The Eighties: More than just “Ooh la la” and Oomph

I am a great fan of the relatively new music channel Sony Mix which is devoted exclusively to music. A few days back I was watching their programme “Hits of the Eighties” and was waiting for one of the so –called songs that defined the eighties. The films of the eighties have been a lot in the news thanks to “The Dirty Picture”. The movie is not only supposed to be a biopic on the late Silk Smita but also some kind of a reminder if not a tribute to the eighties. ‘Ooh La La from “The Dirty Picture” has become some kind of an anthem to the eighties. In short the movie and the song have become a symbol for some very crude music\movies and by extension the eighties.

I do not dispute for a moment that the mid-eighties was the most vulgar era in the history of Indian cinema. This period is best remembered for the movies\songs featuring Jeetendra-Sridevi-Jayaprada. Crass commercialism conceptualized vulgar art. The majority of the movie halls were badly maintained which made the average middle class family think twice before venturing into them. Add to this a disruptive technology called the video cassette recorder or VCR (It was indeed disruptive although in today’s era of movie downloads it may seem like an antique piece) which allowed people to view the latest movies at home thanks to piracy. The only way producers and theatre owners could make money was to make movies for the lowest common denominator who would flock to the theatres as they had little or no access to these new VCRs.

Now to get back to my original point, I was awaiting some of the songs of the “vulgar” era. What I got instead was gems like “Neela Aasman So Gaya” (Silsila); “Dikhaayi Diye Yun” (Bazaar) (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zVsIxzMgwVY); “Sheesha Ho ya Dil Ho” (Aasha); “Hazaar Raahein” (Thodisi Bewafai); and “Sun Sun Didi Tere Liye Ek Rishta Aaya Hai” (Khoobsurat). What you have is as good a collection of Hindi songs as any. There are some other songs as well from the eighties from movies like Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak- “Hai Mere Humsafar;” “Dil Deewana Bin Sajana Ke Mane Na” from Maine Pyar Kiya; the party song of the eighties “Ek Do Teen”(Tezaab) and not to forget “Kahdo ke Tume Meri Varna” as well as “So Gaya Yeh Jahaan”from the same movie. Can anyone forget the immortal “Mujhe Tum Yaad Karna” from Mashal or “Sun Sahiba Sun” from Ram Teri Ganga Maili which was another landmark in the career of Lata Mangeshkar. The list can go on really. The point that I am trying to make is that if “Ooh La La” is one reality of the eighties so was “Dekha Ek Khwab” from Silsila. If it was the era of a Bhappi Lahiri, it was also the era that saw Shiv-Hari compose music for Silsila and Chandni. Granted “Ooh La La” was the dominant theme of the eighties but by no means the only one. And Thank You Sony Mix for helping put things in context.

Balu the Bull

“Balu the Bull, eats stomach full”, chimed a bunch of teenagers including (yours truly) hovering between the ages of 15 and 17.

The Balu in question being no bull but a well built young lad of around 15 with a good measure of adipose thrown in. Not all adipose but a certain amount of muscle too which used to deter us boys from going too far. The combined effect of muscle and adipose was to give the impression of a man who enjoyed his food and consequently beat the inflation rate quite comfortably.

Balu or G Balasubramaniam was my hostel mate at the Hindu Senior Secondary School, Chennai where I studied from the eighth to tenth standard between 1978 to 1981. Balu was two years older than me and a bright student. He also loved reading books. Thanks to Balu I was introduced to Forsyth’s immortal work “The Day of the Jackal” and the definitive book on the mafia “The Godfather” by Mario Puzo. Balu would read excerpts from these novels while me and another hostel mate Muthu listened with rapt attention. These readings were conducted during study our in our room. All I can say in mitigation is that at least we read while the majority of the hostel mates pretended to be engrossed in studying while all they were waiting for was the dinner gong.

Apart from introducing me to the great works of crime fiction Balu occasionally helped me with my studies as well. Balu, me and Muthu formed a trio who were well regarded by the warden as well as the students. Looking back I can say with some pride that we did manage to raise the bar as far as education standards where concerned in the hostel.

There is one incident which standouts in my mind. One of my relatives Kavita (another teenager) used to visit me quite often in the hostel. Now the rumour was that Balu had developed a soft corner for this girl. My protective instincts were aroused. Friendship was secondary to the cause of protecting the members of the fairer sex. I did not know how to deal with the situation. I began to keep an eye on Balu. The next time I thought that the Bull was on a prowl I began following him. Balu I think cottoned on and led me to a merry dance. Apart from, a little pain in my legs nothing really came off the exercise. The bull of course gave me a huge grin. As subsequent events were to prove my doubts were entirely unfounded and the whole story in journalistic parlance was nothing more than a plant designed for an audience of one-me.

Soon after Balu alas completely disappeared from my life. After his Class X examinations, he left the hostel. Apart from a chance meeting near Bangalore station, I haven’t seen Balu for over a quarter century. The memories of the man who introduced me to Michael Corleone and the chacal (French for Jackal) however refuse to fade. As Don Corleone said in The Godfather, ”Everyman has but one destiny”. Balu I guess is pursuing his while I am pursuing mine and our paths may never cross again.

Back To School

"Hello," a bunch of voices greeted me."Hello" I returned instinctively as I walked into class looking a like a martian since my right foot was encased in the costliest shoe that I had worn in my life. I was wearing a surgical shoe as I had during my journey in life fallen down the stairs and torn a ligament on my right foot. More on that historic occasion at some other time.

I occupied the first seat that came to my mind-which was actually on the last row. I had been a confirmed back bencher all my life and I reaffirmed my credentials. A word of explantion is in order here. I had enrolled for an Executive MBA programme. I had done this after two decades of service (distinguished or otherwise) to journalism and then corporate communications. I am on the wrong side of 40 actually forty five and what is more I look it. (Although, I must clarify that there are no silver strands as yet).

Even then I wasn't prepared for what quite happened. There was this guy who suddenly came upto me and who not only engaged me in conversation but actually sought my guidance. A few minutes into the conversation and I realized that that the guy had mistaken me to be well-- a teacher. Much to his disappointment, I had to clarify that I was a student just like him. This young chap said " I thought that the entire class greeted you since you were the teacher. Another chorus rose in protest, " Hey,we always knew that he was a student." I looked round at the class gratefully, with my ego restored.

I must say that the past two months in B-School have been a delight. While I had done some some short term distance education programmes before, this was the first time that I had actually entered the hallowed precincts of a class room after more than two decades. The students are a mixed lot in the age groups of 25 to forty five. I have realized why companies prize classroom learning over distance learning when it comes to an MBA. Like one of our profeSsors said," An MBA is a state of mind". The collaborative experience of working together in groups is something one looks forward to as it enables you to learn from others apart from getting to know people better.

Sorry my dear young friend. At this point in life, I prefer to be a student Teaching, will have to wait.

PS: This young kid who mistook me for a teacher has not been seen in class since my first day and seems to have quit the course. I guess he prefers to be a teacher.

Driver Jagannath Again

I am driver Jagannath again. Although I am not in the service of master Ravi any longer (and thank God for that) I still have to see him everyday. You see I have got another job in the same complex that he lives. Everyday, as I come in, I see him finishing his morning walk and flash my smile at him. At least master Ravi thinks that I am smiling at him. In reality, I am having a good laugh at his predicament. Months after he sacked me he is yet to find another driver. He has some temporary driver who my sources tell me make me dance to his tune.
This is what comes of not recognizing a good man who is doing his job. Look earlier, the population (pedestrians) had a problem. Now it is him.
On the other hand, my new master is a guy after my own heart. Look I am not even naming him. That shows you the kind of respect I have for him. No silly restrictions like driving at 60 kilometres per hour. He clearly believes that the world is a stage for drivers to parade their art. Nothing less than 100 kilometres on the highway. If in the process, some members of the population have to use their medical insurance, so what? No nonsense like, not getting into arguments with vehicles that are bigger than you. It is all about giving them a real run for their money. The cuts and thrusts on our vehicle are badges of courage. Finally, a master after my own heart. The guy is calling me. Obviously, we can take off.

Jagannath’s Master: How does one deal with Jagannath ? Granted that he is not mad but that is not saying much. He thinks that I really enjoy his driving. The facts are otherwise. I am too terrified to say anything when he whizzes past at 100 or is it 1000 kilometres per hour. I don’t care about the scratches on the car? Of Course I do. I shoud be in a state to admit this. Usually, I am too happy to just get off and run to safety. What does Jagannath mean by saying that he is not smiling but laughing at Ravi? Ravi takes it out on me. Whenever he sees me he doesn’t smile or laugh. He has no need to. He just shakes my hand and gives me a wink. That is his way of telling me: I know the feeling.
At last , I have mustered the courage to tell Jagannath that he has to go. That is why I have called him. My parents refuse to get on to the car. So much as I dread facing this modern version of James Bond with his own interpretation of a licence to kill, I am going to ask him to go. It is all about loving your parents you know. And will someone now tell Ravi that he can stop winking and actually start laughing.?

A Tribute to an Unknown Indian

November 10, 2010 is a day in my life that I will never forget. My son Sanjiv completed five years and we visited the family temple at Kalidaikurichi village in Tirunleveli District of Tamil Nadu. We were at the village after 35 years at the express desire of my father who wanted me to worship at the temple at least once in my life. Apart from my father and son, I was accompanied by my brother-in-law—Parthu-and father-in-law Mr Krishnan.

As the priest was performing the prayers, my worst fears came true. Suddenly my brother-in-law looked at my father and exclaimed that he appeared to be in trouble. A word of explanation is needed here. My father is a diabetic and at times he tends to lose consciousness, ironically enough when the sugar level dips. Indeed my father appeared to lose consciousness; we gave him sugar as we are generally prepared for such contingencies. He recovered but it was apparent to us that he was still not completely okay. My father however insisted on being in the temple as the prayers were still on.

Soon, it was clear that that this was not sustainable and my father fell unconscious again. My brother-in-law then acted swiftly and carried him on his shoulders to the vehicle parked outside the temple while a priest accompanied us to in order to give us direction to the hospital. A big thank you to these two men who were instrumental in saving my father’s life by their timely action.

Once we got to hospital, and explained the problem, the doctor put him on intravenous medication and wanted to see his case reports. I promised to secure it, went out and hailed an auto and explained the situation to the driver. The driver quickly took me to our relative’s place where we were staying and agreed to wait while I secured his case history.

Soon I was back in the auto with the reports and my mother. When we reached the hospital, we found out that my father had regained consciousness. I went back to the auto driver and offered to pay him extra money. He refused. I was touched and asked him for his name. “Ramaswami”, he replied. I thanked him fervently. I thank this unknown Indian again who resides in the small village of Kalidaikurichi but has kept alive my faith in human nature. Thank you once more Ramaswami.