Sunday, August 28, 2011

Readings in Mumbai

Now that the new book is out, we shall be doing a series of readings across various book-stores (and perhaps at some institutions too). This space will be updated as and when new events are finalized. Please do come. Physical invitations are not necessary, so anyone interested in the Good Indian Girl (and why would't you be?), come along for a chat.

One:  Kitabkhana
[Address: Ground Floor, Somaiya Bhavan, 45/47, MG Road, Fort, Mumbai]
Time: 6 pm
Day: September 3 (Saturday), 2011.




Snapshots from the city of waves


I headed towards the autos queued outside the domestic airport and carried my bags to the front of the line. As I got into the first auto, a white-uniformed fellow with an I-am-a-somebody demeanor leaned in, blocking the exit. He said: “Hundred rupees… If you get a pre-paid slip, you will have to pay a hundred and fifty.”
I snapped something about using the meter, and then tried to alight. White Uniform stepped back, saying, “Okay, okay. Meter…”
Later, I asked the driver how much I owed him. He tried to overcharge by 10 rupees.
I looked at the meter and took a deep breath. One part of me was saying: Forget it. The other part said: “Don’t add to a culture of financial misdemeanor.”
So I pointed to the meter. He stared at me sullenly and said, “I waited in line at the airport a long time.” I retorted, “So I pay because you have to line up?”
I wanted to say other things — about how you have a better chance of being treated with respect if you act like you deserve it; how cheating becomes a way of life; how this is a vicious circle of blame and powerlessness; how I too wait in line for autos but do not charge a premium for it. But I didn’t say any of this.
Two days later, the road was blocked by another Anna-people rally. Tricolour flags etcetera.
I was in an auto and the driver was twisting this way and that, peering at the junction. He mumbled, “Now are these Anna-people headed right or left?”
I had to smile. Big question, that one. Are they headed right, or left?
I asked the white-haired driver what he thinks about Anna Hazare. He shrugged.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

To read, perchance to have fun:

It is the result of the joint labours (and loves) of myself and Smriti Ravindra. It is ready for scrutiny, and judgement, or whatever else you might bestow upon it. Ladies and gentlemen, presenting The Bad Boy's Guide to the Good Indian Girl aka The Good Indian Girl's Guide to Living, Loving and Having Fun. The book can be preordered (heavily discounted) on Flipkart.



Monday, August 22, 2011

Look, laugh, nod, think


Here's a short video put together in the context of the book. If you have responses, or comments, they are most welcome here, or over at the Zubaan blog. If you want to respond at length, come up with your own note/ essay/ video/ musing-in-some-new-format and we will link to it.

Sunday, August 21, 2011

The lathmaar school of management

People, you see, have problems. And even if the problems are not of the state’s making, the people still expect the state to intervene.And when it comes to corruption, they are truly furious and justified in their fury because they confront corruption mostly via state-controlled agencies. So they are mistrustful of the government when it claims that it will tackle corruption on its own.

The mishandling of the Ramdev situation in Delhi is still fresh in their minds, and threats that Anna Hazare would be treated the same way have just caused a massive, public upchucking.


That’s how these protests appear to me — an outpouring of disgust. Friends have been calling from other cities to say that their staid, smug middle class neighbours are marching in support of Anna Hazare. They are probably upset about food inflation. Or insane real estate prices. They are not really supporting Hazare’s version of the Lokpal Bill. They can’t, because they haven’t read the draft nor thought about its repercussions.
I have, and I disagree with it. Police and judicial reforms are far, far more pressing. Yet, people support Hazare because they need a rallying point. They need to express their disgust. But how does the government deal with public disgust? By flexing its judicial and administrative muscles! By throwing a colonial-era law book at their faces!

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Seeding sovereignty

Wiktionary defines sovereignty as the state of making laws and controlling resources without the coercion of other nations. In other words, we are sovereign only if we use collective resources to our own advantage. So, here’s a question. Does food qualify as a resource?



Yes? What about traditional knowledge? Yes? Do I hear you say that it is imperative that India holds on to her strengths in the food department?
But food comes from seeds. And seeds… Well, there’s a seed floating around nowadays that is not ours. We don’t own the knowledge and fertility that’s embedded in that seed. Foreign corporations do and they won’t allow us to save a fraction of the crop for using as seed next year. In fact, corporations like Monsanto sell expensive seed with built-in ‘terminator’ technologies, so that the crop is useless for re-sowing. Does that spell ‘justice, liberty, equality’ to you?
...
So farmer groups, under the banner of the Alliance for Sustainable and Holistic Agriculture (ASHA), decided to celebrate Quit India Day (August 9) by asking Monsanto to get out. They want the state to stop GM crop trials and work out a system of seed self-reliance instead. They’re denouncing the ‘bio-piracy’ that blocks access to seeds through ‘collaborative research’.
You may or may not agree with the ‘Quit India’ call, but remember that seeds can be contaminated, or destroyed. Crops can fail again, and again. Famines can happen. Terrible famines have happened during colonial times and one reason was that farmers couldn’t choose what to grow.

Sunday, August 07, 2011

Do you accept it?


BSY posed for photographs — holding one edge of the resignation letter while the Governor held the other — smiling confidently for the cameras. He insisted he would be back in the CM’s chair within six months. There was a lot of bluster andshowbaazi. Looking at the photos, it seemed as if he was resigning in protest.There was no sign of shame, no sign that the CM had to be shoved out after allegations of massive corruption and nearly weeks of wrangling with his own party bosses.
This last week, some citizens certainly have realized how much they loved BSY, and how acutely they would feel his loss. These would be people who gained from illegal mining and are now scrambling to squeeze out the last few thousands of crores, while they still can. Whilst power was brokered in Bengaluru, they snuck out iron ore by the train-load despite a Supreme Court order banning all mining and transportation of iron ore in Bellary.
Reportedly, 49 lorries were caught transporting ore from BMC (a firm rumoured to be tied to the Reddys). District authorities in Bellary also seized 7,448 tonnes of iron ore in two rakes (each rake has 58 wagons). Another 1,000 tonnes was seized at JSW Steel Ltd, coming from Mysore Minerals.
Meanwhile, in Bengaluru, I was wondering whether it was safe to step outside if the new CM was someone BSY couldn’t trust to shove back into oblivion after six months. What would happen to those of us who were out having lunch, buying veggies, travelling in buses?

Sunday, July 31, 2011

Why the greens miss Jairam Ramesh


Over the last couple of years, I’d often see press releases from environmental groups or an angry letter on a mailing list lashing out at Ramesh. He may have promised to rethink the Renuka dam, or allowed more construction on the Narmada. Whatever he did, Ramesh was making his presence felt, and a lot of people are wondering if Jayanthi Natarajan will follow suit.

What distinguishes a visible minister from an invisible one is that the former takes decisions that matter. Some turn out to be stupid decisions. Sometimes, they run contrary to the plans of the political party leadership. But a good minister must take contrary decisions and make frank statements. And the public must believe that the minister likes to use his brains. Even if his thinking is not in alignment with our own hopes and fears. But at least, let him apply himself to the task at hand, enforce rules, ask questions.

Ramesh seemed to have applied himself, as far as he was allowed to. But I’m not mourning his transfer to Rural Development. Visible ministers are desperately needed in every ministry. Already, after accepting his new portfolio, Ramesh has stressed the need to revisit land acquisition laws. Perhaps, he will once again find himself on the wrong side of POSCO.

Read full piece here

Monday, July 25, 2011

For the love of my ancestors:

I can’t remember the last time I noticed film credits roll in Devnagri. In fact, I too have switched to the Roman script when writing in Hindustani. And perhaps it’s better this way. Perhaps it doesn’t matter because all civilisations move from one script to another, one dialect to another. That’s how Urdu got made, a language that came striding in from the battlefield into bazaars, used first by rough-tongued soldiers and then by ferociously refined writers.


But film writers no longer write in Urdu. Film posters no longer advertise themselves in Urdu. Credits certainly do not roll in either Devnagri or Nastalik.


But what of audiences who have not made a smooth transition to Romanised Hindustani? Is there an automatic assumption that these people are illiterate — and therefore cannot read the credits anyway — or that they are uninterested in films?


Watching Paromita Vohra’s Partners in Crime, the English title also appearing in Nastalik, I was briefly distracted by thoughts of my grandmother. I remember watching films with her, late at night on TV. She wasn’t illiterate. But if she sat down to watch one now, she wouldn’t be able to read a single word on the screen — not even the title.
Read full piece here

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Street smart questions

"When motor vehicles bring in the risk of death, why are pedestrians given most of the responsibility of preventing it?"


That and some very pertinent points raised by Karthik in his new post where he writes:


The term “jaywalking” was introduced at this time, and pedestrians who cross mid-block were caricatured as being unsophistacted and boorish... It occurs to me that such propaganda bears remarkable similarity to the notion of the “white man’s burden” that European colonizers used to justify their tyranny.  The caricatures of jaywalking pedestrians correspond to early European prejudices about oriental people. In the meanwhile, streets that were used for several millennia by pedestrians and other street people (street vendors, for instance) were effectively invaded by automobiles. Rules advantageous to the colonizers were then enforced as a way of “civilizing” the “uncivilized”.


Read it here

Monday, July 18, 2011

Living like life matters

The tears come when the kachra-wala rings the bell. It is the son of the lady who usually comes. A boy in his late teens, hair plastered down, he says the usual morning word — “Kachra!
For the first time ever, I speak to him. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
For the first time, he smiles at me. There’s three feet of water outside our building. The rain hasn’t stopped. And this impossible city has just suffered a fresh round of terror. 
All night, I have been stubbornly, wearily silent. I snapped at my mother when she called after hearing about the blasts. I didn’t want to say a word at the time — not on Twitter, not on Facebook, not on blogs. Anything I said would seem platitudinous, insignificant. This is not a time for words. It is a time for… for what?
The question is on television, on twitter, on people’s minds. This can’t keep happening; why can’t it be stopped? Why can’t we… But what do we do?
Someone suggests: Hit back, like the USA. But the first image that floats into my mind then is that of a distraught father carrying the body of a little child.
Hit back at whom? Whose children? Bomb which bazaar so that we might have the satisfaction of saying: We killed as we were killed.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Respect comes as respect goes

What do you want, Mumbai? Who do you want as your neighbour, or tenant? You want ‘good’ people, yes? By good, you mean ‘respectable’, non-violent (not publicly violent anyway), quiet people (who don’t complain when you turn noisy during festivals). You want kids who work towards being accepted rather than causing mayhem. Yes?
And you want some do-gooders, yes? The old lady who plants trees. A retired uncle who ensures waterproofing of the terrace happens on time. A doctor whose doorbell you can ring at midnight. A collegian who tutors ‘weak’ students.
What you don’t want is a do-gooder who helps the most vulnerable of us all. Say, a neighbourhood ‘doctor’ who treats slum-dwellers at his home-clinic. What you certainly don’t want are girls like Trina Talukdar and Robin Chaurasiya.

Friday, July 08, 2011

Very mad (and a tiny bit maddening)

The blurb describes Ibne Safi’s Jasusi Duniya series as an “intricately demented world of larger-than-life villains, mad genius detectives and beautiful femme fatales”.

For once, the blurb does not exaggerate. Safi is one of the most popular Urdu writers of the 20th century and Blaft has done newer non-Urdu reading generations a huge favour by publishing at least a few of his translated works. Born Asrar Ahmad in undivided India, ‘Ibne Safi’ moved to Pakistan in the 1950s but continued to cater to readers on both sides of the border.
He sets his novels in a cosmopolitan city by the sea, which could as easily have been Bombay as Karachi. Here, there are plenty of bars and cafes, dancing halls and lavish house parties, picnicking families, plenty of nightlife. And some very unpretty lowlife as well.



His main detective, Colonel Faridi, is a mildly eccentric aristocrat but Hameed deserves his own star in the literary detective’s sidekick hall of fame. Here’s a police officer who not only lives with his boss, but also dresses his pet goat in neck-ties and hats. Sample this delicious bit from Smokewater: “Hameed’s billy goat, had he been human, would have committed suicide. Or, instead, he might have assumed the role of an Urdu critic, and pronounced a sentence of death on the ghazal that was now being read to him”. When he is admonished for such antics by his boss, Hameed retorts, “I have not the slightest interest in dignity… the bacteria of dignity is even more dangerous than the bacilli of phthisis.”

This combination of eccentricity, social critique, and the odd philosophical nugget is what makes Ibne Safi’s books so likeable.

In other respects, Safi sticks to the usual standards for pulp. The central detective (Faridi) is mysterious, uninterested in women and always a step ahead of the criminal forces he’s tackling — quite like Sherlock Holmes. The femme fatales are reserved for the eccentric non-genius Hameed, although his attitude to women is painfully real — he wants to flirt with them but he gets bored easily. The good girls are disoriented and exasperated by him. The bad girls pose serious threats to his life. Faridi always rescues him, of course.

Despite the stereotypes, Hameed is such an oddball that a turn of events is hard to predict. For instance, he wants to dance with a female colleague in a ballroom, but not in aid of an investigation. He just wants to escape from thoughts of crime. Hameed’s perpetual disgruntlement lends a dash of comic melancholy that is rarely seen in detective fiction. He sometimes seems to be carrying the burden of the writer’s soul.

But this is a writer who treats us to strange criminals like Dr. Dread and Finch (both make an appearance in all four books). Finch is a former circus performer while Dr. Dread is an international assassin who specialises in bizarre poisons — stuff that makes a respectable girl swear loudly in public and take off her clothes. But Faridi too has access to weaponry that 007 might covet, such as “a stun grenade, with the added capability of settling off a blinding flash and raising the ambient temperature dramatically within seconds”. This forces criminals to strip while rendering them incapable of violence.

Sex and gore are palpable elements of crime fiction but Safi doesn’t rub the reader’s face in it. A new generation of readers will also find it impossible not to read more into Faridi and Hameed’s complex relationship. But this awareness only lends an extra touch of pathos to the overall absurdity.


All in all, these books are a fun read. The translator Shamsur Rahman Faruqi has retained the humour and the cultural dressing that would have lent the original novels their tang and bite. The occasional snarky paragraph about the frailties of women will annoy some readers but fans of pulp have to be made of stone to resist Safi. 


This review was published in Forbes (India).


Thursday, July 07, 2011

Cheater-c**k

A friend's friend was cheated and threatened by a man who married her. He and his family disappeared when it seemed like their game was up. But he's still out there (on various marriage websites) cheating women, using them, milking their parents for all they can afford to spend at the wedding and afterwards.

The girl has bravely set up a blog, put up his photos from the wedding, and is trying to bring him to book. She also needs to track him down so that her divorce can be finalised and she can begin life afresh. Here's an extract from the blog:


"Her parents travelled to Bangalore to meet the boy’s parents and all seemed well... Before the engagement, in Decenber 2008 the girl’s parents asked the boy’s side to produce some certificates to be able to verify the claims made, but these were apparently locked away safely and were therefore not shown. They did not press for fear of offending the boy’s family.


During and after the wedding, in Jan 2009 the girl and her parents observed many small things like the heavy drinking habits of the boy & his family, going back on their word on marriage arrangements & delaying the marriage registration, the boy disclosing later his numerous affairs and also that his salary was actually less than half of what it was originally quoted etc.


the girl was supposed to join the family overseas only later, and on a student visa not on a spouse visa! During this time she was expected to live with the boy & his family without a registered marriage, without disclosing that they were married (apparently for visa requirements) and her family was expected to fork out an additional 24 lakh rupees as fees for the educational course that she was supposed to be joining!!! 


Humiliated, cheated, the girl knew something was wrong and asked her father in law who was still in India to send her to her husband on a spouse visa instead of the roundabout way that they were proposing as that would entail lying, an immoral humiliating living condition and an additional, totally unnecessary financial burden on her father. Her father in law then got abusive, threatening and violent."


For details, visit the blog. If you have any information, contact this girl. Or else, just contact the Bangalore police (080-22942552). 

Monday, July 04, 2011

Brazen Feminist's take on Slutwalk Delhi

It’s not as easy as choosing between a pink lehenga and blue jeans with climate control factored in. What-to-wear is a finely calibrated decision. I think of whether to take an auto or a cab, train or bus. I think of where I’m headed, at what station to get off, at what time.

And despite all this, even if my legs and arms are fully-covered, even if no cleavage or belly is on display, I’m afraid. Even this great bustling insomniac city will not let me be.

Nobody has accused me of dressing ‘slutty’. But every day of my adult life, I have had to protect myself from the aftermath of random strangers on the street attacking, abusing or threatening me. Note: I am not saying I protect myself from attacks. What I’m protecting myself from is the aftermath. From people who will say that my clothes were provocative, that the time of the night and my being alone was an invitation to assault.

So yes, I get the sentiment that makes a bunch of women in Canada declare: Yeah, we’re slutty, so what? So what if we sleep around? So what if we wear tiny skirts and high heels? So what if men look at us and want us? Is the police force trying to tell us that rape is alright? Are you saying we deserve to be hurt?
And yet, when I heard that someone was organising a Slutwalk in Delhi, a part of me went sort of quiet...

On the other hand, if boundaries are to be pushed, someone has to take some risks. Jasmeen Patheja, founder of the Blank Noise Project (a group I’ve been part of since 2006) points out that Slutwalks are a kind of performance. There is an element of fiction here. And it is a fiction that sells. The media is lapping up the story of provocatively-dressed women demanding their right to provoke. Cameras focus on women wearing bras (clearly, feminists with arsonist tendencies are ancient history) so that ‘skimpy clothes’ are not just the first thing we see. They’re the only thing.
... Meanwhile, the fiction has whipped up a storm even before the fact has materialised. Celebrity columnist Shobhaa De has dissed the proposed event for being an ‘attention-seeking protest … neither workable, nor desirable.’ Seema Goswami drew up a damnable analogy. She compares a woman who attracts attention to a house that’s unlocked and therefore likely to get burgled.

All of which is making me pricklier and pricklier.

I now find myself wanting to get into arguments about ‘workability’. Is the only workable solution finding a rich man who provides us with a glass bubble to commute in and bodyguards to fend off assaults? As for seeking attention, that’s the bloody point!

Anger and pain are at the heart of every movement, but when we march, we must sometimes wear the boots of provocation. Slutwalk is designed to provoke. 

Read the full piece here: 
http://business.in.com//article/recliner/sluts-walking-in-the-rape-capital/26532/1

what you don't know can hurt you


It’s been so long since I saw television that I’m stunned at the sight of a young man being insulted on national television. I’m squirming on behalf of this aspiring Roadies contestant, angry at the ‘judges’ who are calling him stupid to his face.
But the next minute, the young man loses my sympathy when he says that he agrees with the ‘Ayodhya verdict’, though he doesn’t know what the verdict is. He doesn’t know what the Ayodhya issue is. He thinks Ayodhya is where a ‘war’ happened and confuses it with the big one in Kurukshetra (which features in the Mahabharata). This strapping young man also doesn’t know who the president of India is, but assumes she is male.
By the time the video clip ends, the interview panel is falling about laughing. They are calling him ‘cute’. How else do we deal with the fact that young, school-educated, urban Indians don’t know a thing about themselves or the forces that are shaping their nation? They’re so ignorant, they’re like children.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

The Outside Element

Blame it on the great Indian white skin fixation. Or, if you prefer, on a new body code that has corroded the flimsy wall between modeling and acting. Most of all, blame it on Katrina Kaif.

Years after she rode into Bollywood on the back of an oddity called ‘Boom’, she has blown away most of the criticism about her inability to speak Hindi, her disconcertingly foreign accent, her questionable talent. Half-white, slender and a ‘hit’ with millions of Indian men, particularly the ticket-buying middle class, what Katrina Kaif has given Indian cinema is debatable. But there is no doubt that she has given hundreds of non-Indian young ladies a generous dollop of hope. If she can do it, why not them?

Indeed, there is no reason why not. As long as a girl is pretty and can pass off as vaguely Indian, she’s got a fair shot at stardom in Mumbai. Giselle Monterio’s career took off with a couple of lines of (dubbed) dialogue in Love Aaj Kal, and now that she’s playing one of the female leads in Always Kabhi Kabhi, the Brazilian model is a lodestar for dozens of her compatriots, girls like Camila Granato, 22, and Taciane Matos, 18.

Both are from Brazil; both signed up with the Indian modeling agency, Toabh Talents; both share an apartment in Mumbai and both will be seen in the song from the forthcoming Mere Brother ki Dulhan.
Camila has been in a film before, where she was floating about in a party scene shot in Turkey, and Taciane has been part of Thank You. Neither watched Hindi movies before they came to India, although they did watch a soap opera called ‘Way to India’, which is quite popular in Brasil. Although they didn’t watch the show regularly, they realized that, culturally and socially, they have much in common with Indians.

That is part of the reason why several Brazilian models stay on, despite the fact that India is a bit of an “everything shock”, as Camila puts – cultural, civic, climatic and aural shocks await the models when they first arrive. Most of them are signed up with one of a handful of agencies that bring down international models to work in commercials and fashion shoots in Mumbai.

There is plenty of work available. Varun Katoch, business head at Toabh, says that he’s managing 31 models of which about 20 are foreigners. “But I could hire 200 models and still have work for all. There are tens of thousands of Indian brands and they all want professional models. The foreign girls often start modeling as young as 14 and by the time they come here, they are quite good at their job.”

Varun admits that a major factor for the foreign models’ presence here is their looks, but he says it is their height and clear skin that works to their advantage. He says, “We actually try and pick models who look a little bit Indian. Brown hair, tanned skin. They’re not all white white.”

However, once the models arrive, other windows of opportunity open up. It isn’t hard to find work in music videos and films. But Varun is measured in his enthusiasm when I ask about the models’ Bollywood prospects. “We do get queries from production houses. And there’s Katrina Kaif, of course. The girls hear about her and they want to try their luck. Sometimes, during ad shoots, directors will encourage them to try films. But then speaking Hindi is a must.”

What he does not quite say is that Hindi is the hurdle at which foreigners stumble. While shooting advertisements, the girls don’t really have to speak. It is enough that they look beautiful. Film requires a basic control over language, especially since very few Hindi film scripts have foreigners written into key roles.
However, another actress of mixed parentage (she speaks Hindi quite fluently) believes language doesn’t matter. “In Hindi films, a female actor just needs to look pretty. The only other thing that matters is who she’s hooking up with. They just get pedantic about the accent when it suits them.”

But the hopefuls are, well, hopeful. And they’re not leaving anything to chance. Evelyn Sharma, a half-Indian half-German 23-year-old, has enrolled in an acting course, is learning Hindi and taking Bollywood dance lessons. “I grew up in Germany and came to India as a traveling model. But I love acting. I have done some theatre and one American action film. But Inega, my agency, will not let me do bit roles in Bollywood. The first film is so important,” she says.

However, Evelyn admits that you’d have to be half-Indian or be able to pass off as Indian – “like Giselle” – to get a real break. “Bollywood is changing. More foreigners get lead roles. I know a Swedish girl who is playing the lead in a small production,” she says. After a pause, she adds, “I can’t wait for it to change.”

Whilst she holds out for a film break, Evelyn will be seen in a video with Daler Mehndi as he sings ‘Sheela ho ya Munni’. However, most agents are anxious that I get the right picture. More than one agency told me that their models may take on non-lead parts in ‘major productions’, but they’re not ‘dancers’ and they’re very emphatically ‘NOT extras’.

This little crisis of identity can be traced to the explosion of white skin in background Bollywood. All you have to do is hang around at Colaba Causeway and sure enough, a ‘talent’ scout comes along looking for foreigners. If you get cast, you might have to put up with a 12-hour shift, famously bad food, tacky costumes, and plenty of boredom. In return, you get paid between Rs 500 and Rs 1000. In fact, travel websites now ask tourists to hang around at Colaba as part of their ‘Experience Bollywood’ plan.

Clearly, this is not what they want to be – these cheerful, beautiful girls who have descended upon Mumbai from Germany, Brazil, Russia, or the UK. Yes, they’d like to be in Bollywood but not as props on a set, not as shadowy figures wiggling in the backdrop of a ‘classy’ video. They’re here for a sprinkle of stardust.

Or are they?

Taciane confesses there are days when she weeps. I ask why, and she has to remind me that she’s still a teenager. “Camila plays mama to me sometimes. She lets me put my head on her lap if I cry,” she says with a laugh. “Me and my sister used to sleep with our heads in mama’s lap, her fingers running through our hair.”

Camila explains that in Brasil, several girls start modeling not for the glamour but because they need to. Some of them support their families. Taciane, who grew up speaking only Portuguese, points out that unless you attend expensive schools, you will find it hard even to learn English. Camila was luckier and managed to attend drama and ballet lessons (though it is unlikely that her training will help her film career. Many Russian ballet dancers can find work only as background dancers in Mumbai). But both are excited about films. “It’s something different,” says Camila. “It’s more fun.”

I ask the girls why they don’t try to find work in movies back home. They say there is no film ‘industry’ there, and production values are worse than television.

Why not TV then? Taciane says she’d love to try her luck in TV – there’s money and fame, and she could be near her beloved mama. “But I’d have to go to Rio for auditions, and living in Rio is too expensive.”

Evelyn, who has already worked in an American production, says Bollywood is a bit easier to break into. “In LA (Hollywood), everyone is there to become an actor. It isn’t like that in Mumbai,” she says. A moment later, she shrugs and laughs. “I don’t know. Perhaps it is like that here too. But not everyone gets a chance.”

Mumbai, then, is a place where they do stand a decent chance. They’re already working in advertising and fashion. They already have half a foot in the door. Film work, of course, brings very little money. One agent reveals that Bollywood pays foreign models only as much – and sometimes even lesser – than Indian supermodels. “On an average, payments range between Rs 15,000 to Rs 50,000, for songs and minor roles. Sometimes, it might be Rs 1 lakh.” But no international model, he says, can afford to stick around in Mumbai unless they’re making at least a lakh a month.

Money clearly isn’t the main reason why the models are trying to work in Bollywood. Stardom, if it happens, is probably welcome but Evelyn says that a lot of her foreign friends are aware they may not become ‘superfamous’. They still want the film experience.

Why? I persist.

She comes up with a deeply insightful answer. “In commercials, you are always playing someone else. But it is only movies that let you be yourself even while you are acting. At least once in your life, you want that.”

Blame it on the medium then. Look at the way the camera lingers on the faces of actors, while it merely glances at dancers. The background girls make a living and are probably better trained, even more talented than the girl standing up ahead, pouting at the camera. But the dancers are reduced to flashing legs and silhouettes. It is the girl in the centre who is truly acknowledged. Because the camera loves her, so do we.

Ah well! Just go ahead and blame it on love.

A slightly edited version of this piece appeared here.

Monday, June 27, 2011

East or west, not quite the best


Try and imagine this. Take the names of eleven women you know. At the eleventh name, blink. That woman just disappeared from your life. Think of what it means to live like that, knowing that a pregnancy can so easily lead to a funeral. Or think of what it’s like to have your little sister killed by her in-laws.
Now think about your proximity to them. Not geographical proximity, no. Consider how close India is to her neighbours on the list of worst places to be a woman.


And think about how this could have happened to a nation that was created in the name of a religion that actually forbids dowry.
On that list, India is sandwiched between Somalia and Pakistan. Along with Afghanistan and DRC (Democratic Republic of Congo), we form a cosy club of Worst Five (for women), according to a recent survey compiled by Thomson Reuters foundation.
Because we’re so upbeat about India, we’re squirming. We would like to say: ‘That’s not fair!’ We want to find some fault with the data. We want to shout: ‘But on what basis?’
Not on the basis on what women wear or how many boyfriends they have. We were judged on the basis of health, discrimination, sexual violence, human trafficking and conflict-related violence. And we were found grossly, cruelly lacking.


Read full piece here.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Force One, the only one?


I’m ashamed. Deep down in my cynical writer’s heart, I didn’t believe he would actually do it. But he did. And I am ashamed because I’d heard of him but never took him seriously until he died.
I’m signed up on an environment e-group and had seen a press statement about Nigamanand — a Ganga-bhakt who had been on hunger strike for 68 days, who was arrested, then moved to Dehradun after poisoning fears at the Haridwar hospital.
What we do to our rivers can only be described as abuse (if this wasn’t a family newspaper, I’d use stronger language). I knew this. Yet, I thought that if a sadhu has been on fast for 68 days — if a sadhu was arrested in Haridwar! — newspapers would have written about it. My cynical side began wondering about the veracity of the press statement.
Next I heard Nigamanand was in the mainstream press. He was dead. And everyone seemed to be leaning forward as if to ask: “What? Swami Nigamanand? Who?”


Read the full piece here.

Monday, June 13, 2011

No more phool-patti ke ishaare


Think about it. When was the last time you saw a romantic song where a couple dance — or even just circumambulate in a skippy, dreamy sort of way — around a tree?
I’m not joking. I’m serious. Look up old romantic songs on Youtube. Many outdoorsy songs (up until the 1990s) included trees. Picnics were always happening. Romance was always brewing. People went cycling, just for fun. Grassy hillsides were meant to roll about in. Trees were meant to lean against, and sigh, or hug, or hide behind as you tried to surprise a lover. Leaves could be torn off when lovers didn’t know what to do with their hands. Flowers were pure metaphor.
Even urban love stories got a fair shot at cosying up to trees. Watch Dev Anand in ‘Abhi na jaao chhod kar’. Watch Sharmila Tagore and Shammi Kapoor in ‘Isharon isharon mein’ as they arch backwards, swaying, holding a fir branch. Or watch Amitabh Bachchan in ‘Kabhi kabhi’, lying under a tree with Rakhee. That was romance personified.
Our heroes and heroines are still dancing. But not around trees. 
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