‘Chink’ headline raises question: How responsible are we for things we do not know? | Poynter.

‘Chink’ headline raises question: How responsible are we for things we do not know? | Poynter.

Why Sajid Khan should shut up (and keep making his duds, if he has to)

“Hindi films are not made for critics; it is made for Hindi film watching audience worldwide.”

I love the Khan siblings — Farah and Sajid. Motor-mouthed both of them, rarely do they realise where their mouths are leading them. And, in the process, coming out with a gem, like this one above, at the launch of Sajid’s first trailer of his film forthcoming film (sorry, “blockbuster”) Housefull 2, in Mumbai on February 9. (Read: Sajid Khan: Hindi films are not made for critics)

The brother-sister duo makes films that, well, reportedly do good business. Although I have to admit here that most such reports about the ‘good business’ (“blockbusters”, again if you actually want to quote them on record) their films do come from the duo only, the self-professed aam-janta-ka-directors.

While their chutzpah in rattling off their love for the kitsch is admirable (heck! who am I to pan them if the janta likes their duds; though even that I questionable), I always find it funny the way they go whacking, all out, at the “critics”.

So who, pray, are these ‘critics’ whom so many Bollywood types with sterile ideas, hackneyed plots, and déjà vu-esque end products love to hate?

“A person who expresses an unfavourable opinion of something,” according to Oxford Dictionary. And also: “A person who judges the merits of literary or artistic works, especially one who does so professionally.”

Now Sajid, whose film Housefull 2 is set for an April 5 release, here of course means the latter, though his tone and tenor, I am sure (since I was 1,400-odd km away when he mouthed his quirks in Mumbai), meant the former.

Sajid, who used to (I don’t watch much telly any more, so wouldn’t know if it’s still on) host a show called Ikke Pe Ikka on Zee Movies (or was it Zee TV?). I remember the show (it not because it was good, great or anything on those lines, but because the half-hour show had perhaps 12 minutes of adverts, as many minutes of the anchor giving his gyaan and one-liners and the rest on which they showed the songs. Perhaps ten of them, but I could be wrong. Again.

I watched it off and on with a thumping heart (Sajid would reappear), a praying mind (that they would show more songs, at least this time), and a probing head (why is he such a hit?)

Years went by, Yamuna turning from gray to black under the ITO bridge in Delhi, and Sajid, now portlier (like me) but still as opinionated and a motormouth (unlike me), made Heyy Babyy and Housefull — two full-length feature films. I remember watching bits of the first — it was a pirated DVD from the neighbourhood pirate, who gave Heyy Babyy by mistake when I had asked for another film (which shall go unnamed here). Of course, the pirate being a pirate, he did not make a mistake of charging me. Sajid’s art cost me Rs 40.

I cursed.

And then I cried, well almost, after watching bits of the film.

I find the idea that he thinks it was funny quite funny.

The film left me with such aftershock that I refuse to watch any Akshay Kumar films till date. The rest of the cast, crew and director are not even within my peripheral vision.

Now, I am sure the film made good money, did good business, was liked by hundreds across the world, but for the life of me it cannot be called a good film. I am sure even Sajid, sitting quietly on the pot, with the bathroom lights switched off and with all honesty in his heart and bowels would agree with that.

And neither of us, Sajid, are critics/reviewers.

So what is wrong if a reviewer gives you bad marks? No film is made for a critic, not here, neither in Papua New Guinea. And if you still mean the art house/NFDC-produced films made certain directors in the ’70s and ’80s, please wake up. That distinction is long gone.

Films are made for the audience — here or anywhere, and even in Jupiter, if they make motion pictures there. The difference is not the by-now-clichéd art versus commercial; it is between good and bad films, both kinds being made primarily for public consumption, which in effect means a commercial venture.

It’s about the hackneyed plotted, sleep-inducing, frustration-dawning films like Heyy Babyy or Tees Maar Khan and well-crafted, intelligently scripted and edited ventures such as A Wednesday, Wake Up Sid, Rocket Singh: Salesman of the Year or 3 Idiots (there are examples aplenty but these are some I just recalled offhand).

But in deriding everything the ‘critics’ say about their films, in an apparent effort to appear nonchalant about what those critics in effect say, I am afraid Sajid and Farah appear to be taking those very critics a jot too seriously than they perhaps deserve. I have a stinking feeling that in panning them without waiting to be panned, Sajid, Farah and the likes of such gung-ho ‘mass filmmakers’ take the opinion of these reviewers far more seriously than even the critics themselves. And certainly far more seriously than the poor masses think of the reviews.

Star power resting, ragtag Indian team goes Windies

Indian team departs for West Indies. That’s the DNA report today (June 1). Now before one gets overtly worked up and starts collecting DNA samples of the “departed” members, let’s put this in perspective: the newspaper (DNA, Mumbai, that is) pulled off a good one, though unwittingly.

Now, I am not saying the Men in Blue will face the music — I was tempted to say ‘face the blues’ but then retained composure for respect of the reggae-loving Caribbean folks. The West Indies, let’s face it even after all the due respect etc, are these days, as good or bad as say Bangladesh at home. But a team led by Suresh Raina, who wasn’t even a certainty in the team before the semi-final in the World Cup?

A team without Dhoni, Tendulkar, Zaheer, Gambhir, Sehwag, and who have you?

A team set on playing its first series for the country after the World Cup without its main players?

A team playing for the Tricolour without players who played with all fire and gore in the money-churning IPL recently?

A team fielding only its best “available” set when more people are looking at the cricketers to dominate world cricket like the Caribbean’s of the late ’70s and ’80s, and the Australians of ’90s and early part of the millennium after their World Cup victory?

Some things are just not done because they look odd. This is one of them. I do not mean to demean the skills of Manoj Tiwaris, S Badrinaths and R Ashwins here. They need to play their part, and they surely have deserved that spot in the India squad. But how about showing some respect to the fans and the flag for which these ‘star’ players claim to play? What about the angst of the followers and prestige of a world-champion if the trial set fails?

As a fan, I have no problem if the management says, and says it firmly, that this is the best we have at our disposal and we will play with them for the whole tour. Victory or defeat, it will be ‘my’ team playing for my country — and good or bad, the youngsters will be ‘my’ players.

But then the senior players, the so-called stars, cannot suddenly join the tour midway through the series and stake claim to their ‘place’ in the side. They cannot go on leave on their sweet will, and decide on making a comeback when they feel like it.

If Tendulkar — despite his age, experience and service to the national team — was fit to play for the Ambanis (read Mumbai Indians), there is no reason why he should deserve a break immediately afterwards, when the team sets out on national duty. Same with the others.

Equally, Gambhir, as is clear now, had hidden his injury during the IPL only to go on playing for Kolkata Knight Riders. Why should disciplinary action not be taken against the southpaw, who, incidentally, was to lead the Indian team to West Indies as per earlier plans?

The Windies under Clive Lloyd and Viv Richards, or the Aussies under Mark Taylor, Steve Waugh and to a large extent under Ricky Ponting were invincible was because they fielded their best side in every match, and tried to crush, not just beat, the opposition into submission. India has the opportunity to do just that, with the set of players it has got. But do the players, and the Board administrators, have the mentality? Do they care more about crushing opposition than counting money?

More importantly, do we have our priorities all mixed up in cricket, just as we do in the political circus?

The country deserves an answer, and it deserves the answer from the boys who became men and made us proud, not some administrator or one of Sharad Pawar’s minions walking around in safari suit and posing to be one.

PS: Skipper Suresh Raina at press conference in Mumbai on May 31 (Tuesday) before leaving for the West Indies: “The tour to the West Indies is very important for young players who are keen to do well.” (as quoted in cricketnext.com).

Mr Raina, it’s not a training session we are going for, or practice match for breeding experience among the greenhorns. This is the Indian national cricket team, playing for the Tricolour.

Goodbye IPL, may you don't have a 5th anniversary

It's over at last, and I was waiting to say the four words for days now. The Indian Premier League, or IPL as it is better known in the fashionable world, was never my cup of tea; and I don’t care how specially you make it or serve it. Thank you.

Now don’t read me wrong: I am not one of those who says IPL isn’t cricket, that it’s only about the money. We live in a world of hardened realists, and let’s face it -- money matters. And more the merrier. They wouldn’t play cricket if it didn’t pay, and you wouldn’t pay to watch cricketers if they didn’t play.

My answer to people who say IPL is only about show-me-the-money mantra is simple: do you guys flock to hockey or table tennis tournaments? I mean, those sports do not exactly float in money, though god knows how those players crave for the kind of money and attention the cricketers float in.

Sports is not altruism, neither is it about developing Gandhian values. I mean, we do not send our children to sports arena to learn to be great examples of chastity and simplicity: do not get into razzmatazz, do not create a racket, and do not ever, ever ogle at those cheerleaders; wear your chastity belt first before you go to the stadium or sit in front of the telly, Sonu, Monu, Jaggi and Pipli. Do we?

My problem isn’t even with that whole jing-bang of coloured clothing and the other inventions. I mean we -- at least most of us -- do not go to work white-shirted and puffed and cuffed every day. Do we? So why choke the poor cricketers and the raucous and fun-loving public in whites just because some of us believe Test cricket is real cricket? Who is to give that reality test, anyway?
If you want to see your cricketers in white, belting or running after a red ball all day long, hey, go to Test cricket. In fact, you will get five days of men in starched white belting or running after a red leather ball. Buy one, get four free!

My problem is with the whole format. It’s a structural problem, you see. Not a functional one. I don’t like my cricket in 20 overs, and I don’t like made-to-order pitches where even I can go and belt a few boundaries. Give me a break, for I have no illusions. I was always a bad cricketer, and I am a worse and more unfit ‘athlete’ than I was even three weeks ago.

But I like my cricket to be a sport, a contest. An even one between bat and ball, and somehow Twenty20 cricket has never given me that. It’s always about hitting. The Balajis of IPL world has no backup against Gayles and that Mumbai Indian batter who battered him in that last over in that last league match at the Eden Gardens. I am not saying lay a pitch for the likes of L Balaji, but how can you have perfectly decent deliveries just outside the off-stump hit past the cover boundary? Or one pitched on the leg to go past the third man boundary?

It’s just not right, not fair. You never gave the guy a fair chance in the first place. So how can you cheer for those boundaries?

I haven’t seen many matches in IPL, I didn’t want to. But that one I watched -- at least the last few overs. I felt for the man, just as I felt for Brett Lee in the over before the over that left Balaji battered. Not that I have ever liked either Bajali or Lee, but for me cricket is a game where the bowlers bowl and batsmen bat. Not a game where batsmen hit balls that bowlers dish out.

Mamata walks, media gawks, work stops

Let’s go back to the Bollywood eighties, for precisely no other reason than for the fact that the decade was slightly, ahem, vain. Imagine a minister, say Kulbhushan Kharbanda, visiting a hospital in a B-town; Nagpur? The media follows the minister -- really those journos in small-town India had no better stories than a minister visit those days. For byline stories, all they did all year was to sit on their backside for a minister to visit, hopefully impregnate a poor woman from a farmer’s family or take money from the money lenders who had gotten all the money in the first place from poor farmers, who would eventually be driven to suicide, which finally would start making news a decade later.
But that’s bunkum.
Anyway, minister visits hospital in full media glare, decides to walk into the ICU, with the media in toe, the conscientious ICU chief bars him, says all that jing-bang would create a chaos and cause problems. Minister is aghast: a minion like the doctor has the bloody gall to tell him off?
I did not invite the media, he says. And why would you not let them in? You surely have something to hide. Meet me at my office tomorrow.
Sorry sir, doctor pleads. With folded hands for effect, tears threatening to burst out. I have a few surgeries lined up tomorrow. It’s Friday -- my surgery day.
Bloody hell, minister barks.
On his way out, he sees two patients on stretchers. Did my presence create trouble for you? Are you getting any less attention?
The two were in too much pain anyway; all they could muster was, no sir.
Doctor suspended, screams the lead header the following day in ‘The Navbharat Times (they always showed NBT in those days; but you can take your pick of the paper. If it’s IE, just increase the headline by 10 more words: In wake of minister maelstrom, doctor gets the axe for insubordination. Or some such.)
Yes, the reason for the suspension is writ large on the wall, sorry NBT story: insubordination and misconduct, to quote from the report.
If Y Chopra was still an angst-ridden man of circa ‘Deewar’ in the 80s, he would have picked up on the theme and got the neighbours to catch hold of the doctor’s son and gotten them to tattoo on the teen’s hand: Mera baap bore hai. And M Desai in his elements would have killed the patient who the minister spoke to, and his son would have grown up to avenge the death.
Okay, let’s not get carried away with sappy scripts; those are different tales, to be told another day.
Fast-forward a few years. To May 26, 2011 to be precise. Change Nagpur to Kolkata, and the minister to a chief minister – Mamata Banerjee, to be precise -- and cut out the ICU bit (that was only for added drama). But the story still holds: why would you want to create a racket at a hospital?
The headline the day after (May 27) said just that (pardon the tongue in cheek reference to NBT and IE; for future naukri’s sake let this be official, I love both mastheads): suspended for “insubordination and misconduct” (The Telegraph).
How long will it take for the new chief minister to understand that administration is different from rabble rousing? That merely leaving your car once you near your office and starting to walk could be good for the TRPs, but a headache for the police and administration? That she is not merely putting her life at stake (that’s her own business) but putting many lives at stake since the situation could lead to a stampede? That walk-ins and walk-outs are part of the deal when you are in opposition; it’s a different ball game when you are in administration? That walking into government hospitals and checking about reasons for faulty radiology machines and patient convenience isn’t the smartest thing to do, because chiding those doctors and nurses in front of the patients would eventually harm their medication?
Mamata Banerjee, it seems, has been voted in, but it seems in her mind she is still the opposition in the state. She is the CM, someone should politely remind her that.
She needs to take time out of her busy schedule of firing and hiring and take on the muddy roads that lead to Nandigram and Singur, which now is under her administrative control. She cannot cry slogans from Kolkata, she cannot blame others. Jowab chai, jowab dao cannot be her slogan any more -- she has to take a call on the redistribution of land of the farmers, she cannot leave it for someone else.
She cannot be a liability for her own administration – she cannot do walk-in interviews in hospitals, she cannot walk out over a tiff.
Let's put this in perspective: the neurosurgeon concerned was hired to operate, not to entertain state guests during working hours. Banerjee might be accustomed to such treatment from her Tollywood buddies, but this is a whole new game altogether.
It’s still difficult to digest her last few words (as reported in the media) before she left the said hospital – “they always blame me for everything.”
But isn’t that what you wanted, Didi? To be the boss of West Bengal. Well, then, bosses are blamed for "everything", including the current mess that you have inherited.
One can just hope that she knows what she has taken on.
In one word, Banerjee has to grow up, and grow up quickly. She cannot cry foul any more. Her torn old white saree and her 34 years of struggle have got her the power, but to sustain it she needs to don a new avatar. While the Shatabdi Roys and Tapas Pauls of her glamour world can be cast in her puppet show, it needs to be seen how long they stay by her side after she puts into effect her pre-election manifesto: “Stop entry of big capital, domestic or foreign, in retail sector.”
(Amit Mitra is cringing.)
“No foreign capital in sectors other than high-quality technology and other industries, indispensable for the country.”
(Mitra cringing further.)
Opposing “construction of all shopping malls in Bengal”. (Shatabdi Roy cringes, worries where her next designer saree is going to come from.)
Putting such ideas into practice, now that she is running the show, could leave even her Men Friday Partha Chatterjee and Dereck O’Brien cringing!
I am sure Mamata means well with what she has done in the one week since taking oath as the chief minister, and I am not calling these actions her antics, though she has been doing them for the last 30 years and more. For the sake of the people in that state, I hope she gets well soon. Fingers crossed.

Welcome 1418: Wish list of a shirker

The temperature outside is in the mid-30s, and the humidity would, if I decide to take a walk for an hour or so, make me a photograph on the wall, and I welcome the new year. The Bangla new year, that is. Now don’t misunderstand me. I am no Anglophone, I speak Bangla perfectly well without even a hint of accent, and I NEVER go out for a walk for about an hour. Not if the weather and humidity was the at its Spring best (or whatever time of the year it is supposed to be at its best for a one-hour walk), and not even if you put a gun on my head and ask me to walk for an hour.
The point is, if you are holding a gun with the intention to kill me if I don’t walk for the said one hour, you might as well pull the trigger. For, I would die anyway after walking for an hour; so why tire myself out before turning into a photograph?
But let me come to the point straightaway: it’s a new year, even if the temperature outside is in the mid-30s and the sweltering weather would kill me if I go out for an hour’s walk. And it’s still a new year even if I don’t know anyone who follows the dates in the calendar that says a fresh year begins on April 14 (okay Baisakh 1).
Anyway, dear reader, now that I have your attention with all that claptrap (I have to have it, if you have come this far), I have a wish-list for the new year. Here we go:

1. I wish I had loads of ‘Bangla’ (local country liquor, as they are called in both sides) and passed out. Wouldn’t have to do any work for the rest of the day, and better part of tomorrow.

2. I wish I was an employee of Bangladesh government. Wouldn’t have to work for three days. And since we are at it, and there’s no stopping me, I wish I could cross the border and become employee of the Indian government on the fourth day -- then I would get the Sunday off as well.

3. I wish I was in school. Then I could have had all these holidays, and then not have to work even after the holidays got over.

4. I wish I was a cricketer, playing the IPL, and day-night ODIs for my country. Then I wouldn’t do anything all day and then play at night. But strictly ODIs, and strictly day-nighters, since I hate to sign autographs during the day. That’s also work.

5. I wish I was a Nobel Peace Prize winner. Then I would be millionaire and never have to work. For peace, you see, is never enforceable; so I do not need tgo work after collecting the prize and the cheque.

6. Now, how about being a writer? I would think all day, and then think back all night whether all that I thought all day could be written down.

7. I wish I was a lawyer. I would then enjoy all the sarkari holidays and then ask for extension on my case whenever the next working day comes. And if I am the judge as well, I would set the next date of hearing in the next new year, which, you see, would again be a holiday.

8. I wish I was a celebrity. Then I could celebrate my existence by declaring that I would not be party to any party that celebrates my and fellow celebrities’ existence.

9. I wish I was an actor. Then I could act hurt even on working days and not go for shoots.

10. I wish tomorrow was also a holiday.

Pakistan blown away, bring on the Lankans

For all practical purposes, the heat was on. Almost everyone I know in Dhaka wanted a Pakistan-India (in that order; Pakistan and India!) semifinal. And just after Mahendra Singh Dhoni won the toss, a downpour began here. As if to cool the atmosphere.

I cried out even before the assembled guests at Harsha Bhogle‘s studio had the time to: what was Ashish Nehra doing in the team in place of R Ashwin? The guy can’t bat, can’t field, and can’t bowl in most conditions outside seaming ones. One of those stupid decisions that come to a mind in stupor before the big fall, I said; nay shouted.

Shut up and watch the match, said wife.

I refused to — I wasn’t going to be a part of this hara-kiri, I said and went to the bedroom to spend the half hour before going to office.

So I missed out on Sehwag’s initial onslaught, then his fall. I got ready and sat on the sofa to put my shoes on when Sachin Tendulkar missed one and was given leg before. Looked sort of plumb to me but for the fact that Sachin had taken a biggish stride outside. I don’t bite nails, and neither could Sachin (who does with such regularity that I often wonder where he gets all those nails from) since he was wearing gloves and all.

Nope, said the replay, only to promptly misjudge the next delivery.

Nope, not stumped, said the TV replay again, and I went to office.

Man, did I know what sort of reception was awaiting me there! Almost everyone was for Pakistan, and every other person was asking me to lay a bet. But I wasn’t to be baited. I was representing the tricolour, mind you, and so I did not use the expletives that almost ejected themselves voluntarily, as colleague after colleague said it’s all right; just a game after all, and losing doesn’t really matter in a game!

Many were serious, some said in jest, and most said it of course to rile me. All taken in good humour, though I kept losing it as the innings wore on and India kept losing wickets.

Was I tense? I was asked by just about everyone as I kept unusually quiet (I was told) and went out for a smoke too many (I was told again). Don’t know; I am a professional, I am paid to work in office. And I felt I was doing just that, as Sachin and his mates were doing theirs — they were paid to play, and they were playing. Nothing wrong in the approach. You get dropped once, twice, four times, get a grip and focus on the next delivery. Things happen. Bad things happen just as regularly. The best bet is to keep your chin up and take fresh guard. Both in life and at work.

I knew it, as did Sachin. We took fresh guard each time there was a calamity, and calamities there were aplenty, dear reader, as Pakistan tightened the noose around Indian batsmen.

As many readers of this column would know by now, I really don’t fancy a dinner with Sachin, to put it mildly. But on Wednesday, as the evening turned night, I looked up at the man. Yes, he was struggling. But he would still nudge the ball here and there without a grudge.

Flashes of another Tendulkar innings came to mind. I don’t remember the year (statistics bore me) but it was Sharjah against the Aussies. A sudden dust storm had kicked up in the desert and everyone — the Aussies, the umpires, most people in the crowd, Sachin’s partner – were burying their face to keep the dust out of their eyes. And there stood Tendulkar, head slightly slanted up, looking skyward, eyeing the storm; almost daring it.

It soon got over, the match got on, and Sachin scored a century. I don’t remember who won (I guess India if I put a little stress on my mind, which I usually tend not to do because I often don’t trust my memory). But that’s mere statistic. They don’t matter. It was image of Sachin that stayed on in my mind, as it was the image of him on Wednesday night that will stay on for a long time to come.

By the time my work got over, four Pakistanis were back in the hut, and there requests to lay a bet. “It’s four down, after all.” No way. I knew I was going to win. I had seen it in my heart. And I knew Dhoni’s men were going to win. I saw it in Dhoni’s steely, determined eyes.

I sat in front of the telly in office, even as it thinned out. I sat there till Afridi was caught out. Then I left. ”Team aise hi nehin jeet-ti hai; jitana padta hai,” I said. And left for home to see the last bit of it with my wife. I don’t usually associate the plural sense when the Indian team plays. But as Misbah-ul-Haq kept missing the big shot one after the other and Zaheer gave him the glare in the final over, before he holed out on the penultimate ball, for once I felt WE had won.

And I am not dramatising, check the weather map. It started pouring again in Dhaka.

Pining for Pujo

Durga Puja has begun, I am told. Where is it? Want to grow young again, enjoy the pujo, and the pandals, in new clothes. Show off the new buys, brag about the new shoes... Life was simple. Or was it :)

first Eid in Dhaka. As McD's says: Yum loving it

Saw another face of Dhaka today. Sort of dusky amid throbbing life -- everyone's out in droves, as are the lights. Out.

Who would ever have thought Star Kebab Restaurant on Dhanmondi Road # 1 would be closed on a Saturday evening? The place that could well advertise itself as the eatery that never sleeps! (And one whose rolls left Subject here with a ugh tummy, and a tale to tell).
And those restaurants near Rifles Square? Switched off for Eid, buddy, all of them.

You go, grab your grub at a relative's place; that was the motif of the city today.
Needs sort of getting used to, especially after weeks of dhingchak during Ramzan. Sobriety, after all is, part of human nature. Loved it. Need to now sit back and reflect.

On Bangabandhu: My first piece after relocating to Dhaka

All of 31, it was barely days after he was promoted as a senior photographer with the daily ‘Dainik Bangla’. Life could not have been smoother for Babu Ansari.
It was August 15, 1975, and monsoon was in the air in Dhaka. Ansari had just kicked his motorcycle to head for the day’s first assignment -- Dhaka University, where Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman was to be present.

It was that split second before a motorcycle guns to a start that Ansari got the shell-shocking news: the Father of the Nation had been assassinated. He did not know what to do. His wife rushed out, and when told about the killings at the house on Dhamondi road number 32, asked in naivete: “So Begum Mujib is widowed now?”
Ansari told her about the news of the assassination and the coup.
Like others in the still-nascent nation-state of Bangladesh, the news took time to sink in.

Ansari, meanwhile, gunned his bike towards his office.
Cut ahead to 2010, he told The Independent on the eve of the National Mourning Day: “I heard in office that our chief photographer, Golam Mowlah, had gone to Bangabandhu’s house after the assassination and got the photos. He came in, soon, and narrated the scene: bullet-ridden body of Bangabandhu; his wife and son Russell lay close to each other; Sheikh Mujib’s brother was shot halfway into the bathroom; Sheikh Jamal’s bullet-ridden body lay close to a car -- he must have been about to head out somewhere…”

Now 66, Ansari’s voice cracks just that slightly over the phone, recalling the horror of August of 1975. But the seasoned photo-journalist in him soon gets the focus back. “Mowlah had taken all these photographs; there were two or three frames at least of each. From different angles.”

Soon, he said, two Armymen came to the daily’s office. “They were armed; their eyes were bloodshot -- they did not look human from any angle,” he recalled. “They wanted the photographs. Mowlah said he was too devastated and exhausted and asked me to go up to our third-floor dark room to develop the prints.”

Neither Mowlah nor Ansari could fathom what the Armymen were after.

“I was a little surprised when they followed me into the darkroom, but I did not say anything. They jumped up when I closed the door. But I had to explain patiently that we could not let light enter the room.
“As I readied the chemicals for the film, I switched off the light, and they flinched again. They wanted the light switched back on -- this time I realised the feeling off the barrel of a gun on my back.

His pulse racing ahead, Ansari told them as patiently as he could that I could not work with the lights on. “It took time to develop films those days -- and they wanted to switch on the light even before I was done. After I switched on the red light in the darkroom, they counted the films. I showed them the exposed copies and then gave them some prints.”

Intuition told him not everything was going all right. “I tried to hide a few films; I didn’t want to hand everything over to them. But they counted the exposed copies and the prints and asked me about the mismatch. I felt the gun barrel again.
“There was little I could do but hand them everything. They counted everything several times and took away everything with them -- negatives, positives, wastage… everything.”

Thirty-five years on, it still rankles Ansari that he could not save the films for posterity. “I regret till this day that I wasn’t able to preserve even one photograph. I have not talked about these issues, about the films of Bangabandhu’s assassination, because I do not want to sound supercilious about what I did -- I did what any photographer, any journalist, any nationalist, any humanist would have done. And I want people to know how the fate of those films.”
Asked about Golam Mowlah’s reaction when told that his films were taken away, he said “He was too shocked, disheartened and exhausted to react.”
He died three years later.
What survives is a colleague’s version of truth; one that no bullet can expose hollow.

(PUBLISHED IN 'THE INDEPENDENT', DHAKA: AUGUST 15, 2010

Write back after being left out

Okay, long time no write.
So, on the second day of the new year as per my calendar (and yours), I am back.
Yup, same day as you or I see (or don’t see -- depends on the state of fogginess outside. No, not because of still-lingering hangover, but the ‘thick blanket of fog enveloping the skyline’, as weather reporters love to put it.)
Yes, the very same day fog has been playing truant with visibility and trains (again, colliding with fellow train at Kanpur; Gorakhdham Express hit a “stationary” Prayagraj Express).

Yes, I am a day late, but here’s my wishlist for 2010. You keep your rear side on the chair and your hands off the ESCAPE key, and read on:

1. I shall not lie and say I am not lying.

2. I shall not tell a reporter that he’s a lousy writer, and a lousier reporter.

3. I shall not tell a deskie that he should quit journalism and try a call centre or airline calldesk job.

4. I shall try and cut down on the number of packs (cigarettes, I mean, so Shahid Kapur, Hrithik Roshan and all the filmi types can get their salary cheques).

5. I shall genuinely, genuinely, and honest-to-my-heart genuinely, try and reduce my dates with Bacchus.

6. I shall love all human beings and not tell them that they shouldn’t have tried to outlive the Neanderthal Age.

7. I shall even try and love all the dogs of this world (their population seemingly split between Vaishali, Ghaziabad, where I live; and Bahadur Shah Zafar Marg, where I work).

8. I shall not tap-dance my way to the DELETE button on the keyboard the moment I see a mail from the HR guys (admission: I might just slow-waltz my way to it, whatever the difference is).

9. I shall try and do an honest day’s work every day (but, maybe, for the Sundays, when wife dear expects more out of human specimens in a day than is humanly possible in a week).

10. I shall try and keep this blog a little less spaced-out than six months, when I last wrote on it, as I just saw while logging in.

That’s it. Goodbye and good day. Now hit the ESCAPE key

In Delhi, Metro kills. (Or is it Killer Metro?)

LONG before cassettes, compact discs and other hi-tech sources of music invaded our lives, there was the humble LP – or long play records.

Now, played over and over again for every guest and her uncle’s relative who came home, the records often got scratched beyond repair, leading to the needle going all over the place. It also got stuck quite often, playing in a loop like a broken record.

Example: like India’s health minister Ghulam Nabi Azad, who, plagued even as the country is with swine flu and a world of other health issues, is stuck on controlling India’s population with ideas of late marriages and late-night TV programming to deter sex.

Which brings us to the issue we might as well discuss. Population. Azad is right, in a roundabout way: India’s population is way too much for our political, civil, social and anti-social societies to care too much about a few lives gone here, and a few gone there. A few lives snuffed out by a pillar falling at a Metro construction site in South Delhi, for instance.

Or more lives that could have been snuffed out barely 30 hours later at the same site, when cranes pulling out the crashed debris crashed themselves.

The reaction: inquiry commissions galore, and the obligatory few lakhs of ‘compensations’ announced for families of the ‘victims’.

Question: Can you compensate for a life? That, too, life of the lone earning member of a family, most likely steeped in debt back in the village? For, that precisely is the state of the families of Anshuman Pratihar, Pappu Yadav, Amit Yadav and Niranjan Yadav, as reported by Delhi Newsline over the last two days.

What, pray, were they doing? Following the government’s ever-ambitious dreams of basking in its own glory, come October 2010 with the Commonwealth Games, and putting one more project on an even more ambitious track.

‘See, what we have done!’ the political class would say next October, and you can bet that your October 2010 salary on that. ‘If there’s a will, there’s a way,’ they would gleam on.

Sure, but as every smoker knows the poor-taste joke: if there’s too much of Wills, there always is a smoke.

You can’t of course blame the authorities, for within hours after six men turned ‘victims’, the Metro railway chief took ‘moral responsibility’ and resigned. But realpolitic and exigency counts more than morality these days, so he took back the resignation within a day.

Question: who will take the physical, material and corporal responsibility for turning men into photos on wall?

After all, somebody made a mess of the project. A big mess. Somebody had also made a mess at all the earlier messes on different lines of the same project.

The political class has an answer: inquiry commissions have been set up. The truth will come out soon and “action” then will be initiated against the guilty, as Urban Development Minister S Jaipal Reddy told the nation through Parliament.

Question: who will the action be initiated against? No one has been booked, after all. The police have registered cases of culpable homicide (or murder, as I prefer to out it, shorn of the cover that the pretentious word seems to offer) against ‘unknown persons’.

There you are then: somebody messed up for sure but bet your salary of October 2009 that no name will ever come out.

If it was homicide, or murder, of six young men, sure. But there are no murderers. No one is culpable.

Who needs culpability anyway? After all, there are too many of us in this country. A few funerals do not matter, but for the immediate family members.

Damages, after all, have been paid for those funeral services.

May be Azad in his stuck-LP mode is right: bring down the population and we might start caring for each other.

At last, the truth: Maoists led Mamata in Singur, Nandigram

Finally, the media has begun reading traces into what has seemingly been evident for long in West Bengal: that the Maoists have backed Mamata Banerjee and her Trinamool Congress in her agitations in the past couple of years.
Nandigram. Singur. Two of Mamata's singular achievements as a politician for over two decades now. Cut out the two, and Didi becomes just another four-letter word: Zero.
In Nowhereland, and with a one-way ticket into further reaches of Nowhereland, she was hurtling from one platform to another in political vacuum when the Singur issue came up, followed by Nandigram. Till then, Mamata and her band of men (for there were hardly any woman in Trinamool till even two or three years ago) could, at best, organise a hartal in Kolkata. And even that would have been an unsuccessful one, leading to clashes between her men and the CPI(M)'s. So much for her organisational skills!
Then came the twin issues, and suddenly Mamata and Trinamool were seen by the Indian media as beacons of virtue, a born-agaon Mother Teresa, with skill sets in organisaing protests equalling that of Mahatma Gandhi's. It was a joke, of course, for all the groundwork was done by the Maoists, and frustrated, rebellious and kicked-out CPM members.
Only, the men and women who should have seen through the joke and called the bluff -- the journalists -- never saw it. Perhaps they did not want to. The hatred against the Left was so deep-rooted that they failed to see the bigger picture. And the far bigger menace: bloody lawlessness like Chhattisgarh or Jharkhand.
The monster's out of the bag now; some of the Maoist leaders have been quoted by the media seeking their pound of flesh from Didi now -- in return for the favour in Singur or Nandigram.
Having half-turned West Bengal into another Naxal-hit area, will The Lady see sense now?
Good question, but going by her antics over the past two decades and more, seems unlilely.
So, burn my beloved Bengal.

Heart wave in Delhi: Even Manmohan ‘loves’ the Left (smiley)

Politics, Manmohan Singh says today, is “an art of the possible”. What he perhaps missed out saying is it is also the art of lying.
Otherwise, how do you change your views 360 degrees in less than 24 hours?
On Friday (May 1), Singh had addressed a rally in Howrah, in the suburbs of Kolkata, and launched a Bofors missile of an attack on Buddhadeb Bhattacharya’s Left Front government in West Bengal. He had blamed the Left for all the under-development and joblessness in the state, apart, of course, from criticising them for nearly scuttling his deal with the United States -- aka the “n-deal”.
Today (May 2), he tells CNN-IBN: “We have worked with the Left parties before... I have enjoyed working with the Left.”
Really, Mr Outgoing Prime Minister? Or is it the heat stroke effect?

Why Mumbai didn't vote, and why it's good

A day after The Big Polls in Mumbai, it was a shock this morning to see newspapers toe the news channels, their imbecile yet upmarket country cousins, in blaming poor Mumbaikars for not turning out in droves and jam all roads leading to polling booths.
Barkha Dutt to Kiron (writer unsure about the number of Rs or Ks in her same, so seeks pardon) Kher in The Buck Stops Here on NDTV: Why do you think Bollywood’s appeal to Mumbai to come out and vote failed?
Poor Dutt! As if we Indians listen to even our own conscience, let alone our parents, forget about some filmstars showing us the finger! Get some brains, Ms Dutt.

Hindustan Times (Delhi edition) headline, with some seriously high-blown 72-points (that’s an inch in size): “All talk, no vote”
The shoulder strap, in mercifully smaller size, says: “Despite 26/11, candle-light vigils and voter campaigns, Mumbai stays home”
I believe the guys at HT thought the poor readers in the Capital would have gone insane and would miss the issue after all this emotional atyachar, so they put the ‘Mumbai stays home’ bit in red for effect.
Now, now, why did those Mumbaikars take out candle-light vigils and talk loudly against everyone and his/her uncle? Because they felt the rage literally come out in smoke from their noses, and they felt threatened after being targetted like only poor (not economically but generally, meaning everyone and her uncle) Indians have ever been. So what is the connection between talking about your right to safety after you have paid all dues, taxes etc and been good citizens, and going to the pooling booth and vote?
Simple answer: Nothing. Not for the media, though.
Give me a break, even I would have floundered for a choice given the options. A filmstar’s daughter who perhaps never brought up an issue of importance in five years in Parliament (Priya Dutt); a goonda from a goondas’ party (Ram Naik), a chor and a turncoat, among other things (Sanjay Nirupam); a rich man sporting good clothes and shades with no clue about the basic issues of a Mumbaikar (Milind Deora).
And these are just four candidates from across the spectrum. I would have given the polling a skip had I been living in any part of Mumbai, as I would do even on May 7 when Ghaziabad goes to polls.
Let us please not confuse the Good Citizen bit with voting, which, as the Constitution puts it, is a right that I may or MAY NOT opt to use. I, and I believe most of the “57% voters (who) skip the ballots” in Mumbai (headline in DNA newspaper), are good citizens and ‘nationalists’ to the core: we pay taxes on time, we pay all our dues, we pay power water and all other bills (sometimes a little late, but with a penalty!), we do not bribe or accept bribe, we genuinely try to be nice folks and not harass, abuse or slaughter people in riots…
That last one was a 69-worder of a sentence, and Microsoft Word is showing a green line -- for a “long sentence”. It’s time to pause. Take a deep breath. And go on living with pride, as it always has been.
Let the imbecile mediamen/women do their imbecile things in spare moments. We Indians are a forgiving, and forgetting, lot.

Mumbai shows the middle finger to polls. Really?

Why are they marking the middle finger in mumbai, and the index finger (as we have all known since ages) in other parts, say lucknow?

Manmohan: Rahul-baba zindabad

Manmohan Singh: "Rahul Gandhi has all the qualities to be a good Prime Minister."

Question: What does Manmohan Singh know about good premiership?

Status: Ready with shoe, target invisible

* ‘Educationist’ at Supreme Court judge
* Sikh journalist at Chidambaram
* Former schoolteacher at Naveen Jindal

All their claim to fame is of course the poor shoe. Talking of shoes and their throwers, heard the latest? Ever concerned about making the Commonwealth Games more successful, Delhi Chief Minister Sheila Dikshit has found a new event: footwear throw, on the lines of javelin and discus throw.
No it’s not funny, for given the level of performance of these new players on the block (B-negative, or below-par), there are serious doubts whether India can manage a medal even in this newly introduced sport.
But let Ms Dikshit worry about that. I am today concerned whether I could take a shot at the Games with that game -- to represent India, yaar, and make some money on the side by doing footwear commercials.
Anyway, given that I would need some target practice, I am zeroing in on some names. Only politicians volunteer, please, in this poll season:

# Gyanmohan Sing: For saying all of India loves Bush -- he forgot that a large chunk of the country now has proper sanitation, and does not need to go to the bushes to relieve themselves.
# Bhalu Prasad: For failing to come up with better antics; performances now seem like repeat telecasts in good ol’ Doordarshan
# Ayavati: For irritating the hell out of any TV viewer looking for some entertainment in news channels with her monotonous, read-out speeches
# Pee Chidamvram: For smiling his good-boy-look-at-me smile all day, all night. Just by the way, doesn’t he get bored?
# Bahul Andhi: For making boring speeches about all sorts of Kalavatis et al
# So-near Andhi: See above (generally for making boring speeches about Ayavati et al)
# Lal Keshto Sadvani: For a Chaha Chaudhary lookalike, he is too big (and bald) a bore
# Harendra Nodi: For failing to appreciate any Indian dish apart from theplas and dhoklas
# Aaj Thackarey: For vilifying Hindi-walas in a city largely driven by them
# Khamota Banerjee: For hating everything in and around sanity (arrey, some things, sometimes, are understood. But EVERYTHING? Ugh, someone tell her to go take a hike -- ta ta.)

No jokes, Shivraj writes memoirs (does he change shirt after every 1000 words?)

Shivraj Patil, it is reported, is writing his autobiography.
What’s interesting, he is reported to be dedicating half the book to his role as Home Minister in the Manmohan Singh government.
Roghto, reader, his “role” as the Home Minister!
Which brings us to the question: will half the book comprise empty pages?

So near yet so far(ce), says shoe after going past PC face

Note the date: April 7, 2009. New Delhi.
It’s historic because it’s the first time that an Indian journalist took a potshot -- literally -- at a Home Minister. Jarnail Singh, for the uninitiated even after hours of repeated footage of the hit-and-miss incident, is the Dainik Jagran journalist who threw a shoe at P Chidambaram.
In an exclusive interview, the shoe that missed the face but faced the nation bares its sole:


How does it feel to miss the Home Minister’s face?Just like the cricket ball out of an Indian fielder’s hands -- always missing targets. No, just kidding; on a serious note, I feel bad for Jarnail Singh because it just exposed what a hit-and-miss journalist he is. But on the positive side, it proves he can be a good television journalist -- wide off the mark!

What were you thinking when, after being hurled and in air, you were flying towards the Home Minister?
I was worried whether the insides of me smelt foul! You know, journalists are on their feet almost half the day, and you can imagine the fragrance once the shoes are off! But seriously, I blame Jarnail because he threw me in a fit of rage without thinking about my olfactory reputation.

Which personality’s face would you like to kiss?
Given half a chance I would do anything to stay off any feet that will walk all over me. It’s a weighty issue, but if staying off the feet means flying past faces, why not? To answer your query, being hurled at politicians gives me a certain mileage at this point of time, now that the IPL has gone off our shores. With every channel following everything to do with any neta, I can certainly face the nation with my sole intact.

Tell us a little more about your background.
Born into a leather family, I have always been up and running. My father was the classic leather -- all black, like the Kiwis, and immensely proud of it. He was a real secular: did not make any distinction on colour, make or brand identity. But given the state of the economy, with few people buying new shoes, my siblings and I grew up faster. So we are sneakers.

Lastly, do you see yourself as a competitor to the shoe that went past George Bush at Baghdad?
I think Jarnail did not do justice to my talent. His underarm throw was a little weak -- like Sourav Ganguly sometimes did while fielding at forward short-leg, missing the stumps from the shortest possible distance.