Kannada remakes can (usually) be deceiving: Not quite a review of Drishya

At first my father was apprehensive about coming to watch Drishya. So was I for that matter. The usual Kannada standards applied, so I’m not surprised. Even when it comes to remakes, Kannada filmmakers have a way of trying to go overboard in ‘Kannada-fying’ films, adding masala and unnecessary frills to suit what they think is ‘local taste’, not to mention cheapass songs and innuendo. And with Drishya having Ravichandran in it, an item number wouldn’t have been out of place, script and character be damned.

But he turned receptive to the idea when I told him that it’s a remake of the Malayalam film, Drishyam. And because he hold them in high regard and is a fan of, he gave in. So off we went, the full family, to watch Drishya, still not without a sprinkling of trepidation of what to expect. But we were most pleasantly surprised. Drishya turned out to be quite a faithful adaptation of Drishyam. In fact, some minor elements were even improved upon. Giving Sadhu Kokila’s character a slightly different spin & background worked as well. And in my opinion, Achyut Kumar’s depiction of the corrupt constable is a shade better than Kalabhavan Shajon’s. Definitely deserves a big pat on the back. Ilayaraja’s music and background score just added that extra touch. Equally nice was Shivaji Prabhu’s portrayal of the IG’s husband. The actress playing the IG by the way, is the same in Kannada as well.

And of course, Ravichandran. Apart from a passing catch-it-if-you-will mention of ‘anjadagandu’ and ‘premaloka’, he seems to have made peace with the reality that he isn’t the crazy star anymore, and instead should be an actor. Not close to Mohanlal of course, but an appreciable and effective effort nonetheless. All in all, a recommended watch. And if you like me, would like to watch Kannada movies with full family but usually don’t find any that that you could take your parents to, this would be it. Tell them it’s a Mohanlal movie, like I did. Usually seals the deal.

The deja vu during Gozilla was Gamera

As a Kaiju movie fan, I liked the new Godzilla, but I kept getting this feeling of déjà vu. So I went back to the one movie it most reminded me of, Gamera: Guardian of the Universe (1995), and sure enough there it was. Or rather, there they were. Many instances of ‘inspiration’. Or perhaps it was Gareth Edwards’ way of paying tribute. Nothing takes away from the fun that Godzilla was, because perhaps there’s nothing much really to be read into except fodder for kaiju fanboys.

#1: The reason the kaijus woke up. Due to the change in the environment, especially radioactive material.

 

#2: The principle of ‘balance’. For every MUTO, there is a Gojira. For every Gyaos, Gamera was created.

#3: The most tenuous similarity of all from the scratching-the-bottom department – the use of flares to illuminate Gamera. Used to good effect in Godzilla.

 

#4: The Kaiju diving into the sea and disappearing. The last shot is almost replicated almost the same (excepting the couple of frames with humans in Gamera).

I have a feeling if I watch Godzilla again, I’ll find more such instances, but the rips are still a sometime away. Till then, that’s all folks.

Being called ‘Hitler’ is perhaps the best compliment a leader could get in India today

No one will admit it in public. It’s a question of political correctness after all. How can you forget the gas chambers??? But then in an era of fleeting superficiality and skin deep strong beliefs, that’s a just a minor detail to be ignored. That’s where people come from when Hitler comparisons are denied in public. But the truth lies between this show of political correctness and the ground realities. Because if Rahul Gandhi does persist in comparing Modi to Hitler, it could prove to be unproductive to the extent of making people see Modi in a new, positive light. Yes, Positive. Because when you look at the big picture, Hitler in India isn’t a hate figure, a demonised person, a villain. Actually the truth is just the opposite. And here’s why I think so.

 

To put things in context look at the situation prevailing in India today. Lack of a strong leadership, and an Indian’s search for the same. A rising sense of (misplaced) nationalism, jingoistic in its nature. It is exactly here that Hitler, in the opinion of many people, scores, especially youngsters. And that’s all people know, or want to know. Here was a man who loved his country, a patriot, a strong leader who made his nation strong again. A disciplined man with leadership qualities to be admired.

 

And we Indians have always been prone to ‘hero worship’ be it sportsmen or politicians, and especially of military leaders. And Hitler fits all these very many moulds quite nicely. And the little matter of the belief that Hitler was a man who solved problems, and just got things done. A man who brought order to chaos, who replaced shame & anger with pride. Just this much is reason enough. But wait, there’s more.

All that above is just the state-of-play today. But what of yesterday? How does our past history affect how we perceive Hitler today?

 

Again, our history once again reinforces the fact that Hitler was a good man. It’s a fact that today’s youth hero worships Bhagat Singh and Subhas Chandra Bose more than MK Gandhi. And remember, it was Hitler to whom Netaji turned to in the fight for Indian Independence. That makes Hitler India’s friend, even if it is – as it was – because he was the ‘enemy’s enemy’. So if Netaji admired Hitler, he can’t be all that bad. Many people still haven’t forgiven Gandhi for siding with the oppressor, Britain during the wars. For people who’ve read Indian history or rather know of all the theories and little trickles that went into making the larger whole, there is a strong and persistent view that had Hitler not weakened the British Empire through WW2, the British would have never voluntarily left India. This view finds its logical end in posts and books that proclaim that Hitler, not Gandhi, should be given credit for the independence of India. As an aside, when you have the time, also look up Savitri Devi, popularly known as Hitler’s priestess and how Hitler was for a while considered an avatar of Vishnu.

 

Back to the present and thousands of copies of Mein Kampf get sold every month at bookstores across the country. At last count there were at least a dozen editions that I know of, and there’s a new one every few months. It’s still a best seller in India. How would you account for this? The book’s literary merit? No. It is a rambling book, and a difficult read. I don’t think all those thousands of people who bought the book have ever finished the book. They only bought it not so much because they wanted to know more about Hitler but more as a token of their love for the man.

I could go on. About the restaurants that bear Hitler’s name. About how the whole ‘Hitler was racist’ doesn’t cut ice in private here, in India where we are as rascist as they come. About the movie(s) on Hitler. But as with the rest of the post, I will keep it brief and just enough to give you an idea of why I think that if someone is compared to Hitler, it may work in his favour. Why Adolf Hitler for all that he may be to the western world isn’t in India (necessarily) an evil man – but a hero, a role model, political correctness notwithstanding. I hope I’ve made enough sense to give you some food for thought.

Why are military hotels called ‘Military Hotels’?

Military Hotel. You know, the places where you get all the Ragi Mudde and Chops. The donne biryanis and spare parts. Basically and almost exclusively non veg fare is what defines a Military Hotel, or Miltry Hotel as people call them. Actually the full and proper nomenclature is ‘Hindu Military Hotel’. But what’s with the military connection? I’ve had a lot of people ask me that, and am putting it down here so next time I can just mail a link to this post instead of subjecting them to my voice and wild gesticulations.

 

Now all this here below is what I’ve learned from my uncle and corroborated by relatives and a few people of the previous generation. That’s the only citation you’ll ever get if you ask. If you have heard of an alternative explanation or anything to add on, I would love to hear it. Anyways.

 

One logical explanation I’ve seen do the rounds is that they’re called Military Hotels because they’re run by ex-servicemen. Logical, plausible, but not quite right. The actual reason, as I’ve been told, is that back in the ye olde days, and I’m talking about the early post-independence years and up to the early 60s, the only non-vegetarian hotels and messes existing had cooks who were non-Hindu, mostly Muslim. So Hindus who were from non-vegetarian households would eat at home. But when it came to eating out, it was more or less a non-option for reasons stated above. This was a problem compounded for Hindus who were supposedly (or rather born) vegetarian but had acquired a taste for non-veg, because without the option of eating out they had to make do only with the occasional invitation to a friend’s house or say, a stray beegra oota. Remember also, these were times when towns were smaller than they are now and everyone more or less knew everybody else and his family.

 

Enter the military hotels to fill this gap for both kinds of people. Any hotel that called itself a Hindu Military Hotel (to use the complete & original terminology; though the word ‘Hindu’ has since been become redundant due to association of one with the other and due to changing times) was clearly suggesting, nay announcing three things:
• That it is a non-vegetarian hotel
• That the cooks are Hindus, and…
• No beef.

 

But still, why ‘Military’? Apparently the general perception amongst the people at that time was that everyone in the forces, the military HAD to eat non-veg irrespective of who he was or what his background and choice of food was. So ostensibly many of these places popped up to cater to the non-vegetarian food needs of soldiers on leave and ex-servicemen who had to have their meat but who couldn’t cook at home, or eat at hotels with non-Hindu cooks. Yep. It’s quite as simple as that. But the reasons are not so simple, but sort of make sense once you keep in mind the social mores of the time that food joints started calling themselves ‘Military Hotels’.

 

So there you go. Enough food for thought I guess, for now. Bon appetite!!

Love, love everywhere, but not a Lover to love - The Auto Raja special

A collection of some of the finest love advice and aphorisms from Bangalore’s very own Love Gurus.

 

Love cannot be seen it is true [but] Lover can you not see [?]
[Once] Love is found, Lover [also] will you not get [?]

 

udigiru love andre

nail polish thara thilkondire
udugaru love andre
pranakintha echgi thilkonthare
=
(If) girls think of love as nail polish *wah wah*
boys value love more than life itself

 

Shi So Beutiful

But
I Don’t Like It

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The charms of modern girls’ luck-u…
…can change a boy’s destiny (and come unstuck-u)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

from mother….LIFE
from lover….DEATH

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Waste it [a rose] not on the hair of a girl who knows not the value of love,
Use it instead to adorn the tomb of the boy who gave their life for love…..
….GULABI !!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

if you don’t get what you love; love what you get’
but a true, more correct literal translation in English would be:
Rather than being a slave to the one you choose,
Be the king and rule over the heart that chose you

 

 

 

 

To never see you again, my heart into stone I turned,
Now that the stone hath become a rock in the end
From which I could sculpt your beauteous visage I see within,
How can forget you oh my beloved, my friend?! 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and finally a (dis)honourable mention....

 

For a small-town boy with no exposure to western philosophy, he opened the doors to this new animal called existentialism. My later love for Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Schopenhauer and all the various philosophies had their beginning with that one book – The Outsider. And thus began a path of discovery and self-discovery.

My continuing love for the occult, the esoteric arts and magik, began all those years ago, when as a impressionable young man, I discovered Aleister Crowley, Blavatsky, Gurdjieff and Jung, all and more which were contained in that one book – The Occult. Thus began a lasting fascination and exploration of all these arcane subjects.

Pseudohistory, alternate history and lost civilisation, whole new world, or rather completely lost worlds were laid open by that one book – From Atlantis to the Sphinx. All the tomes and books I have read and own today on the subject are a direct result of the spark provided by that one book. And all written by that one man, the ‘Angry Young Men’ – Colin Wilson.

I couldn’t even begin to list out the other books of his which provided further direction to my reading habits and to subjects I could delve into deeper. From sex crimes and criminal histories to de Sade and sci-fi, horror and alternate realities. Yes, I have read much better books on each of these topics, but for a newbie these provided interesting enough to know further. And for that, Colin Wilson, thank you. And…
…to the only writer who has a shelf all his own in my library, R.I.P.

A wonderful 'magical' read...

The last time I read a non-china mieville book that won as many awards as Jo Walton’s Among Others was Paolo Bacigalupi’s Wind-up Girl which ended its course winning more awards than Among Others’ current tally. That’s probably as much as you can speak about the two in the same breath – as Among Others was (imho) as much a pleasure to read as Wind-up Girl was underwhelming.

And not just because Am

ong Others is an ode to classic SF (and fandom) and the love of books, as it a fabulous bildungsroman (I am a sucker for those). The first person epistolary narrative style just adds to the charm of this book. Now, is this narrator – a 16 year old girl who's just lost her twin, sees fairies, does magic, creates a karass all her own, and is running away from her evil (witch) mother – an unreliable narrator or not? Could go both ways depending on who is reading. When I first heard about the book it was posited as an anti-thesis to Harry Potter because the protagonist was a girl who knew magic and went to a regular, non-magic boarding school. But Among Others turned out to be so much more.

Magic is what you make of it; the closest the ‘magic’ in this book comes to is perhaps the ‘magic’ in Bridge to Terabithia. So in that sense, it is only ‘science fiction’ if you want it to be, and ‘fantasy’ if you say so.

Killing two birds with one book

Remember the first Ice Age movie? It was an animated movie, so naturally it was billed as ‘entertaining fare for children’. And enjoy they did, going by my nephews and nieces or children of friends. But you know who enjoyed the film more? The people who used to be children till a decade or more ago, and some who are children still, albeit with beards, moustaches, wives and credit card debts. So while Ice Age was great fun for the child in us – and I don’t mean this in the sense of being pregnant – it was great pun for the adults that we supposedly are. Adults in terms of having read enough, gone through life, watched enough movies than the average bear cub. The puns (taekwon-dodo!) , the contextual insinuations, the absurdness of dodos preparing for the ice age with just three melons (melons, as in the fruit, you dutty bugger). See what I mean. It takes an adult to get that joke. You can’t expect a 10-14 year old to get all of that. But that’s not to say they didn’t enjoy Ice Age. That’s where we ‘adults’ have an advantage – we used to be children once.

The same is the case with certain books. Conveniently billed ‘Young Adult’ fiction. But like not all books – in my highly subjective opinion - can be truly enjoyed by adults as well (and this coming from me, who still reads Three Investigators still). So assuming you’re looking for a fun read that takes you back to the ‘good fun’ days of adventurous adolescence, but one that also offers the ‘adult’ in you a second layer of fun and added reading pleasure (and if you wish, one that you can deconstruct, look at it from a societal perspective, etc. etc.), here’s a short random list from theBekku, of ‘young adult' books.

All of these books fall under the same category as say, The Hobbit, which was primarily for children but can be enjoyed by adults (unlike LOTR which was the opposite). And yes, Ice Age. This list is by no means exhaustive, by any measure. These are just the book’s I like enough personally to recommend. If there are any I’ve missed, or you think I should read, do a good turn and let me know in the comments section. And because fantasy, adventure, a sense of newness, discovery and wonder is according to me one of the chief emotions of young adult-hood, this list tilts more towards fantasy and plausible alternative worlds and situations rather than books like say, Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime.

Now, you’re either the kind of person who will take my word for it (for reasons known best to you) or the kind who will still Google the title/author and look it up on wikipedia/ amazon/ good reads. Thusly, this list is not accompanied by any descriptions or gushing praise, all I can say is that if you’re a reader you won’t regret the time you spend within these books. Get ready for subterranean cities, other worlds and other mothers, competitions, rumbling mobile metropolises, magic and fun.

China Mieville – Un Lun Dun

Ursula LeGuin – The Earthsea quartet (• A Wizard Of Earthsea • The Tombs of Atuan • The Farthest Shore • Tehanu)

Philip Pullman – His Dark Materials trilogy (• The Golden Compass • The Subtle Knife • The Amber Spyglass)

Neil Gaiman – Coraline

Neil Gaiman – The Graveyard Book

Philip Reeve – The Mortal Engines quartet (• Mortal Engines • Predator's Gold • Infernal Devices • A Darkling Plain

Jeanne DuPrau – Book of Ember quartet (• City of Ember • The People of Sparks • The Prophet of Yonwood • The Diamond of Darkhold)

Suzanne Collins – The Hunger Games trilogy (• The Hunger Games • Catching Fire • Mockingjay)

Norton Juster – The Phantom Tollbooth

There you go. Will add more in a while or a bit, whichever is earlier.

And here’s how you kill two birds with one book.

Gift your son/daughter/nephew/niece any of the above (or all), and introduce them to new worlds of wonder and come across as a great father/father/uncle/aunt and when the brats are done with it, quietly borrow and read it. Or the other way ‘round. Also recommended for adults who want to buy it solely for themselves, for the children they are ;)

A reply – and a thank you note – of sorts

Many many moons ago, a die-hard motor-head and F1 encyclopedia who happens to be a friend of mine (yeah Ajit, you only man, and thanks for the quote) mailed across a great quote that I’ve never quite forgotten. Looking it up took me to an olde episode of BBC’s Top Gear, in which Jeremy Clarkson test drove – I don’t quite remember, think it was – an Aston Martin. But the point is this. After a fabulous drive and gushing praise, he mentioned a couple of small minor details that people said could be improved upon, and to such people who complain because they want to, Clarkson said, in a way only Clarkson can, “Complaining about this car is like getting into bed with a supermodel and complaining she has slightly irregular pubes.”

How’s that for a reply to the people who would go nitpicking for the sake of it, about The Dark Knight Rises, things like ‘why are the cars marked GPD when it should be GCPD as was established in a scene in the previous movie?’ I could’ve at least given marks for this kind of an observation if the city in question was say, Kuala Lumpur and they’d marked the cars KPD, not KLPD.

Then, on to certain plot points in the movie which a friend of mine who goes by the handle Finnegan’s Wake fabulously called the ‘Manmohan Desai elements’. Things like ‘how Batman could prance around after being lame for almost 40 minutes of the movie?' (errr...perhaps that metal frame thingy on his leg?) and ‘how could a quack fix wayne when he had disfigured Bane while trying to treat him’ (no he didn't. the guy who fixed him was someone else. the quack who disfigured bane was the guy who suddenly starts speaking propah English after mumbling around in some strange language). Oh wait, there’s another Manmohan Desai element (I love that term!).

If that explanation wouldn’t suffice those for whom there is no pleasing, then I offer you the recourse of what Coleridge termed ‘suspension of disbelief’. And the burden is on the viewer, not the creator. If you can suspend your disbelief enough to believe that is perfectly plausible for a grown man, who is also a billionaire by the way, to run around in a suit wearing eye shadow with out of the world gadgetry (and in the comics world, friends with an alien boy scout who flies around wearing his red undies outside his blue tights), then why is it so impossible for you to believe that such things too can happen. ‘Clean Slate’ can fit into a thumb drive. Why let it come in the way of ‘the larger enjoyment’ of the film? Remember it’s a movie, not a balance sheet.

If you want everything to be perfectly explained and everything slotted just right, with no facts out of place, then I suggest you go check out the CERN ppt on the Higgs Boson after the big find. Plus, it’s in Comic Sans.

The other big complaint is the supposed lack of humour. While I can counter that by saying there was just enough humour to get by, like the rooftop sequence where Catwoman does a Batman on Batman. Remember Batman is supposed to be this fatalist, brooding dude. And the whole tone of the movie is dark and somber. It’s TDKR, what were you expecting, an Adam Sandler movie with Marx Brothers dialogues? And less humour or no humour compared to what? Perhaps putting nipples on the batsuit would’ve helped, yes?

That said, do I have no complaints against the movie? I do. I wish Nolan had given more screen time to Catwoman. In tights. Not Selina Kyle. Catwoman. But then, Nolan’s only human. Don’t expect him to get everything perfect. Did I hear someone say fan service? Yep. So is asking for Bane to be given more screen time too and a fitting ‘death’. But remember what Clarkson said about sleeping with the supermodel?

Now that all that is taken care of. Let’s move on to the Trilogy proper. Because many tend to forget that TDKR is but the final part of a Trilogy. As Satyajit Chetri aka Beatzo has nailed it, “For the first time in the history of this 73-year old character, we have a complete story, with beginning, middle and end.” If its comics and beatzo speaks, question it not. And that statement above – which I completely agree with – is more objective than you would care to admit.

Oh wait. Speaking of comics, there’s enough people out there who would revel in showing off their Bat-knowledge – and thusly seem cooler somehow – by suggesting things like ‘they should’ve let Talia live because she’s pregnant with Damian!’. Damian who? Aw c’mon dude. You don’t know? (gets into let-me-out-fanboy-you mode with fake humility mask) In the comics, Bruce Wayne and Talia al’ Ghul have a kid called Damian Wayne who then becomes the 5th Robin. What…5th Robin? Ya man…blah blah Jason Todd blah blah Drake blah blah Stephanie Brown blah blah Red Hood blah blah. And so on. Dude, stop it.

Nolan’s mined the best parts from the comics, most notably the tone and motivations and characters and delivered a nice self-contained trilogy. Everything that needs to be there is there. It’s not comics. It’s Nolan-verse. And it’s just as valid as Timm-verse or DC-continuity. If there’s no venom pumping into Bane’s veins, it just isn’t. And if some white haired dude in some Pit replaces Lady Shiva, so it shall be in Nolan-verse. Every medium has its own pace, it’s own possibilities and limitations. Be thankful for what you got, and the awesomeness that was the experience across the Trilogy and quit comparing it to the comics, and to Arkham Asylum the game, and……how in TDKR Catwoman should’ve gotten more screen time in tights (oh wait, that’s me.) So if you want to want a nice conversation about possibilities and batman comics, that’s cool, but if you’re just out to prove how many Batman-related Wikipedia pages you’ve mugged up and throw trivia around without a context, you can please stuff it down Jean Paul’s valley.

So there you have it. TDKR, a fitting finale to a fabulous trilogy. A trilogy which has set the standard for comic book adaptations. A trilogy that humanised the ‘superhero’. A trilogy that transcended the comic-book-movie genre. A trilogy that gave us Heath Leger’s Joker, a killer bat mobile, Hans Zimmer’s scores, Anne Hathway in leather, a great supporting cast, great dialogues, great action, Anne Hathway in leather, and above all a nice cohesive and a sooper movie experience, three times over, not counting the umpteen repeat viewings. I know I am not even scratching the surface about all the things that were superfantabulous about the Trilogy, like the new bat-logo, but then, I’m sure you know them already and I’d have to take a day off to type out the whole list.

So in closing.
Thank you Christopher Nolan.

The Bekku picks 10 off the bekku

For no particular reason, here are 10 posts out of 247. handpicked picked with careful randomness. In no particular order….


Yeh Pink Floyd saala hai kaun?
In which The Bekku shines some light on Pink Floyd. You might like reading about him.

About Time
A story shorter than a short story. The Bekku’s first attempt at writing one about his favourite theme.

The Curious Case of the Missing Indian Jasoos
Where is an Indian detective when you need one?

It ws a dark and stormy night....
The most ‘literate’ post or rather experiment on the bekku. Probably because none of the words were mine.

We all need a Love Day
The secret history of Feb 14th revealed!

patriotism vs. Patriotism
Spot the difference.

Everything you wanted to know about Kolaveri but didn’t know who to ask!
The post is exactly what the title says. Has aged better than the song though.

The Revenge of the Natives
In which a way is indicated as to how you can master ye queen’s English at the cost of comprehension.

Fork off!! – DOs and DON’Ts when eating from a banana leaf
As a comment put it, this just proved The Bekku does not suffer from Ananany, which is the inability to stop spelling banana.

A sexy post
In which fellatio is referred to.

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.

Everything you wanted to know about Kolaveri but didn’t know who to ask!

First tell me what is this ‘Kolaveri’ means?

The word is derived from the Tamizh words ‘Kolai’ meaning killing/ murder and supposedly ‘Veri’ meaning ‘rage’. So Kolaveri literally means ‘killing rage’ or ‘murderous fury’. Keep in mind that is a soup song (see next question) sung by a soup boy (again, see next question) so he is asking the girl who has rejected him why she is treating him like this. Soup boys will get it. But it’s usage can go beyond it. Last heard Soniaji was asking Mamata Bannerjee “Why this Kolaveri Didi?”. Also overheard an hour into Rockstar ‘Why this Kolaveri?’. Will soon supplant and replace ‘Emosional Atyaachaar’.

What’s ‘Soup’ got to do with a girl? What is a Soup Song? Who is a Soup Boy?

If you ask me, soup is short for ‘Soup-er’ – as in soup-er figure mama – but unfortunately that’s just my theory-u. According to Dhanush, the lyric writist and singer of this song-u, a Soup Boy’ is a love failure boy and a ‘Soup Song’ is a love failure song. Anu Malik’s “Why did you break my heart? Why did I fall in love?” is a soup song. Devdas is a Soup Boy. Singing ‘One by two-u veg manchow soup da’ to the waiter in tune is NOT a soup song.

Is ‘bouv-u’ supposed to the sound of a dog barking spelt bad wrongly?

This misconception stems from the classic Sher: Tere pyaar me mujhe kutta bana diya, Tere pyaar me mujhe kutta bana diya….yakeen nahin aata? Bow Bow!’ This is also a classic example of a Soup Sher. The theory fits in as much as this is a Soup Sher and the guy is singing to a girl in desperation because in a twist she said ‘yes’ to him and truned him into a dog (bandh gaya patta, ban gaya kutta). But the truth is that ‘bouv’ supposedly is slang for ‘snubbed’ ‘stood up’ etc. etc. Also nicely rhymes with cow-u.

Can you translate the ‘song’ into English please?

No. Because the whole song-u is in yinglish wonly mama. Did you not hear Dhanush say ‘Only english huh’. The few Tamizh words in the song have been addressed in the questions above. Also because any attempt at translation would lose out on the feelings of the song mama.

Why do you insist on calling me uncle? I don’t have a nephew or niece yet and neither am I that old!

No offense mama, but mama here does not mean ‘uncle’ it is but an affectionate term for ‘friend’ as you can see in the video itself where Dhanush call Anirudh, the music director ‘mama’, this does not mean Anirudh is Dhanush’s uncle. Anirudh’s uncle is (I have heard) Rajini saar.

WTF is Shruti Hasan doing in the video with the headphones on and all that?

Holy cow-u. What kind of a question is that? It’s Shruti Hasan! She can be anywhere she wants to. She looks equal parts cute, equal parts hot in the video so don’t look a gift horse in the mouth-u.

Who is the other woman?

Depends on which man you are talking about. In HDK’s case, it is the actress Radhika. Oh wait, you mean who is the other lady in the video? That is Aishwarya, director of the film in which this song features, Dhanush’s wife and the daughter of Rajini saar.

Is there a political angle to this song?

Perhaps, but only if you insist on saying – in Kannada, in Chennai – ‘Kolaveri nimmadu, Kaveri nammadu’. (HT to Lady J who misread Kolaveri as Kaveri thus providing ample fodder for politics)

Can you deconstruct this song? Is there a neo-classical post-modern interpretation to this song?

Yes. Get me drunk first.

Is there a cure for this song? I cannot stop watching the video again and again and again? I cannot stop listening to the song-u? I have lost count-u? What iz the cure-u?

You are probably watching the video to drool at Shruti Hasan, that’s not an affliction, you’re lucky, so don’t worry there is nothing wrong with you. As to listening, yes, there is a cure. But the cure is worse than the disease it is called ‘Silila yeh silsila’ (x3 ) followed by a healthy dose of Rebecca Black’s Friday. So stick to humming Kolaveri, it is a lot more fun. May the force be with you.

Any answer to any question that I might have missed?

Yes, you forgot question. And the answer to that question is ‘Yes, Rajinikanth knows the answer to ‘Why this Kolavri di?’

Laal Khopdi strikes again!

It all started with a conversation on the office balcony. 2 lasses, a laddy and me (yep, Mallika, Pooja and Khanna, I am referring to you - didn't think you guys would the spark behind such horror did ya?). Next thing you know we are talking about Shaitaani Tantrik, Khooni Dracula, Chudail No.1 and other such z-grade horror flicks, nay true blue Indian exploitation classics from such great luminaries as Kanti Shah, Purushottam, Harinam Singh et al (many thanks to the one and wonly Bhagat Productions for some awesome movies). A chai later I remembered that there have been some slasher movies that have been cut up (no pun intended) into music videos for firang metal songs. Are these Indian classics any less? Don’t they deserve a video of their own? Of course they do. And it has to be an Indian band, an Indian song. That will do do justice to Indian horror flicks being sliced and diced (pun intended).

Cut to Coffee House. Enter fellow metal fan and walking music encyclopedia Gautham Khandigey also known as GK also known as Soul Reefer. A quick brief later and my mission stated, Dying Embrace’s Grotesque entity was inboxed with due alacrity. 2 sleepless nights, many coffees and watching many old favourites later, emerged this:

Word

Some authors fill a novel with futuristic scenery and jargon and then strenuously, even stertorously, deny that it's science fiction. No, no, they don't write that nasty stuff, never touch it. They write literature. Though curiously familiar with the tropes and conventions of the despised genre, they so blithely ignore the meaning of terms, they reinvent the wheel with such cries of self-admiration, that their endeavours seem a doomed effort to prove that one can write a novel without learning how.

– Ursula K Le Guin in her review of China Miéville's Embassytown

Cannibal Romance

Overheard: the Romantic Lady Killer Man singing this


My Lady d'Arbanville, why do you sleep so still?
I'll wake you tomorrow
And you will be my fill, yes, you will be my fill.....

The Curious Case of the Missing Indian Jasoos

Amidst yesterday’s hauls which included yet another Dr. Gideon Fell mystery by John Dickson Carr was this: The House of Fear – containing 2 stories of the Imran series of detective fiction by Ibn-e-Safi. Translated from the Urdu of course.

With a quote by Agatha Christie thrown in for good measure, just in case you needed more reason to buy this book – apart from the fact that it is finally available at all. Tip of the hat to Jubin George for spotting this in the section where it was inadvertently kept – the heavy duty literature section which he usually haunts. Instead of the Crime/Mystery section where it belongs. But I digress (so what’s new?). The point of this post is not debate the literary merit of mystery and detective fiction, so let’s move on.

From the time I read my first Hardy Boys book in higher secondary – While the Clock Ticked, which also happened to be my first ‘English novel’ – I have been in love with the genre of detective fiction. The crime – a corpse or a robbery or both and more. A detective (a pair or with a sidekick) seeking out evidence. The red herrings that the author throws in. The linking together of various clues. The dénouement! Of course from here on it was but a natural progression to Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie. The discovery of Poe and finding Auguste Dupin. Reading about Simon Iff. The Dorothy Sayers books. No, for the purpose of this post, Dirk Gently is NOT a detective. But Asimov’s Black Widowers series is detective fiction, even though there are no crimes to speak of, but still problems solved. Current favourites being Colin Dexter’s Inspector Morse, Andrea Cammileri’s Salvo Montalbano and the aforementioned Dr. Gideon Fell. So on and so forth.

From a larger perspective, you could separate out Crime/Hardboiled fiction – Chandler, Hammet, Spillane et al and police procedurals and lawyers – from pure detective fiction of the private investigator or problem solver/trouble shooter kind who follows clues not procedures or rules of his own making. And feature in more than a couple of stories. The Holmeses, the Poirots, the Miss Marples, the Peter Wimseys etc. But if you’ve noticed there are hardly any Indian detectives on this list (the title of the post was a dead giveaway right? Drat! I’ll never make it as a writer of detective fiction.) But wait. There are!

Flashback to Doordarshan in the late eighties and we had Rajat Kapoor playing Byomkesh Bakshi – not a detective but a satyanveshi, a truth seeker – and his Dr.Watson, Ajit entertain us with some amazing stories. Then Ray’s Feluda happened. Good fun. Yes, Gajarchand, I mean Detective Karamchand was also there, but since he was born on television not in a book, he doesn’t make the cut. So we have Saradindu Bandopadhyay’s Byomkesh Bakshi and Satyajit Ray’s Feluda. Homegrown Indian sleuths. Whose exploits are available in English. 2 volumes to each detective. And now hopefully House of Fear will see Ibn-e-Safi’s Imran being taken forward. That makes it three. Yes, there is Ibn-e-Safi’s other hero, Colonel Fareedi, but that’s more spy game than detective fun. So we’re still left with three. Ain’t there no more Indian detectives? Premendra Mitra’s Ghanada is again not so much detective fiction as it is tall stories and adventure stories. And all these were ages ago. Byomkesh in the early 20th. Feluda in the 60s & 70s. Imran in the 50s. Isn’t there any Indian sleuth in modern fiction???

Inspector Ghote!!! Yes. But wait. No. Sorry. The author is British. And Manjiri Prabhu’s Sonia Samarth series is basically chik-lit in the guise of detective fiction. With astrology thrown in for the cool factor and the exotic ingredient when selling to an unsuspecting western(ised) reader. Is the problem then one of unavailability in English? Which would give the detective a mainstream audience? Byomkesh and Feluda were both written in Bengali remember, and Imran in Urdu. I think not. Even if one were not able to read the stories one would still be in the know right? That so-and-so detective exists. Syed Mustafa Siraj’s Colonel Niladri Sarkar for instance. Originally in Bengali, and to the best of my knowledge unavailable in English. But while I may not have read any of these stories, I know they are there ready to be translated should a publisher see the commercial value in that and welcomed by eager readers in India and elsewhere. Perhaps there are some gems of a sleuth hidden away in Oriya? Marathi perhaps? I don’t know. If you do. Please let me know. Would like that. Yes, admittedly there is a rich tradition of pulp literature – but the protagonists there tends to crime and sensation. Or perhaps I need to change my strict. But that still does not explain the missing detective in modern Indian fiction? True, Amitav Ghosh's Calcutta Chromosome can be fitted under this, but it's a one-shot. Can Indians not write mystery/detective fiction? That probably brings us to the question – if we love detective fiction, why should there be an Indian detective? Is there a need really? Of course there’s no need. But it is still a different thing to read about familiar places, familiar phrases, to see familiar names in a genre that we so like. So where is the homegrown Indian jasoos? Exhuming Dame Christie, re-animating her and asking her – since she claims to have ‘knowledge of detective fiction in the subcontinent’ – is not an option. She’s be horribly out of date. Or perhaps not.

We like. You like?

In case this has been slipping under thine radar, this here blog is another to which the Bekku makes a contribution to (or rather tries to) Here it is and its still there: Covers We Like

I am a lot of things! I am Everything! (almost)

…sadness drips and dries

like paint on my mind’s wall

to a cacophony of chaotic cries

Life, uninstall.

There! That has makes me a Poet. Moving on…..

I have a camera. I take photos. That makes me a Photographer.

I have given my voice to 4 radio spots. So I am a Voice Artist.

I have used Windows Movie Maker to make a video. So what if it’s a slide show? That still makes me a Filmmaker.

I have plasticine at home. So I am a clay modeler, ooops, Sculptor.

I have attended a few quizzes, now that is a straight ticket to Quizzer-hood.

I am a Blogger. But obviously. So what if its dead for all practical matters?

So where are we now? Lets recap.

Poet. Photographer. Voice Artist. Filmmaker. Sculptor. Quizzer. Blogger. I am turning out to be quite the thing since bread came sliced. But moving on.

I have written short stories. One is up on this blog, called Status Quo. Look for it if you wish. And some more. So that makes me a Story Writer. Now if I can get this and the few other I’ve written laid out in Garamond, get a few copies laser printed, bind it with some random image on the cover, I will be Author too.

Yeah…oooh….lala aha yea….sadness drips and dries sssss

like paint on my mind’s wall……hey yeah

Cacophony! of chaotic cries

Life, uninstall. Uninstallllll yea yea yea yea

(sung to what? A 2-chord progression. A Minor and E major. Simplest)

Look ma! I am a Songwriter too! I am a Guitarist too since I can actually play these 2 chords. And if Justin Beiber is a singer so am I. Anyways Singer-Songwriter is way cooler and kvlt than plain jane ‘singer’.

I know a bit of ProTools and can splice things together in Audacity, does that make me a Sound Engineer?

I know enough Photoshop to apply random filters and bring it together in CorelDraw or Illustrator. I have Shutterstock access so I can download and alter cool vectors to pass them off as mine. So in one shot that makes me an Art Director and Graphic Designer.

In this calendar year I have read 39 books to date. Yep. This year I am keeping track. So I am an Avid Reader.

I have been atop Kudremukh peak. Proves that I am a Trekker. I have spent a few or more hours walking around the Valley of Flowers. So I am a Hiker. Just need to get my BSA SLR into shape and trawl around. Note to self: Become a Cyclist soon. 2nd Note to self: Attend freebie try-before-you-buy workshop on Cocktail Making, Salsa, Kalaripayatt. Wouldn't you like to be called a Dancer? A certified Bartender?

I have a Bajaj Pulsar. Not so often I take it out of the city which I guess makes me eligible for the Biker tag. What else? What else?

Poet. Photographer. Voice Artist. Filmmaker. Sculptor. Quizzer. Blogger. Author. Singer-Songwriter. Guitar player. Musician. Sound Engineer. Art Director. Graphic Designer. Avid Reader. Trekker. Hiker. Biker. I am Everything! Let me take a few minutes off now to download either a CK Prahlad book, and I will return as Management Consultant. Or perhaps I will look up Kotler on Wikipedia an become a Marketing Strategist and Brand Consultant. Ah, there’s so many things I can be. Be back soon.

Of vengeful virgins and corpses that wear pasties

Once in a while along comes along a book you pick up just for its cover art alone. Doesn’t often happen to me. I go for what’s in between the covers. And sometimes I don’t need to rifle through the pages. As a friend once told me, I seem to have the ability to judge a book by its covers. Yep. I do. And modesty is not one of my virtues. But coming to the point, it’s rarer still when you have an entire imprint each worth picking up for the cover art alone. And yes, Hard Case Crime happened to me some time ago. As a fan of hard boiled crime and pulp fiction, it was but natural that I check them out – books by Lawrence Block, Donald Westlake, Ed McBain, Max Allan Collins, what’s not to like. And one by, beleiev or not, Arthur Conan Doyle (The Valley of Fear). I do suggest you give them a look-in too, if you’re into hard-boiled crime and pulp or just like double-crossing, dangerous, skimpily clad hot women on your covers. But to be honest, some of the best books I’ve read in the Hard Case Crime series are the ones I picked up for their covers alone, and not going by the author or the plot or even the really neat by-lines that they have.

Case in point:

What a cover! The title was a bonus. C’mon it mentions nipple coverings and a dead body. What could be more pulp than that? No clue about the author who is the self-appointed ‘Burlesque Mayor of New York’ Jonny Porkpie. I really had no expectation whatsoever from the book per se, but when a book starts with a short letter to the publisher from the author (reproduced below) you know it’s gonna be a good ride.

Dear Charles,

Well, here it is, as requested, in all its obscene glory; a complete and mostly accurate of the events that led to the closing of a certain bar on Eleventh Street. I’ve played it as close to the truth as I can, but you know me; I might have throw in some slight exaggerations, the odd embellishment or two, and several completely fabricated erotic scenes. I just couldn’t resist.

In other words, it’s all true except for the stuff I lied about.

Best regards,

Porkpie

Know what I mean? And a good ride it was. And to labour a point, take a look at this:

Cover art that’s got the virgin mentioned in the title and a stash of cash. Pulpy! Crimey! But it turned out to be darned good read. Classic pulp crime of the double-crossing kind with a not-so-typical, yet expected twist-in-the-tail ending. Not to give away the story or play spoiler, but by the end of the second chapter, let me assure, the girl is definitely not a virgin! Though to her credit, she stays vengeful till the very end of the book, in more ways than one. But a virgin, not a chance!

So coming back to the point. Judging these books by the covers alone, they were good. And what lies n between them, even better! Check out the entire Hard Case Crime series and their awesome covers HERE. See what I told you, I can judge a book by its cover. is The Bekku awesome or is The Bekku awesome?! And no, a few paragraphs is not enough time for The Bekku to learn the subtle art of modesty.

Take a look at the complete Hard Case Crime series and their awesome covers here.

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.

Suryange torcha?

Literally that would mean ‘don’t show torchu to the sun-nu’. It’s a series of aphorisms (?) in Kannada slang whose closest English equivalent – in terms of import – would be ‘Don’t teach your grandfather how to f**k’ or more politely, ‘don’t try to teach the teacher’ or in certain cases/context ‘don’t bring coals to newcastle’. Very handy when used well. Disregarding the force-fit ones (Artistgey sketcha?, Autogey stand-a? etc.) here are my favourites, in no particular order:

1. Suryange torcha?
2. Conductorgey ticketa?
3. Ravi Chandrangey remake-a?
4. Hajaamangey haircut?
5. Gomateshwarangey show na? ….and *drum roll*….
6. Deve Gowdagey sleeping tableta?

Take your pick. Use liberally. Prefixing ‘nimmajji loafer…!’ to any of the above, optional.
If you have more, feel free to add on the list, leave a comment. Variety is spicier and all that.