Contemporary Indian Match Boxes - Double Three

Contemporary Indian Match Boxes - 02

Contemporary Indian Match Boxes - 01

Another faded God

Oh well. The less said about this faded God's performance, the better. But the Manganiyars and Vidya Shah brought incessant tears to my eyes.

I was seated in the first row for this one, thanks to Kausalya.

ONE week, TWO encounters, THREE faded Gods - Part 2

The SECOND encounter was totally institutional and formalized, as in a balcony ticket - 200 Rupees - at the Music Academy to watch, to listen to, to experience the first day of the November Fest 2013.

Birju Maharaj and Hariprasad Chaurasia were the marquee names. I have seen and heard these two legends at the height of their prowess. I particularly, vaguely remember Chaurasia performing in Delhi during either the Asian Games or the CHOGM (82 or 83). The Maharaj, i have seen perform several times in Chennai.

This show was a microcosmic replay of the Sachin Tendulkar farewell farce. 

Only that these two faded Gods play in the shadows and the nooks and the corners of the media driven money trail. Such is the pathetic price of a faded God.

They performed for what their names were still apparently worth. They should have retired many years ago. Again, and again, and again, The Price that one pays the Devil (Pawar, for example) for holding on, and holding on, is always too high....

The Price is Prostitution.

The redeeming factor of the evening was the "young" woman seated in the middle of this farcical battle of the faded Gods - Kaushiki Chakrabarty. She held her head just above these turbulent, turbid waters that sought so badly to outflow each other and drown her. She was the one single joy of the evening.

What a curse it is to be a faded God.

Tiger V

Oh well. I'm listening to the Sultans Of Swing and and remembering an old friend. Tiger The Fifth. 

The three images above are the essence - other than my parents - of what defined me, as I moved from childhood into Reality.

The house was 141, Coral Merchant Street. It was pulled down recently, about 2 years ago. I lived the first 30 years of my life there.

I have no memories of when or how the dogs came and went, or why they went away (died). But, we always had a dog at home.

The longest, most magnificent, weirdest friend I had was Tiger The Fifth.

He was, as you can see from these serendipitous images, a short, frisky bastard. My mom tells me he has bitten 13 people at various times in his life. Of those, the only ones I vaguely remember are the 2 times that he bit me.

What is amazing, in retrospect, is that I did not even think of those bites as something to be angry about. It was as normal as my father scolding  me.

But what a dog this was!

Those 3 images are there for a reason. I have a story - one that you will never believe - about this dog.

You see that house?

You see the parapet wall right on top? The 1 foot, or less, ledge of the wall on the terrace? Check the first photo for an idea...it is the terrace of the house that you see in the third image.

Well, this bugger used to pirouette on that ledge, walk on that ledge, sit on that ledge, bark at people on the street below from that ledge, on the edge that looked down on the street, LIKE HE WAS THE EMPEROR OF HIS UNIVERSE!

I kid you not. I have spent hours playing with him while he strutted about on that ledge, looking down on that street.

A Thirty Foot (or perhaps more) fall if he ever missed a step!

And he did miss his step. Twice! in his life...and he survived both times! I swear and I kid you not.

The first time he fell bang into a round, concrete garbage bin (anybody remember those?) that used to be just outside our house. That time around, the bin was full of well, garbage, and a neighbor just rang our doorbell and we let him in and that was that. He acted as if nothing had happened.

The second time he fell, our Cook was  alerted by another neighbor and she brought him in and that time around he just hunkered down for a week or so and he was again back to his frisky, irritable self. Again,  as if nothing the fuck had happened!

Look at that picture of the house again and imagine this crazy diamond falling into the street from that height....! Twice. Survived. Pass!

****

When my parents had to vacate the house after my mom retired, it took them TWO MONTHS to move our stuff across the Royapuram bridge into their new home. Tiger stayed in that old, tremendous house all alone (again, I shit you not) all the time, with our immortal Cook visiting him and giving him his food once a day, in the evenings.

When, as a Catering College student, I started seriously smoking kaya, this cosmic champion dog used to love me blowing the ganja in his face. He used to trip with me.

This magnificent creature used to fight with the stray, street dogs as if he owned the neighborhood.

I think a large part of what I am today is also what He was. I swear that till today, his spirit lives deep inside, and also very close to the surface in me.

ONE week, TWO encounters, THREE faded Gods - Part 1

This has been a fun week, all told.

The Chennai weather has cooled off, while the action is heating up.

The earlier part of the week was set on fire, for me atleast, by the arrival of Gary Kasparov.

I thank the Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu for having muscled the World Championship Match in into this squalid, sprawling slum that goes by the name of Chennai. Oh well. But in its wake, the Championship Bout brought the greatest Chess personality, leaving Fischer aside for the moment, into town. Gary Kasparov!

I decided that I must encounter, personally, this God that had been forced by circumstances to vist the Slum that I live in.

The pricks and prickettes  - "employees of the hotel" - were true to their original color and acted very hoity-toity when I humbly enquired about Mr. Kasparov. I silently said "fuck you" to them and parked myself at the bar.

I am a good man. My luck and my instinct are usually par for the course when I actually decide to do something.

Into my 2nd pint of Kingfisher, guess who darts by outside, from the Foccacia restaurant? Mah maan!

I dart, in turn, outside. But he has disappeared.

wtf?!?

Boom, I turn around and there He is, darting back. He had just darted into the loo and was darting back.

He is confused for an instant about where the restaurant entrance is. I call out, "Gary!". He is sullen, irritated, arrogant. A superstar, yes, but not of the Rock Music ilk. He is Kasparov, after all.

He pauses, turns towards me, very aggressive. I sidle up and say, "Hi, my name is Murali." He says "So??" with such arrogance and irritation and impatience that even I am humbled.

I say, "I'm a great fan of your's" ....the arrogance glows brighter but with a tinge of foggy understanding....I gather up my courage and say, "Can I have your autograph?"...."Yeah, yeah! But let me finish my dinner first!!!", he snarls and darts back in to the restaurant.

I return to my beers.

About 40 minutes and 2 anxious cigarettes later, I see him exiting the restaurant. His beautiful wife is trailing him by about 3 feet. That nervous energy, I tell you!

I run outside with the borrowed pen and the apology for an autograph book/thingy - the Times Of India cover story on his visit....I half shout, "Gary!"....he stops mid-step and twirls around..."Autograph! You promised!", I say...

His face relaxes. He actually mutters, "Of course!"...I profer the paper and the pen....I make eyes at his lady and say "You are in this picture, too!" ...She stays aloof...never closer than 3 feet.

He scowls at the pen but takes a moment to scan the picture and the headings....and then signs.

As he hands it back to me, I shake his hand. A cold, Faded God-like handshake.

By then there are 30 people around us. All clamouring for a brief encounter with a God.

I left them and went back to my beer. Happy.

Snail Mail Stuff - 02 / Stamps from Sierra Leone / 60's and 70's

From as far back as I can remember, my parents always had the most interesting friends who lived in the most exotic places.

And the really interesting stuff I had as a child - toys, comics, stamps, picture postcards - were all passed on to me by my brother, Ravi.

We actually used to receive real letters all the time with the most lovely stamps stuck on them and he used to soak the letters up and retrieve the stamps - making a big drama about how i could watch only if i stood at least 5 or so feet away.

These magical stamps are real stamps stuck on real letters that we received in the 60's and 70's from Sierra Leone.

Paris Restaurant-Bar Publicity Cards / 1990s (?)

A set of 3 publicity postcards for an "Indian" restaurant-bar in Paris in the 90's...interesting mélange of English terms - "décor cosy", "DJ en live", "world musique" and of course "Happy Hour"! :-)

Little Murali Krishna (Flute Playing Krishna)

Shiva and Parvathi

Indian Beauty smoking a hookah

Some Snail Mail Stuff - 01 / WW I Soldier's Postcard / 1915

I want to share with you some of the snail mail that I have collected over the years.

The first few times that I went to France, I had all the time in the world but very little money.

And every time, of course, Paris was the main item on the agenda.

I had heard so much about the Bouquinistes of Paris that I went looking for them the first time with resignation. I thought I would never be able to afford anything. They were so famous and surely the Japanese and German and American travellers would have bought up everything worthwhile that was for sale.

But....

Look at something that I got on my first foray!

I suspect that the bouquiniste who sold it to me probably shaved something like a 1000% off the asking price. If I remember right I paid 10 Francs for it.

This is the transcription of what is hand written on it:

(The date that is pencilled in at the bottom of the message is 6.5.15. This is a post card from a World War I British soldier to his family in London.)

The Address block says:

on active service

Mr. & Mrs. Hutton
5 Priory Grove
The Boltons
London SW
England

(there is a signature below the address)

The message block says:

6th Infantry Division Base Depot.
British Expeditionary Force.
Arrived safely after good crossing y day. Dont
write to me here as I may move soon.
Shall eventually join our 3rd (the 3rd is underlined) Batt (battalion)
but dont know when at present.
Please say goodbye to Uncle C. for
me  I didnt forget but meant to
go on Tuesday. It is raining hard
here tonight, just came on
before we got to camp which
was hard times. Love to you all.
yrs loving (signature)

On the picture the word "Rouen" has been scratched out, but it is now visible with a magnifying glass beneath the faded ink.

blogadda image

The Adventures of Oh-tho-Tweet

Oh-tho-Tweet, the little whirly bird was very sad 
He sat on the highest branch of the tallest tree and sighed

For miles around, as far as he could see 
Were tree tops and branches and a zillion leaves 

He looked to the West and he glanced to the East
He saw squirrels and monkeys; spiders and snakes 

He gaped at the North and he peered at the South
He spied moths and beetles; bugs and bees 

He glared and stared till his eyes ached,
But try as he might, he couldn’t spot another bird!

“Oh, what will I do now?” cried Oh-tho-Tweet
“I’m all alone and have no one to play with!

I left with my family from co-old, co-old Sibeeria
To go and Winter in faraway Eendya

We had a heavy breakfast of worms and nuts 
And set off in a flurry of feathers and squeaks

We flew over hills and lakes 
We skimmed valleys and glades

We zipped across blue skies
We flapped over rivers and plains 

It was all so very exciting that 
I squeaked and squawked all the way

(This was my first ever big travel, you see
I'd never even flitted from mine to the other tree)

Oh how absolutely freedolous and stretchy it was!
The wind in my eyes made me scream like a banshee

The chill in the air tickled the zing in my blood
And every feather on my back did a little jig-jig

Before I realized that I was racing, I was miles ahead 
And my flappin' family was lagging f.a.a.a.r behind

“Catch me if you can!” I cried and went into autopilot
I relaxed a bit and cruised like a solitary jet......zmmm!

But, alas! Somewhere there, I must have fallen asleep!

I dream t that I was floating in a field of poppies
I’m sure I danced with multi colored fairies

I twirled and whirled in my sleep
I rolled and swirled in my dream

Phweeeeeeeeeeeeeehnnn, I lazily twisted
Ssshweeeeeeeeeeeehnnnn, I happily turned
Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeennn, I dreamily plunged 

And then suddenly, 

BHOOOM! CRSSHHH! THUDDD!

!*$^*!+++((
I had dadooms in my chest and babooms in my vest
I thought I had died and gone to heaven, I didn’t dare open my eyes!

A long time passed….don't know how long
Before my dadooms and my babooms eased a bit

With my eyes still shut tight 
I gave an experimental squeak

I squiggled my wings and flickelled my tail
(To check Just the Major Details)

They all appeared to be still attached to myself 
So I politely opened an eye to see where I might be

And promptly fell down again
Dear me, dear me @!!!!!*^./<@

Luckily, my leg snagged a twig and I clambered back up 
To the highest branch I could find

I was wide awake now and stretched my neck to see
Where it was exactly that I had landed my little bummy

All I saw were leaves and bees; branches and trees
Beetles and bugs and snakes and thingies

But, alas, not a single member of my family!
------ :-( -----------------------------------------------

And that’s where you found me at the beginning of my tale
So, please can you tell me, what should I do now?
I’m all alone and have no one to play with me?!”

pictures from Tunisia

Mainly downtown Tunis and the suburb of Sidi Bou Said...

pictures from Algeria

A view of the street from the hotel lobby



A view of the countryside from the bus to work



A grand mosque under construction



nobody messes around with these guys



graffiti on a side street in Mostaganem



Dropped an aitch

DEATH: Violent, Occasionally Sublime, Always Guaranteed - 2

Before the final moment of truth for the bull, there are several increasingly bloody stages by which the bull is reduced from a rampaging, unstoppable killing machine to a panting, disoriented, tortured creature - still too proud and uncomprehending of its destruction.



In this picture you see a magical moment when the prey and the killer are as one.

This bull had been particularly brave - charging tirelessly, shaking off the banderillas (harpoon pointed shafts), feinting, attacking, taking the fight to its tormentors.

The matador finally managed to pierce its heart with his sword, and waited tensely for it to fall. But the bull just refused to die. It kept standing there, spurting blood from its mouth and from the multiple wounds, panting and staring at the man.

And then something happened. Something beyond the contest passed between the bull and its killer. The matador, perhaps, had his own moment of truth.

He slowly inched his way to the side of the bull, placed his cape on its back and started caressing its back, with his head hung as if in silent prayer for the bull's soul.

Only then did the great animal finally decide to give up and die.

The thunderous applause that followed was as much for the magnificent beast as for the matador.

But let us begin at the beginning to understand why this was such an unequal, unfair contest.


(to be continued)

DEATH: Violent, Occasionally Sublime, Always Guaranteed - 1

These are my impressions of my first visit to a bullfight in Spain.

I delayed writing this because I wanted to read Hemingway's "Death In The Afternoon" before I started and I'm glad I did. Whatever I have written here is as a candle next to the sun when compared to the book. I recommend that everyone reads the book. Irrespective of the subject, it's exquisite writing. And on the subject itself, it's like a seductive bible written by a questioning, amoral believer.

I went to my bullfight in Barcelona which perhaps was not the ideal choice. Catalonia is just barely Spain. All things Catalan are fundamentally at cross purposes with the rest of the country.

The very fact that the bull fight still survives in Catalonia is in itself a salute to the law of the land and it is also, as yet, a symbol of the overarching but tenuous string of federalism that still binds this frisky province to the rest of the nation. Catalans in general do not approve of bullfighting and for years now have been waging an intense political campaign to ban the "sport" in their state.

It was a glorious, sunny Sunday afternoon. Across the road from the venue, there was a small group of anti bullfight protesters holding placards, sullen and silent. Carefully watching over them were three beautiful, tough looking policewomen.


There was a steady stream of people, mostly Spaniards and the mandatory sprinkling of American and Japanese tourists, buying tickets at the counters and strolling into the building. The mood was rather business like.

The ticket prices were reduced, I was told at the hotel reception where I booked mine, because the bulls on that day were not as big as they ought to have been.

Now here's the essence of the Spanish bullfight:


Six magnificent bulls, each weighing on an average half a ton, which have never faced a man in a ring before, will be killed one after the other before the evening is done. No bull leaves the ring alive. And when you see these proud beasts prancing into the ring with their skin glistening, their muscles rippling and their head held high, you realize that the bull has no idea of its imminent death.

For everyone else, that - the bull's death - is a given. A guarantee. The end result is always the same. (Well, almost always, but I'll come to that later).


How these six deadly, glorious creatures meet their inevitable end, one after the other, in the course of the evening is the story. The spectacle.

The entire drama is governed by a very elaborate and strict set of rules. These rules define each stage of this unequal contest. These rules attempt to lend a sense of balance to what is essentially a carefully choreographed series of assassinations. As if six Caesars were first corralled and given some space before being attacked. And killed.

The truth is that even the most accomplished of bullfighters has absolutely no chance of survival with even the most cowardly or reluctant of bulls, if they were to meet one on one, both unaided, one armed with a sword and the other with two lethal horns, and if the rest of the steps that precede the final encounter between them were eliminated.

As I said, this really is not a "fight". It is an assassination.

(to be continued)