A story about a Green Boy who saw beauty in everything

The Green Boy was on his way to the school, where he would learn about the important things in life. Along the way, he had to go through the forest. Green Boy was a happy child and eager to learn, so he set out on the journey with a keen sense of adventure. 

The evening on the first day of his journey, as he walked in the forest, he came upon a tree full of fruits. Green Boy looked up, hungry after an afternoon full of walking. And in the tree, he found many juicy fruits. Green Boy eagerly climbed up and ate a few of them. 

As he was munching on one of the fruits, up higher in the tree, what did he see? 

A shiny juicy fruit nestled amidst the leaves, all the way on the top of the tree. Shinier than any other, and bigger also. Green Boy was intrigued. He climbed up to get to that fruit and as he reached the top, he realized that it was actually the moon! 

"Oh, such a wonderful thing!", Green Boy exclaimed "It would have been such a juicy shiny fruit!"

Hearing this exclamation, Mr. Merry Moon was amazed. 

He said to Green Boy, "Wow! Green Boy, you are the only one who looks at me and sees a shiny juicy fruit, everyone else thinks I am stinky old piece of cheese." Green Boy smiled sheepishly. 

"Thanks to you, Green Boy, I feel happier today. You are a good friend", said Mr. Moon. Green Boy tipped his hat and went on walking. 

It was dark by now and the forest was very silent, except for the rustling of the leaves. As Green Boy was turning into a path, what did he see in the bushes ahead of him? A pair of angry yellow eyes, shining from amidst the bushes. 

Then came a growl and a roar and out came a large Grey Devil with its fangs! Grey Devil started chasing Green Boy, who ran for his life. 

Grey Devil shouted behind him, "Stop you small little inconsequential little fellow. Ha.. ha.. you cannot run away. I am going to trouble you!" 

Around the trees, amidst the bushes, on top of the stony path, the Grey Devil chased poor Green Boy. But Green Boy kept running. It was almost dawn by the time Green Boy managed to escape the Grey Devil. 

Green Boy was tired. He had been running. He was tired, thirsty, and hungry. He came upon a green lake, filled with glassy green water and lots of leaves and plants floating on it. 

His face lit up with a smile and he sat on the bank and started drinking water from the lake. 

But soon, he heard a loud croaking noise. "Ribbittt. Ribbittt. Ribbittttttt". 

Two eyes popped up from below the water. Green Boy was nervous and about to run away, when he heard a voice call out. 

"Who drinks the water from my lake without my permission?", Mr. Warty Frog said.

Green Boy was relieved it was not the Grey Devil. 

He said, "Oh hello Mr. Frog. Sorry, I did not ask you permission. I am Green Boy. I was thirsty and this water looked so nice and refreshing. It was also the same colour as me. So, I took a sip" 

Mr. Frog looked surprised. 

He said, "Oh, what a wonderful thing to hear. Everyone else thinks this is a dirty swamp with stale icky water. You, Green Boy are the only person to think that this water looked nice and refreshing!" 

Green Boy smiled sheepishly. Mr. Frog said, "You are surely a friend, Green Boy". Mr.Frog continued,  "Come, let me take you to my home under the water and give you some breakfast". 

So Mr. Frog took Green Boy into his lake and to his underwater home. There, Mr. Frog introduced him to Mrs. Frog and their two hundred children, all called Tadpola or Tadpolee.  They all sat down and had a scrumptious breakfast. 

After breakfast and after resting for some time, Green Boy bid farewell to Mr. Frog and his family and off he went. Along the way, in the forest in the late morning, he observed the beautiful things with happy eager eyes. 

He was wandering through the green forest lost in its beauty. So lost was he that when he turned a corner he missed the large spider web and landed smack in the middle of the web. 

Madam Itsy Bitsy Spider sat watching as Green Boy tried to jiggle away trying to free himself. But as she approached him, to see what to do with him, she was pleasantly surprised. Instead of being scared, Green Boy was actually in awe of the web. 

He was saying, "Wow, look at this. Such a beautiful silver design, it catches the light so amazingly. Look at the intricate patterns and designs. Surely, whoever wove this web must be an artist" 

As he gushed over its beauty, Madam Spider felt amazing about the web she had woven. 

She went up to Green Boy and said to him, "Green Boy, you are amazing. Everyone else just gets scared when they get caught in my web. But you, you called me an artist. Made me appreciate my own creation!". 

Green Boy looked sheepishly and smiled. 

"Come, let me show you how to free yourself." Madam Spider said as she showed him the way to free himself from the enormous web. 

Green Boy thanked Madam Spider and went on his way. 

Along the way, he came across a giant anthill, built like a large castle rising from the ground. All around the anthill were busy ants marching in and out, carrying their food and other necessities. It was really a hive of activity, and there were so many things going on everywhere that it seemed like complete chaos.

Green Boy stood there looking absolutely amazed at this sight. His eyes were big as an owl's and he was genuinely amazed. 

He exclaimed, "Wow. Such an amazing display. So organized these ants are. And so hardworking. Look how wonderfully they are going about their work!". 

Hearing this, General Order Anticus the Third, or GOAT as he was known amongst his friends, stopped directing his battalion of soldier ants and looked incredulously towards Green Boy. He was so happy that a big tear drop formed in his ant eyes. 

He came running towards Green Boy and kissed his hand and said, 

"Green Boy, you are so kind. Everyone else thinks we are pesky pests and calls us busy bodies who are running around all over the forest floor." 

He said, wiping away the tears of joy, "You, Green Boy are the only one who has said we are something good! You must surely be a friend." 

Green Boy blushed again. 

General Anticus said, "Come, I must take you to meet our Queen. She will be very happy to see you". 

And off they went into the ant hill. In there, General Anticus introduced Green Boy to the royal family and they all had tea with the Queen. It was a very fancy affair with many amazing intricate pieces of cutlery and grand paintings on the walls. Green Boy really enjoyed himself. 

After Tea, Green Boy, bid farewell to the Queen and to General Anticus and his ant friends and headed onwards on his journey. 

It was late evening again, and Green Boy was nervous about having to encounter the Grey Devil again. But, he wanted to make his way forward, so on he went. 

As he was walking, he came across a quiet part of the forest. There were more hills and stones than trees, and the trees that were there did not have many leaves. He came upon one such barren tree, old and majestic, but without many leaves and pockmarked with age. But it was tall and sturdy. 

Green Boy looked up in awe and even though it did not give any shade or a cool breeze, he was amazed by its tallness and strength. 

He said, "What an amazing tree. And how many years it must have seen and how many people it must have provided shade and a cool breeze too!" 

From way above the tree, from an eyrie up in the high branches of the tree, came a high-pitched whistle. A happy high-pitched whistle. 

It was Grandma Glory Eagle. Down she came from her eyrie to meet Green Boy. 

She took him under her wing and said, "Hello there Green Boy. Welcome to my home. Thanks for calling my home tree amazing. It is an amazing tree. My eyrie up there has been on this tree for so long. Nowadays, people just want to cut down this old tree, but you called it amazing and recognized its long strong history" 

Green Boy felt happy listening to Grandma Eagle. He smiled sheepishly. 

Grandma Eagle then took him up to her eyrie and she gave him cookies and an assortment of snacks to eat. They talked all about Green Boy's adventures and all the new friends he had made. 

Then, when it was time to leave, and Green Boy was about to get down from the tree, he heard loud rustling from below the tree. There below the tree stood the sneaky, Grey Devil, looking up with its sharp teeth. It was looking up right at Green Boy. 

Grey Devil was prowling, waiting for Green Boy to make his way down. 

"It's trouble time for you Green Boy!" sneered Grey Devil, "I have got you now!". 

Green Boy was worried. He asked for Grandma Eagle's advice on what to do. She suggested that he call all his friends and make a plan. So, Green Boy used Grandma Eagle's phone and called all his friends.

He called Mr. Merry Moon, Mr. Warty Frog, Madam Itsy Bitsy Spider, and General Order Anticus the Third. On a conference call, they all heard Green Boy's predicament, and together with Grandma Glory Eagle, they hatched a plan to put an end to the trouble Grey Devil was planning for Green Boy. 

And what a lovely plan it was! 

 Soon, it was night, and Grey Devil was getting agitated. He was taunting Green Boy to come down.

The friends started putting their plans into action. 

First, Mr. Moon turned off the lights completely. 

It was pitch dark black and Grey Devil had trouble seeing himself, let alone the surroundings. He got nervous. What was happening? 

Then, Mr. Frog started making loud and fierce croaking noises. 

"RIBBITTTT, RIBBITTTT, RIBBBBBBIIIIITTTTTT", Mr. Frog croaked. 

It was so loud and eerie in the darkness, that Grey Devil strated shivering. 

Then Madam Spider, threw a huge web onto Grey Devil and trapped him where he stood. He could move just a bit, but could not get himself loose. 

He was really nervous now. He was in the dark, hearing scary sounds and now he was trapped. He began sweating and shivering. 

But the friends were not done. General Anticus had come with his battalion of soldier ants and they charged Grey Devil and started biting his legs. 

"Awww, Awww, Awww", Grey Devil screamed as the stings of the soldier ant's bites ran up his legs. He was in trouble and he knew it. 

Then Grandma Eagle swooshed down from high above with her powerful wings and sharp talons making a screeching sound. 

Grey Devil could not see, but he knew that something big was rushing fast towards him. Left completely in the dark, with scary sounds, combined with feeling trapped from the web, stinging bites on his legs, and the screeching approaching monster from above, he finally had it. He started wailing.

He was so afraid by now, that when Green Boy said, "Hey, Grey Devil, will you trouble me again? Do you see what I can do?", Grey Devil immediately begged him to let him go. 

Grey Devil said, "Oh, Green Boy, I am sorry to even think of troubling you. I saw you were small and inconsequential, so I thought of troubling you. But, you are so much more powerful and magnificent."

He shivered and continued, "I will leave you alone, and from now on, I won't trouble anyone because they are small or inconsequential. Please let me go." 

Hearing his honest plea, the friends decided to end his misery. 

Grandma Eagle went back to her eyrie. General Anticus asked his soldiers to stand down. Madam Spider withdrew her web and Mr. Frog stopped making the horrible croaking noise. And finally, when Mr. Moon turned on the lights, Grey Devil ran away so fast it was a funny sight to see. 

All the friends had a hearty laugh. They all joined Green Boy in Grandma Eagle's eyrie and they had fun discussing the events of the evening. They told jokes about how they met Green Boy, and also about Grey Devil. 

Grandma Eagle kept them supplied with cookies, cakes, and tasty juices. What a wonderful evening it was. 

The next morning, Green Boy bid farewell to his friends. He had to head over to his school. He was eager to learn about the important things in life. 

Grandma Eagle offered to show him the way so that he could reach there faster. So she flew above and Green Boy followed her down on the forest floor, observing the many things around him. 

Soon, they reached the school and Green Boy said thanks to Grandma Eagle and bid her farewell. He had arrived at his school and was eager to go and learn new things. 

It was a bright new morning. Green Boy felt happy in his heart. He had learned so much along the way, and he was eager to learn so much more!

My Story...

It has been a long time now, and I have seen it all. I was born in early December in the year ninteen hundred and twenty four when the Nation I was born in, was still a hostage. It was hostage under an imperial dynasty which was weak and waning in its superiority around the world, and to make itself feel great, I was conceived. I was concieved in honour of a British King, but my favour has always been to the Grand City and the Nation I was born in. And what a Grand City it is, where my foundations are rooted - Bombay!

Ah! Bombay - the city of oppulence, the city of poverty, the city of trade, the city of love, the city of glamour, the city of an undying spirit and above all the city of dreams. The dreams of a scores and scores of my countrymen from the hinterland and scores of others from around the world. A coastal gateway to the magnificence that is India. This is the city I was born in and the city that I have seen grow to great heights, all the time being the very fuel feeding in to this vast nation's engine. And I have seen the strength which my country has gained.

I was there on the day our country gained Independence from the imperialists and I sighed a sigh of relief and of victory. I stood witness as the last regiment of the Imperial army beat a retreat past me, and sail away from the shores of Bombay, and away from the shores of India. I stood there that day with my grand elder brother - a magnanimous gentleman, who was born a few years before me, in defiance of the very imperialists who were retreating that day. And boy, did we rejoice that day - for we knew what a nation like ours could achieve in freedom.

We have stood, my brother and I, during all these years - witnessing our young nation grow. But we have also seen her suffer and cry out in pain; but we have stood steadfast in our patriotic duty to our nation - my brother as a great, grandeur host to all the leaders and businessmen of the world, with me welcoming all those who wish to enter our great city and nation. For the last sixty one years of our young nation's independence we have stood in service and have done so proudly.

During these years we have heard our city cry in pain when being subject to many atrocities against her. We have stood witness to many cruel and evil people try to undermine the very fabric of our city's gene - and also seen them fail. They have tried to demonstrate through thier impotent, evil and sinister ways that they can hold the enterprising nature of our citizens hostage. Through fear and terror they have tried to shut down our thriving businesses and disrupt the very way of our lives. They have repeatedly tried forcing us into believing that we will fail in our free enterprise and in growing up to be a thriving business market. It has always been they who have failed. Over these years I have personally seen the various atrocities they have tried to bring us on our knees. I have seen mindless riots acted out within yards of where I stand and also I have seen bombs go off in plain view. And I have seen the mindless impotence which has been thrust at our very faces, hoping that it will permanently discourage us.

But I have never seen my city succumbing to any of this. But instead I have seen my city resurgent always - I have seen it fight this terrible evil in a unique way; by proving to the evil doers that nothing they can do will perturb us from believeing in our capability to grow and be free. I have seen both the wealthy businessmen and the struggling street food vendor come back to the very places where henious crimes very committed and be guests of my brother's and my hospitality. I have seen throngs of people light candles and hold protest and also hold each other's hands in unity. I have seen young lovers looking at the vast expanse of the Arabian sea, eager to know what magnificence the future holds for them. I have seen old couples looking at the same expanse of the Arabian sea, thankful for the gifts they have earned through their long lives, gained through hard work. I have seen photographers capture the happiness of families on their vacations and of people marking the passing of their loved ones by strewing the ashes in the sea. And my brother and I have stood in the background of these memories, always happy to welcome all those who wish to come to our city and nation and partake of its greatness and for those who want to contribute to it. And all of them have looked upon our welcoming arms and thanked us for our graciousness.

But it is with a profound sense of grief that I stand this past week for I have witnessed a horrific scene. I have seen my brother's hospitality besieged and held hostage. I have seen his head set on fire by exploding grenades. I have seen evil men, dock their boats full of explosives in my dock. I have witnessed maniacs shoot weapons on the courtyard which cause loud horrific noises, where the loudest sounds usually is that of a group of cheering school girls on a vacation. I have stood witness as many of my city's guests have been brutally killed and my brother's furniture set ablaze. I have witnessed my brother's body burnt and scarred. I have witnessed my winged friends - the pigeons who rest in our courtyard, scared away by the sound of gunshot and blazing fire. I have witnessed the vile impotence of the men who perpetrated this henious crime and the sixty long hours they held my brother's hospitality hostage.

I have witnessed the worst days of my life.

I am in Mourning. I am the Gateway of India.

What kind of person does this blog make me?

Remember Organizational Behaviour subjects from college? With all the 'profiling' of personality types and group exercises to help understand psychological motivations, it used to almost seem like one was being racially profiled! Anyway, one of the types of profiling that is famous is called Myers Briggs Type Indicator. I was classified as INTP - Introverted iNituitive Thinking Perceiving type. I mostly agree with the classification and a website which specializes in predicting personality type by analyzing one's blog has also confirmed this. Here is type of person my blog makes me..

INTP - The Thinkers

The logical and analytical type. They are especialy attuned to difficult creative and intellectual challenges and always look for something more complex to dig into. They are great at finding subtle connections between things and imagine far-reaching implications.

They enjoy working with complex things using a lot of concepts and imaginative models of reality. Since they are not very good at seeing and understanding the needs of other people, they might come across as arrogant, impatient and insensitive to people that need some time to understand what they are talking about.

I just love the bit about how difficult I am to understand. Now I know why my colleague finds me so difficult the understand!

Hat Tip to Greg Mankiw for the website.

The Sunset...

Ah! The euphoria of young love is very well documented indeed. The excitement, the fascination, the need to explore and above all the need to be in each other's company are all the things associated with this. The need to be in each other's company and experience the beauty of the world in the presence of the other, is such a compulsion that many a hitherto difficult things become passe! Afterall, what could be better than being able to watch the orange Sun set, sitting at some quaint cafe on the beach, sipping cool ice tea all the while clasping onto his or her hands! Even if this means that one needs to brave the rush hour traffic and make it across the congested city roads from opposite ends of town, through the grime, the dust and sweltering humid heat.

Ah! Such is young love, indeed! Where all things external are forgotten, except for that one moment when one can experience the beautiful Sun rise in the company of one's lover. The experience is always even more maginficent if the sweat and grime of the sun set can be avoided and it is the cold early morning breeze that makes the eyes water, instead of the smog filled pollution. Even if this means that one needs to make elaborate plans to get to the beach early in the morning, sneaking out of hostel rooms, helping one's lady sneak out of windows to avoid being caught by fathers about to take the dog for its early morning walk!

Ah! What euphoria one such couple recently must have felt as they managed to sneak out of their respective abodes early one morning in Mumbai, without being noticed by any nosy third party, with evil accusing eyes; or without being chased by the house pet, let loose by the enraged father at the sight of his eloping daughter. Ah! What ecstasy to be with each other on the waterfront on the vast Arabian Sea, eager to spend the few treasured moments, waiting breathless, to watch the magnificent Sun Rise!

SCREEEEEECH!

Ah! What the Hell! Such is the buzz of young love, that one tends to forget that the sun rises in the east and that the vast Arabian Sea is where the Sun would rather set in a magnificient orange blaze of glory!

Ah! What tragedy the Sun demands these young lovers to toil again in the smog filled evening to view him subside?

Ah! What ... are you sure this time......

The Beginning of Idea Architecture...

Idea Architecture by Anand Rao (Me!)

Rose for your girlfriend, sir?

Church Street, the narrow road between the Brigade road and St. Mark’s road; parallel to MG Road in Bangalore’s bustling up-market area. It is late evening on a dry summer’s day. The sun has set and the light from the many buildings, billboards and the street lights illuminate most of the street, but still leave certain sections of the street, dark.

The lady, who sells assorted dry fruits on a push cart by the parked cars, is counting the day’s earnings. There has been a good sale of the cashew today but the walnuts, chestnuts and almonds are not sold. Her daughter has not persisted in pestering the Chinese couple who had bought some cashew that afternoon to buy other items. She looks for her daughter now and realizes that it is evening and the sale of ‘rose flowers’ must have started.

A shapely young girl of about 22 years stands waiting on the narrow pavement, beside the pushcart with her back to the two wheeler parking lot of a dingy, cream colored six storey building.

Her fair complexion, accentuated with generous amounts of make-up causes the crimson lipstick to stand out. She has shoulder length brown hair with streaks of gold recently colored into them. Her ears sport a light weight, yet prominent designer ornaments which almost reach up to her shoulders.

She is wearing a knee length black skirt and a sleeveless zebra stripped top. She is a tall girl, but still wears dainty little black shoes with three inch heels. She is clutching a black handbag close to her body with her left hand, even while the strap of the handbag is slung over her shoulder. Her right hand clutches a black Nokia mobile phone.

It is getting late and he has not even bothered to call, yet. The two service messages she got from her network provider turned out to be false alarms. Her face betrays the irritation. She jerks her head away from the sight of a couple walking arm in arm.

At the other end of the street a young man on a purple colored ‘macho’ Pulsar motorbike turns into Church Street from Brigade Road. He is tall, sports an unshaven look and is rather muscular. He wears a brown leather jacket. Despite the helmet rule imposed by the government, he does not wear one; rather it is hung on his left forearm. It is uncomfortable, but it is at hand and if a police man decides to move towards him, it can be worn at short notice. More importantly, he wants to avoid ‘helmet hair’.

His face is lost in deep thought and there is a sense of urgency on it. But, somehow he is not able to bring himself to ride any faster. He pulls over to the left and is lucky to find a narrow parking slot. He manages to maneuver the bulky motorbike into the narrow space between whole rows of tightly parked two wheel vehicles but is unable put the side-stand, let alone alight from the motorbike. Irritated, he looks for someone to come help him hold the motorbike while he alights or make space for him to do so.

Another man wearing a red cap, un-tucked brown check shirt and with grease stained hands comes and starts moving the vehicle to the right of the young man. The young man can now alight, but still with some difficulty especially as he does not want to stain or tear his khaki trousers. He gives the man with the red cap two rupees and reaches for his mobile phone which is in a small leather pouch hung from his brown trouser belt.

At the other end of the street the dry fruit lady lifts her head from the counting as she hears an attractive jingle. She can’t recognize the tune which is from Mylo’s ‘Drop the pressure’, and just looks for the source of the sudden melody. The young girl looks at her mobile phone and is relieved but she waits a few moments before answering it.

“Where are you?” he asks in an Indian language before she can say ‘hello’.

“Hello!” she replies with a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “It’s been 30 minutes, you know!” then she continues in vernacular “Where are you? I am in front of Kaati Zone”

“Kaati Zone? Okay. I could not find parking space.”

“Are you still looking for parking? Why didn’t you come here directly? I told you, I would be waiting here, in front of Kaati Zone”

“No. I just found a space. I’m walking towards Kaati Zone now.” He replies leaning against his motorbike.

The guy with a red cap who is still moving an adjoining vehicle looks in the direction of Kaati Zone, searching for someone. It is quite a distance, he wonders. If only his daughter knew that this guy was going to walk all the way there, she might be able to approach him on the way.

“Why are you walking till here? Where have you parked? Anyways, come quick” she hangs up and reaches for something inside her black purse.

The lady selling dry fruits, who’s been distracted from her counting by the ringtone, now wonders how many roses has been sold that evening.

The young man is now walking towards Kaati Zone. He is now feeling very uncomfortable. He is wondering if it was worth all this. She had actually asked him to send her a Valentine day’s card by post on February 14^th, even though he had met her that day! “I mean, who does that” he thought. He had half a mind to stop at the vendor selling pirated books by the street side and delay reaching Kaati Zone some more time. “I wonder if she has ever read Jonathan Livingstone Seagull” he wonders as he sees the book. He continues walking.

Meanwhile, “I am sure he will notice it. He always notices this kind of stuff” the young girl has got a Maybelline Moisture Extreme lip gloss and is contemplating if she should use it. “I am sure he has discussed how luscious my lips look, with his creepy friends.” Instead, she gets a tissue paper and deftly starts removing the gloss from her lips. “Creep!” she thinks aloud and discards the tissue paper.

He notices her standing from a distance. “Wow!” he thinks, his face shows the exclamation. “Nice choice of clothes, madam!” he thinks and hastens his pace. “What was I thinking? Someone, this ‘interesting’ has to be given more consideration!” he chuckles to himself. “And besides, she is one hell of a dancer. And look! No ugly shiny lipstick also today!” Finally!

“Hi!” he says grinning cheerily, approaching her from behind.

She has noticed him coming, but turns a little slowly and maintains a poker face. With one hand on her hip she asks him without blinking her large eyes, “How come so late?”

“Sorry, sorry!” he replies eagerly “Friday evening is bad for the parking scene, Madam”

“Madam!” she is amused by the way he always calls her that. “So what?” she asks.

“He did send me two Valentine’s Day cards, and did not act smart about it when I asked him for it” she is thinking “Surely, he would have had to stand in the queue for an hour at Archie’s gallery to buy those cards”

“Sorry, sorry. I got a little delayed and thought it would be best to park my bike in the first spot I could find. Did you wait long?”

“Hello! It has been one hour, been standing here” she vehemently argues.

He looks lost. “How stupid of me, I was worried if she read some lousy book” he thinks “How am I going to salvage this?”

“Rose for your girlfriend, sir? Red rose, Sir. Please buy!” a noisy voice interrupts him. A little girl of ten is standing between them looking up, holding a bunch of red roses with small thorns still in their long stems. The lady selling the dry fruits is looking at them with unabated curiosity.

Both of them look at the little girl and then look at each other. He looks inquiringly, she avoids his eyes and tries to look away.

“How much?” he asks the little girl.

“Just fifteen rupees for two, Sir.” She replies looking at the girl. “How many you want madam?”

She looks at him with a mischievous inquiring look. “How much are you going to buy for me, ‘Sir’” she wonders.

He hesitates. “How many do you have?” he asks the little girl in all earnest.

“I have ten rose, Sir. That will be seventy five rupees”

He shifts his focus from the flower girl to the ‘madam’ who is now giggling. “Give me the ten!” he says to the flower girl and the ‘madam’ bursts out laughing.

The dry fruit seller smiles at a person wearing a red cap who is now standing beside her.

The giggling is now interrupted by the ringtone again,

“…… gonna drop the pressure”.

‘Madam’ waits for a moment and then disconnects the call.

Say, are you game for some Satire?

{Also cross-posted at the Indian Media Bash Blog. Read Here }

For MAD magazine fanatics like me, everything in those pieces of satire is like pure gold! But believe me, the humor of MAD does not appeal to everyone. From “Alfred E. Neuman’s” various avatars to the “Letters and Tomatoes Department” and from the “The MAD Movie Satires” to the unforgettable “Spy Vs Spy” bloodbaths, all of them are unbelievably cruel. Cruel in the sense that, they go all out to make the life of those being parodied, unbearably funny. The caricatures of celebrities are not only realistic, but the situations they seem to be portrayed in, are very relevant to their “personalities”. Ya, I mean I know most of you are thinking that that is what they are supposed to be doing, but somehow I feel that after RK Laxman’s cartoons, no other cartoons seem to be able to convey the humor with a punch like those found in MAD.

The Gods of Movie Satire and everything else!

The features where they have cartoon parodies of the latest, famous movies, TV serials, and political events are just hilarious. Some of my favorites are from the Kicking the Hobbit Department: “Bored of the Rings” and from the Serge in General Department: “MAD look at Jackass”. One of the most memorable recent issues of MAD I read was the “The Official Unofficial History of MAD” [Thanks to a friend whose copy I borrowed and have still not returned!]. It carried the chronological history of how MAD developed and in a sort of “Forrest Gump-ish” way connected the important happenings of the 20^th century with the issues of MAD. The bit about how Bill Gaines, the editor of MAD in 1987 skipped lunch for a week and by doing so saved Ghana from a famine has me in splits ever since!

Cine Blitz has Gone MAD?

Now back in India and to some interesting notes about our desi magazines, I found that Cine Blitz, the film magazine from the Mallyas [I did not know this, but the credits say that Mr. Vijay Mallya is the chairman] has a section on movie satire which is a ditto copy of the MAD version. I generally don’t page through Cine Blitz or Star Dust or any other movie magazines when I am in our club library, because most of the people there give me a nasty look, thinking that I am wasting my time ogling the glossy pictures of filmy babes, apart from all that’s on TV anyway. But today, seeing that Time magazine was already in the hands of someone else, I decided to page through a couple of these magazines. I pity the people who spend time writing articles in these magazines, I doubt if anyone reads them anyway. [Note to editors, magazine owners and others: This previous comment does not in anyway indicate my disinclination towards writing such articles if they are offered to me.] Everybody is so busy paging through the glossy airbrushed pictures of film stars and models that I doubt if anyone reads beyond the first two lines of the write-ups. Anyway, coming back to what I was saying before, Cine Blitz it seems now carries a movie satire piece with cartoons.

I found that I actually was reading October, 2005’s edition of Cine Blitz and it carried a parody about Aamir Khan’s movie Mangal Pandey- The Rising. It had caricatures of Aamir Khan, Amisha Patel, Rani Mukherjee and other cast members of the movie in goofy Mangal Pandey situations. I found that it also carried a joke similar to what I had conjured up in this post, about how unemployed dancing girls will find jobs in movie item numbers.

Satire in Indian Media

Well, this piece in Cine Blitz was nowhere as good as what is found on MAD, simply because it was not wicked enough! But satire and parodies in our Media is rather sparse according to me. Yes we have Shekar Suman with his Vajpayee imitations, NDTV’s puppet show, Double Take and a few others, but most satires are not of any mentionable quality. We are not such a satirical people as the Americans are [which is good] and many have complained to me that they don’t want to feel guilty by reading trash like MAD, but some laughing at ourselves will do us no harm. As I write this piece, the Apsara Award show is being aired on TV and I find that the event organizers too have come up with an attempt at satire. I must say, Ganesh Hegde and Diya Mirza’s parody about the hit movie songs of 2004-2005 looks like a good attempt. The comedians of the Great Indian Laughter Challenge also do a great job. And if the popularity of that show is any indication, it would be that we can afford to laugh a little more at MAD like satires and not feel guilty about it!

The Coconut Picker

The view from the window of my bedroom in our second floor apartment is that of crisscrossing bristles of the green leaves of a coconut tree. Trying to thwart the habit of an afternoon siesta, which is unbecoming of a twenty three year old like me, I lay on my bed beside the window this past Sunday afternoon enjoying the view of squirrels scurrying among the yellow green coconuts which looked ripe enough to be picked very soon. It had rained the previous night and the green leaves looked bright and a couple of the dried brown ones hugging the trunk of the tree also glistened in the afternoon sun. Just as I was wondering about the need to pick the ripe coconuts and pull down the dried leaves lest they should come crashing down in the next rain, I saw a pair of thin, sun burnt brown arms of an old man who picked the coconuts, climbing the gray trunk of the tree.

I sat up, amazed at this coincidence and observed as the old man climbed up to within reach of the coconuts with the ease and confidence of a skilled person. His legs were wrapped around the trunk of the tree, a small piece of jute rope looped across his ankles and one of his hands holding a small curved machete. He was a lean man in his late fifties but his arms and legs did not show signs of age. He wore a turban over his squat face and the white bristles of his unshaven beard were in contrast with the brown of his wrinkled skin. The skin over his gaunt face was pulled taut with concentration as he clung on to the tree at the precarious height with just his legs and used both his arms to cut the dead leaves of the tree.

He was one of the regulars who plied the street selling tender coconut and had been for many years now, the person who picked the coconuts when they were ripe. Nobody had to inform him when to come and just as the thought of trimming the trees popped up in the minds of the housewives and grandmothers of the houses on the street, he would be there the next day offering to do the job. He was a quite man, someone who probably knew when the coconut trees on this street were ready to be pruned and turned up without fail at the right time. It was probably the recognition of his skill that there was a tacit understanding between him and the matrons of the houses and there was never any haggling between them unlike the few other younger men who turned up at infrequent intervals and demanded exorbitant charges.

I sat watching him using his machete to cut the coconuts off the tree and seeing them fall down some thirty feet with a thud and rolling off to all corners of the garden below. There was a simple beauty in the way he executed this, holding the coconut he was cutting in his left hand and using the machete in his right hand to dislodge it from the tree with just one slash. He then let it go from the height where it always landed on the mud below before it bounced off with tremendous force towards the pots, but never managed to break them. This reminded me of a fable which my mother had told me about a traveler who rested below a large banyan tree on his road and wondered why God had blessed such a vast tree with tiny cheery sized fruit and a small shrub with a big fruit like a pumpkin. The beauty of nature dawns on him when he is awoken by the small fruit popping over his head and realizes that he is lucky that it was not a large pumpkin that fell on his head instead.

I had always wondered whether the coconut tree had been an anomaly to this wonderful order in nature and why such a hard shelled fruit hung so high above our heads. But as I saw this skilled man at the top of the tree ripping the coconuts from the tree with a calm casual brilliance, I realized that there was a superior order of nature - the competence of man’s mind which has the cognizance to discern good from bad and in the process of ensuring its welfare also finds the nectar hidden in the giddy heights it has scaled. After all, isn’t it this ability to appreciate good things that inspired a Kannada poet to ask his fellow men

“… Thindidiya khobri bella?”

(Have you had the pleasure of eating the mixture of coconut and jaggery?)

Reading Classics

I recently read an excerpt from Daniel Defoe’s classic Robinson Crusoe, which describes the marooned sailor’s chance discovery of a mysterious human footprint on his island after many years of solitude. Although this excerpt did not mention where it had been taken from, anyone who has read the book before would identify it without too much trouble. But as I read through the piece I became increasingly confused. This was not what I had read as a kid; firstly this was in first person with Robinson describing his feelings of terror upon seeing the solitary footprint in the sand, secondly the language and thoughts expressed were dark and described the sailor’s dread of finding the footprint rather than the sense of adventure and discovery that I had experienced while reading it as a kid. Only when I dug up my old copy of the book did I realize that it was actually a book adapted for young readers, an abridged version that I had read and believed to be a classic! I had received that book and many other such “classics” from my aunt on my 11^th birthday. I then remembered the circumstances under which I first read the book; it was actually in a train back from Dharwad to Bangalore. I had just received the bunch of books, and was very eager to read them and unable to wait till I got back home in Bangalore, climbed up on the top berth of the train compartment and started reading the book.

The book at that time gave me a lot of glee and was the first book which I read and re-read about ten times. Although I had been told the story before, I found reading this book extremely invigorating. Only now when I read the book, mused about the illustrations which it had in each page and read an excerpt from the original, did I realize what further depth of thought this classic contained. Dafoe’s Robinson is utterly terrified upon seeing the footprint in the sand. He struggles to understand this unexpected phenomenon amidst the fears of being haunted by the devil and in spite of the solitude reasons out why it cannot be a supernatural occurrence but an evil much more terrifying. When he later finds that his fears of savage cannibals is actually true, Robinson again struggles for confidence in his religious beliefs, questioning whether the miracle which had saved him until then was actually a gift from God. The author’s life paralleled his hero’s in many ways; Dafoe was initially ordained to be a religious minister. But not finding this to his liking decided to become a merchant. He was successful in his initial years but in 1692 his business failed and he had to undergo a lot of hardship. He decided to pursue a career writing political articles but ended up antagonizing the royalty and again was in debt. Finally when he decided to turn towards writing fiction, he was almost sixty and had not succeeded very well in supporting his wife and family of six children. Robinson also endures varying degrees of success. Like Dafoe, he also decides not to pursue his family occupation of Law and decides to be a merchant sailor. The incident between Robinson and his father who is against his son becoming a sailor could well have been inspired by Dafoe’s experience with his parents during his early days. Dafoe found large success with his first novel Robinson Crusoe, and went on to write other noted books like Moll Flanders & Colonel Jack. But unlike his hero Robinson, Dafoe did not have a comfortable old age. He died a broken man largely in debt, alone and frightened.

Reading this excerpt has made me realize that all these years I had been under a wrongful impression of having read this and other classics. Reading the abridged versions introduced me to these books when I was a kid but now I have to read the originals to actually understand the greatness of these books. Books like The Swiss Family Robinson by Johann Wyss, The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy, Moby Dick by Herman Melville, are all great classics, which I have only read adapted abridged versions. Reading authors from today like those of Sheldon, Archer, Forsyth and the likes is very interesting indeed but for me classics have always held a strange charm. The sense of grandiose adventure and subtle humor in the classics are unparalleled. Emily Bronte’s cult classic The Wuthering Heights is a fascinating example of depth of thought expressed in any kind of prose. The humor of Mark Twain’s Adventures of Tom Sawyer and that of Jerome K Jerome’s Three Men In A Boat is original and rib tickling. Descriptive and factual classics like Francis Parkman’s The Oregon Trail & and Edward Ellis’ The Chieftain’s Daughter, which are stories of early explorations and settlements of the American continent, are superior pieces of literature.

For anybody interested in reading such classics which are not all easily available in the market I suggest the internet archive called Project Gutenberg. [ www.gutenberg.org ] They have a large collection of e-books which are freely available for interested readers. I have been reading Bernard Shaw’s classics like Pygmalion, Man and Superman, Caesar and Cleopatra, How He Lied To Her Husband and other such superb plays through these e-books. Project Gutenberg is heaven sent or people like me and with the recent discovery of my poor history of having read these original classics I am sure to find a lot of need for it.

Writer's Block!

“Writer’s block”, I guess that is what inspired these words that follow. I read a book about journalism recently, which prophesized that a person cannot aspire to be a newspaper columnist if he cannot write. Typing will do too. Fancying myself to be the next Dilip Padgoankar, Jug Surayia or Dave Barry, I started writing this piece. But soon I found, as I stared into the screen that I did not know what to write about. I wondered whether this is what is called as writer’s block. Well I am not really a writer to qualify to have writer’s block, but what I was enduring could not be called incognizance or absence of ideas, but rather an absence of concrete opinions about anything to comment upon volitionally.

As music was playing loudly in the background maybe my chimerical and fertile imagination was not triggering. But I was in no mood to turn the music off even though I felt that my chances of a portentous arrival in the league of the Padgaonkars and Barrys would be compromised. I settled to just turning the volume down. Now that the music was really in the background, these noumenal notions started to take shape. For the uninitiated, “noumenal” is an adjective for a word which describes an idea or an object that can be intuited only by the intellect and not by the senses. I went through many such topics as I tried to grasp on to one that would inspire me to write.

It wasn’t the words that failed me but my own opinions about these subjects. To effectuate what I am describing let me give an example. One of the topics that is always haunting my intellect is the subject of capital punishment. I would love to put on my pirate’s bonnet and grunt “Off with your head, mate!” whenever the Finance Minister tries to tax my fringe benefits or when someone’s mobile phone disturbs the acoustics during a seminar or when someone drops a catch. But then my assiduous big head comes up with conflicting opinions about the subjects, like the fact that my boss’ fringe benefits being more than mine is actually bad for my boss. This capriciousness about the subject incapacitates me from commenting about it.

So vacillating are my opinions about this that I find it difficult even to satirically justify its authenticity. I find this particularly appalling because satire is one of my strongholds, as I am often accused of being very cynical and satirical in my opinions.

Obtuse humour is one of my favorite topics. Whether it is writing about anatomical oddities or pseudo pretentious habits of people I enjoy a free flow of thought and opinions. But about other more challenging notions I fail to take a side or change my mind.

Whether or not it is writers block, it has definitely made me believe that I have become obstinate. The encyclopedia gives an interesting quote made by a one Lady Asquith. Quoting in “Fine art of political wit”, she says,

“He has a brilliant mind, until it is made up.”

This sort of aptly describes my condition. If only I could have concrete opinions about all subjects, I could probably write long articles about them. Until then at least writers block limits me to write such articles as the one you are reading now. Nevertheless, writers block does help to build my vocabulary. It makes me write articles that have words, I have never even heard of before. Again this makes me undecided whether writers block is good or bad.

Note: I wrote this piece a long time ago for a different blog. Decided to post it here since I have not been able to write anything else for a couple of days now!

Oration

As I have mentioned, the art of writing prose poses many challenges. It requires a great degree of clarity in thought, good command over the language and a kind of sublime understanding in making the audience on the other side of the paper grasp the spark of thought that the author wishes conveyed. Oration on the other hand demands of the speaker a gumption which is not easily gained. The writer has the advantage of time that his readers can spend with his writing to understand it; the orator is stretched for time in the sense that generally there is an inverse proportion between the length of the speech and the audience’s understanding of it. There is a substantial difference even between the actual speech and the speaker’s written version, which he may refer to. This is because the speaker while preparing his speech in written form allows his mind the latitude of time to form his thoughts, but even this practiced speech is not granted the same latitude by a listening audience.

Thus oration requires above all, alacrity in speaker understanding the subject. A beautiful example of such a quality can be found in one of the short World War I biographies written by Sir Winston Churchill about the erstwhile French Prime Minister Georges Clemenceau. He writes in the note on Clemenceau in the book Great Contemporaries, which by itself is an exquisite piece of superlative writing, about the latter’s oratory skill as follows

“I also heard Clemenceau’s reply in the Chamber. It is very difficult for a foreigner with only a superficial knowledge of the language and only an indirect sensing of the atmosphere, to judge such oratorical performances. Certainly Clemenceau reproduced more than any other French Parliamentarian I have heard, the debating methods of the House of Commons. The essence and foundation of the House of Commons debating is formal conversation. The set speech, the harangue addressed to constituents, or to the wider public out of doors, has never succeeded much in our small wisely-built chamber. To do any good you have got to get down to grips with the subject and in human touch with the audience. Certainly Clemenceau seemed to do this; he ranged from one side of the tribune to the other, without a note or book of reference or scrap of paper, barking out sharp staccato sentences as the thought broke upon his mind. He looked like a wild animal pacing to and fro behind bars, growling and glaring; and all around him was an assembly which would have done anything to avoid having him there, but having put him there, felt they must obey. Indeed it was not a matter of words or reasoning. Elemental passions congealed by suffering, dire perils close and drawing nearer, awful lassitude, and deep forebodings, disciplined the audience. The last desperate stake had to be played. France had resolved to unbar the cage and let her tiger loose upon all foes, beyond the trenches or in her midst. Language, eloquence, arguments were not needed to express the situation. With snarls and growls, the ferocious, aged, dauntless beast of prey went into action.”

Apart from the superlative prose of the author, we are treated also to details of M. Clemenceau’s oratory skills. His ability to hold lethargically hostile audiences, with extempore oration, to rapt attention enough to make them obey him, is definitely a quality to be admired. Writing presupposes a great ability to convey to the reader the authors flow of thought and as a medium of communication is no less difficult when compared to oration, but the “method” required of speech is far greater in terms of proficiency of thought. Taken out of context, the above excerpt may suggest that M. Clemenceau’s oratory prowess may have been restricted to fierce rhetoric, but the following excerpt, again from the same source as above clarifies that his capabilities were much more. More, since the secret behind his exceptional oratory skills was his inherent ability to write.

“Excluded from the chamber, his voice could no longer be heard. Never mind! He had another weapon. He had a pen. His biographer says that Clemenceau’s journalistic output could not be contained in a hundred substantial volumes. He wrote for bread and life: for life and honour! And far and wide what he wrote was read. Thus he survived. He survived not to recover only, but to assault: not to assault, but to conquer.”

References:

Great Contemporaries by Winston S. Churchill, Fontana Books, 1937

My first serious blog!

My intention for indulging in this Blog is my need to improve my writing skills. Most people have a lot of thoughts and ideas in their minds. Some are able to communicate their thoughts and ideas effectively by speech and oration. This requires good diction and good presence of mind (which generally falters at the sight of an audience). But once this is overcome, speech making becomes easy. Few others express their thoughts by prose. Now this requires a whole other set of skills. In this medium one may not be directly in front of one’s audience to experience any kind of stage fright but has the inherent disadvantage of not being able to communicate visually.
The idea in a person’s mind is conceived as whole but like any channel of transmission the whole is affected by “noise” and all one hears is a group of sounds or reads a set of written symbols. Speech gives us many opportunities to convey tone and emphasis by both visual physical expressions and nuances of the speaker’s voice. Written prose has a tougher task of trying to capture these phonetic cues through articulate use of words and flow of thought. Educational research shows that ability to articulate one’s thought through written form requires a high degree of competence not only with language, grammar and vocabulary but also a great deal of understanding and knowledge of psychology.
My intentions though are not to enhance my psychoanalytical skills but to gain the ability to convey thought and intention in written form lucidly and in a more general sense, to be able to express my view point effectively!