THIS & THAT

I held my niece for the first time on her first birthday. We studied each other warily. Inky black eyes returned my stare. All I could register at such close quarters was a tight shock of curls and a drooling mouth that was always trying to find things to chew. I guess all she could register was my nose. She patted my face with her chubby fingers, tested her grip on my already weak hair, tried to chew through my mangalya and finally settled down to using my lap as a trampoline.

My sister nonchalantly said Hamsa becomes hyper during sleep-time. Sure. By then I could not feel my thighs. I saw Hamsa staring intently at my ears. No, I shook my head. ‘Nononononononononono,’ she replied and finally did manage to nip a bite. Order was restored after a teething spoon was given to her to chew.

Lunch was announced and Hamsa was now taken over by other laps and ears. As I neared the dining area, I felt unusually light. Maybe Hamsa had beaten out some calories off me with all her jumping, I thought. It was then that I realised that I was feeling light because my saree was coming undone; I was in an almost-Draupadi state in the middle of the dining hall, even as other guests trooped in. There was nothing to do, but to turn towards the wall, bunch the saree and tuck it all back in. I now looked as if I was expecting quadruplets. Hamsa! Silent little ninja...efficient mischief maker. She’ll keep up the family name.

Hamsa and I got to know each other pretty well over the next couple of days. I nodded

satisfactorily when I figured this girl, like me, thinks sleep is unnecessary. Indeed the closer we got to her nap time, the more Hamsa would act like Mick Jagger, trying to prove she is not sleepy. There’d be a tremendous battle of wits between my sister and Hamsa...of course Hamsa almost always won. Then there was that evening when we saw Hamsa flipping the pages of a magazine. We beheld the sight with a quiet pride. Yeah it’s silly ...I am sure Hamsa was plotting on tearing a page and shoving it inside her mouth before her mother could pounce. Guess my sister also thought the same, I saw her entering a crouching position to take the pounce, should the need arise.

Most mornings, Hamsa and I would spend some time on the balcony – I had to keep her distracted so that my sister could take a shower in peace, and Appa could go for the day’s grocery shopping. I’d show her crows and pigeons and she would look at me in disdain. Buses interested her a bit, but only if they blared the horn. But mostly, the brat was interested in clutching at my earring and pulling it out – with the earlobe if possible.

I managed to keep my ears out of her reach, but my luck ran out. I often wore this salwaar with a bit of mirror work sewn in. Hamsa seemed to love it – the minute I’d lift her up, she would set to work immediately, trying to pluck out all the shiny things with a wicked determination. Then I figured if I sat in a particular sunny spot, the mirrors would reflect the light on her – little golden spotlights on her hands and legs and she’d go crazy looking at her hands, her laughter spreading like soap bubbles, and smiling faces would pop out of other balconies. I now had found the trick to keep her away from my ears. But I had just the one salwaar with mirror work. Whenever I was in a plain one, she’d look closely for the mirrors and stealthily, her hands would proceed towards my ears.

One morning, I was in the right salwaar, but it was a cloudy day. Hamsa was in a bad mood too. She kept grumbling in her baby talk, and, just to be polite, I too grumbled about taxes and all that. She liked it – yeah looked like she loved a good rant now and then. So the more I discussed the tax situation, the louder her gobbledegook became. Then, we paused to take a breath. She was back to trying to pluck the mirrors on my dress. Then she stopped and looked at her hands. No dancing spotlights. She looked at me and I said, whatever it is, don’t do it. She tried to lick the mirrors and bite them free. I was distracted only for a moment ...man she was quick...my ear was in a toothless mouth within a second. She remained insanely triumphant for the rest of the day.

She’s now three, and before we know it, she’ll be thirteen, eighteen...but I have a keepsake. The frock she wore during The Battle Of The Ear-Bite. I have to settle scores...I’ll be the senile aunt who embarrasses her on every birthday. Wait till you turn 16, Hamsa...heh heh heh...

I wanted to put up this review a couple of days ago. But I held off till after Sridevi’s funeral – as a mark of respect for the woman and professional I admire immensely. I held off because the title of this book and the nature of her tragic, untimely demise was too much of an uncanny coincidence. Besides, there was such a glut of faecal material on news channels and personal blogs, I just did not feel like even opening my blog. No amount of lamenting on the severe mental regression of our populace will serve any purpose. All of us know it was not like this before…and none of us know why it got to this. Where did this generation come from? This entire generation of sociopaths who’ve invaded our lives and purged every ounce of decency in public discourse? It’s a question that requires many blogs.

But back to Into the Water by Paula Hawkins. With her debut The Girl on The Train, Hawkins gave an adrenalin shot to the publishing industry with its astounding success, perhaps even surpassing its contemporary grip-lit – Gone Girl. When Into the Water released I picked it up immediately despite less-than-favourable professional reviews. I was very curious as how to she’d managed a dozen POVs – I go crazy even with a first-person account of one measly protagonist. The only book till date that has impressed me with this multi-POV technique was Bram Stoker’s Dracula, with its epistolary story-telling.

Into The Water is set in Beckford, a typical, unremarkable small English town, but with a remarkably murky reputation. A river flows through the town and at one of the bends in its meandering course, the river forms a pool – the Drowning Pool. The Drowning Pool has the dubious reputation as a suicide spot, where women through the ages have inexplicably drowned/committed suicide. A place to get rid of “troublesome women”.

We accompany Jules Abbott to Beckford – her childhood home; a place she’d rather forget. But she must make the trip because her estranged sister Danielle – Nel – was found floating in the Drowning Pool. Jules must not only face bitter memories and resentment towards her more successful and beautiful (and now dead) sister, she must also put up with the feral teenage angst and hostility of her fierce niece – Lena. As the story progresses, we get to know Nel was researching the women who’d committed suicide at the Drowning Pool. In the process she’d opened old wounds and she was not very popular in the community. Everyone believes her macabre interest got the better of her – perhaps Nel was so curious about what drew these women into the water that she wanted to see for herself? But then it’s not so straightforward. A few months earlier Katie, Lena’s classmate and BFF had also committed suicide by jumping into the Drowning Pool.

A body of water that’s really a grave. Consuming so many women through the ages. What is causing this? When I started reading, I felt this was the axis – the pivotal question of the plot. But because the story moves more like a camera-angle POV, the reader’s attention is fragmented. You can’t get to care about any character. I barely warmed up to Jules with her unreliable narration what with her seeing and hearing things in her childhood home. She does not do much to advance the story – of course she is not motivated given her troubled relationship with her sister. But still, I thought she would incite some change. But like the river, the story then flows from Nel’s apparent suicide to Katie’s suicide. And in that meandering we are introduced to a motley bunch of characters. Sean, the feckless inspector in charge of the investigations who treads on unethical territory – he’s had an affair with Nel and so he really has no business heading the investigation. But he does. Ironically, Sean’s mother Lauren too had jumped into the Drowning Pool when he was a kid, leaving him motherless and in the care of his highly psychopathic and patriarchal father, Patrick. Sean’s wife is prim and plain Helen – headmistress of the local school where both Katie and Lena are students. The living arrangements of Sean, Patrick and Helen is off-colour and makes you go oookayyy. Then there is the usual town loonie Nickie – a bit of the village idiot – the “psychic” who everyone knows is a fraud. These and various other characters including the Drowning Pool itself get their own chapters to advance the story.

There are enough people with motives, and enough red herrings along the way, but your pulse barely quickens; you simply can’t be bothered because you’ve lost sight of the main question. Was it about Nel’s death? Katie’s death? Or what happened to Jules back in her childhood? Or was it about the place itself?

From a writer’s perspective, I felt this manuscript is remarkable in its experiment and risk-taking and must be applauded. There is no hierarchy of the characters and you don’t know who’s going to become important when. It breaks all the so-called rules of narration and the neatly boxed “primary”, “secondary”, “tertiary” characters.

But the reader struggles because one must keep up with 12 different voices, and also keep track of the time lines – someone might be narrating incidents that happened back in 1990s. Some are in third-person; some in first person. If you don’t keep an eye on the name appearing as the chapter title, you will not know who’s narrating what.

Because the plot is so character-driven, I felt it lost out on many atmospheric elements spectacularly executed in The Loney. Even though the Drowning Pool gets its own chapters – the river observing the women coming to rest in its belly – somehow it did not move me. I guess I expected to feel a sense of foreboding melancholy or even a little desperation – but nothing. It was just a page I had to turn.

But at its core, Into the Water is really a commentary on how early in life women face and understand gender-based violence; and how this stains everything they do and become; how much stuff like body image, sex (with consent or otherwise), and the need for validation from men rules their lives. I know many eyes will roll – there is a school of thought that this narration must change. I suppose it will when the reality changes.

I have a feeling Hawkins’s next book will elevate grip-lit to a whole new level and I look forward to it!

Courtesy: Clipart

I knew it was a special day. First, there was a clear day break. You don’t know what it is to wake up to perpetually weeping skies and suddenly spot a splash of red on the eastern horizon. Plus, there was a perfectly sliced moon still hanging around and spring birds were out in numbers.

I felt like Popeye on spinach overdose (they’re adding something to the coffee these days, I tell you). I edited and dashed off a bunch of writings to competitions. The sun was proper golden by now, pouring in through all the windows, revealing all the places we don’t bother to dust. Then, just as I was done slurping the coffee, the carpenter called to say he’s sending his boy to finish a pending work…a work I’d envisaged following up till 2040 at least, going by past experiences of other tradesmen. This was surely some sort of cosmic intervention—

I checked my Whatsapp – all my favourite men had wished me. What? What? I thought. Did I win a lottery? Ooh is someone casting me in the movies? I fumbled for my specs. Oh…it is International Women’s Day. All my favourite women had wished me too. Always the one to reciprocate, I jumped into the thick of things and poked my phone to send out best wishes to every man and woman. With Whatsapp wrapped up, I next jumped into Facebook. FB goes berserk on these gender-based days. Paisa vasool entertainment. The platitudes can make you choke on your granola…holy crap I did not know I was so special! My favourite jeweller has come out with designs specially for Women’s Day. “Magnify the woman in you” their FB post read. Well, I’m already over-magnified, thank you very much. Then, there were all the messages in colourful backgrounds thanking me for being a Strong Woman and working tirelessly on doing the dishes, laundry, cleaning, making the bed, taking out the trash and all that. Thanking me for behaving like an adult? Sure, whatever.

Then I jumped to Times of India. You can always count on ToI to burst your bubble because of the balance they offer to readers. Like, you could read about women in technology. Or a piece on “Do we really need to celebrate Women’s Day.” Right next to “Kim teases fans with topless photo”.

I know in the larger scheme of things this tokenism is grating. Many of us find it meaningless. But we must view everything in a wider time frame to get a perspective of the progress we’ve made. Women have faced crippling obstructions in all spheres – religious, social, political, cultural, sexual – from the beginning of history. And despite those blockades, we’ve reached here today. We’ve not lost our voice. There is still a long way; very long way to go. We’re getting there. We’ve vocalised many issues which were never spoken about just a decade earlier. And we’ve had this progress because there was always that one single woman who bravely wore the crown of thorns to spearhead change. It could be something as huge as the Suffragette led by Emmeline Pankhurst, or something as humbling and gritty as being India’s only woman truck mechanic – Shanti Devi. Or what about the years of stress borne by Rupan Deol Bajaj with such brave dignity – without her struggle, we would not have had any sexual harassment code of conduct in India. I do celebrate International Women’s Day in the name of these countless women who have made our lives better today directly or indirectly. It is good to have a day to remember these women and to introspect on the journeys – past, present and future.

I leave you with a confession - I don’t feel particularly offended by discounts on Tupperware for Women’s Day. I know this is as serious as treason for some. That’s not all…I’m not even ashamed of this domesticity. Maybe because I know my preference to stacked airtight dabbas has not diminished my capabilities in quantitative statistical analysis. Just like how Shanti Devi can make phulkas as well as figure out wheel alignment. Do celebrate this multi-facet so uniquely wired in women 😉 (I celebrated properly with bendekayi huLi and sabbakki sandige).

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Courtesy: Photo by fietzfotos on https://pixabay.com/en/pumpkin-autumn-food-halloween-3138179/

I made an astounding (only for me) discovery this week. I had sailed through life all these decades without having a clue about the English nomenclature for boodugumbLakayi…or what I used to refer to as white pumpkin. But a little context before I present my ignorance in full scale.

The pumpkin cuisine in my Iyengar home consisted sambar and majjige huLi mostly. I did not really care for the unknown and hazardous territories of halwa and dumrote. Even majjige huLi was too out there for me. Why waste a good pumpkin drowning it in a yogurt base when, oh my god, you can make sambar? I especially love white pumpkin in sambar and bisibelebath (BBB for the uninitiated). Unlike the sweet pumpkin, which has its distinct taste, white pumpkin is very subtle. It becomes translucent and succulent when cooked and absorbs the flavours of the gravy so unconditionally. And so, white pumpkin sambar was always my comfort food; on the odd days I’d take off from work, this was always on the menu. For sambar and BBB, I make the masala from scratch for that particular meal…it ensures incredible freshness of flavours and also, I can vary the ingredients depending on the veggie going in. For the pumpkin sambar I prefer slightly stronger flavours – an extra half inch of cinnamon and a little more fresh coconut for the white pumpkin; maybe a peppercorn or two for the sweet pumpkin to kick in heat (it’s not a standard recipe, but I like it this way); extra red chillies (either “byadgi” variety or Kashmiri mirch) to deepen the colour (these chillies don’t increase the spiciness). For the white pumpkin, I’m quite generous with the coconut; I tone it down for the sweet pumpkin. I love a handful of green moong and brown lentil sprouts cooked along with the sweet pumpkin. For the white pumpkin I invariably include pink kadlekayi to add bite. Pumpkins have a delicate flesh so it’s important to leave a sliver of skin when you chop them, and the pieces must be really chunky so they hold shape when cooked. In general, if you ask me, one must have all sambars in accompaniment with a good sandige; for the white pumpkin sambar, I strongly recommend araLu sandige. And then, kick out all the noisemakers and prepare for an extended siesta (it’s a criminal offence if you don’t do this).

In my Bong family, I was introduced to kumror chakka - a dry curry made of sweet pumpkin, potatoes and kala channa, seasoned with bold flavours of the panch phoran. I’d never imagined this combination could work but woaaaow. It keeps your tongue constantly surprised with the sweetness and mushiness of the pumpkin, the soft firmness of the potato and the bite of the channa – and suddenly you have the flavours of ginger garlic seasoning along with the five spices – methi, cumin, fennel, black onion seeds and mustard. All this is sautéed in mustard oil and nothing on earth can render that kind of flavour and aroma. But my personal kumro favourite is the kumro phool bora – pumpkin flowers dipped in flavoured besan batter and deep fried. Have it with plain tadka dal and rice, or for evening masala chai. You will be able to see Indraloka..

But back to my white pumpkin saga.

So, this past Saturday, BBB was on the menu. And it’s been a really long time since I’ve had white pumpkin. In fact, I can’t spot it that easily in these parts. Now, white pumpkin in BBB is a game changer (for me). I’m talking nirvana here. It elevates BBB from comfort food to food of gods. In a one-pot dish like BBB, where you have all these other veggies like carrots, potatoes, beans – all colourful and firm with distinct tastes – it’s a treasure hunt win when your tongue suddenly feels the softness of the translucent pumpkin that’s absorbed all the flavours of BBB seasoning. Khara potato chips (Mangalooru Stores ones… not the neatly packed rubbish crisps of the western world) or boondi go well with BBB. But if you want a blockbuster, try BBB with peNi sandige. I tell you, I spent sleepless nights thinking about white pumpkins. Then, my friend happened to mention that he has an hour to kill after leaving his car for servicing. I immediately recruited him on a pumpkin-finding mission. The first round – no white pumpkins in the neighbouring town. The second round - he called me from a store in my town. He had spotted a look-alike…he asked if boodgumbLakayi was ash gourd. I said no without batting an eyelid and sadly asked him to abort the mission.

You see, in my mind gourds are misshapen, elongated veggies – look at hagalkayi (bitter gourd), padavalkayi,(snake gourd) sorekayi (bottle gourd) heerekayi (ridge gourd)...surely a gourd can never be the elegant pumpkin… much the same way I can never be Katrina Kaif.

But a voice floated in my head in the dead of the night. The voice of my botany teacher back in school – her voice and knitted brows were known to cause thunder and lightning in the heavens. Gourds. Melons. Pumpkins. Cucurbits…same genus…subspecies. I sat up and summoned Google on my phone at 3 am. There it was. My white pumpkin. Also known as Ash Gourd. Or Winter Melon. Or Wax Melon. I slapped my forehead. I’d come this close to heaven.

Well, at least now I can consider myself well-educated. Also, I have a new-found respect for the gourds. That doesn’t mean I’ll start grating laukis (bottle gourd) to make koftas...there’s a limit to things, really. But a friend kindly shared his mother’s hagalkaayi gojju recipe – I’ve had this only during thithis. That’s on the agenda (the gojju, not the thithi). Maybe make some padavalkayi tovve. And some heerekayi bajji whilst they are still promising snow and bitter winds.

There's a teeny weeny blip of hope too - if a gourd can be a pumpkin, surely I too can be Katrina Kaif...

Courtesy: http://empirecinemas.co.uk

I walked into the cinema hall to watch A Quiet Place without any background whatsoever; I don’t think I’ve done this for any movie, especially horror. We’d seen intriguing posters in all the tube stations and the fact that Emily Blunt was in it was good enough to buy the tickets. I drew my breath in during the first scene and let it out only after the credits rolled – A Quiet Place easily makes its way into the top five horror movies for me.

The starting point of the story is a few months post an apocalyptic event. And so, the opening scene takes us through an abandoned American neighbourhood, into the darkened aisles of a supermarket where the Abbott family is ferreting out useful supplies as quietly as possible. The silence is unbearable as the scene progresses and the sense of unease builds as the family communicates in sign language (not least because one of their children is hearing impaired). When the little one picks up a toy rocket, the sheer terror of the parents makes you gasp, although you don’t know why. It’s too loud, the terrified father signs. Too loud for what? Well, you’ll know in a few minutes and your pulse rate never goes down after that.

The plot is simple – you make a noise and you’ll be hunted. We are a noisy planet so presumably the culling was swift. Now, there are very few survivors. And to continue to survive, you must tiptoe your way through life. In the hands of a less competent writer/director, this could have gone wrong in many ways. But John Krasinski has a clear vision and delivers a movie that recasts horror in the purest sense. This is not just about throwing random obstacles in the path of the protagonist, but turning the everyday-ness of essential existence into something life-threatening. And so, your fist finds its way into your mouth when you realise Evelyn Abbott (Emily Blunt), the mother and wife, is pregnant and the due date is fast approaching.

In this new way of life, the family must fall back on primitive roles – the male must go hunting-gathering, the female must keep house and hearth safe. In the silences, the tensions in the relationships is even more palpable – Regan (Millicent Simmonds), the fiery teen daughter, already frustrated with her hearing aid, rebels against the domestic role assigned to her in this new survival set up. There is no option to vent emotions – every physical and mental pain must be borne in excruciating silence. As the movie quietly explodes into the climax scenes you just don’t have time to breathe or blink or process; you can only live through it, like the Abbotts.

It’s a movie that screams in its silence; a silence that assumes a character of its own. It exhausts you because you must pay attention to every expression, every sign, every little noise. The sound engineering is brilliant; the POV shifts are shown through changes in ambient noise – dead silence when Regan is in the frame, for example. The background music is sparingly used, and when it comes on, it is unobtrusive and adds to the drama.

Emily Blunt is brilliant as usual, but for me it was Simmonds as the feisty teen who stole the show.

A friend of mine recommends watching the movie with boxing gloves on so you can beat up noisemakers. I’d say wear the gloves to protect your knuckles from being chewed out.

During my daily ferreting of news about new books, I stumbled across Leila Slimani’s Lullaby (French original Chanson Douce – literally means “soft song”; translation by Sam Taylor). The Guardian called it a “sublime thriller” and some reviews even made references to Henry James’s Turn of the Screw (a story that still gives me the chills). Slimani won the prestigious French literary prize – Prox Goncourt for this book.

The novel is set in Paris and is about a young family including two children. When the mother, Myriam decides to get back to rebuilding her career, they hire a nanny, Louise. Louise proves to be godsend – the chaotic house is suddenly transformed to a neat place; there’s always delicious food on the stove; the children no longer have tantrums – it’s as if Louise has a magic wand. And then, as this co-dependent relationship becomes complex, things spiral out of control.

Unlike traditional thrillers where information is withheld from the reader and drip-fed to increase tension, Lullaby opens to the crime scene – “The baby is dead. It took only a few seconds.” The opening chapter is clinical, graphical and quite like that dreaded first splash of ice cold water when you turn on the shower. You are numbed by the shock; your macabre curiosity is aroused - you want to know what led to this.

We are then led into Myriam and Paul’s world – a world familiar to any contemporary modern family. The cramped urban living spaces; the eternal struggle of a new mother to somehow gain that equilibrium where she is more than just her biological and social role; the debris of everyday life that requires constant cleaning; the sheer exhaustion of parenting. Into this world enters the petite, neat, and somewhat weird Louise. Order is restored; the mother grows wings and that ever-elusive equilibrium is now established firmly it seems.

But who is this Louise? Who is this woman who gives so much to others’ children; who is always on time, before time, immaculate and never speaks a word out of turn? An omniscient narrator allows the reader into Louise’s barren, frigid world. But Myriam and Paul, the employers do not know what the reader knows, and in a way, they don’t want to know either. No one likes to feel guilty about the inherent inequalities in our societies. But they are decent folks, Myriam and Paul. They try to look beyond this class barrier and treat Louise more like family. Louise is invited to stay back for dinner parties with the couple’s friends. They toast her culinary skills. They take her on a holiday where Paul teaches her to swim. Perhaps Louise felt she was now a part of something; like joining a constellation – the three of them and the children. And as she asserts her stubborn will, she feels that sense of bonding slip away. You see, nothing can really erase the line that separates the Louises of the world from the Myriams. Louise, though much needed like a good employee, is beneath them, and will always be.

This strange symbiotic relationship forces us to consider the weird position women find ourselves in – self-awareness and feminism, though admirable, are heavy burdens to bear. We can never escape judgements and self-flagellation. We are self-aware of our potential as individuals, as citizens. This is often in loggerheads with our biological roles and whatever choices we make, the judgement is harsh and ruthless. Myriam feels depressed, guilty, and even goes on lunatic mode when her sharp lawyer mind must be shut away and erased to deal with diapers and baby puke. She is not a domestic goddess, and she’s constantly stressed about her chaotic house, her unmanageable children, her lack of skills in the kitchen. So when Louise comes into their lives, Myriam, against the very grain of her feminist beliefs, is ironically apologising all the time for her inability to do all these “womanly” chores, which Louise seems to take over selflessly, without even being asked. You can’t help but wonder about Paul who does not face these conflicts – he is supportive sure, but not in a million years will he lose sleep over dusty surfaces or burnt toast. And so, the woman of the house must necessarily turn to another woman for help.

The power struggles are subtle – Myriam must now tow the line about housekeeping rules as laid out by Louise. Louise on the other hand is terrified of her future – what after the children grow up? Where will she go now that she’s “built a nest” in their house? Can she induce Paul and Myriam to have another baby?

As the reader gets to know more details about Louise’s life, unbeknown to her employers, a sense of foreboding rises even though you know the worst has already happened, and you are reading all this in retrospect.

The narration is in present tense and it renders a sense of breathless urgency as we hurl towards the day of the disaster. The unravelling of Louise is shown to us very factually, almost dispassionately. We are at once sympathetic to her desperate financial and personal situation, yet we recoil at her machinations.

The psychological terror rarely boils over like in The Hand that Rocks the Cradle. In Lullaby, the terror is a muted background noise that comes into painful and acute high pitch in specific scenes, only to fade away quickly. This leaves the reader terrified, especially if one is a parent – and am sure many would’ve kept the book aside. Perhaps it is more terrifying because you realise the hapless victims of these adult choices are children. They are voiceless in their innocence and it cuts you. Besides, the whole plot is too close to reality.

I suppose there are criticisms to this domestic noir plot - it once again makes the women the guilty party whilst letting the man go scot free after his job and interests.

Whatever is your view, it is a book that makes you contemplate on current discourses of gender and class roles. I’d love to see this on the big screen.

Courtesy: Retrieved from http://pedia.desibantu.com/bollywood-1941-cinema-list/ under Creative Common License.

I’ve not yet contributed to Hirani’s bank balance because of heat wave and resulting ennui, and the immensely addictive Sacred Games on Netflix. But I do want to catch the flick for Ranbir. I’m sort of neutral regarding Sanjay Dutt himself – I mean I won’t go and catch a movie just because he’s in it. For me Sanjay Dutt = two songs: Kya yahin pyaar hai from Rocky and Meri duniya hai from Vaastav. His biggest franchise – Munnabhai and the associated Jaadu ki Jhappi and Gandhigiri – barely make it to the top of my recollection, possibly because whilst I found the films entertaining in parts (mostly because of Circuit), the pontification grated on my senses. Decades ago I watched Khalnayak under duress and wanted to do a self-lobotomy by the time the credits rolled. Saajan was Madhuri all the way.

Dutt as an individual – I don’t have any lofty opinions really. In one of the interviews with Karan Johar, Dutt commented on Kangana’s clothes (she was wearing a cleavage-revealing dress). You don’t like someone’s attire, sure, you have the right to find it distasteful. But keep your mouth shut, thank you very much. And in this case, dude, you’ve been held guilty of really, really serious charges; you have a well-chronicled history of substance abuse… dammit you must be the last person to assume a moral high ground and comment on an adult colleague’s (who is an immensely better professional I’d like to add) choice ofclothes on national television.

That said, the criticisms that have been pouring in regarding whitewashing of Dutt’s volatile life are all valid. If you are touting a film as a biopic, then honesty must be the cornerstone…something that’s too much to expect from commercial Bollywood. The most entertaining and intriguing question I stumbled across - why make a movie on Sanjay Dutt? I’m sure Hirani has many profitable reasons but really, why not? Here’s this guy who’s born into an illustrious family and despite that advantage, he went off the rails spectacularly. Through it all he somehow picked himself up and managed to make a name and identity of his own. That’s a life worth examining – the sheer dichotomies of his life and character. That’s not to say the rest of us lead boring lives (oh who am I kidding?) but really, most of us don’t even approach the qualification mark. Take my friends and myself as the sample demographic – here are some reasons why no one will make a movie about us -

First point for disqualification – monogamy and fidelity. I suspect for many of my gorgeous friends it’s not the lack of opportunity but the knowledge that at some point, romance boils down to “What’s for dinner?” “How about my left foot?” rejoinders. Or a romantic evening conversation is discussing if we need to buy horse manure for the rose shrub. Or trying to figure out whose turn it is to take out the trash.

Second – I’ve never seen a gun in real life. War museums don’t count. The closest I’ve come to wielding a weapon is a broom to thrash a cockroach whilst screaming my lungs out. I can’t imagine any of my friends wielding a gun – I mean even the context of a gun never comes up – like – I’ve run out of onions, do you have some…and by the way how is your gun? (I know…stop sniggering…it seems there’s a sneaky sexual innuendo in there somewhere). Or like the other day, my friend R (who runs a military schedule for her laundry) and I discussed at length the benefits of a dryer. Neither of us thought about a gun or anything...like…the clothes come out wrinkle-free…that reminds me I must oil the gun. I don’t think any of us have the reflexes to handle a weapon either (I apologise to any secret snipers in my group). Look at me and The Husband for example…if a dangerous situation arises, depending on the pollen count our first reflex will be to sneeze really loudly into the perpetrator’s face. If the situation further deteriorates I might use the mooh mein keede curse with full feeling. There ends my repertoire.

Third – drugs – I know loads of my friends have tried it at some point, but I doubt if they have it lying in the bedside drawer. The only powder I have is an expired talc that promised a flush of youth; then there’s tiger balm and Deep Heat roll-on stick … but you can’t get high inhaling that shit. And good luck with the Chyawanprash and Dashmularishta. See if there is a potluck dinner, we carry bowls of puliyogre and chitranna…and no one comes by with weed joints or thinks of spreading coke on the cutting board after everyone’s done with payasa. Also, when things go down the pooper, none of us go scouting for drug mules – we simply accept Shani dasa has started and send archanemoney to Tirunallar. And we just get on with life.

Fourth – public brawls. Not happening. We fall back on mooh mein keede murmured under the breath. The only time I’ve elbowed someone in the ribs knowingly is when getting out of crowded BTS buses…and that is acceptable behaviour because it falls under the category of survival instinct.

Fifth – we pay taxes. Period.

Sixth – and most important for disqualification – we don’t know any “underworld” types. Sure, we’ve had our share of evil bosses but that’s about it. So, the chances of someone asking us to look after their (illegal) assault rifles in the tone of “water the plants when I’m gone” is zilch. Even if someone does that…well… we might be chicken shit when it comes to violence etc. but we have enough reserves of integrity and common sense to do the right thing. Which is to call the goddamn police and recite Hanuman Chalisa in the meantime.

To sum up, our lives are about as exciting as Krishi Darshan on DD…which is fine by me, really. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must do the laundry. Wait a minute…my biopic will probably be “Dirty Laundry”.

My financial life is uncomplicated, as befits anyone without money. That does not mean I’m a yogi. I have my fair share of temptations. These past few weeks I’ve been tormented between buying a Dyson hairdryer and a Dyson vacuum cleaner, given both hair and house are in a mess perpetually.

But I’m not your average weakling – I’ve been toughened by past experiences. I admit I’ve fallen for the adverts of other hairdryers, shampoos, conditioners,straighteners where the thin woman with thick hair turns this way and that and the hair swishes around like shiny velvet. My hair will swish only if the wind hits a certain speed. Like gale force. Still, when I saw some photos where I looked like Slash on a bad hair day, I said enough is enough and bought this ungainly hairdryer that looks like an X-ray gun and straighteners and anti-frizz serums. I used them now and then and lost interest because really, I can do something else in the 45 minutes that it takes to tame the mane. Like maybe finishing another seventy pages of the book. And what is the point of all that effort if you then think I want to eat sandige with the sambar…and after that five minutes of frying, you are back to square one? But this Dyson people were saying in ten minutes my hair will be swishing like a horse’s tail. Still, I haven’t given in…that much tough I’ve become.

First consideration is I’m a responsible global citizen. So, I’m thinking should I buy so many gadgets and increase carbon footprint? Everywhere it is only forest fires and earthquakes in the news. Okay, I did not think you’d fall for that. It’s actually the £££. First of all, both the hoover and the hairdryer cost more or less the same. On top of that the cost is equivalent to a return fare from Gatwick to Marrakech on low-cost airlines. So, I’m thinking why should something that cleans four bedrooms cost the same as something that dries four strands of hair? And why should something that dries hair or sucks up hair cost as much as a thousand-mile journey? In any case why at all should I be placed in this position? I must choose between glamour and hygiene – I must be the sexy woman whose hair swishes when she sneezes in the dust…or I must be the woman with a dust-free home who looks like a Masai Mara lion. And what shall I say to the interesting men I shall surely meet in the future? Hi, I’m so-and-so and I have a dust-free sofa? I tell you, this is somehow discriminatory, (I don’t know how, yet), so I was just planning to write a very strong bullet-point letter to old man James Dyson. I wanted to write arre, first see how you can introduce decent ceiling fans in this country then do all these fancy-geency innovations. But something happened.

One Mr Johnson Kwame, Regional Director of an anonymous bank in Ghana chose me out of 7.6 billion humans on this planet to share 7.5 million USD. It’s on email and all. He’s addressed me as “Dear Friend”. My mind races and I bring out the calculator. There’s nothing like a dose of capitalism to cure these moral dilemmas. What about carbon footprint you ask? I've already planted many trees in my garden - I've single-handedly brought down the price of this property. So I've paid my price. Ah. The calculator tells me I can buy hair dryer, hoover, package-holiday in Marrakech and still have change left over. I checked the calculator twice. Wait a minute, I can throw in some more things. I’m not reckless but still…

So, first priority is I must upgrade my kitchen gadgets. Earlier when a friend had generously offered to give away his wet grinder, I had politely refused. There is no place on my counter, I’d said grandly. But the way my writing and PhD is heading, it is better to have a backup plan – and selling dosa batter by the kilo looms large in the future. I mean I can't rely on this Ghana money forever...I firmly believe: easy come, easy go. I’ll probably throw in an InstaPot too, so I no longer appear primitive. Okay, a quick check at the calculator. Looks like I can afford the commercial popcorn machine as well. There’s no place to install it…so maybe when The Husband heads out, I’ll set it up on his work desk. It’ll take him at least five years to figure out there’s something different about his study.

Talking of The Husband, I decide not to tell him anything till my list is ready. Otherwise he’ll go off-tangent and start proposing immature things. Like domestic drones and stuff. Or he'll join hands with K next door and buy some grass raking machine. Or worse, that Tesla-gisla car. I’ve seen some model of this car in a mall. Nice colour, I had demurred politely. Like my red Kanchivaram. Still, can it vacuum? No. Can it dry my hair? No. It’s just a bloody car. Which will be driven from home to Tesco and back. On top of that, only two doors. You must clamber in like a chimpanzee if you have to sit in the back seat. And if you are big-bottomed, this can lead to disastrous situations especially if driver is already sitting. Don’t ask me how I know…it’s NONE of your business, actually.

Okay, I must put one more thing on my list. What’s the use of money if it can’t fulfil childhood dreams? So if you see a woman taking her pet giraffe for a walk…

Breakfast is the time when I sponge up general knowledge about the world and mull over things. Like, all the flurry of weddings for example. That 75-foot veil – that’s the stretch from my home to K & C’s home – I must get something like that for frost protection for the outdoor strip of vegetation. Or, I end up wondering if Deepika’s Bangalore reception had chiroti in the buffet? Or, like it’s 2018 and Bollywood is still making movies titled “Loveyatri” – the reviewer had succinctly summed it up as “pain in the raas” because the hero is a garbha dance teacher. Or, that I’m no longer dark, but “melanin-rich” according to Times of India.

So, one morning when I was viciously stabbing the oatabix brick that wouldn’t disintegrate in the soya milk, I read a headline about how Mark Wahlberg wakes up at 2:30am every day. I thought aiyoo papa. See, that way insomnia is an equaliser; it does not care about bank balance. We have something in common, I told Wahlberg’s photo on the computer screen. I opened the link because I was curious to see if he also lies awake thinking of scenarios like a large meteor falling into the Atlantic and the ensuing displacement tsunami, or war (most likely), or a new plague-like disease (we are due), or…okay…he probably won’t lie awake thinking he forgot the laundry in the washing machine and he may have to run another rinse cycle so the clothes won’t smell.

Damn it, it turns out he does not have insomnia at all. The man wakes up at 2:30am because he goes to bed at 7:30pm. In my books, that’s worse than insomnia. Why is a grown man going to bed at 7:30pm? Every. Day. Ah. He wakes up at 2:30am because that’s when he exercises. Oookay. Maybe he goes back to sleep by 3:30 or so? No. The dude is properly up and about. Showering, praying (yes), breakfasting etc etc. And in between making movies and earning $$$.

This is where my life is going wrong, I tell The Husband who has a Mark-who? look on his face. I could be making £££, but no. Now that the sunrise time is 7:50am, I can barely string sentences properly even at 8am. And look at this dude. He would have probably finished 150 push-ups by 2:45am. But really, I couldn’t see myself staggering out of bed at 2:30am, the wind howling outside, and doing lunges and jumping jacks. And the only reason I’ve gone to bed at 7:30pm is jet lag after India trip.

Anyway, after having accidentally stepped on the weighing scale whilst removing cobwebs from the bookshelf, and after confirming the digital display on the scale was A-okay, and also my eyesight was A-okay, I finally enrolled us in a local gym for off-peak hours, which is after 9:30pm. Very Wahlbergish. By the time we return, the lights are off in the neighbourhood and the deer would’ve come out for the nocturnal foraging. On the days we don’t go to the gym, I go stomping around the neighbourhood mostly after dark (well I can’t help it because it gets dark by 4:30pm when every respectable country still has bright sunshine). I’m sure someone will call the cops on me, reporting suspicious movement.

We’ve even gone as far as eating salads as meals. Not like that spoonful of kosambari placed in the corner of your plate when having anna saaru palya. It’s a cruel dilemma – do you choose between making memories or counting calories? See on cold, grey afternoons it is criminal not to have piping hot kichdi or bisibelebath. But I’ve sat poking around pitted green olives and goats cheese and walnuts, cheering myself up thinking about all the magnesium and iron and proteins that are getting in, and that someday I’ll be like Okoye. Yes. It was a good thing I did not return that pair of jeggings I’d bought a while ago. Surely, I’ll fit into it before man colonises Mars.

The thing is we are closer to putting humans on Mars. And I’m probably on the brink of causing world-wide walnut shortage. Still, I can’t pull up those damn jeggings beyond my ankles. Now I’m thinking it’s probably meant for a four-year-old. Maybe the size label is wrong. Yes, that’s a more logical explanation.

Anyway, when K from next door said he wanted to join us in the gym, I thought, ah, perhaps like Wahlberg, we have inspired him. At least something good has come out of rolling olives around in the mouth, even though the eyes are filled with visions of kodubale. I believed in that lofty idea for all of ten seconds. By then I happened to observe The Husband hovering in the kitchen, in the throes of a great mind battle – whether to choose between dry fruits or spicy Bombay Mix. I actually heard his thought – fuck this shit – and he filled up a bowl of Bombay Mix and sauntered off.

So what’s K’s angle, really? He tells me he’s mainly going to join the gym to tone his abs. Ah. The year-end Caribbean cruise. K wants to impress the ladies with a surprise six-pack. But he’s also human after all. Last week when I asked him to join us for a gym session, he revealed cruelly that he was feasting on biryani.

Anyway, I can’t be so selfish thinking only about my health all the time. As a responsible citizen I should support local businesses. So, it’s going to be pizza for dinner. With some garlic bread. And wedges. And Narcos on Netflix.

And suddenly, I feel richer than Wahlberg.

Well, frankly speaking, I passed my high school Hindi exam only because of Doordarshan. That too, specifically because of Amitabh Bachchan and Rajesh Khanna. Well I guess that really means I passed because of Salim-Javed.

Courtesy - https://www.thehindu.com/opinion/columns/Ziya_Us_Salam/rewritten-by-salimjaved/article7851284.ece

I can’t remember exactly when Hindi was introduced in school. Middle school? By then I was tying myself into knots over Kannada vyakarna (grammar) – especially those sandhis. As it is the gerunds and infinitives in English grammar was giving me a blood clot in the brain.

By high school, Hindi was real problem. Coming from an absolutely non-Hindi family (although my paternal grandmother held a Hindi vidhwat, and she passed on when I was barely in my primary school) Hindi homework was becoming quite a circus. Nobody in the wider community interacted in Hindi so there was simply no way to develop one's communication skills in the language.

Our Hindi teacher, I remember her as a very beautiful lady, totally sagar jaisi aakhon wali, worked really hard to help us. In Hindi, even non-living things are assigned gender, and this affects the construction of the sentence. As a native Kannada and Melkote Tamil speaker, this flummoxed me no end – see in Kannada and Tamil we don’t give a rat’s ass if a table is male or female. It’s just, well, “it”. But I was losing marks, no matter how leniently she corrected. I was also making a lot of spelling mistakes and she said the only way I can come to grips with the writing is by writing. What on earth do I write in Hindi? My brain would switch off the minute I saw the textbook.

Sometimes it helps if your brain is wired in a very weird way. See, by then I was addicted to Hindi movies – good, bad and ugly – that was aired on Doordarshan. I was always humming songs which are now considered age-inappropriate for 13-15-year-olds by conscientious parents. Like, samandar mein nahake aur bhi namkeen ho gayi ho. Summer holidays meant listening to bhoole bisre geet in the morning, aap ki farmaish in the afternoon, and jaimala for fauji bhais in the evening, all on Vividhbharti. I started to note down the lyrics as the songs played on the radio, and I automatically wrote them in Devanagari script. One listening was not enough to complete the lyrics, I had to wait for the next time it played. By the time summer was over, I'd filled up a diary. When I returned to school, my teacher was quite pleased with my improved spellings and asked if I’d taken extra tuition. And that’s when I started paying closer attention to the film dialogues and songs – I knew who my real teacher was, and my lessons commenced.

Teri zulfen. Teri nazarein. Teri aankhon ke siva...ookay…so the “ee” because it’s in reference to her? Hold on. What about Isse apni jeb mein rakhle Peter. Ab yeh taala mai teri jeb se chaabi nikaal kar hi kholunga? Crap. Is the key female or is the fucking pocket female? I ploughed on. When do you say tumhara, tumhare, tumhari? Okay so, tumhara pyar chahiye; ilakha tumhara hai, aur mai akela hun; hum tumhare hai sanam; yeh pulees station hai, tumhare baap ka ghar nahin; yeh tum nahin, tumhari vardi, tumhari kursi bol rahin hai; tumhari nazar kyun khafa ho gayi?

Well, this sort of improved my vocabulary too – as far as Kannada was concerned, “kafa” meant phlegm, especially when you cough. So that didn’t fit in with the question tumhari nazar kyun khafa ho gayi…unless we’re talking some real horror shit here. But Joy Mukherjee and Saira Banu sorted it out with woh hai zara khafa khafa. This was further confirmed by Dev Anand/Rafi …baito na door humse, dekho khafa na ho…

Of course, all this meant my Hindi improved, but not in the intended way. The thing is your language skills can develop only when you speak and interact. In my case it was a bit schizophrenic, having conversations in my head, scripted mostly by Salim-Javed. So, my repository of Hindi skills included an assortment of dialogues - Mai aaj bhi pheke hue paise nahin uta tha. Hum bhi woh hai jo kabhi kisi ke peeche khade nahin hote. Jahan khade hote hai, line wahi se shuru ho jaati hai. Jab tak baitne ko kahan na jaye, sharaft se khade raho. And an assortment of phrases. Izzat loot liya. Izzat bachaya. Not to forget the iconic and cataclysmic mai maa banne wali hun.

I didn’t progress much on the numerals. I knew ek to dus. Then gyarah because gyarah mulkon ki pulees was behind Don. I knew sola because it was supposed to be baali umar. Bees because bees saal baad. I sort of knew sow, hazar, laakh, karod. And for some reason, now-sow-~~ninnajji~~ ninnyaanveh.

Guess what? The above repository was pretty useless when it came to answering exam questions – Sita dukhi kyon thi? (5 ankh, prabandh likhiye). This Sita was not Mrs Rama, but if memory serves right, she was a little girl who had lost her pet or something. Well, I tell you Gabbar Singh was yelling Bahut nainsafi hai in my head. I started paraphrasing from whatever songs came into my head. Theoretically, it was a sound approach, already demonstrated by the song mere jeevan saathi. So I started off writing snippets of lyrics and then paraphrasing them. Badi sooni sooni hai. ~~Teri aankhon ke siva~~ duniya mein rakha kya hai?Yeh kya hua, kaise hua, kab hua, kyon hua? Kya qayamat hai? Kya museebat hai? Hum bhatak the hai…kyon bhatak the hai? Na koi umang hai. What about tum log mujhe dhoond rahen ho aur mai tumhara…yahan intezaar kar raha hun? Crap. That would be the puppy talking. Which would be creepy. I did think of comparing Sita’s pet-less life to a kati patang, you know, just to add depth to the experience, but something told me that would overcook the essay. Eventually I finished off by describing how her life had become kora kagaz without the goddamn pet. I wonder if my poor teacher had a conniption. I passed though. Big ehsaan. Actually I think it was survival instinct for the teacher. Imagine dealing with me for another year.

My academic engagement with Hindi stopped after high school, but I continued my film relationship. I picked up some beautiful Urdu words along the way. But being a teenager also meant the world was one big zanjeer around my neck, so I picked up a good amount of maa bhen stuff too.

Years later, I did think of relearning Hindi properly but by then I was seduced by Bengali. Ki korbo? At least I didn't have to worry if the table is mey or chele.

The bottom-line is I still can’t converse fluently in Hindi, unless we speak in film dialogues. I do have Hindi-speaking friends, but I tend to converse in English lest I refer to the coffee table as female or curtains as male or something. Or worse, get frustrated in figuring out the gender of the coffee mug and then inadvertently resort to maa-bhen vocab.

You know what, I’m not the only one who’s learnt Hindi this way. I strongly suspect whoever wrote the qatal ki raat speech also belongs to my category. In fact, I think this speaker and his best friend often look in the mirror and secretly say kabhi kabhi lagta hai ki apun hi bhagwan hai.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I must return to mai aur meri tanhayi …

Courtesy - http://www.filmibeat.com

When a friend told me about ‘Mahira’, a Kannada movie with a female protagonist, I was wary as well as curious. Wary because I’ve not really enjoyed movies like Shuddhi – the ingredients for a good thriller were all there but I felt the plot was pretty under-cooked. Also, I’m really weary of the sexual-crime backstory, an unofficial hallmark of “women-centric” movies – it would seem this is the only reason for women to go on the wrong side of the law. Invariably this results in poor characterisations that lazily reinforce gender stereotypes. It is the same reason I’ve not watched Urvi either – I’m really sick of rape and trafficking propelling a story – there’s worse happening in the real world.

However, Mahira promised to be different; I did not know much about the plot, except that it was about a mother-daughter duo on the run from assassins. If I’m not mistaken, Mahira is derived from Sanskrit and means skilled/proficient; the root of the Hindi word maahir. Elsewhere I read that Mahira also means a strong woman. Either way, the title is apt for the movie.

I admit that my interest in this film was actually piqued by the fact that the writer-director, Mahesh Gowda, a London-based fellow Kannadiga is an alumnus of London Film Academy. I was more interested in Gowda’s creative process at this point, the fact that he chose to break stereotypes and really push the envelope for his debut project – relatively unknown actors, except for Raj Shetty (Ondu Motteya Kathe); no “mass” elements, and by the looks of it, no romance either; and mother of god, no item numbers. I wonder how many people told Gowda he was staring at disaster in the face. Writing a book one believes in is one thing – you can publish it for free – but making a movie – well, from one nutjob to another I can say with some conviction that only certain kind of people take such pig-headed risks – someone who is absolutely passionate and committed to the story they want to tell. Also, I’d been following the social media word-of-mouth advertisements of this movie; I liked the fact that there was a pragmatic approach to the movie’s release – the creative team was clear of the demographic they wanted to target, they focused on what was different about the movie instead of a generic ‘idralliaction ide, emotion ide’ lines.

Of course, the second reason I wanted to watch this movie was because of its genre. So far there have been very few offbeat Kannada movies in crime/thriller genre that I’ve enjoyed – RangiTaranga was fantastic as a psychological thriller, although its subplot was needlessly complicated. Kendasampige was another superb action thriller – for me this is action in the true sense - the chase, and not heroes and villains kicking and flying about. So, really there was no chance of missing Mahira.

Set in the coastal areas of Mangalore, Maya (gorgeous Virginia Rodrigues) and her teen daughter Adya (Chaitra Achar) are leading a seemingly simple life – Maya, the single mother runs a beach café whilst Adya is a student at the local college. Their life turns upside down when a group of men come knocking on the door claiming to be from the “Indian Intelligence” wanting to take in Maya. Maya, who thus far is seen as the soft-spoken working mother, must now revert to her original identity to protect herself and her daughter. In this pivotal scene quite early in the movie, we get to know Maya is an intelligence agent who has allegedly gone rogue, and who has been the target of a manhunt by the “department”. The rest of the plot is about the hunt for Maya that ensues, and in the process, we get to know Maya’s past.

Well, full marks for Gowda for – a) penning a character that explores a different dimension of a female protagonist b) for setting up a mature woman as the central lead and allowing her to culminate the plot. The movie is completely carried forward by Rodrigues and I wish she was the face on the poster and not Raj Shetty, although I understand why this decision was made.

I was told Rodrigues comes from a theatre background and this absolutely shows in her portrayal as this complicated character – she must switch between the tenderness of her maternal instincts, and the ruthlessness of a rogue agent. Her preparation for this role included training in hand-to-hand combat techniques I'm told, and her hard work has paid off - she’s got the perfect body language in all the fight scenes. Chaitra Achar as the pesky generation Z teen puts up a spirited performance. Raj Shetty as the slightly eccentric investigating officer evokes mirth and his comic timing is impeccable – he uses his non-typical appearance to his full advantage – the hallmark of a good actor. I wish he had meatier scenes and sassier lines. Shaukat Ali, who I’m told is Mr Karnataka, is impressive as the menacing assassin hired to hunt down Maya.

I’m not going to look for spiders under the rocks and sort of criticise this difficult-to-direct debut movie. For me, the epitome of “chase” movies is The Day of the Jackal (the Edward Fox one, not the terrible Bruce Willis one). The devil is in the details in all such movies, and that’s where there are slips in Mahira. In some places I could feel Gowda’s conflict - a conflict that every thriller genre writer faces – striking the right balance with characterisation without losing pace. To his credit, Gowda does not lose grip, although he hangs by a thread in some scenes; I would also credit Rodrigues on this – she is understated yet powerful and there are no overly melodramatic scenes. The interaction between mother and daughter are believable and not cheesy. Some of the location shots around Mangalore are simply breath-taking and really made me homesick for the Indian sun. Overall, Mahira engages one’s attention – I’d say a Sunday afternoon well spent.

If you are tired of hero-centric Kannada movies, with their pathetic build-up songs, build-up lines in every scene, a vacuous female lead to give more build-up to the hero, and the mandatory item girl – give Mahira a chance. Women can also kick ass just as well you know, that too without all the bells and whistles.

Courtesy: http://krishnamercy.com

Wishing all of you a very Happy New Year! I hope this decade comes with more smiles, happiness, kindness, and peace.

For me, it seems this decade passed by in the blink of an eye, tumultuous, a few crests and many troughs. Undoubtedly a decade of mental fatigue that seems to have brought out the worst in otherwise rational folks.

With all that’s going on, I have, like many of the Hindu Bengali families that have Muslim surnames (awarded as titles generations ago), a unique, unpleasant view from this strange intersection I’m in. For one, I’ve realised that had I really been a ‘Khan’ in the true sense, some of the people I know well may have chosen not to be in my life at all. I’m surprised by the intensity of disappointment and sadness this realisation has brought on.

As humans our perceptions are shaped by personal experiences and cultural stereotyping. We simply cannot escape our biases, but we can choose to introspect and examine them. Whenever I see posts supporting the ongoing CAA, I try to understand why these individuals are supporting the legislation, and so far, I have always come to the conclusion that they have not read the act and are simply forwarding misinterpreted misinformation because of their inherent negative bias towards a community. Yes, including the debonair guru.

In 1955, the original Citizenship bill was passed which laid down the rules for gaining Indian citizenship – it could be by birth, by naturalisation, by descent, or through registration under specific circumstances. One of the key criteria for obtaining citizenship (if it’s not by birth, obviously) is that one must not be an ‘illegal’ immigrant i.e. someone who has entered the country without the proper documentation, or someone who has overstayed after their visa has expired. You can read the bill here (https://indiacode.nic.in/bitstream/123456789/4210/1/Citizenship_Act_1955.pdf)

The current Citizenship Amendment Act (which is now a Bill) amends a particular section of the original bill which deals with the interpretation of the term ‘illegal immigrant’. This 2019 Act has included an amendment that basically makes exceptions to who can be deemed an ‘illegal immigrant’—if you are a non-Muslim from Bangladesh, Afghanistan, and Pakistan, AND who entered India on or before 31 December 2014then you will no longer be deemed an illegal immigrant (assuming all other checks are cleared). The Act further includes provisions of how such people can then obtain citizenship. All checks and criteria being successful, such people will be deemed citizens of India from the date of their entry into the country. (Read it here http://egazette.nic.in/WriteReadData/2019/214646.pdf)

So why is this deemed as discriminatory? This Act is applicable retrospectively to people who are already inside the country. In all the arguments I’ve come across supporting this Bill, it is surprising that no one is talking about this important fact. The result is that for two people who have fled a country under similar circumstances such as war and persecution, the Muslim immigrant is denied citizenship whereas the non-Muslim person gets theirs, even if both meet all the criteria and security checks. Here is an example case – if a Muslim entered the country in 2005 and a Hindu in 2013, both having fled persecutions in their home countries, it is the Hindu who now becomes the citizen. How much ever hard-nosed you are, and whatever eloquent arguments you present to justify this (primarily because you don’t like Muslims), under the cold glare of light, this is discrimination based on religion. The original Article uses the word ‘person’ to refer to an individual and has been carefully drafted to maintain the neutrality of the Constitution. Now, by using religion as qualifiers to deem worthiness of a citizenship, we are on a slippery slope of tinkering with the very essence of the Constitution. I am yet to hear a cogent statement from the government as to why they removed a community from the ambit of this Bill. Likewise, I am yet to understand from those who support this why they think this is not discriminatory. THIS is what many are fighting against—people are raising their voices against the fact that the Act is inherently discriminatory; now, this discriminatory clause has become enshrined as law. The repercussions of a majority Government passing a discriminatory bill based on religion is chilling and disturbing. Every democracy has its checks and balances to ensure there is no misuse of power; in our case, this is missing due to lack of a strong opposition.

National security is always very important, so we need an effective border check, as in the case of all countries in the world. We need an efficient, humane, technologically driven process to identify people who are living in the country without proper documentation; we need to have a process to manage such immigrants, as is done in all the other countries. A hallmark of this past decade has been mass migrations of populaces because of unstable political situations and climate change. As with all countries, India too needs to adopt and implement an effective refugee management system. However, no country has implied that to sort out a percentage of illegal immigrants, the entire population of a country must eventually prove its credentials. World history has already shown us what this agenda is all about; an agenda that churns out chaos, anger, fear… and where this leads to.

Many of my Hindu friends believe that they are well on the path to establishing a Rama Rajya in ‘Bharat’. What an irony. Let me show you Rama’s view, in whose name the country has been set on fire. In the Yuddha Kanda, Rama and his Vanara army have camped on the Indian mainland, having ascertained the fact that Sita is a hostage of Ravana. Vibhishana, Ravana’s brother, having failed to drill moral sense into his megalomaniac brother, decides to support Rama. He, along with four other Asuras, approaches Rama’s camp. At this point, all the important Vanaras have a lengthy discussion and debate with Rama. Many of them advise Rama to capture Vibhishana and punish him, put him to death because he comes from the enemy camp; that because he is an Asura, by default he will be deceitful and so, he cannot be trusted.

At which point, Rama addresses Sugriva – (I have taken the Devanagari script from this site; you can find the excellent word-to-word translations from K.M.K. Murthy on https://sanskritdocuments.org/sites/valmikiramayan/yuddha/yuddha_contents.htm)

बद्धअन्जलिपुटम्दीनम्याचन्तम्शरणआगतम् ||
नहन्याद्आनृशंस्यअर्थम्अपिशत्रुम्परम्पत |

Summary – if an individual in miserable plight stands before you begging with cupped palms, even if such an individual is your enemy, and he surrenders to you seeking your abode, then, you must not do harm (to this person) and he should not be killed.

अर्तोवायदिवादृप्तःपरेषाम्शरणम्गतः ||
अरिःप्राणान्परित्यज्यरक्षितव्यःकृतआत्मना |

Summary: The enemy individual could be oppressed or arrogant, it is immaterial – if he has sought protection against others (persecuting him), then the one with a disciplined mind knows that even at the cost of one’s own life the enemy’s life must be protected.

सचेद्भयाद्वामोहाद्वाकामाद्वाअपिनरक्षति ||

स्वयाशक्त्यायथातत्त्वम्तत्पापम्लोकगर्हितम् |

Summary: If you don’t protect (such a person who has come asking for your refuge) either because of fear, ignorance, or you simply don’t wish to, then this is a grave sin that will be admonished by the world.

विनष्टःपश्यतस्तस्यरक्षिणःशरणआगतः ||
आदायसुकृतम्तस्यसर्वम्गच्चेद्अरक्षितः |

Summary: If such a seeker of refuge, not having received your protection (even if you were able to provide him with such protection), dies in front of your eyes, then in his death all your moral merits will be erased.

एवम्दोषोमहान्अत्रप्रपन्नानाम्अरक्षणे ||
अस्वर्ग्यम्चअयशस्यम्चबलवीर्यविनाशनम् |

Summary: By not protecting those who seek refuge, you commit a grave sin, your reputation will be destroyed, as will your strength and valour. No heaven will be bestowed to you.

Therefore, Rama declares –

सकृद्एवप्रपन्नायतवअस्मिइतिचयाचते ||
अभयम्सर्वभूतेभ्योददामिएतद्व्रतम्मम |

Summary: If any individual seeks refuge in me by uttering just once, ‘I am yours’ – then my solemn pledge is that I shall protect him from all types of beings (all kinds of dangers). And so, Rama directs Sugreeva to bring Vibhishana to His presence, and declares that indeed had Ravana himself come to Him seeking refuge, it would not have been refused.

So yes, as of 2019, I know what Rama will be labelled as by all those who want Rama Rajya. Rama Rajya is not about building towering temples – it is a concept of the mind and the heart, and it requires unflinching strength of character and leadership.

No one likes to be used, so I can’t understand why many people I know allow themselves to be willingly manipulated, sometimes by politicians, sometimes by millionaire gurus. So perhaps our resolution for the next decade should be to talk less and think more; to engage with facts, to put an effort to understand our own religion, and above all, to be respectful and kind when we speak and act.

After a period of drowning in hefty academic literature, it feels so good to return to fiction, like emerging from underwater gasping for air. I had been on an insane book-buying spree in readiness for this moment of freedom. What better company can one ask for on the flight than Jack Reacher politely beating the crap out of everyone? I devoured Blue Moon for at least 6 hours straight. During my break in India it was Keigo Higashino’s slow-burning The Devotion of Suspect X. And now back here in the melancholic British weather, instead of preparing for my upcoming viva, I played truant and surrendered to Lucy Foley’s The Hunting Party.

It’s been a while since I’d read a well-executed whodunit, and The Hunting Party was sumptuous. What better way to spend a stormy Sunday, gale force winds and rain slapping the windowpanes, than to read about a group of friends trapped in a remote holiday resort in the Scottish Highlands? This intimate reunion of college friends goes horribly wrong when one of them ends up dead.

There are four couples – Miranda and Julien, Emma and Mark, Samira and Giles, Nick and Bo – and the single woman, Katie in the group. Apart from them, there is Heather, the manager of the resort and Doug, the gamekeeper.

The plot itself spans three days, and Foley must achieve the unravelling of the characters in this tight window. She does so by dedicating a chapter for each of the principal characters, all written in first person narrative, except for Doug, where she pulls back to a tight third person narrative. The plot is non-linear and moves back and forth between timelines ensuring that the plot is never stagnant.

The first person narrative builds an intimacy between the reader and the character; for the reader, the story is being narrated real time by the characters—they provide a shard of their perspective and the readers are allowed to see a piece of the puzzle through the lens of this POV. As the plot proceeds, like a detective, the reader must try to put the pieces together, only to come across another bend in the story. We get to know about the events during this New Year reunion through the voices of Heather, Doug, Katie, Miranda, and Emma.

The only drawback of this multiple-voice technique in this novel (at least for me) is that most of the chapters become exposition-heavy with the back stories. Whilst the characters are drawn out very well, I found myself distracted on some of the chapters because of this. I know this is commercial fiction and the focus is undoubtedly on the pace, but my preference leans towards a narration that leaves things unsaid, and allows me, the reader, to sort of fill in the blanks. I found some of the descriptions jarring; especially when a character explains, I faced this and this, so I am like this. I would have loved to figure this out for myself, rather than the character throwing it at my face.

This book would’ve fallen flat if the setting of the place had been weak – here Foley does a fantastic job of transporting the reader to this remote cut-off location – we can feel the unsettling silence, we can feel the biting cold, and we can also see the wild beauty of this resort by a still loch that mirrors the pine covered mountains around it. I think it was the setting that really elevated this book.

The plot has it’s share of red herrings and I’m not sure the reader would be entirely gullible but unlike traditional whodunits, we don’t even get to know who the victim (although you can guess, and then second guess) is till the end. And that’s what keeps the pedal to the metal on this book. I wouldn’t mind watching a Netflix series or even a film based on this book.

I loved the simple yet eye-catching book cover too – I bought it because of the cover, really. If you’ve got a train ride, a flight, a self-quarantine…reach out for this one. I do have some opinions on the characters themselves, but then I don’t want to give away spoilers. Maybe we can discuss over coffee?

Courtesy: Cover of Chandamama January 1963 edition

You are never old enough to listen to stories from your parents...I mean "bedtime" type stories :) Why do we grow out of this habit? I think more and more people should spend time telling stories - there'll be less anger :) My long vacation in India was a throwback to idyllic summer holidays. Hot, still afternoons and a good story in your hand. This time, my dad, who is an avid collector of old editions of all sorts of books, chose to narrate stories from Chandamama. He would read out as I went went about pottering in the kitchen, and time would stop, at least for me. In many ways, this was therapeutic - there is so much rage and negativity flying around in all the newspapers these days; everybody seems to be baying for blood...and the TV channels...crass, third-rate programs and "news" ...what are we doing to ourselves?

Anyway, this particular story had me in splits...and I consumed more sajjappas from the nearby Venkateshwara Iyengar Bakery. It is from a 1963 edition of Chandamana!

The Hungry Ghost

By B.Baburao

Courtesy: Chandamana January 1963 edition

The King of Chitrapur was in deep sleep with his mouth wide open. A mischievous pishachi (ghost) that was floating by entered his mouth and took up comfortable residence inside the King. The next day, the King woke up feeling ravenously hungry. The royal cooks prepared the usual breakfast for him, but it did not satiate his strange hunger. The cooks were taken aback by the King’s behaviour, but scurried around to cook some more...and more. Finally, after having eaten breakfast fit for twenty people, the King seemed satisfied.

Now the cooks got ready for the usual lunch-time serving. The menu required four lambs, twelve chicken, one vegetable dish, ten ser (each ser is almost a kilo; 933.1 grams to be accurate) cooked rice. The King ate all of this by himself. Now it was clear, something was wrong with the King. The ministers and scholars of the court discussed this problem of the King’s hunger. They called in the royal doctors. But nothing was found wrong with him – even in appearance, the King did not look like one afflicted by any disease.

The King’s hunger created a great problem now. The royal kitchen could not keep up – so the cooks began to literally loot farmers of the kingdom for stocking up. There was threat of civil rebellion in the kingdom. Alarmed by the situation, and also feeling sorry for the trouble he is causing, the King decided that instead of burdening only his kitchen, he would now impose himself on his feudal lords. He would take turns and visit each of these samanthas , perhaps stay with them for a week, or fortnight...or even a month. Now, whenever the King announced his visit, hearts would start pounding.

Sabhapati was an intelligent brahmachari (bachelor), who had just finished his education in Kashi. He was well-versed in all the shastras and had won accolades from all the great scholars and pundits. Having triumphantly completed his education, he was on his way back to Chitrapur. He decided to lodge in one of the samantha’s homes for the night.

The arrival of Sabhapati created a flutter amongst the surrounding villages of Chitrapur. People from near and far flocked the samantha’s home to get a glimpse of this young, accomplished man. A social gathering of scholars and public took place only to hear Sabhapati. He mesmerised the crowd with many strange stories from his travels. He made them roar with laughter with his jokes. Indeed people felt their stomachs will become sore – they enjoyed his jokes so much. But Sabhapati noticed only the samantharemained grim. Upon enquiring, the samantha described his royal problem – the King was arriving as a guest, and what this means.

Sabhapati heard the story and thought for a while. Then he said, ‘Samantha, I will solve this problem. But the condition is you must do as I say. No questions asked.’ The samantha agreed.

That evening, the King came with his royal family. Even as his foot crossed the threshold, he started bellowing, ‘Bring my snacks! Bring my snacks!’

A maNe (low wooden stool, used for sitting cross-legged on the floor) was kept only for the King and all the savouries and sweets were brought out. The King, forgetting all decorum, started gobbling up the food. Sabhapati sat near the King, chewing on a blade of grass.

The King noticed Sabhapati and said, ‘Have you gone mad? You are eating grass like cattle.’

‘Not at all Your Highness,’ Sabhapati replied politely. ‘It is not decorum for you sit alone isn’t it? That is why I am giving you company.’

The King was now embarrassed. He kept a fruit on a plate and pushed it towards Sabhapati. Sabhapati nonchalantly started peeling the fruit. He said, ‘I have a request for you, if you don’t mind.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘I request you to please sleep for a while before you sit down for dinner.’

‘Yes. Anyway I was thinking of sleeping for an hour or so. So your request is granted.’

As soon as the King fell asleep, Sabhapati tied up his legs and hands. Everyone waited for the King to wake up. The King stirred after two or three hours. As usual, as soon as he woke up, a ravenous hunger attacked him. He was flummoxed to see his hands and legs were tied.

Meanwhile, Sabhapati asked the cook to bring in all the aromatic dishes. Upon getting the aroma and seeing the dishes, the King’s mouth started watering. But Sabhapati seemed unmindful of the King’s hunger. He sat near the king and arranged the food in front of himself. Then, he began talking.

‘I want to tell you a strange story, dear King. I heard this from a Siddha (yogi). Protected by the towering peaks of the Himalayas, there is a beautiful valley. In that valley, there is an extraordinary palace. Its walls are made of milk and fruits. The thorana for the main door is made of vade and jilebis. Inside, the porticos are made of halwas. The entire roof is covered with rottis. In every room there are tanks filled with steaming hot kheer, cream of milk, coconut milk, draksharasa (grape juice) and so on. Not just that, mounds of chitranna (lemon rice) are piled around these tanks...’ Sabhapati continued to describe this food paradise. As he narrated, he would hold out a piece of the royal food, as if he intended to feed the King. He would bring the food close the King’s open mouth, and withdraw it suddenly.

The pishachi inside the King could not take this taunting and teasing any longer. Frustrated, it sprang out of the King’s mouth and tried to snatch the food from Sabhapati’s hand. But shrewd Sabhapati was quicker – he caught hold of the pishachi and thrust it in the fire heating up the kitchen stoves. That was the end of that mischievous, hungry ghost!

The King fainted as soon as the pishachi emerged from his belly. When he recovered the next day, he felt light and lively. His normal appetite had returned, and he was no longer tormented by hunger.

He rewarded Sabhapati with enormous riches and everyone lived happily ever after.

********************************

Translation © Sumana Khan - 2016

I am sure each of us are reacting to this existential crisis in different ways—from positivity, prayers, gloom and doom thoughts, to downright denial “this is all hype, it won’t happen to me”. Deep down the root of these reactions is anxiety and anger because for once we are truly not in control—an innocuous trip to the store to buy milk could be life-altering. At a time like this the information we seek, consume, and share becomes even more important, not only for our mental well-being, but for the safety of others as well. There are already millions of articles out on the internet on this disease. I write this post really for my own sanity, it’s my own way of letting off steam because I think I will throw up if I see one more conversation about shit like “build herd immunity” or a horoscope that predicts the “disappearance” of COVID-19.

So here are some phrases/questions that have caught my attention time and again, and I have tried to summarise answers, with reference links if you wish to read more. First things first – COVID-19 is the name of the ‘disease’ and SARS-CoV-2 is the name of the virus which causes COVID-19.

1) “We are a population with ‘strong’ immunity and so COVID-19 won’t affect us”

It is important to understand how the immune system works at an individual level. Your immune system is programmed to fight against ‘foreign’ bodies, such as bacteria and virus, that invade your system to cause harm. For your immune system to work well it must identify these as harmful bodies, and attack only such cells. Here is a lousy analogy – for your immune system to “identify” an invader, it must have a blueprint or a photograph – like a police station having the wall of posters with mugshots of “most wanted”. So when you have a common cold (which you’ve had a number of times over your life course) your immune system is already equipped with a “blueprint” or a mug shot of this invader. So it knows the right weapons to use, or in science terms, it can produce the required “antibodies” to kill each and every invading cell.

What happens when the invader is “new”? Your immune system has no “blueprint”, but still, it is programmed to put up a fight, it knows some foreign body has invaded the system. But it is like fighting against an enemy whom you’ve never dealt with before; the enemy has weapons you’ve never trained on, the enemy uses a strategy you are not familiar with. These are bitter battles – some are won, some are lost. Have you seen footages of war-ravaged cities in the recent past where everything reduced to rubble? That’s your body inside, having waged a war with this new enemy. So don’t be under the false complacency that a virus will not infect you because of your ethnicity. Not only will you endanger yourself, but you will also put others in danger.

If you want to learn more about immunology – please go through these lectures - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gKkvTXLvbhsand https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mFNxXfwlP3A

You can also follow Peter Kolchinsky, a virologist, on twitter who explains, in a very simple language, how viruses work. Some threads for you –

https://twitter.com/PeterKolchinsky/status/1246975275021348865?s=20

This talks about what COVID testing is all about –

https://twitter.com/PeterKolchinsky/status/1249475238636765184?s=20

If you want to understand the virus tree of coronavirus, take a look at this infographic –

https://graphics.reuters.com/CHINA-HEALTH-VIRUS-SCIENCE/0100B59Z39Q/index.html

2) “More people die from (insert you favourite common death method)” – the one’s I’ve come across - “Falling from stairs” “car accidents”, “heart attacks”, “regular flu” – so why are we overreacting about COVID-19?

Well, first of all, “Car accident” or “heart attacks” are not contagious. The “regular flu” is seasonal; most countries have an internal strategy to ramp up resources in their hospitals to treat a heightened influx of patients during flu seasons. In the case of the new COVID-19, here are things we know – it is highly contagious; there is community transmission; it can take down even healthy individuals. In this scenario, what does a lockdown achieve? First, it cuts down community transmission – the less people are in touch, the less opportunity for the virus to spread. Second, it gives the medical infrastructure of a country to gear up. In an ideal scenario, the doctors and hospitals should have been kitted out to take on this new and sudden influx of patients. But as we are sadly seeing in UK and the USA – the governments did not understand, and/or they turned a blind eye to the fact that their medical front-line is not protected and equipped. The latest news is that more than a 100 doctors have died due to COVID-19 in Italy (https://www.france24.com/en/20200409-italy-says-number-of-doctors-killed-by-coronavirus-passes-100). In the UK, as of now 19 health workers have died and the numbers will sadly climb because our gormless health secretary still has no clear answers about providing PPE to the frontline workers.

So coming back to the question about “why the hype” – the fact that doctors and nurses need PPE to treat COVID-19 patients should alert one to the fact that this is not “just a flu”. The fact that countries have shut down – let me repeat that – ENTIRE countries have shut down despite the crippling effect on the economy, should give you a hint why this is so, so serious. Here is an infographic on how the disease spread in South Korea, which should help you understand why COVID-19 is so infectious, and why social distancing and lockdowns are not a hype –

https://graphics.reuters.com/CHINA-HEALTH-SOUTHKOREA-CLUSTERS/0100B5G33SB/index.html

3) “It’s just a flu”; “people are whining about a little flu”; “how is this different from a fever and a little cough”

Unfortunately, there are very few newspapers that have documented lived experiences of this flu. So we must be grateful to those brave survivors who have documented their survival on social media, so the rest of us can be aware. Here are commonalities of this plague based on first-person accounts I’ve read–

a) Some people experienced skin sensitivity like a bad sunburn or like having some underlying allergy. Some reported a loss of smell and taste.

b) The fever is relentless – 102, 103 – and can last for days. In one case, it lasted for two full weeks. In some cases, the fever is intermittent—you can feel fine for a few hours before the temperature increases dramatically. Fever of such high temperature will obviously cause chills and delirium. In many cases the only way to bring down these dangerous levels of temperature is icepacks, or making the person sit under a cold shower.

c) Cough of unimaginable intensity—individuals reported coughing so much that their ribs hurt, and it also induced vomiting. Since the infection affects your lungs, you get breathless – coughing increases this breathlessness till you are literally gasping and rasping for breath. Each breath you take induces another severe bout of cough. Think of an experience of someone pulling a plastic bag on your face and tightening it around your throat.

d) When you reach a stage where you are simply not able to breathe on your own because of the spread of the infection in your lungs, you are put on a ventilator to help deliver the oxygen which you are incapable of drawing through the process of breathing.

e) Tiredness of a deadening nature where you are simply unable to move. Your body feels sore, muscles ache. In one case, a husband narrated how he had to carry his wife around the house because all strength had drained off her body.

f) Some cases reported diarrhoea.

Here are two first-person accounts you can read - https://twitter.com/TaranaBurke/status/1248255554398674944?s=20

https://twitter.com/threadreaderapp/status/1247288327226757121?s=20

Bottomline – there is NOTHING mild about this disease. This is not “just a flu”.

4) What is “herd immunity”?

In the true sense, herd immunity refers to a situation where a vast majority of a population has an immunity against a certain disease, so there is very little threshold for a virus/bacteria to take a foothold in that populace. How is this herd immunity built? By mass immunisation measures such as administering vaccines to a large population set.

In the context of COVID-19, herd immunity was a monstrous strategy allegedly adopted by the UK government when it finally woke up to the situation in the beginning of March. At that point in time, a discourse had been built that COVID-19 predominantly affects the elderly and the immunocompromised. Going by various media briefings, it appeared the UK government’s strategy was to allow as many ‘non-vulnerable’ people as possible to get infected, (they called THIS as building herd immunity), and meanwhile, the health services can then cope with the more critical cases. The sheer inhumanness of this proposal, and the decision to simply ignore WHO’s pragmatic advice to test, track and isolate, caused a widespread uproar in the public as well as in the scientific community (https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2020/mar/15/epidemiologist-britain-herd-immunity-coronavirus-covid-19).

So now “herd immunity” seems to have caught the fancy of some people, just like pop psychology narratives, especially the antivaxers. The common question is why can’t we just get the disease and build immunity “naturally”? Sure, whatever floats your boat. Why stop at COVID-19? Why don’t you expose yourself to ebola, HIV, or rabies and see how it goes? Stay isolated whilst you build your immunity though.

5) Is HCQ a cure for COVID-19?

There is no cure for COVID-19 as of now. A ‘cure’ typically would be a vaccine. A vaccine contains a “blueprint” of the virus – like a specific molecular string or its DNA/RNA – it is like submitting a photograph to your body’s immune system – attack if someone who looks like this enters the body. Given COVID-19 is a pandemic, an ideal situation would be if a majority of us can get vaccinated so the disease can no longer spread.

HCQ is used as a malarial vaccine. The active ingredient of HCQ has been known to reduce inflammation effectively. Hence, HCQ is also prescribed for patients suffering from debilitating rheumatoid arthritis, and lupus which is auto-immune disease that causes inflammation amongst other things. Bear in mind HCQ also has scary side effects. In the case of COVID-19 patients, especially those in the critical stage, widespread inflammation in the lungs has been observed because of a phenomenon called cytokine storm, where your immune system goes on an overdrive in the fight against the disease, potentially killing healthy cells as collateral damage. This kind of inflammation is lethal, and this is what is causing COVID-19 deaths. It is thought that HCQ can reduce/control this inflammation, giving the body a fighting chance to survive. Remdesivir (RDV) is another drug that is considered as a potential treatment. In this case RDV is known to prevent RNA of the virus from replication. Read more here (https://www.forbes.com/sites/coronavirusfrontlines/2020/04/08/this-virus-expert-explains-what-the-data-really-shows-about-two-treatments-for-covid-19-coronavirus/#e06351d1a356)

World over, all kinds of professionals are working round the clock to beat this pandemic. Unfortunately, the greater cruelty has actually been inflicted by the political class in countries like USA and UK.

Stay informed and stay safe. And maybe in the next election, swallow whatever racial, sexual, and class prejudices you have, and do vote for a party that wants to increase your taxes so that you and your children get a better health system and education system. Because, god forbid, if you are on that ICU bed, that fancy new bomb your government built is not going to help you, neither is your pseudo- national pride. The only thing that stands between you and death is that selfless doctor who, most probably, hails from a community/class/country/gender that you were taught to hate and mistrust.

(Book Review)

I admit, 80% of my book shopping is largely based on the book cover and the blurb—I’ve delightfully discovered authors whom I’ve never read before this way. During one of my pre-lockdown bookstore raids, this book titled ‘Elevator Pitch’ caught my attention. Not least because Stephen King has an endorsement on the cover (if King recommends eating lauki, by god I’ll be grating the damn thing before you can draw another breath), but also I’m a bit tired of domestic noir, and murders in an elevator sounded different, promising. I’ve not read Linwood Barclay before (I panic at the thought of how many more authors I’ve missed).

'Elevator Pitch' unfolds in Manhattan where on three consecutive days elevators in three random buildings plunge, killing its passengers, including an influential media head, and a Russian scientist who has inside knowledge of Russia’s bio-warfare programs. When sabotage is discovered, the controversial love-him-hate-him-can’t-ignore-him Mayor Richard Headley must take an unprecedented decision of asking all high-rises in the city to stop their elevators and have them security-checked. The enormity of this seemingly trivial decision dawns on you as Barclay beautifully narrates the disruption—in a city like Manhattan, ordering the closure of elevators causes havoc and deaths, with people living in high-rises stranded inside their homes or in lift lobbies – how do you climb 50 or 90 floors? Reading this book at a time like this I could not stop reflecting on how much quotidian urban lifestyles are shaped by a city’s architecture, and how fragile this dependence is.

In a seemingly unrelated investigation, detectives Jerry Borque and Lois Delgado are working on a gruesome murder case where the victim’s face was pulped beyond recognition and his fingertips were chopped off to avoid fingerprint identification. After a good beat work, the detectives discover that the dead man was incidentally an elevator serviceman. And then, there is the fringe group ‘The Flyovers’ indulging in domestic acts of terror, presumably their way of teaching the rich east coast Americans a lesson. As the reader you weave in and out of these chaotic threads as if you were driving through the bumper-to-bumper Manhattan traffic, and you finally arrive at a dramatic, very filmy climax.

The book is crowded with characters, just like the streets of Manhattan, and how do I put it…every chapter is busy. There’s Headley with his team that includes his son Glover whom he insults all the time; there’s the journalist Barbara, a pain in the ass for Headley because she never misses a chance to pin him down with uncomfortable questions, and writes scathing articles criticising him; there’s Barbara’s daughter Arla with whom she has a difficult relationship; the two detectives Borque and Delgado, and many other secondary and tertiary characters, some of whom appear only in a single chapter.

The book is kinetic, not in the sense of high-octane action, but you get the sense of constant movement – every character is on the move – no one is sitting by the window and thinking of things, for example. Everyone is chasing someone or something – Barbara is chasing her story, the detectives are chasing their leads, Mayor Headley is, well, running around in circles. I do suspect this book may not be up to everyone’s taste. The narration has that traditional framework – the story unfolds within a week, so we develop just a nodding acquaintance with the characters presented in third person. Which is rightly so because the plot propels the characters—this is unlike the more recent trend of using several first person POVs to drive the plot, which can be exhausting in its own way. I admit, although I knew this is a crime novel, I sort of expected a bit of a psychological jolt – maybe because action in closed spaces such a lift is a fertile ground for claustrophobic thrillers – maybe I was subconsciously thinking of the horror movie Devil, where the entire story unfolds inside a lift with the occupants dropping dead like flies one by one. Also, the opening of this book does not adhere to the ‘first paragraph should grab your throat’ unsaid rule, (which sometimes grates on me actually) – Barclay takes his time to build the action in the first chapter, even including a quick backstory, defying the myth that ‘the reader will lose interest’; no, I did not lose interest. A well-executed first chapter, even if it just sets the ball rolling downhill slowly, is just as effective as the jolting opening line of The Day of the Jackal - "It is cold at six-forty in the morning on a March day in Paris, and seems even colder when a man is about to be executed by firing squad."

Actually, 'Elevator Pitch' took me back to my teens and early twenties in Bangalore where I would pick up dogeared, yellowed books smelling of naphthalene from footpath sellers. Most of these were by authors whose names I don’t remember (tragic); the book covers were beautifully illustrated (no computer generated graphics), and these pulp-fictionish books were crime thrillers set in the rich, glamorous boroughs of New York or Beverly Hills—murders, art thefts, and diamond heists sort of stuff. These were fast reads—an afternoon in the sun, eating kaLLepuri or congress kadlekayi. I’m sure like me, others of my yet un-travelled generation of DD era became familiar with those curious American urban architecture terminologies through these books – the ‘blocks’, the ‘avenues’, the ‘streets’, the ‘boulevards’ – yeah, it was in one of those crime books (a mafia don’s girlfriend (invariably blonde, buxom, green eyes) falls in love with the cop chasing them (invariably very Dirty Harry)) that I learned about the NY-Manhattan ‘grid’: avenues run north<-> south and streets run east<->west. ->->Barclay’s lucid description of the lay of the land weaved into the conversations took me back to those days...so although I've read better crime novels, I guess I am partial to this book.

If the sun is shining wherever you are, and you want to revel in the silence of the lockdown afternoons, give this book a try.

How many of you remember the red and green graph sheets we used during middle/high school? Do kids plot on an actual graph sheet now or do they use an app? But if you are of my generation, you surely remember making that trip to the nearest stationery shop to buy graph booklets. This was always a sombre journey for me, with Amma exploding like Mount Vesuvius because I would've remembered the homework in the last minute. I think each sheet was 25p or less then. Why am I randomly remembering this…it’s because of all the graphs doing the rounds now.

Those days, just when I thought I’d have a brain aneurysm trying to bisect a line with a compass, this abomination of plotting graphs was introduced in the syllabus. And the thing with graph sheets was that they had to be handled as delicately as the Dead Sea scrolls. Your Nataraj or Camlin Flora HB pencils had to be sharpened to the right point – too blunt and you’ll be off by millimetres, too sharp and for sure the damn lead would break, and that scented eraser would create a smudge…and a tear in the sheet if one got a bit angry about life.

My first brush with the dreaded graph sheet was during Algebra—at least that’s my first memory—when we learned that a straight line could be represented by an equation: y=mx+c. It was only years later that I understood the significance of the equation…indeed if one did a linear regression on the rate of change of my concentration on studies, it would be a steep, negative gradient. But at that point in time, for a girl who was more interested in the affairs of George Michael’s heart during last Christmas and coming Christmas…fat chance convincing her that finding the slope of a damn line is important in life. Nonetheless one had to plod …plot on. Okay, it was not so bad, I reconciled, it was just straight lines…because by then there was something worse round the corner. Vernier calipers. You’d think what’s the big deal—it’s straight forward to determine the least count of the accursed calipers or find out its zero error. That’s because you are blessed with normal IQ, healthy concentration. Some of us were more interested in Jason Bourne’s memory problems and zoned out when the good teacher was demonstrating the usage of this instrument. I couldn’t for the life of me visualise a single situation in my future when I’d be using Vernier calipers, but the more I struggled with it, the more I was convinced it would be my weapon of choice for a homicide. Okay, involuntary manslaughter.

By the time I found myself blinking in a science degree course, I realised the inescapability from graphs…these were surely encoded in my horoscope like some rahu or ketu presence. By then I considered myself a war veteran…I mean I had survived plotting three-dimensional vectors. I had discovered an escape route so to speak, thanks to other fellow sufferers, especially in physics and electronics (don’t do this kids)—most of the time you’d know the shape of the expected curve, so even if your experiment went wonky, you just needed a steady hand to draw that curve, and then mark your readings on or as close to the curve as possible, with some outliers to prove credibility. This probably saved my life when I had to plot the Zener diode I-V curve. Why, just the other day I saw a graph published by NITI Aayog which predicted that COVID-19 cases would drop to zero on May 16^th in India. I tell you, I felt a jolt as if I’d spotted a kindred spirit…that artist could’ve been me…I could sense that steady hand and slick turn of wrist in the curve (granted it would’ve been done on a computer but you get the idea)—poor rookie employee I’m sure, under pressure to show a certain type of scenario…and no one reviewed it till the top man unwittingly presented this.

A few years into my job, my relationship with graphs had totally stabilised—like how we’ve all accepted the reality that coughing in public will be deemed more reckless and threatening than walking around naked with an assault rifle. At work, I was throwing about graphs in every direction, in every meeting. In the corporate world a graph becomes an immutable truth—you can present 20 slides on your argument or you can stick one slick pie chart or bar chart; the graphs won the argument always. You want to convince the customer how you can increase productivity because your team comes with a different DNA strand than the competitor’s? Ha! The jet-lagged customer will probably yawn into your face showing off their tonsils. But present the same information in a graph with all sorts of trend lines…

When I eventually quit the corporate scene, I thought I was done with graphs for good. But no, within a couple of years I was staring at boxplots in preparation for a masters. Again, I thought after all that academic penance, I had sort of exorcised graphs from my life. And what do you know…everyone and their uncle started shouting “flatten the curve!” If someone had told me, say in the beginning of 2020, “flatten the curve”, I would’ve naturally assumed this was in reference to my overly healthy body, and my response would’ve been on the lines of “which curve exactly, asshole?” Dammit, now it’s a rallying cry to save human civilisation.

I empathise with Charlie Puth when he laments that he’s “just a sucker for a cold-hearted lover”…that sums up my troubled relationship with graphs. These days, graphs go by a sexy name …data visualisation. That’s graphs in high heels and a black number. That's why even the wisest of men are so enamoured with the curves that they forget every point on that seductive bend represents human lives.

Now, if you'll excuse me, a scatterplot is waiting to be divined.

A while ago I was researching about morgues in India for one of my manuscripts. My notes are depressing to say the least—no dignity even in death. So, when I spotted ‘Unnatural Causes’ – a career-biography of Dr Richard Shepherd, one of the leading forensic pathologists, I grabbed the book. Forensic pathologists are specialists in conducting autopsies, a career one rarely gets an insight into. Dr Shepherd has done over 23000 post-postmortems in his long career spanning more than three decades.

I opened the book with some trepidation, I’ll admit. A subject such as this can be a slippery slope—it’s easy, perhaps tempting even, to give in to grisly sensationalism. But right from the first chapter, the prose is soft, dignified, and the reader is gently led into this behind-the-scenes world. One of the reviewers has described this book as “Heart-wrenchingly honest” – and they’ve not exaggerated. Dr Shepherd is unflinching when he describes his personal conflicts and vulnerabilities, and these honest reflections on his childhood, on his marriage, on his personality where he comes across as stolid (it works well for his profession, not so much as a family man) emotionally bonds the reader with him. As a result the book does not have a condescending tone given the insights it packs—instead, it is like having a heart-to-heart conversation with a friend, who just happens to be at the top of their profession.

There is a danger of going all text-book on the reader when describing the cases, but Dr Shepherd has balanced this well by setting the emotional contexts touchingly; each case is described respectfully with a good a dose of ‘technical’ details. I was particularly moved as Dr Shepherd recounts his early days where the of grief those bereaved affected him profoundly. He decides that he decided to “avoid the bereaved at all costs and stick to the safe world inhabited by the dead, with its facts, its measurements, its certainties. In their universe, there was a complete absence of emotion. Not to mention its ugly sister, pain”. As we get more acquainted with Dr Shepherd’s childhood, we being to appreciate why he felt more at home in the company of the dead, where there was no expectation of him to be visibly emotionally available.

Given the situation we are in today, with countries setting up temporary morgues, I was particularly affected by Dr Shepherd’s description of mass disasters—terrorist attacks and accidents—especially when bodies are dismembered. Dr Shepherd takes us through a number of such sites, the 9/11 attacks, the Bali bombings, boat and train accidents in London. Although he describes the scenes factually and dutifully, you realise the enormity of the work, and the thanklessness of it; the oppressive grief of the entire operation—the meticulous job of labelling every body part, be it a finger or a limb, or just a head; mind-numbing identification process; making bodies whole where possible.

Perhaps what makes this book come alive is Dr Shepherd’s description of the everyday-ness of his job—after a day at the morgue, coming back to a busy household where his wife was studying hard for her med school, so the evenings would go in cooking supper, helping the kids with their homework, and walking the dog. I was amused when I read about one of his cases where a further brain tissue examination was required—Dr Shepherd returns home with the brain in an organ box in the boot of his car so he could take it to work the next day – little details like these jar you – how much effort it takes to mentally compartmentalise this job and the family life…I don’t know…I mean, there’s a brain in the car… It is no wonder that post-retirement, Dr Shepherd did suffer from PTSD, and this book sort of became a part of his recuperation.

If you are a crime writer, this book is a great reference; I'd say a must-have. But more than that, for me personally this book is special because it speaks of biological death with the honesty it deserves – neither mystifying it, nor glorifying it. The detachment which Dr Shepherd describes as his personality trait is evident in the writing too, which helps you view the human body with a lot more respect. His passion and commitment towards his profession shines through every page - it’s truly a new perspective when your body is described as “For blood is not just red – it is bright red. The gall bladder is not just green, it is the green of the jungle foliage. The brain is white and grey – and that is not the grey of a November sky, it is the silver-grey of darting fish. The liver is not a dull school-uniform brown, it is the sharp red-brown of a freshly ploughed field.’ What a lovely reinforcement of the description in our Sharirika Upanishad, where the human body is described as the essence of the earth, water, air, fire, and sky.

This is a unique book, and if you are not squeamish, you must read it.

Image courtesy:http://hitc.com

Some genres already have certain benchmarks set so high that it takes an incredible amount of creativity to break the mould or offer something fresh within the template. The templates are so perfect that there’s only so much variation you can wiggle around with. Serial Killers? It’s Silence of the lambs/Red Dragon. Supernatural horror? The Exorcist, Omen, The Evil Dead. Vampires? Dracula and only Dracula. Assassination plots? The Day of the Jackal. Slasher horror? Wolf Creek, The Hills have Eyes. Sci-fi horror? Alien/Predator/Aliens.

I think horror gives one the most space to explore, experiment, and expand the territory – The Blair Witch Project was so superb with its found-footage theme, adapted successfully again in Paranormal Activity.

On the Indian front, the scene is so fertile for horror exploration with our rich folklore and mythology, that the lack of good cinema in this genre is surprising and disappointing. Yes, I enjoyed Bhoot, and to a certain extent Raat, but both these had the usual clichés of horror films. So I was really ecstatic when I watched Rahi Anil Barve’s Tumbbad. It is steeped in the folklore flavour and is quintessentially Indian in mood and story-telling, carefully avoiding Hollywood/Bollywood horror tropes. This was not just the one-dimensional visual horror, but also the metaphorical horror of greed. Every frame in the movie was atmospheric in an eerie, dismal way.

In the anthology Ghost Stories on Netflix, the zombie story (Story 3) by Dibakar Banerjee was breath-taking in its ingenuity, again infused with that distinct Indian essence. So, I really looked forward to Betaal. For me zombie horror has been defined by World War Z and The Walking Dead (at least the first few seasons). Betaal is backed by big production houses SRK and Gauri Khan’s Red Chillies Entertainment and Blumhouse Production (Insidious, Paranormal Activity, Get Out etc)—so of course my expectations were really high. Three episodes down and I’m a tad deflated (I blame myself, perhaps I’ll change my mind by the end of the season). Of course, technically the production is very slick. Even the premise is interesting, although I am bored of the ‘colonial past’ back stories—nonetheless, being hunted by a zombie army whilst your team is trapped in the middle of nowhere is a fantastic starting point. It’s even got its moments for the traditional horror buffs – but it did not work its magic. I tried to figure out why this could be (this is what insomniacs do).

I think, particularly for the horror genre, the most important task for the creator is to ensure that the reader/viewer establishes a strong emotional connect with the protagonist in the first instance (this is true for any storytelling, more so for horror). Then, when bad things start happening to this person, the audience live through the horror vicariously because we really care about her/him. The stronger the emotional bond, the more intense is the horror. If you are unable to manipulate the viewer this way then the plot becomes insipid, no matter how technically brilliant the frame is. Take for example the first episode of The Walking Dead. The protagonist Rick Grimes, a cop, wakes up from coma (on account of a bullet wound), only to find himself alone in a ransacked hospital. As the episode proceeds, you too are processing the shock of this post-apocalyptic scenario – all friends, family, neighbours – gone, some have become zombies. In a weak script this can become incredibly silly and funny. But The Walking Dead was too real and you are fully, unequivocally invested in Rick’s well-being and survival. What is he going to do next? The first few seasons were wonderful in the slow burn – first it was man versus zombies – and then, once that novelty wore off, the writers turned their attention to more sociological questions - what next for a (non-existent) society? Humans must start everything from scratch – there is no government, no law, nothing. Some of the seasons were really an examination of this – and it’s a horror of a different kind, man’s enduring lust for power and cruelty. These first few seasons were such an intense and immersive experience for me that whenever I passed chain link fences, it was too easy to imagine the 'walkers' rattling them on the other side.

Whilst The Walking Dead was post-apocalyptic, World War Z puts us in the thick of things as the zombie epidemic spreads around the world. The premise is that the zombie plague was caused by a virus, so the resolution of the plot was to figure out a vaccine (sounds way too familiar?) Again, we are fully invested in Gerry Lane’s mission, and the film has some heart-stopping, iconic scenes. The most chilling part of this movie is its scientific take on the zombie illness – it makes it all the more believable.

I think that is what is missing in Betaal (so far). (SPOILER ALERT). First, there is a group under distress – but unlike with Ripley’s team in Alien/Aliens, I’ve been unable to build any kind of rapport with any individual in Betaal. I partly blame myself—some of the scenes are too reminiscent of The Walking Dead – malfunctioning tube lights on grimy walls – so I sort of knew what to expect next. Even the scene where the contingent enters the forbidden tunnel – that reminded me of the scene from Alien where the team enters this abandoned alien ship to investigate a distress signal. But more than such frames that have been inspired by previous films, I think Betaal’s disappointment is in its story-telling. For me, horror works well when you drip feed information – the addictive part of any series is its hook; it’s ability to keep you guessing – what happens next? In Betaal, it’s a diarrhoea of information. Within the first couple of episodes everything is known – what is this zombie army, who is the leader, what does he want, how does the whole thing work? A supernatural explanation is given, but then, sorry, with that kala jadoo mumbo-jumbo, and inane details like zombies’ inexplicable allergic reaction to turmeric (many eye rolls), the story curdles like spoilt milk. But I’ll give this season a shot.

I’ve got to say this though—even Betaal is believable compared to the shit some presidents and prime ministers are (not) doing right now—there’s the real horror of Paatal Lok.

I thought I’ll leave this script out here in case someone wants to do an avant-garde film of our pointless, poorly-dressed lives.

Some snippets of conversations in 2020.

“What shall we have for breakfast?”

--mostly stoic silence response--

“You think we should have lunch?”

“I just cleared the kitchen sink. We can gulp air for lunch.”

“What’s for dinner?”

“Something edible.”

“Who has Maggie for breakfast?”

“Granola and soya milk on this cold morning? Or Maggie with chilli sauce?”

"Good idea. Add some mashed potatoes."

“Did the sun come up at all today?”

“Someone has tweeted that Boris Johnson has a bedpan face” bwahhahahaha

“Why has it become dark already? It’s not even bloody 4pm.”

“Is it fog or have the windows fucking steamed up again?”

“Where ARE my specs?”

“That carrot soup tastes like puke.”

“Did you hear that?”

“Yeah it’s the floorboards.”

“That was my knee joint dammit.”

“You think he’s really going to do a coup?”

“They’re too soft on him. What he needs is a proper beating with an old broom. The way we thrash cockroaches.”

“S, just listen to this talk on 5G and IoT”

“Sure. Only its FUCKING SATURDAY NIGHT. Wait, wow. Is that the latency rate in a 5G n/w?”

“How come you're wearing such a nice party dress early in the morning?”

“All pyjamas are in the washing machine.”

“It’ll be the last day of earth…aliens will be hovering right outside in their flying saucers blitzing everything with lasers. All houses around razed to rubble. The lasers will now point inside our house also. But still I will say wait, wait, let me wipe down the counter and sink.”

“I guess I’ll order pizza then.”

“What’s the date today?”

“Who cares?”

“Is it Wednesday or Thursday?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yeah trash collection.”

“The dryer is shrinking all the clothes. Bloody thing.”

“It could be that we are getting bigger.”

“It’s the dryer. It’s the dryer.”

“This only is called manufactured truth.”

“Do you want the badusha or not?”

“Just now only the kitchen sink was empty. I turn around and suddenly 10 cups are inside it . I tell you it's black magic in this house.”

Internet search: “How to replace elastic in a waistband”

Internet search: “Badusha recipe”

Internet search: “Shani stotras”

Internet search: “K-means clustering”

Internet search: “Point-blank range impacts”

Internet search: “Morgues in India”

Internet search: “Child psychopathy”

Internet search: “Hyperloop”

Internet search: “Fahadh Faasil movies”

Internet search: “Online Malayalam tutorials”

Internet search: “How to replace smashed iPhone screens?”

Internet search: “iPhone screen repairs near me”

Internet search: “Reusing candle jars”

Internet search: “How to repair saree blouse?”

Internet search: "How to stitch your own saree blouse?"

Internet search: “How to cut your own hair?”

Internet search: “How to cut your own hair properly?”

Internet search: “How to cut your own hair properly in layers?”

Internet search: “How to cut your own hair properly in layers Indian hair?”

Whatsapp conversations…mostly on the lines of …

‘OMG you must read <book names>’.

‘Prepped veggies for the next 2-3 days.’

‘Can’t believe so many people I know are actually assholes and I had no clue.’

‘Badusha became a bit chewy instead of flaky.’

‘Still we are eating and eating and it’s not getting over only.’

‘Have some critical severity bugs to close today.’

‘Bought another Instant Pot on this sale.’

‘Tech stocks are a bit volatile at the moment.’

‘I shampooed the carpet on the stairs.’

‘Have you tried coconut sugar?’

‘Who is this Ananya Pandey?’

'I used to have a huge crush on Hugh Grant. Now it looks like he has come out of my dryer. So many wrinkles.'

'Abba did you see Nicole Kidman?'

'Face smooth like my kitchen counter.'

Everyday Skype conversations with rebellious father:

‘Appa I hope you are wearing mask whenever you are going out. I have my own suspicions.’

‘No, no don't worry. Otherwise they put fine.’

‘Good.’

‘I went to the bank today. It was so crowded that we were all literally hugging each other.’

‘Aiyoo Ramachandra! Why the bank visit?’

‘Just like that. I wanted to get my passbook updated.’

‘Appa!!! it’s all online.’

‘You never know with these bolimaklu. See how many banks are collapsing. By the way I met that <friend> while strolling in the market.’

‘I hope you had your mask.’

‘I had to remove it because the bakery Maama asked me to smell the fresh puliyogre gojju.’

‘Appaaaaah!’

‘I think you are too stressed. You should have ashwagandha.’

Romantic evening conversations –

“What are you watching?”

“Aircraft Investigation. See in this case that wing—”

“Whatever.”

“What are you watching?”

“Great British Bake Off”

“Whatever. Wait, what’s that?”

“Chocolate babka. Sit. The showstopper round hasn’t started yet.”

“What are you watching?”

“Kennedy assassination tapes.”

“Can we watch something peaceful?”

“Uff! Anyway you won’t see no because you are playing stupid online chess.”

“But still I can hear no.”

“I’m putting this nature documentary then.”

--After sometime husband is jolted--

“Oh baba! What are you watching now?”

“Deadly Reptiles. See this is the stunning Mozambique spitting cobra. It can spit its venom—”

“Change change change! Can we see something nice and cheerful?”

--After some time husband is jolted–

‘Which movie is this?”

‘It’s a reality show.’

‘Is that Arjun Kapoor?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he actually call that lady an asshole? That too in front of a kid? What’s wrong with him?’

‘Yes. But he said like that out of love and affection. That lady is his uncle’s wife.’

‘WHAT?’

‘That kid is her son.’

‘WHAT?’

--On TV the posh lady screams ‘Asshole’--

‘Can we go back to the spitting cobra?’

‘Sure.’

Keepsake

Into The Water - Paula Hawkins

My Women's Day

Of Pumpkins And Gourds...

A Quiet Place

Lullaby - Leila Slimani

Six Reasons Why ... (No one will make a movie about you and I)

Monday Moral Dilemma

Shape Of You

Hindi gothilla. Bas.

Mahira - Breaking Stereotypes

High on Hate

The Hunting Party - Lucy Foley

The Hungry Ghost

COVID-19...There's nothing mild about it

Elevator Pitch - Linwood Barclay

Year of the Graphs

Unnatural Causes - Dr Richard Shepherd

From Paatal to Betaal

Fabulous Lives of Totally Irrelevant People