of kings, freedom fighters and childhoods

Weekends in the 80s were worth looking forward to for a few reasons - The prospect of He-Man on Sunday morning TV, followed by episodes of Mahabharat and 'Fairy Tale Theatre'; The hope of a long session of underarm cricket on the road in front; Weather permitting, even an hour or two on a bicycle hired by the hour. But nothing had us more excited than Dad coming home from work, carrying new issues of Amar Chitra Katha. The prospect of being transported to a whole new world through those colourful, graphic pages was and still remains overwhelming.

I have not known a childhood without ACK. So for me, it has been a grand parent, an encyclopedia, a friend and an oracle, all rolled into one! Those pages always had a way of breaking down profound revolutions, complex epics and mythological mysteries into simple rectangles of conversations that you would always understand and always remember.

Stacks of ACK was pure currency for a kid in the 80s. Worth much more than a pile of Enid Blyton or Hardy Boys or even notes from the science class. And definitely more trade-able than any of them. And come vacation, the most painful bit was to split your stack with your sibling. Of course in my case, it always helped to have a sister whose taste did not overlap with mine - mostly. She chose the Panchatantras and stories of Kings, while I chose the Mahabharata and the freedom fighters biographies. It of course never mattered that both of us have read every single comic, five times over. So the real fight was over the one thing that we both loved - The Jataka Tales. And till date, my favourite issue remains the fascinating tale of the entrepreneur who started off with a dead mouse.

Today, it pains my heart to see these books selling more as collector's items for thousands of rupees, in fancy bookstores, way out of the reach of a majority of this nation's kids. May be it is time to create a phone app to take it back to the masses? Or publish it in major newspaper publications as comic strips, in place of 'Beetle Bailey' or 'Peanuts'? Are you listening, India Book House?

It was only when news of Uncle Pai's death came out last week, that the enormity of what he has achieved finally dawned on me after all these years. On Twitter, I found people from three different generations recalling their childhoods memories reading ACK and Tinkle. How amazing is that? Three generations, whose knowledge of most-things-Indian, coming from the same source - a comic. I guess this tweet by Anand Ramachandran sums it all up for the rest of us.

The Jessica Lull and the Trivedi Storm

The word french word 'Montage' is a beautiful term. In modern day film making, it refers to a combination of sound and visuals, edited together in a way that takes the narrative forward. It is the first thing that came to my mind while walking out of the theatre after watching 'No One Killed Jessica', because this film is as much Amit Trivedi's narrative, as it is Raj Kumar Gupta's - and that is high praise for any music director of a film, unless he/she is Andrew Lloyd Weber.

NOKJ is a foot tapping, adrenalin kicking, (supposedly) badass drama where the opening or climax is of little consequence to the viewer, as everybody knows what happened. Having said that, the film opens with an uber sexy credit sequence that is very original and fun. Right there, you know that this one has been 'crafted' and not just made. That feeling remains with you throughout the first half and that is thanks to some great casting, 'easy on the stomach' lines and 'easy on drama' scenes. Raj Kumar Gupta who gave us the Fabulous 'Aamir', obviously has learnt a trick or two from his 'Black Friday' days and wastes no time in getting over with the murder within the first 5 minutes. This is important because the Jessica Lal story (probably unfairly, but truly) is more about a nation's outrage, than the murder itself.

And I guess that outrage was what the second half was all meant to be. And for that, the writer's challenge was always going to be 'making the obvious, interesting'. And interesting it ends up being, but only because Amit Trivedi jams up a soundtrack that props the film up in many places in the second half in an almost 'Jacques Kallis'esque manner, even while everything else is crumbling around it. Case in point is when Rani's character confronts Vidya's in her house. Just when you are expecting the lines to crackle in arguably the most important confrontation in the script, the writer lets you down with some really ordinary stuff, completing a total KLPD. Cut to the candle light scene, but the audience is still bemused and fuming over the previous one. A few seconds later though, Amit Trivedi comes to the rescue, thundering over the candle march scene and voila - all is forgiven and the adrenalin is back.

What really works in the film is also its lighter moments - not just as relief from an otherwise emotionally draining subject, but also in bringing out the absurdity and irony of it all. There is a priceless scene in which the politician comes to Jesscia's house and after an uncomfortable silence, the dad asks 'chai?'.

Eventually in a film like this, I guess it all boils down to casting and that in my opinion is the best and worst things going for NOKJ. The guy who plays Jessica's dad and Rajesh Sharma as the cop are absolute gems. Rani looks like a million bucks in probably her best possible comeback film and I actually think she fits the bill perfectly as a renegade journalist. However, you can tell that the woman doesnt enjoy smoking or swearing and every time she is made to do it, you can almost see the gun next to her head. Vidya plays Sabrina like only she can and is great throughout. But I am not sure if her take on Sabrina works for the film entirely. Could it be because the audience is unable to contrast the never-ending restraint with any outburst of meaningful proportion?

There is a placard at the beginning of the film that says something like 'we have rolled all media into one entity'. That notwithstanding, it was still quite weird to see a Tehelka expose being called an NDTV sting. And the lack of any other journalists covering the case in the film gives it a slightly 'ghost town'ish feel. But then again, I guess it is that kind of a 'creative license' that also makes it possible to dramatize my all time favourite Sagarika-bashing episode on screen.

Disclaimer: My opinions about this film could have been completely influenced by the 'True Delhi experience' I was treated to at the theatre (PVR Saket) - complete with an unclaimed child running in the aisle with squeaky footwear, laughter at inappropriately emotional scenes and a loud couple in the row behind.

110 minutes

I love early morning flights. The alarm, hot shower, the sleepy good bye hug, the Meru ride to the airport, empty sodium vapour-lit roads, the bright smile of the check-in lady, the lazy yawn of the x-ray guy, the fresh brew of coffee at the Jet Airways lounge and the phone buzzing constantly with emails from countries that are about to sleep and those who have just gotten to work - pleasant reminders that all is well with my world.

The coffee had just hit its spot when the public address system announced the departure of my flight. Gate 12. This means I have about eleven minutes before they closed the gate. A five minute walk to the gate means I have another six for the 'breakfast'. I begin to work my plate. Two of life's greatest mysteries:
1. How the chefs in Jet lounges across the country, manage to make the most wonderful coconut chutneys, but just cannot make a single soft idli.

2. Why are airline fruit bowls always made of papayas and pineapples and the sourest of grapes? Is there a papaya lobby?

Pondering these, I grab 2 water bottles, put one in my bag, open the other and walk towards gate 12, which is comfortably placed right next to the escalator.

There is a spring in my step because I know that after today's meeting in Mumbai, I am going on a week's vacation for Deepavali. This also means I have till end of the day to wrap up all 'work-related work'. So, the 2 and a half hours in the flight becomes very critical. Factoring in 40 minutes for take off and landing, I should have 110 minutes of quality time with my laptop. Even if I finish 50% of my to-do list, I will have a peaceful, non-pre-occupied vacation. That is the reason I am not carrying a book on this trip. I pat myself on the back for a wise decision and appreciate the relative lightness of my knapsack.

At the aerobridge, I do the customary 'Indian aerobridge twist' - a dance movement designed to show the guard your boarding pass and also the rubber stamp seal on the tag on your knapsack, in one fluid motion - crafted after years of practice. Remember Mallika Sherawat in 'Dasavatharam', bending down to show her rack and then twisting to jut her butt in your face? Now replace Mallika with me and a knapsack and you get the drift...

A couple of cabin-crew pleasantries later, I settle down into my usual seat. Now, there is a myth that there are only two classes in a domestic flight - business and (as Tharoor would put it) cattle class. That is a myth. There is a third 'Trishanku' class and that is the 'rear exit row reclining aisles' - quite a mouthful, but totally worth it! I am a man who is not particularly popular for doing things ahead of time, but over the years, I have come to appreciate planning for 'Trishanku' - because there are only two seats in this class (14C and 14D, if you are flying a 737) and you need to web check-in at least a day and a half before if you want to beat the other Trishanku-seekers.

What follows this is one of the main reasons I prefer to fly Jet or even fly, for that matter - The fresh lime juice. When it comes to my all time favourite liquids in the world, the Jet Airways fresh lime ranks in the top 5 - along with Kingfisher, the Big banyan Cabernet Sauvignon, the Kabaleeshwarar temple 'thulasi theertham' and water.

After savouring the last drop of it shamelessly, I get ready for the take off - which usually means a quick nap. As much as I appreciate my safety, I just cannot listen to another safety briefing again in life - even if it means that I will never again witness an attractive young woman, seductively put on a yellow mask, or even if this means that someday I will end up with a life jacket that I wouldn't know how to blow into, in some faraway ocean that is rapidly freezing my balls.

Cruising altitude, seat belt signs are off and I jump to open my bag and pull the laptop out. And that is when it hit me.

There is a sign on the bottom-right part of my screen which tells me the amount of battery left in my laptop. Over the years, this particular piece of information has become more valuable to my life than stuff like blood pressure, love, world peace or sex. And presently, it is showing 3% and that means I have just about 10 minutes left - evidently, I have forgotten to put the switch on, after plugging the laptop for charging last night.

Ladies & Gentlemen, at this point, I need to clarify what this means to me. Not that I would not be able to finish my backlog before my vacation begins. Not that I will be missing a crucial deadline with a client. More than any of these, I am now left with 110 minutes and nothing to do. Not a fuckin thing! I pull out the magazine from the seat jacket, only to find that it is the same issue with the cover story on Sikkim tourism that I have read so many times, that I can recite it as a poem. I did not carry the iTouch because it is 'unsocial' on a family vacation. No book. No newspaper as this is a Jet Konnect flight. No nap, as unfortunately I had a good night's sleep. The man to my left started snoring even before I boarded and so no scope for conversation.

My worst nightmare.

I try to close my eyes and think of something useful to do. The bladder isnt full and so a trip to the rest room will be pointless. Besides, they have just pulled the food trolley out and I wouldnt wanna wait behind it like a jackass. I briefly consider reading the safety instruction booklet and decide against it. It is funny how at 32, I am prepared for most things in life but not 'Nothing'. In fact, it is quite scary. What the fuck will I do if I am ever 85, on a wheel chair, presumably blind and without a liver and in all likelihood, stuck with an unattractive mallu nurse? How will I kill time? I make a mental note to buy a pistol and a bullet on my 50th Birthday.

Back to present. The customary co-pilot announcement! (Message to co-pilots: Dear retards, let me tell you a couple of things. Stop waking people up in the middle of their naps to tell them your cruising altitude. We dont give a rat's ass if you are flying at 30K feet or at 3 feet. We gave you loads of cash, so you can worry about this shit inside the cockpit and get me to my destination. And whats with the 'outside temperature' crap? Look around you. Do any of us look like we are about to open the door and take a walk in the clouds? Why the fuck should I care if the temperature outside is -25 degrees? )

Back at 14C, I am still awake and bewildered. I rearrange the contents of the seat jacket, dust off a spot on my trousers, uncross my legs and look at my watch again, hopefully. No luck - 70 minutes to go. Now I am seriously considering switching on my phone to play poker. My thoughts drift - wife, car, boss, obama, business idea, sachin, college hottie, deepavali...and magically, I relax. The to-do list fades into oblivion, the laptop gets stowed away, the legs gets stretched and I suddenly realize that I have not done this in a long time. I have not 'just sat down' and drifted along with my thoughts, without an agenda or a care, in a long long time. And boy it feels good. In fact, liberating! I indulge for a while and look at my watch again, reluctantly. No luck - it is landing time...

Kal-man chronicles - Part I

Close

2006 US Open. Round 2. It is past 10:00 PM and I am speeding in my '97 Avalon to Kiru's beautiful apartment in San Antonio. Home away from home. I have just realized that the match is still on. That means he's gotta chance. I knew that if this thing was going down to the fifth set, Andre's got it. I park, run up the stairs and settle into the most comfortable sofa in the world.

We watch the 5th set. What a set! Andre wins. He lives to fight another day. Typically Andre. That also means he is not retiring tonight. Phew!

He loses his third round match 2 days later and retires. Ironically, he loses to a kid called B. Becker.

Cut to: 1991

I am a 10th grader, living in Virugambakkam and watching the 1991 French Open final on Doordarshan. He loses to a freak called Jim Courier, who I end up hating. Being an Andre fan since childhood means that you hate his opponents - especially the ones who beat him in a Slam final. In Andre's case though, this is a long and growing list of people - Connors, Ivanisevic, Sampras, Courier, Martin and even that midget called Michael Chang. So I hated them all, growing up.

I am not sure what prompted my admiration for this guy to begin with. The Sportstar centre spreads? The rebellion? The return of serve? The double-handed backhand? or was it just the audacity of wearing denim shorts, ear rings and a pink shirt, for a French Open final??

But denim shorts go only a little far in a making an idol. What makes Andre my most favourite athlete is his ability to bounce back - not from the floor, but from deeper in the dungeons! My tennis coach at Loyola told me something on a fine summer morning in 1995, that I will never forget for the rest of my life - "Fitness is not running 1500 meters fastest. It is about how soon you recover from that 1500, to run another 400". And Andre was that guy who could run those 400s in real life (literally & figuratively) again and again and again.

That means being #1 and managing to go down to #132 and bouncing back to #1 and doing this shit all over again for over two decades. He was the most flawed perfection ever in Athletics!

When the girl friend gifted this book last year, the first thing that stuck me was - 'wow, that is a big close up on the cover!'. Why this rugged, disturbing picture? Why not the one with the 92 Wimbledon trophy? or one of those Aus Open moments? Or one from when he had hair? Or one with Stephanie?

The answer is quite clear after the very first page. This is as honest an autobiography as any you will ever read. This one is not for the gallery. This is all about the flaws, the quirks, the embarrassments and also the triumphs and the fun of it all.

If you are one of those tennis fans like me, who rooted for this guy for most of your teens and twenties, this book is a fascinating read. He takes you through all of it - right from when he won a hustling match against Jim Brown at age 7, till that marathon against Baghdatis in 2006 - His introduction to Pete as a kid with a flawed game, his Canon commercial, Nick Bollieteri, Wendi, Gil, Brad Gilbert, Brooke Shields (in very intriguing 2 chapters), Stephanie and of course the slams! The 8 he won and the million he lost.

I remember most of those slam finals. Strangely, I even remember what I was doing at the time, while watching it on TV. But now I also know what was going on the previous night, on match day, at the court, on the ground and inside his head! And that is much bigger and closer than any ball he might sign and lob at you!