth hour was supposed to begin at 11:15. My friend KK (the sender of the above encrypted message!!) and I were near the coffee shop, deciding whether to go or not. I was in two minds, tilted more towards not going! His cousin was instumental in suggesting our band's name(more about that later!) for the show. KK told me we were to play heavy numbers and welcome the NewYear by carrying on the show past midnight. I just visualized the whole scene. It didn't seem very pleasing to welcome the dawn of a new year with heavy metal. And, the repertoire of songs we had was ready to drive away the new year with ease! KK's cousin said: "Don't worry a bit about all that: just play your numbers, and blast it out." Yes, we were prepared to blast it out, but little did we realize the crackers had every chance of fizzling out!
We decided to go, and then I took out my notebook, the one meagre stack of papers that has stood the wear and tear of two semesters(read 12 subjects)! I jotted down the songs we were prepared with, and somewhere along the line I felt we were playing stuff a tad too heavy for New-Year's eve! Songs had names like Suicide Messiah, Foxy Lady, Tornado of Souls, Paranoid, etc!!! KK's cousin's advice rang like a bell and reinforced our playlist: New Year had to be welcomed by a heavy metal band named.....
Act I: To go or not to go?
Nokia's 1108 woke me up, partially successful in its attempt. Companies of today know for sure that man is, by the day, becoming lazier: the reason why they invented remote controls, robots and e-whatevers as agents promoting this avoidable quality. Add to these the Snooze option in a mobile phone! It lets you squeeze the pleasure of lazing in bed for an extra five minutes!
After snoozing to my mind's content, I woke up, had my breakfast (?!), and rushed to the class. Alarms don't work here, but the vibrator of your mobile does wake you up. Nokia's bee buzzed in my ear, and I saw such a message: prgrm t fsh... ply fr csh... 8k grntd. Vowels put in and phrases reconstructed with a dash of readability, the message read: "Program at FSH (abbrev. for Five Star Hotel)...play for cash... 8k guaranteed!"
Do allow me a small detour... I first mistook it for the ubiquitous AIRTEL offers, claims like: "STD to any number in India at Re.1 for 30 sec pulses. Offer valid till the 5th of January! Hurry!" And when does an innocent customer like me receive this message? 4th January, 18:52!
The fourth hour was supposed to begin at 11:15. My friend KK (the sender of the above encrypted message!!) and I were near the coffee shop, deciding whether to go or not. I was in two minds, tilted more towards not going! His cousin was instumental in suggesting our band's name(more about that later!) for the show. KK told me we were to play heavy numbers and welcome the NewYear by carrying on the show past midnight. I just visualized the whole scene. It didn't seem very pleasing to welcome the dawn of a new year with heavy metal. And, the repertoire of songs we had was ready to drive away the new year with ease! KK's cousin said: "Don't worry a bit about all that: just play your numbers, and blast it out." Yes, we were prepared to blast it out, but little did we realize the crackers had every chance of fizzling out!
We decided to go, and then I took out my notebook, the one meagre stack of papers that has stood the wear and tear of two semesters(read 12 subjects)! I jotted down the songs we were prepared with, and somewhere along the line I felt we were playing stuff a tad too heavy for New-Year's eve! Songs had names like Suicide Messiah, Foxy Lady, Tornado of Souls, Paranoid, etc!!! KK's cousin's advice rang like a bell and reinforced our playlist: New Year had to be welcomed by a heavy metal band named.....
Monday, December 26, 2005
Mis-management, me and IRMA...
Management: The art of getting things done.
This broad definition leaves out many important clauses, giving me a strong foundation to erect castles of excuses on! I usually do get things done. But, they lack in artistic finesse. They look more like modern art! A bit of this merging into lots of that. The picture gets completed (somehow's the word!), nevertheless. My confession sort of done with, it's time I started with what happened on the 18th of December, Sunday morning!
A lot of desire to serve my country (instead of editing software code thereby improving the national income of some other nation!) mixed with a bit of enthusiasm to tackle puzzles led me to write the management entrance exam conducted by the Institute of Rural Management, Anand (IRMA), for admission to its rural mgmt. course. The centre looked deserted, and I had my own doubts of whether it was prepared, at all, to conduct an exam! A small board then indicated the number of people who were to attend the exam. 21. Yes, twenty-one people alone took the exam from Calicut. Count two more applicants for a fellowship program in rural mgmt. I learnt from the applicants that not many were keen on giving an earnest attempt. People who painted incomplete pictures, I must say! I found my seat and settled down, spreading my brushes (oops, pencils, I mean! Let's put an end to this. No more reference to paintings on this post!) on the table.
The question papers were distributed. The first round of what seemed like an earthquake in the offering: 200 questions to be solved in 120 minutes! Negative marking for wrong answers! And then, the second round of tremors, much more powerful on the Richter: 60 out of 200 questions on "Issues of Social Concern"!
I leave aside the other sections, as they were ordinary questions any management institute would like to test its applicants on, except for the number of "None of these (N.O.T)" answers that came out! Now, this was maddening. It's psychologically a bit tough to shade the N.O.T bubble with confidence! Add to it choices like: 13000, 13000000, 1300000, 130000000 and N.O.T when the worked-out answer turned out to be 130000. Problems with counting the number of zeroes? Remember, 200 questions in 120 minutes. Read twenty questions of such kind in the 110 I managed to attempt!
I should say that everything about the question paper was rural. The presentation was bad. Grammatical errors were present throughout the paper! Comprehension passages were followed by incomprehensible questions! The institute doesn't seem to have taken care of finer aspects like these. This is ample data for generalisation. Institutes tend to their brochure sincerely, but that's all. IRMA's brochure looks just fine, but it ends there.
More about questions on social concern... I thought it was going to be tough, with the result that it was... TOUGHER! This was when my interest to join such an institute faded, and the next instant saw me before a computer, coding my way to glory, keeping an online watch on the national income of "SOMEOTHERNATION"! The questions demanded numerical answers: percentage of subsidies, per capita consumptions and what not! The exact statement made by the FM in his 2002 budget regarding a particular sector of the industry... Now, wait! Who are we? Waste-bins that memorise chunks of statistics? I wish to drive home a very important point here. It's the passion a person shows towards joining such an institute that serves as a better gauge. A couple of articles by P Sainath in The Hindu cry out more about poverty and the rural sector than mere histograms. I do very well agree that general awareness is one area where I'm weak in, for my criticism is never to camouflage my lack of awareness (as concerns statistics...). But, I do know that the rural industries in India are struggling to survive. Emphatic articles on such themes are a regular occurence in The Hindu. It's such newspapers that nurture an interest in people to serve the country by graduating from B-schools like IRMA. On the other hand, it's such question papers that murder the former. It's better that such institutes amend their approach towards exams, if they "FEEL" for the rural sector at all, and "CHANGE FOR THE BETTER" is their aim in the long run. Else, they would, like any other institute of a lesser calibre, nurture graduates with good scores and negligible content...
This broad definition leaves out many important clauses, giving me a strong foundation to erect castles of excuses on! I usually do get things done. But, they lack in artistic finesse. They look more like modern art! A bit of this merging into lots of that. The picture gets completed (somehow's the word!), nevertheless. My confession sort of done with, it's time I started with what happened on the 18th of December, Sunday morning!
A lot of desire to serve my country (instead of editing software code thereby improving the national income of some other nation!) mixed with a bit of enthusiasm to tackle puzzles led me to write the management entrance exam conducted by the Institute of Rural Management, Anand (IRMA), for admission to its rural mgmt. course. The centre looked deserted, and I had my own doubts of whether it was prepared, at all, to conduct an exam! A small board then indicated the number of people who were to attend the exam. 21. Yes, twenty-one people alone took the exam from Calicut. Count two more applicants for a fellowship program in rural mgmt. I learnt from the applicants that not many were keen on giving an earnest attempt. People who painted incomplete pictures, I must say! I found my seat and settled down, spreading my brushes (oops, pencils, I mean! Let's put an end to this. No more reference to paintings on this post!) on the table.
The question papers were distributed. The first round of what seemed like an earthquake in the offering: 200 questions to be solved in 120 minutes! Negative marking for wrong answers! And then, the second round of tremors, much more powerful on the Richter: 60 out of 200 questions on "Issues of Social Concern"!
I leave aside the other sections, as they were ordinary questions any management institute would like to test its applicants on, except for the number of "None of these (N.O.T)" answers that came out! Now, this was maddening. It's psychologically a bit tough to shade the N.O.T bubble with confidence! Add to it choices like: 13000, 13000000, 1300000, 130000000 and N.O.T when the worked-out answer turned out to be 130000. Problems with counting the number of zeroes? Remember, 200 questions in 120 minutes. Read twenty questions of such kind in the 110 I managed to attempt!
I should say that everything about the question paper was rural. The presentation was bad. Grammatical errors were present throughout the paper! Comprehension passages were followed by incomprehensible questions! The institute doesn't seem to have taken care of finer aspects like these. This is ample data for generalisation. Institutes tend to their brochure sincerely, but that's all. IRMA's brochure looks just fine, but it ends there.
More about questions on social concern... I thought it was going to be tough, with the result that it was... TOUGHER! This was when my interest to join such an institute faded, and the next instant saw me before a computer, coding my way to glory, keeping an online watch on the national income of "SOMEOTHERNATION"! The questions demanded numerical answers: percentage of subsidies, per capita consumptions and what not! The exact statement made by the FM in his 2002 budget regarding a particular sector of the industry... Now, wait! Who are we? Waste-bins that memorise chunks of statistics? I wish to drive home a very important point here. It's the passion a person shows towards joining such an institute that serves as a better gauge. A couple of articles by P Sainath in The Hindu cry out more about poverty and the rural sector than mere histograms. I do very well agree that general awareness is one area where I'm weak in, for my criticism is never to camouflage my lack of awareness (as concerns statistics...). But, I do know that the rural industries in India are struggling to survive. Emphatic articles on such themes are a regular occurence in The Hindu. It's such newspapers that nurture an interest in people to serve the country by graduating from B-schools like IRMA. On the other hand, it's such question papers that murder the former. It's better that such institutes amend their approach towards exams, if they "FEEL" for the rural sector at all, and "CHANGE FOR THE BETTER" is their aim in the long run. Else, they would, like any other institute of a lesser calibre, nurture graduates with good scores and negligible content...
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
At last, a blog of my own...
Idleness, like kisses, to be sweet, must be stolen.
-Jerome K Jerome
I confess. I have stolen a few fleeting moments of time to post my first blog. Today's class (?) began with "Industrial Economics". Adam Smith might have regretted opening his mouth, and I think I spotted Lionel Robbins' ghost taking a walk outside the classroom! And if I was seeing things, it was because I was hungry! Two hours of freedom saw me in the canteen, my project guide's room, the ATM, the bank, the administration block, my room and the computer centre. It's "quality managment" in another five minutes, and it does require a lot of patience to wait through one hour before I can jubiliantly blurt out my roll number for attendance's sake. Hope I stay awake!
-Jerome K Jerome
I confess. I have stolen a few fleeting moments of time to post my first blog. Today's class (?) began with "Industrial Economics". Adam Smith might have regretted opening his mouth, and I think I spotted Lionel Robbins' ghost taking a walk outside the classroom! And if I was seeing things, it was because I was hungry! Two hours of freedom saw me in the canteen, my project guide's room, the ATM, the bank, the administration block, my room and the computer centre. It's "quality managment" in another five minutes, and it does require a lot of patience to wait through one hour before I can jubiliantly blurt out my roll number for attendance's sake. Hope I stay awake!
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