Priceless

Media pass to watch Mahim Junction: Rs 0

Auto from home to train station: Rs 24

II class train ticket to Churchgate: Rs 6

Being the only one to realize (with horror) that I'd travelled in the first class compartment: Priceless

I Write Like

Based on this post,

I write like
J. R. R. Tolkien

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

I can live with that!!!

Distraction

Pouring rain is so much prettier
Than staring at a laptop screen,
It takes your mind to green places
That may be unvisited, unseen.

My mind's divided as I alternate
Between laptop and window in turn,
If I look out the window I’m rejuvenated;
If I look at the laptop I earn.

Mind Your Language

This is my response to Sunayana's Red Marker Blogathon, which has been going on since the 1st of June and has lots of indignant grammar-worshippers up in arms. As I told Sue, I kept waiting to decide which was the pettest of my pet peeves but the procrastination meant that by now, all my grievances are already taken. I could have aired my complaints abt SMS styles n hw im puzzld wid d things ppl rite al d tym, but then SMSese is not a language in my book, so I won't discuss it.

Instead, I'll talk about a few mistakes that people make:

1. "To no end": This basically means, "without any result", or "in vain", as opposed to the phrase "no end", which means, simply, "endless". "She complained no end" means the woman would not stop complaining, whereas "she complained to no end" means her complaints made no difference.
   
   
2. "Rest assured": When you are trying to stop someone worrying, you say "rest assured, it will be done," or "don't worry, it will happen." Unfortunately, I find a lot of people saying "You can be rest assured...", forgetting that "rest" is a verb here, and you cannot "be rest", you can straightaway "rest", in an assured manner!
   
   
3. "Few" vs "a few": "Few" means very little. One could say "The pouring rain meant that few people were out on the streets." On the other hand, "a few" means "some". To illustrate, "I met a few of my friends." but, "in my hectic schedule, I have been able to keep in touch with few friends." When I say "the suggestion for a picnic found few takers," I mean not many people were interested and that there's no picnic on the agenda, whereas "the picnic idea found a few takers," means there were some people who were interested and so, pack your hampers.
   
   

As a professional editor I'm always spotting and laughing over mistakes people make in the language. Sometimes, I even take a photo. Unfortunately, given the power English wields in India, pointing out someone's poor Hindi or Bangla is usually laughed off, whereas correcting someone's English is a more delicate matter. But over the years I've come to realise how the power of expression is of supreme importance. Few of my colleagues at the ad agency I worked at in Dubai spoke correct English. But sometimes they said things that, though grammatically dubious, were emotionally/practically spot on. Yet, they hankered after my corrections, afraid of looking foolish. I would be requested to draft leave applications, CVs, covering letters and, even the language for a wedding invitation. It reflects poorly on our world that people are judged by their English when so few have access to good English teaching. I had a teacher in class 1 who insisted that the name of the colour-changing reptile was not pronounced as "kameleon", but as "CHameleon", as in "check".

On that note, here is a gem I got from Anando, who studied at a school with a good convent-sounding name in the heart of what is now Jharkhand.

A little boy reached school late. The teacher was in the middle of the lesson. He glowered at the boy and said "Why are you late?" The boy quaked in his shoes, and said, "Sorry Sir, I was stuck in a jam." The teacher fumed and corrected the boy: "Jam is what you put on your bread. Jaaam is what you get stuck in."

But wrong Hindi (or any other language can definitely get you into trouble). A relative, who speaks poor Hindi, lost his ring. Requesting the maid to look for it when she swept the house, he said (to her horror), "Mera angootha kho gaya hai." (Angoothi means "a ring" and angootha is "thumb").

Although this relative found his "angootha", I shudder to think what happened to the sweet Bengali gentleman who, seeing a young girl getting soaked in the rain while he stood dry under his umbrella at the bus-stop, offered, "Meri chhati mein aa jao."

Last light

He was miserable all day, overshadowed and forgotten. He tried to be seen. To remind people he existed.

He peeked from the left, but they blocked him from view. He tried to peep from the right, but they were on to him. They stood everywhere. Strong and opaque.

Still, as the day wore on, they grew complacent. His time was up, after all. But then, just as he went out, he smiled one last time. And this time, nothing could hide the fire he had within.

In Today's News

Two pieces in today's Business Standard. I have been trying to write as much as possible this year. The blog's getting neglected as a result - I have Suku's tag to do and Sunayana's Blogathon to write for. But both will happen.

Meanwhile, please read these. For both, there was a 500-word limit, but my thoughts run deeper (and longer) than that!

Watching Shakespeare's bloodiest play: After studying Macbeth in school and in college, I finally got to see it staged at The Globe. I was mouthing some of the dialogues along with the actors and it was a memorable experience.

To Kill a Mockingbird turns 50: A classic. Period.

I spy, with my little eye...

Ever since I moved to Bombay I keep complaining that I never spot any of the stars who are supposed to be all over the city. Not for me casually running into film stars at Joggers' Park or walking past them in the market. I've had people visit for a week and meet Dimple Kapadia at the airport. Someone else saw Hema Malini. Someone else was late boarding a flight and was put on the last small van to the aircraft with...Shahrukh Khan. And I saw...you know, that guy who dumps his father at 2nd Innings House in Lage Raho Munnabhai...and then doesn't regret it till Munna hangs him by the ankles from his office window....yeah, that guy. Sheesh!!

So many months of whining later, I feel like I totally got my due when I had, 2 tables away from me, Helen and Salim Khan. As I was leaving, I smiled at her. And she half-smiled back. The vamp Helen. The sizzling siren. The one who writhes around Amitabh in Don, and who's always Chin chin choo to me. And with her, Salim Khan, half of the Sholay magic story.

I'll stop complaining now. Besides, Karishma Kapoor walked into Costa Coffee that day and stood around for ages. And I was totally cool about it. I think I'm finally a Mumbaikar now.

Bollywood Backstage

This was published in today's Business Standard. The slightly longer version appears below.

The mirror betrays its age. Faint brown veins spider against the glass, lending one’s reflection a sinister appearance. The bulb-holders around the mirror are missing several bulbs, giving it a gap-toothed appearance. I imagine all bulbs in place, lighting up as the late Nargis preens at this mirror, pinning up her hair stylishly to one side, framing that sharp profile in readiness for her next scene. Down these corridors, with the unpleasantly green paint now peeling off in patches, down these worn stairs, the wood now concave where most feet have stepped, she would have gracefully gone, into the spotlight and into cinematic history.

Once the fiefdom of the man who gave India classic cinema like Andaz (1949), Aan (1951), and of course the internationally acclaimed Mother India (1957), Mehboob Studios is today a historic, verdant alcove eclipsed by the shops around it. Well actually, at 4 acres of prime property in Mumbai’s Bandra suburb, it’s a bit more than an alcove. And with the who’s who of Bollywood zipping up and down its bumpy driveway in their hot wheels, it’s the hub of much that’s going on in the Hindi film industry. As I enter, a silver Mercedes rolled in, which may or may not be carrying Aishwarya Rai-Bachchan behind its tinted glass.

With so much glamour breathing through its walls, I expect a building that lived up to the gloss of Bollywood. Something shiny and well maintained. But I am met with a solid, school-building-like structure, mundane windows stained with bird-droppings, a simple entrance, and a wood-paneled notice board (announcing, among other things, a salary hike back in 2008, for head carpenters to now receive Rs 902 as wages, up from the previous Rs 801) much like we had in college. The digital clock looks out of place above it, like the afterthought it probably is.

A huge hall, known as “stage” or “floor” by those in the trade, is bare save two large, ancient pedestal fans. One cools down a laborer, whose yellowing vest sticks to his skin as he takes a break from sorting the planks that will form a set for the next shoot. I park myself in front of the other as I look around. This one, stage no. 3, is the largest, at 122 by 115 feet, and a ceiling 55 feet off the ground. I crane my neck to peer to the top. Makeshift corridors fashioned from wooden planks form the grid from which lighting will be set up and adjusted. The language here is unique, I’ve heard. On an earlier visit, I was laughingly told by film-maker Anuradha Tandon, ‘You know, “Baby ka mundi kaatke upar latka de,” which suggests beheading a child and hanging it from the ceiling, actually means taking a small spotlight (baby), covering it up to minimize the light it throws, and suspending it from above!

Padmashree Mehboob Khan’s velvet-upholstered office too is untouched. The walls contain awards and commendations, including the Nomination Certificate for Mother India at the Oscars. A framed letter dated 30^th October 1952, from Cecil B. deMille, President of the Paramount Pictures Corporation, compliments Khan on Aan and says it reveals the “tremendous potential of Indian motion pictures for securing world markets.” Prophetic words.

Up on the second floor of the office building, large offices contain the skeletal 18–20 staff members of the Studios. Cardboard file covers try their best to contain bulging sheafs of papers, with labels like “TDS Challans & Certificates”. Piled to the ceiling are bundles of scripts, posters, trade magazines and paperwork. Plastic cans teeter all the way to the top, each containing negatives for memorable names like Anmol Ghadi, Najma, Anokhi Ada and others. The can colors, once bright, are now fading, just like the studio itself. “Can you ever locate anything?” I ask, taken aback at the carelessness with which these are kept. Rajendra, the Bookings Manager, shrugs and says casually “Haan, mil jata hai.” He tentatively picks up a bundle of magazines, seemingly for the first time, and disinterestedly remarks, “These are all old trade magazines, you know, that keep coming.” Huge, handmade posters of the same movies lie folded in half, yellowing along the crease. What about Mumbai’s humidity and natural wear and tear for these papers? He shrugs again. Later, in the study of Iqbal Khan, Managing Director of Mehboob Studios and son of the late Mehboob Khan, I ask the same question and am shown a pink stationery file of clippings from UK newspapers of the 1950s reporting the release and success of Aan in London. “These are fine,” he insists, “and so are the others.” Unconvinced, I let it go.

Obviously, the past is on its own here. It is the present that matters. With 80 percent bookings, the studio is in demand, though it’s not all Bollywood. “Ads make up three-sevenths of our revenue,” cites Khan. And suddenly he turns the tables on me, asking, “What percentage is that?” Stumped, I grope in my head, dividing 3 by 7, that’s errr, ummm, “42 percent,” he says complacently. “In fact, the music recording studio is now just another stage, where we shoot commercials. We couldn’t afford to modernize the equipment; the Klang Bauer machine was outdated. So, rather than spending 5-8 crores upgrading our studio, we have just stopped music recordings here. Producers can rent the room for their ad-film shoots.” That hall where orchestras lovingly recorded memorable music, most often composed by the lively Laxmikant-Pyarelal, that would have India swaying on its feet is now the mute set for here-today-gone-tomorrow commercials.

But Iqbal Khan has had to be practical to keep the studio going. When his sons inherited the studio after Mehboob Khan’s death in 1964, they also inherited a 5-lakh mortgage on the property, a debt of 28 lakhs, and a court battle with their stepmother. Renting out studio space was the only option. In those days of desperation, truant producers who tried to get away without paying rent found that their film’s negatives were held ransom by Khan till they coughed up the money due to him. “My father built this up from nothing,” Khan confesses, “with Aan, he captured world attention. Though Awaaz and Paisa hi Paisa failed, he made up for it with Mother India but then he destroyed it all with Son of India.” Mehboob Khan had been a stubborn director and producer, and built Mehboob Studios in his own name to serve as the staging ground for his cinematic vision. His legacy survives, some of it half-built, including a brick structure he began constructing for a “must-have” helicopter shot. He died before that, and no one saw any point completing the building. Doesn’t Khan want to construct something else to utilize the space? “No,” the old gentleman responds firmly. “I don’t need the space, so why spend money on it?”

Asked about improvements and renovations, he is non-committal. I suspect there isn’t much on the cards unless it is deemed essential. And indeed, why should they bother? Mehboob Studios is doing fine. Though small-budget producers prefer low-cost shoots elsewhere and the Chopras and Johars wing away to foreign lands, a steady stream of producers films here. For the forthcoming Hrithik and Aishwarya-starrer Guzarish, producer Sanjay Leela Bhansali booked one floor for seven months straight. At rental rates of roughly Rs 65,000 per shift of nine hours, this was a welcome booking. Iqbal Khan invests in no marketing, promotion or publicity. He prefers to let word-of-mouth guide producers to his gates. A new source of revenue has emerged - renting out the studio as a venue for exhibitions and events. Iqbal Khan is pleased as it takes care of overheads worth nearly 5 lakhs per month. “We make profits,” he states modestly.

If the clients are happy, I can hardly complain. In its out-of-shape realness, Mehboob Studios carries on. The Bookings Manager is endlessly on the phone, talking business, as he shows me around. Perhaps these barely-maintained surroundings – masked, wrapped and decorated to create glitzy images that hold millions spellbound – actually help keep the stars grounded, right here on earth with the rest of us.

Reliving 20 months in 3 days

So I'm going back for a weekend. Will things look the same, I wonder?

So much has changed in Dubai. Someone else must be enjoying the view from our 31st-floor apartment. There must be new restaurants open on The JBR Walk, which we treated as our backyard. More routes will be operational on the Metro. The Burj Dubai we craned up at is now open, and called Burj Khalifa. The company I worked for has collapsed, gone the same way as many small companies in the recession-hit Emirate. The team has scattered.

Yet, some things will be the same. It will be soothing to rediscover that comfortable nook on Gauri's sofa, and to park ourselves on the carpet as we dig into tempting snacks placed on Aditi di's centre-table. Will Irish Village still have the smiling, plump waitress with the cute accent?Possibly the guy who weighed in my vegetables at Al Maya will still be there. Zarine, who blow-dried my hair on occasion and spent 2 years convincing me to cut my hair will still be there, saving up for her kids in Pakistan. Ita will still be working at Pelle Capelli, dreaming of her next trip home to Bali.

Strangely, while I am so sentimental about the past, it's mostly just a nostalgic sweetness rather than a yearning to go back. I am happy to keep it that way. So while Dubai was great, Bombay (part II) has been perfection too. And the last 6 months have flown. So much so that it feels too soon to revisit Dubai. But before my visa gets cancelled, I want to go, put my feet up with friends, laugh, stroll around familiar spaces, and maybe visit some new ones. More updates when I return.

Battle Scar

He's a sinewy, macho dude. V-shaped body. Heavy-duty sneakers. Gelled-back hair. A powerful neck emerges out of a form-hugging T-shirt. A gold chain nestles near the collar, revealing that his name starts with 'U'. Stands straight. Like he's always on stand-by to spring into action. Speaks little. Effortlessly lifts weights as he trains out-of-shape gym-goers to sculpt their muscles. Secretly smirks when I collapse under heavy weights.

He spoke about his recent accident. A long story involving him, a motorbike, and some sort of obstacle. The bike fell. So did he. He was hurt. But he made it.

In response to widened eyes and a little sympathy, he pulled his tight T-shirt sleeve over a bicep bulge to reveal his wound. There it was. All one square centimetre of it. Covered with a slim band-aid.