From not-a-review of Brahman Naman to a very selectively subjective overview of Bangalore Quizzing

Brahman Naman. Also known as Netflix’s first Indian film.

And fast becoming a Rorschach test that tells you more about the viewer and reviewer than about the film itself.

Do note that some of the words I have used below are harsher than they should be and maybe unfairly extreme. That is intentionally intentional. You are free to take offense, if you think I’m referring to you. I don’t think I am.

The only people who can genuinely claim to truly ‘get’ Brahman Naman are the people who actually quizzed in Bangalore in the 80s. They have their own reasons for doing so. That said, here’s the kind of people who like the film, or will claim to even if they really didn’t:

• Quizzers, mostly Bangalore quizzers

• People who want to be considered quizzers or Bangalalorean because both are cool to be

• Quizmasters who will now mine the film for future questions or fundas, as they’re called

• People who attend quizzes (I won’t insult them by calling them quizzers), especially from other cities and have seen Bangalore’s (serious) quizzers for what they are and Bangalore quizzing for what it’s become

• People like me who are glad we left regular quizzing but still in Bangalore and can still wash it all down with some sense of nostalgia and misplaced loyalty to the sport I once loved (yes, quizzing is a sport!)

So is this film about quizzing? I think not. It’s just a way-in. A convenient Macguffin. Not least because the writer Naman Ramachandran used to be a Bangalore quizzer in the 80s. But there’s no way he could’ve cut to the triviality and futility of it all if he hadn’t quit quizzing (I am assuming that because else as they say, the (quiz) lovers cannot see, the petty follies that they themselves commit.

The film is basically about hormone-driven college boys trying to get laid. But in between doing that they have to do something right? With the starting point that they have to be nerds, not jocks, as all high school movies have shown us. In India, can’t make them a team of master debators. Or chess players. Quizzing fits the bill quite well thank you.

Now coming to the protagonists – the quizzing boys themselves. The closest comparison I can find to the quizzing boys in Brahman Naman are the geeks from Big Bang Theory. While it looks ostensibly like the show is celebrating geek culture, like BN does to trivial pursuits, the reality is that BBT is merely giving the world to laugh at those geeks and their social awkwardness where even a waitress who’s not been to college can get the better of physicists. Same with BN. The world isn’t laughing with these unlikeable quizzers. They are laughing at them. Laughing would be stretching the truth a tad bit too much. Because it isn’t that funny.

Yes, the world is laughing at you quizzers, and not in a good way. And saying you are not even worthy of their pity, leave alone a shred of sympathy. They’re saying you’re sex-starved fuckers, if by sex they also mean ‘no life to speak of’. Yes, Naman would still be a thoroughly unlikeable person even if he didn’t quiz, but it is his quizzing that gives him misplaced sense of superiority and makes him a bigger douche, and a more insufferable arsehole. The problem is not with quizzing, but with the fact that he has made quizzing the cornerstone of his identity. Because that’s the only thing he’s good at perhaps. Some of the nicest people I know who quiz and are good at it would still be nice if they stopped quizzing, because they don’t define themselves by the “quizzer/quizmaster” tag, and most importantly, don’t wave the size of their fundas in other people’s faces at every given opportunity.

Brahman Naman would not be that much enjoyable for anyone who doesn’t get the subtle real-world connections thrown in. That the Calcutta quizmaster is actually De Rack o’Brain's father. Or that a Celsus funda thrown about on a train journey is a tribute to a kind and gentle old military officer. That in the character of Henry, you can see shades of an equally good, if not-so-gentle man. I am sure there are so many more I am missing. But then, I wasn’t in Bangalore then, and definitely didn’t do quiz.

So, if this film is really not about quizzing then who spending so much time on the quizzing aspect of it? Well, you see, quizzers have a way of making everything about themselves. Especially in the closed, and uninviting sub-culture that is Bangalore quizzing. And they have to make everything about themselves because it is their raison d'être. Everything is a funda to them. If a thing cannot be used as a question in a quiz, then it is useless and not worthy of their attention. I used to be there. And professional – read serious – quizzers have a way of making it all about themselves and when not comparing each other’s funda to see whose is bigger, have made the whole quizzing scene unwelcoming.

And like any person who has done quiz, I have to make this about me. I used to do quiz very regularly till a few years ago. And like that virus which doesn’t quite leave your system even though you had chicken pox when you were a kid, the keeda of being a quizzer still hovers around in your system somewhere and you have to go back to get that fix, because the quiz is on a subject you like or you know for the quizmaster is not going to show off but instead ask decent questions and about arcane trivia. The whole scene is unwelcome, but a few good men who still remain make it bearable.

I used to do quiz in the pre-facebook era and before email quizzing groups became commonplace. Before it became “cool”. Before being a geek was ‘cool’. By which time then ‘quizzer’ had become a badge of honour and people were queuing up call themselves quizzers.

I am fortunate, nay blessed, to have quizzed in a time when a kind old man – one of the best, greatest people I have had the pleasure of knowing and spending time with – embodied the spirit of quizzing as a welcome social activity and as a sport played with true spirit of sportsmanship. Not superstars and quizmasters who use quizzes to overcompensate. A great great man, thinking about whom, still brings tears to my eyes. I have sat next to the man as a scorer during one of the last quizzes he quizmaster-ed and have seen with my own eyes and heard with my own eras, in the shaking voice of an old man he kept reading out well-phrased questions from a page he held with in his shaky hands. I am fortunate to have quizzed then, not with today when some questions are either copy-paste tracts of gibberish enough fill a full ppt slide slide (in 8 points, arial) or sometimes show an image with the question being eloquently articulated in two words, ‘Put Funda’.

I am fortunate to have quizzed with – and participated in quizzes by – a man who made quizzing fun, who used his vast store of knowledge to tell us more about the world around us and used questions – that were easily work-out-able to tell us about things worth knowing, and – not as sadistic instruments of torture and as mechanisms to show off intellectual superiority and vastly superior knowledge (read wikipedia surfer) to assuage his insecurities.

I am fortunate enough to have done quiz in a time when a quizmaster would measure the success of his quiz by the number of full points and generous part-points awarded not by the number of questions unanswered. In a time when a quizmaster would be happy to see his question answered and not revel in making a poor newbie feel like an ignoramus. Being a quizmaster was a responsibility to be taken seriously, not a privilege to be abused.

Fortunate enough to have quizzed in a time when the QMs quizmaster’s decision was final and not when they are being browbeaten into awarding points to a particular answers only because a participant thinks so, or even worse bludgeoned into taking back points already awarded because the answer was just not acceptable to a particularly senior participant. Because you see, you have to show off your bigger funda go one-up on the quizmaster himself with a ‘better answer’.

I am fortunate to have quizzed in a time when newbies were most welcome and made welcome by veterans who wore their seniority with grace. In a time when not every quizmaster was expected to have attended every quiz in India in the past two decades lest he commit the cardinal sin of repeating a question that was asked in say, a quiz in Indore in the second week of August 2003. If a QM does commit that sin now, he will be suitably punished with ample scorn and a disparaging remark from the veterans of today with that most loaded of insults, ‘repeat question’ or even worse ‘cheap funda’.

Are all quizzers that bad? Of course not. But most of them I think have left the scene or have just given up like me or maybe I don’t know for sure because I’m not a quizzer anymore or maybe, because it is just hard to spot them amidst all the ‘whose funda is bigger’ brouhaha going on and the one-upmanship so prevalent now, indulged in by people who I presume go home to their refrigerators with one hand holding their laptop as they cycle through their question slides. A good funda – that no one has spotted yet or one that you’ve created – is as orgasm-inducing as a brazzers siterip, you see.

Are there no good people left in quizzing?  Of course there are. There are gentle folk, gentle giants, Bangalore outsiders and people genuinely worth knowing outside of quizzing, trying to keep the spirit of quizzing alive, but all their voices in a quiz are lost in the clamour for that extra half point by the “serious” quizzers who I presume go home to their aquariums with the score sheet in hand.

It hurts. To see quizzing become what it has become now. Unwelcoming. Intimidating. It was always a sub-culture, but at least it was inviting. And I hope it will be sometime in the future. And again may Bangalore be genuinely worthy of the title ‘Quizzing Capital of India’ not because of the quantity of its quizzes, but because of their quality. Not because it has a few of India’s best quizzers, but because it so many of them. Once again, may the points flow generously and may the flow of new people to quizzes increase. May all the good quizmasters once again share their knowledge with us all through good questions, and make us better informed about the world about us.

— End of rant —

Then as of now

Winter had set in. I had already been slumming it out, been on the road for almost a month. Me, myself and a backpack. From delhi to haridwar, kedar to badri, hemkund sahib and everything on the way including Gorakhpur, the armpit of India. Gurudwara, telephone booth, 50-rupee rooms, railway platform, sleeping bag, when night came, anything was shelter enough. Trains, innumerable buses, shared taxis and a truck ride later found me walking across the border into Nepal en route to Tibet. It would still be another 20 days before I would eventually head back home. For now though, the bus that would take me to Kathmandu beckoned. As the bus left Sanauli, I realised I was the only non-Nepali in a crowded bus. And would be for the next 8-odd hours as the shuddery old bus wound its way through the picturesque mountainous roads. For the first time in all those days, I felt a sense of alone-ness. Not lonely, but alone. Perhaps it was this song that did. The driver played it a couple of hours into the journey. At that time I did not know what the words meant. I still don’t. No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. To me, at that point it captured that ineffable sense of ‘being away’. Of wanting to be with someone, but not just anyone. A sense of glorious desolation. Alone, but not lonely. Today, three years on…when I listen to this song, which I am as I write this, I am instantly transported back to those days, those roads, that bus filled with smiling happy people. I know this journey is but one of many that I need to make to get to wherever my heart takes me. I still have places to go, places to see. As I did then.

Ghatotkacha & Me

Somewhere in my family photo album is a photograph from the time when we were in Bidar. A faded picture of me at about 4-5 years sitting on my uncle’s lap on a reddish sofa and he’s reading out to me or rather taking me through a book. It was obviously a special occasion when my uncle came visiting, hence the photo I presume, and he was coming from large magical city called Bangalore. And my uncle always came bearing gifts. And this time was no different. It was my first ever comic book. A collected volume of 10 Amar Chitra Kathas which is what he is taking me thorough in that photo. It also happened to be the first ever English book I ever laid my eyes upon. The inexplicability of the strange words and strange language meant that I understood not a thing, but this was very well compensated for by the loads of pictures and characters that the volume contained, each panel a doorway to a new adventure.

Jumping and bouncing on a sofa is a lot more fun when you are in the middle of the battle of Kurukshetra riding a chariot. Pillow fights with your sister are more enjoyable when you are fighting Duryodhana with a mace. Broomsticks find their real calling when they are arrows. The neighbour’s pesky Pomeranian is a lot more tolerable and infinitely more fun to have around when you are Babruvahana trying to chase and capture the pesky horse from Yudhishtira’s Ashwamedha that has strayed into your territory. And of the whole volume of ACK, none was more enjoyed or leafed through or lived and relived than the Ghatotkacha comic. In fact that’s what I would say was the first English book I ever read, consumed, inhaled. And my first comic. The cover showed a colour illustration of Ghatotkacha taking to the skies with Shashirekha in his hands, her cot included. A thoroughly enjoyable story with lots of magic, asuras, shape-shifting legions and flying clothes. I remember shedding a tear or two when Ghatotkacha dies. Flashforward a couple of years. We have shifted to Gulbarga. I am in my second standard. All grown up. Grown up enough to make my own bows and arrows from branches, twigs and twine. Old enough to walk on my own all the way to school, and take my sister along with me too. But she is still Duryodhana and I am whoever catches my fancy. My class has enough dushasanas and ravanas for me to fight with. There’s also new games like kirket and football to play now, and trees to climb and fall out off. And there’s now a new box at home called TeeVee for dinner-time entertainment. Thus the hindi lessons begin by professor Doordarshan. One fine sunday, my father tells us we’re going to a film, Maya Bazaar. What’s it about? I ask. Not that it mattered. Well, it’s about Abhimanyu, and Krishna and Ghatotkacha my father says. Ghatotkacha??? Let’s go! And so we do. Film starts. It’s black and white!!! Not a new film. And it’s in some strange language that I cannot follow. Turned out it was the Telugu original. But none of that mattered once the film hit its stride and Ghatotkacha made his appearance. There was magic! And fights! And Ghatotkacha becoming big and then small. Yay! Opening his mouth and all the food jumps right into his mouth. And the song, ‘Hoho hoho ho ho…..’ brought much glee (vid below). Having been brought up on stories from the puranas and mythology, and the staple reading being Amar Chitra Kathas, this was like the best! I remember sitting transfixed and clapping my hands in glee. So what if it was Telugu? I knew the story inside out, and my father kept interjecting now and then with some additional info. Ah. The joy. Ghatotkacha spiriting away Shashirekha. Then changing to her form and taking everyone for a ride. Lovely.
 The story is simple. The Pandavas are in exile. One of Arjuna’s wives Subhadra and her son Abhimanyu are staying at Dwaraka with her brothers Krishna and Balarama. Now Abhimanyu and Shashirekha, Balarama’s daughter are in love with each other having been betrothed in their childhood. But times have changed. The Pandavas are paupers and Revathi, Balarama’s wife is no longer kicked about marrying her daughter off a pauper’s son and instead pitches for Lakshmana, Duryodhana’s son and the prince of Hastinapura, exactly what Shakuni wants. As any husband with a naggy, greedy wife Balarama agrees and anyways Duryodhana was always his favourite disciple. Realising what’s afoot, the trickster Krishna makes sure the miffed Subhadra and Abhimanyu are taken through a particular route. Enter Ghatotkacha! All angry and miffed at seeing two intruders in his territory. A battle ensues – flying arrows and all – between Abhimanyu and Ghatotkacha till Subhadra intervenes after Abhimanyu is defeated and the men realize that they are cousins, brothers. Ghatotkacha being Ghatotkacha agrees to help and with his retinue proceeds with due alacrity to Dwaraka to sabotage Shashirekha’s marriage to Lakshmana Kumara. Much fun and joy ensues, including a hilarious scene where Shakuni gets a taste of his own medicine in dice and Lakshmana Kumara quite simple some bitter medicine. Lots of mirth and joy ensues for the viewer. And of course all ends well with the lovers united.

The thrill of watching Maya Bazaar continued for a while. For the next few days, I was Ghatotkacha. And try as I might, the anna sambar never jumped off the plate into my mouth like at the end of this awesome song here:


Flashfoward to Karwar a few years later. I’m pretty good at cricket, and marbles. Older now, in the 5th standard. Have beaten up enough boys for a concerned parent or two to drop by home to complain to my father about my violent ways. In my defense, they deserved it for having mocked at me because of my shaved head. Teachers’ pet at school. Holy enough to play Joseph in the school’s Christmas play. Weak enough to faint while trying my first header while playing football. And role playing game is now playing Fauji with guns. One fine sunday, my father tells us we’re going to a film, Maya Bazaar. Yay! I jump to go and get ready. Another pleasant surprise awaits at the theatre. It is in Kannada. The dubbed version. Now I can hear Ghatotkacha go ‘Hoho hoho ho ho…..’ in kannada! For the next days, I was ghatotkacha again, and the fauji guns became maces and some got turned into bows when I chose to be arjuna. And as hard as i tried, the darned food would still not float into my mouth!

Flashforward many many years. Maya Bazaar still remains a favourite watch. I’m all grown up. Approaching my 30s. Old enough buy my own VCD of Maya Bazaar, the Kannada version. Even managed to catch the play Maya Bazaar by Sri Venkateshwara Natya Mandali (Surabhi) from Hyderabad. Fabulous as it was, as much as I enjoyed the play and Ghatotkacha’s role was played amazingly well, I still missed SVR’s portrayal.

And here I sit here today, all set to go watch the original Maya Bazaar in the theatres again, this evening! In colour!! Even the new trailer is giving me goosebumps:


Looking forward with as much joy if not more. Is it the movie? Or is it a way of reliving me as I was, and used to be? Or as I wish I could be? All that I know is that I have given up even trying to get the food to float and jump into my mouth. I’m not Ghatotkacha.

Thank you (also) for the music

Is it purely for the music or is it because of how intrinsically entwined it is with my childhood that I feel so a special connection with the man? I think it is because of the latter closely followed by the former.

Growing up, it was easy to dismiss ‘western music’ as this inexplicable noise and gibberish that as someone with absolutely no knowledge of English or exposure to the outside world I could afford to do. But somewhere between Mukesh and MS there was Michael, this one person who came to epitomize western music for us all – Michael Jackson – be it in gulbarga or karwar or udupi and other such places I spent my childhood in. Exposed to nothing more than Doordarshan and later The World This Week. It is a testimony then to MJ’s influence and worldwide accessibility. For the longest time, he was the only western music I ever knew, as I am sure he was for many of my generation. Those days if anyone said he listened a lot to western music, you could be rest assured he meant that he had one Michael Jackson tape. And that is why his death is that much more saddening. A part of our collective childhood died today, reminding us again of those days gone by when we would listen to Michael Jackson on thrice-recorded audio cassettes. In fact the first english music album I ever owned, a gift from my older cousin, was a copy of MJ’s Dangerous.

He was good. He made us love the unfamiliar. And how. But….Who was he? What was he? We knew nothing but his name. And all songs (the few rather that we knew) were known more by their description of what happened in that particular song than by its name. The attempts to hum the tune to tell the other guy what song you were referring to were as much as the songs themselves. Lyrics were irrelevant, as we didn’t know or speak english. Track names, what’s that? All that mattered was that we were listening to “foreign music”. And having a ball of a time crowded around an old tape recorder, each trying to outdo another in his “understanding” of this weird and unfamiliar yet strangely alluring music. With their fast pace, their dancy tunes, their strange instrumentation and above all, that great voice.

I remember those futile but insanely funny attempts when a few of us school boys tried moonwalking and dancing after seeing MJ do it like only he can. With lots of loose flailing limbs and crotch grabbing in a manner only awkward adolescents can. There was no cable then, no youtube, no DVDs, but a rental Video Cassette (at 10 rupees per day) that we all pooled in with a rupee or two in to see what it was all about. I remember that video cassette also had “that song where the Michael walks on the footpath and the tiles become bright bright as he walks over them”. I clearly remember that day after we watched the video mostly because of all the bruised knuckles and painful fingers we inflicted on ourselves during PT class in a bad, misguided and pale (no-knife) imitation of the Bad video. Total fun. Lots of Iodex was used in many a classmate’s household that night.

In effect that I think is what this is about – it wasn’t just Michael Jackson who died today, but a small, if very significant part of me as well. A part of a childhood lived in a bygone era, unrecognizable today. So selfishly I mourn today as much for that part of me as much as for Michael Jackson. All the artifacts, the little cultural reference points, the shared experiences slowly eroded by death, and fading with the march of time leaving behind the detritus of nostalgia and echoes of the past.

All I can say is I’m glad I lived when I did. And given a choice to redo things, I would still choose to have Michael Jackson as my first tentative step into the world of foreign, western music.

You, me and our friends brought up in that time – we are all those blocks that lit up when Michael Jackson stepped into the days of our lives. Back when.

Rest in peace Michael Jackson and do the moves again on the great dance floor in the sky.

Le roi est mort. Vive le roi.

Aches old enough to be our own...

We've seen the past best times, and these
Will ne'er return ; we see the seas,
And moons to wane,
But they fill up their ebbs again;
But vanish'd man,
Like to a lily lost, ne'er can,
Ne'er can repullulate, or bring
His days to see a second spring.

But on we must,
and thither tend,
Where Anchus and rich Tullus
Their sacred seed:
Thus has infernal Jove decreed
We must be made,
Ere long a song, ere long a shade.
Why then, since life to us is short,
Let's make it full up by our sport......

In all its glory it is known as HIS AGE, DEDICATED TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND,M. JOHN WICKES, UNDER THE NAME OF POSTHUMUS by Robert Herrick So gather ye rosebuds while ye may.