Somewhere in Space

I am one of the few people in Hyderabad (if not India) who has been associated with almost every daily newspaper in his city. I have headed a Deccan Chronicle Group Company for a few years, authored the Times Food Guide for two, hosted the Hindu Metroplus Theatre Festivals for five odd years, orchestrated the launch of Vaartha, produced an ad film for Udayam, contributed to Newstime, lent my voice to Eenadu and so on. And I have managed to maintain cordial relations with most if not all the publications and people involved. So I guess I qualify to be termed safely impartial. And to further cement my claim, I am a subscriber to all the Hyderabad papers – DC, TOI and the Hindu.

And quite naturally I have slipped into a kind of order as to how I read the papers every morning. I must admit at this stage that the order has been indirectly influenced by my newspaper vendor who bundles the papers with the Hindu on the outside, the Times in the middle and DC the innermost. Also naturally I have seen patterns emerging in the papers. Deccan Chronicle for instance carries a more colorful reportage of crimes, accidents and rapes. The Times is known for its single minded focus on the issue of the moment. For instance when the Satyam scam became news, all the papers reported it but soon realized that the subject had been beaten to death and moved on to other topics. Not so the Times. It bashed on relentlessly, day after day, losing no chance to remind its readers about the evils that the Rajus did. And was seen to be guilty of a crime no newspaper should even be accused of …sheer, unadulterated glee!

Of course Deccan Chronicle too has not been entirely innocent. I remember the Babu bashing, the YSR taunting, the Margadarsi exposes etc, But I also know that there was some politics involved in this. DC has always been regarded as a Congress mouthpiece and may therefore be partially excused for its misdemeanors.

The Hindu, true to its reputation has always come across as the less sensational, more balanced, more mature viewpoint and I enjoy its worldview.

Of late however some battle lines seem to have been crossed. Especially with the Times that has gone hammer and tongs at the Deccan Chronicle Group. Almost everyday there is an update about the number of creditors who have crawled out of the woodwork. Almost everyday there is a personal attack on an individual or a group of individuals reporting something as petty as ‘their dhobi bill has not been paid’, ‘their electricity is being disconnected’ and so on. In fact the tone and tenor of the reporting has taken on an obituary feel…DC is dead, Long Live the King!

Whether DC will survive its troubles is a mystery. Your guess is as good as mine. And I am sure everyone of us who has grown up with this phenomenon hopes and prays that someone will pull out a rabbit from the magic hat and make the bad times disappear.

But in the meanwhile may I suggest a truce of sorts. Let the parties concerned take positions that are more gentlemanly. If DC is guilty of a crime there is a law and a time that will do the needful. The Times has definitely not been given the mandate to emerge as the sole reporter of the Chronicle Sagas. And it would be good for everyone concerned to go about the business of keeping a populace informed on the basis of values set by people bigger and better than all of them put together.

It’s amazing. I pride myself for being a quintessential Indian. Born in Cuddapah, brought up in Calcutta, schooled in Hyderabad, colleged in Madras and Bangalore, worked in Bangalore, Bombay, Chennai, New Delhi and many parts of the world. Speak English, Hindi, Telugu, Bengali, Tamil, French etc. with varying degrees of proficiency. Physically I vary in looks from that of a Bengali Babu to a Marwari Seth and have rarely been identified as a Telugu Brahmin by anyone at a first meeting.

And my favorite way to start my day is usually some toast and some egg and a steaming hot cup of coffee. Continental Breakfast as they call it.

But recently my tastes have begun to change. While my palate shifted to the typical andhra meal some time back and I began to look forward to my pickles and spicy powders, my saambars, rasams, papads and so on, I resolutely hung on to my breakfast preferences. This also made practical sense because preparation was a whole lot easier.

But even more recently I suspect that I am mutating back to my origins.

I am getting up often and craving items like Idlis, Dosas and that King of South Indian Breakfasts – Upma.

My family has been very cooperative and the instructions to the cook have been suitably southernised. We do have the bread and egg breakfasts often but more and more, we are shifting southwards. Idlis and Dosas are making more regular appearances. Upmas are being experimented with. And though my wife has been ignoring my request for a personal favorite – Chow Chow Baath – at least the upmas are becoming more adventurous.

Upma as you know is a wholesome meal. It is made of everything from Sooji  to Semiya (Vermicelli) to whole wheat bread and so on. It has a healthy dash of vegetables and an even more healthy dollop of ghee and is a sumptuous meal by itself. It lends itself to packing and serves as a better tiffin dabba meal than dosas which tend to become limp and insipid.

Every cook has her own brand of upma. And so even if you ate Upmas through the week, you may find that the variety is enough to keep the table interesting. And you will discover variations like Tomato Baath, Poha, Aloo Poha, Bread Upma, Noodle Upma and so on.

This morning however the wife rustled up an old favorite which I had actually forgotten about. Taught to my mother by a dear friend, and taught to my wife by my mother, this is an amazing dish which due to my belief in simplicity I just call the Semia-Sooji Upma…

The unique mix of the vermicelli and the semolina(sooji) gave to the upma a unique texture and a pleasantly different taste. I sneaked in some spicy tomato pickle and the meal was mouth watering.

Upma in a Pesarattu or a dosa has become popular as MLA Pesarattu and I wonder why it got that name. What is it about our legislators that makes them look like harmless pesarattus wrapped around some simple upma?

But that’s another story!

Until then if you have some suggestions about how to make a yummy upma, do let me know…cheers.

The alarm went off with clockwork efficiency. And her dreams switched immediately to black and white. A stage that was a precursor to her eventual waking up a few minutes later.

This was a recent phenomenon. It had started just after that fateful day a couple of Holis back. But she didn’t want to dwell on that. And her highly tuned defense mechanism kicked in and blocked all the thoughts that were threatening to come tumbling down with her impending tears.

She ran her fingers through her hair, lapsed into a languorous yawn and then stretching like a cat, even purring like one, she woke up to the rituals of the day. Already she could hear the noises of the street, a little more childish today than usual.

Because Holi is a young festival.

And it is normally the children who scamper out onto the streets with their arsenal of colored powders, water pistols and the assortment of balloons that they use to make water bombs.

It is only a little later when the slightly more grownups enter the field. And they are the ones that change the rules. While the kids are content with harmless splashing of color on people, cars, bikes, walls and so on, and are more than satisfied with the goodies that Grandmas serve, the adults and in fact even the older teenagers look for something with more of a bite.

Is it because with age their natural adrenalin generation has now been reduced to a ‘will kick in only when stimulated’ kind of mode?

Just think of it, the kids cascade onto the streets floating on a natural high. But the more mature folk need to be coaxed into leaving their inhibitions behind. There is a lot of hesitation and half hearted objection and only then do the colors begin to flow.

Of course, once they start there is no looking back and the whole thing becomes a bit contagious. Till the body says, hey take a break…we are not as young and fit any more. Then the stimulants make their appearance. Later, not many people remember who exactly it was who asked for the first drink, who articulated the wish to partake in Bhang and so on, but soon the music begins and the raucous tone tints the colors of the moment.

The dancing that starts off musically soon loses its rhythm and filters down into sporadic body movements that seem to blend slow motion with sudden bursts of uncoordinated speed. So when the next friend comes into the house, his hug is warmer, his hands discover a new found freedom and caresses become less friendly and more passionate.

Her thoughts were interrupted again by the trained block that had helped her retain her sanity these last two years. And she came out of her trance. Or so she thought.

She looked out of the window and spotted a bunch of young men screaming and shouting, running after a pretty young thing and her memories fought back, demanding that they not be denied.

And suddenly the young girl was her and the boys were her friends. Friends from work, friends from college, friends from the Gym and friends of friends. Friends who on that day, powered by a lethal mix of Beer and Bhang just decided that she had to be shaken and stirred out of her ivory castle.

It started with hands that errantly grazed her more sensitive and private parts. With just the right amount of restraint to be passed off as accidental. Then they became bolder and the grazes grew into gropes. She remembered some of the guys stepping back and commenting that they seemed to have crossed an unspoken of limit. And some of them actually walked off from the scene.

The few who stayed back laughed it off, laughed off her discomfort, laughed off the feeling that there were boundaries of propriety that they seemed to have neglected. And more beer and bhang appeared. And she was made to drink some as well.

Like the white shirt she was wearing at the beginning of the day that had now changed color to an explosion of yellow, green, red and blue, the laughter too changed shades and slipped unconsciously into a kind of evil pastel. And as that laughter sneered into a smirk and then sizzled into a poignant silence, she knew that the point of no return was long gone.

They raped her then. All known people, all faces that had masked friendship for some time. And hidden their dark desires. Which now torrented into an inebriated orgy where she was helpless against brute strength and collapsed like a flower plucked out of existence.

She left that place then. Leaving behind her hospital sojourn as a bad dream. Tried to forget the friends who had magically disappeared after that Holi. Tried to forget the wives of those friends, and their girl friends who sprang to the defense of their menfolk insinuating that it was perhaps she who had led them on into the transgression. Perhaps she was the provocateur!

She left that place. And naturally decided that Holi was not to be celebrated as a festival, but mourned instead as a day of lost innocence. And that’s when her usually colorful dreams began to fade into black and white images just a few seconds before she woke up.

Her eyes rubbed the blur of tears out as she rubbed her fist on them and she looked out of the window again. The girl had stopped running. The men were circling her into submission. The laughter had become more devilish. And the bodies were leaning towards an age old slang of lust.

She stood there by the window. Frozen into helpless inactivity. Her insides screaming for help but her mind refusing to instruct the body to react. She did not even have the strength to step back from the window and at least let the crime be committed in private. But she started crying.

It started as a small sob escaping her lips, her lungs. Then it became a violent shrugging of despair. Till finally it peaked into a scream that painted slashes of vibrance into the pitiable white of the afternoon canvas that was unfolded in front of her.

That’s when he came into the picture. It actually looked like he had floated into the scene on a cloud, but she immediately realized that the exhaust fumes of his motorcycle were creating the optical illusion. He got off his bike and walked towards the group. Of predators and the prey. And smiled his way into diffusing the situation.

The girl ran back towards the house with a sigh of relief. The men tucked their arousals between their legs and dispersed in several directions. The hero lit up a cigarette and went about fuming up a cloud of relief.

She got a good look at him then. For the first time that afternoon. And she felt a question shaping up in her mind. Where were you when I needed you…her mind questioned. Even as her heart said…does it really matter?

But she smiled and looked up into the skies, as if expecting a divine presence there, and then slowly drew the curtains, shutting out the tumultuous afternoon, shutting out the near disaster and shutting out all doubts. Doubts that hope would return. Take a halting step back into her life. Doubts that often kept her awake through the night, and let her sleep in the unforgiving rise’n shine of daylight.

But as she turned and saw her bed she knew it was time to sleep. Time to dream again. Because this time she knew her dreams would never pale into monochrome. And she would never again wake up into a black and white frame.

She got up later in the evening when the doorbell rang. It was an old friend. He had sent her flowers.

This is not for you Xavier Augustin:-)

I have always been fascinated with the X factor. And this was way before television heard about it and immortalized the brand. Whether it had to do with the naughty letters I received as a teenager with XXXs marked on them or the unfortunate initiation into the Triple X world…or the wonder at reading about the origin of the XXX mark…the car I remember with fondness was an AD’X’ vehicle…but that’s a whole different story.

The point is, I’ve always had a thing about the X.

So when I set up my first company and called it Special Effects, it was natural to abbreviate it to SFX. Many years later when I had to shut that company down and start another I chose to adopt the name of a firm I had set up for my wife to bill clients for all the artworks we were designing and producing for them. The name of the company…you may have guessed was HeartworX…which was a pun on the deliverable Artworks. Strangely her foray into ethnic art forms was named EthniX.

It was for the first time in 1989 or 1990 that I bumped into someone in Bangalore who was into vaastufying stationery for clients…seriously!!! I have had brand names studied by numerologists but this guy in Bangalore was a first. He would look at our designs and suggest changes, visual changes based on the science of Vaastu. And one day, as part of a conversation, he asked me whether I was as successful as I hoped…whether I was ‘doing’ well…when I admitted that things were not hunky dory, he immediately told me that it was the fault of the alphabet X which I insisted on using with every name that I did business under.

I laughed it off and told him in no uncertain terms that he was welcome to suggest Vaastu changes to his clients but he should desist from advising people like me who did not have much faith in his mumbo-jumbo brand of design modifications.

But the two companies I started in Bangalore immediately after this discussion had no X in their names. However both One-to-One Communications and Horsepower had to be wound up when the business environment changed and I had to return to Hyderabad due to health reasons.

When I had an opportunity again in the early 2000s of naming a company I ran at Hitec City and at Dubai Internet City, I slipped back in time and called it Javelin MediaworX. This venture proved to be a folly of immense proportions and I am yet to recover from its impact.

And that was when I began to harbor the doubt that perhaps the alphabet X was indeed bad joss for me.

But I am a rational human being. Not particularly given to believe in superstition…though I am wary of black cats that cross the road just as I am about to drive in that direction…and I am sensitive to sneezes when just about to take a decision…and I remember a friend who advised me to wear yellow for important meetings (not that I do)…but this X thing has me worried.

One mishap can be a chance. Two can be coincidences. Three however can be confirmations. And I have flirted more than enough with the ‘excess’ in my life. So I now operate under the name ‘Heartworks’…

But hey, X is still my journey…into the unknown. It is still my bout with destiny…it is still the adventure called life.

And now if you’ll X cuse me…I have a Monday Morning to deal with:-)

Have a great week y’all…as the kids would say.

Before I utter another word, let me ask of all of you something I rarely ask for…forgiveness. Because what follows can be misconstrued as a pathetic attempt at writing porn in the slim hope that this genre of writing may indeed prove to be more lucrative than the domains I have been meandering about for the last several years.

In all fairness I must submit that the blame cannot solely be put on my shoulders. I have as my accomplices, a few of my friends who want me to explain the meaning of a viral (and how it is different from a Socially Transmitted Disease) and a few friends who get their jollies mainly by looking at impossible dimensions, improbable proportions and insane nudity.

And the innocent, unknowing (and hopefully forgiving) victim is a friend who works with a product that aims to replace butter.

Now, butter and I…or rather butter and most of us have had a very unhealthy relationship for quite a few years. Those of us who used to consume a loaf of bread and a slab of butter in one sitting, or those of us who have drooled at Chowpatty as the Pav Bhajiwalla slapped a 500gm cube of pasteurised Amul and those of us who knew a dal tadka only when a cubelette of butter was slipped onto a bowl of steaming hot tempered dal at the dhaba, know that we enjoyed more than just the hoardings that were utterly butterly delicious.

So when I recently read that margarine which had been designed to replace butter around the world on health grounds was now found to be more popular than before, my joy knew no bounds. I could now tell my wife that eating margarine was healthy and also hope that someday soon someone would discover that the yellow of an egg was good for the heart.

But I digress…and steering myself back onto track and coming confidently out of the skid I begin my story about Butter Toast.

For those of you who think this is going to be a recipe for a breakfast special, please leave this forum…only those of you who are adult enough or at least adulterous may please stay on and read…

Butter Toast is an Amsterdam specialty. To make it you need two white females of about so many years and of such and such size, one black male who is impressively endowed and visibly aroused and a few kilograms of butter. You take the butter, thaw it sufficiently to be able to cover both females in a nice overall way that leaves them…well…buttered.

You take a huge sheet of grease resistant paper and spread it over the bed. Then you get the girls to lie down on the bed keeping a distance of about a foot in between them. And you lay them down facing each other.

You play dirty music and spray aromatic aphrodisiacs and when the girls are ready and boiling, you slip in the black fellow (or the burnt toast if you want to call him that) in between the two ladies. Keep your stove on simmer for a while and once you see signs of the cup bubbling over, turn it up to high and then let the dish climax into a natural progression.

So these two black brothers (no, I am not being racist…just refusing to be color blind) walk into an establishment which advertises that one of its Chefs’ Special is Butter Toast. And ask for a sumptuous meal. The hostess leads them into a parlor where they choose their ‘butterbelles’ and then move onto separate chambers.

Just a few minutes later we hear a lot of commotion, a loud noise and one of the brothers comes running out of his room…his clothes hastily put back on…and screams at the Manager and demands his money back.

Only after he has been calmed down does he reveal that he feels he has been cheated because he paid for real butter and what he got was just margarine. And no amount of counseling from the Manager about the benefits of margarine versus the dangers of real butter could help convince the man to change his mind. The Manager was just about to pay and make the whole situation go away when the other black ran screaming out of his room.

And he was in tears.

I should have listened to my friends who warned me about butter and advised me to shift to margarine. But No…I was adamant he said. And insisted on the real butter experience, though it was against the rules. And now both my buttered partners have been affected. Their cholesterol levels went so high that they couldn’t toast my bread.

When the other brother heard this, he quietly walked up to the manager and apologized for his earlier outburst.

That was when an old man who looked like Moses, stepped out from behind the curtains with a video camera in hand and said…now hear ye, hear ye…listen to the moral of this story…butter is good…but margarine is better…so if your wife wants to shift from Amul to Mello, please let her…

and everyone lived happily ever after:-)

There is a scene in the play where the characters discuss the need to take it easy, to hang loose, to relax and to let go.

I wish the members of this evening’s performance had taken the advice. Starting with Mehr who should have appreciated that the theatre audience is a different kettle of fish…she should have taken it easy on the script and the hype…she is one of the best announcers I have seen and heard, and I wonder how this one slipped through. But then, she only introduced the play.

And the play was fun. It lived up to the promise of being a comedy. And though the laughs were a bit slow in coming, they were there. And the reason for the initial lukewarm reaction wasn’t hard to find. Unlike Madhuri who slipped into her role with utmost ease and effortlessly flirted with her dialogs, Shashank who had a more layered role took some time to find the balance between the stiff, boring man he was supposed to be and the cool, relaxed cat that is his true persona. It was only post interval that he truly came into his own, and after that there was no looking back.

The girl who played Lulu, a debutante I was informed, did a damn good job but I think she was let down by the gentleman who played Granpee. Somehow he came across as an alien from another galaxy and didn’t find common rhythm with the standards set by the other three. I suspect it has something to do with the missing uniformity of accents.

But I am being petty. He did get his laughs and role played well enough even if he could improve a wee bit on the timing.

All in all, an evening well spent. Watching Madhuri on stage is always a pleasure. And Shashank is usually the icing on the cake. Today they almost got there. But were let down by loose connection mikes, unnecessary light flickers and a self imposed limitation of owning the space they had at their disposal.

My own feeling is that tomorrow’s performance will be far better and do full justice to what is undoubtedly a brilliant script. Kudos to Vikram Vepa for having pulled this off and yes, I loved the way he connived to have the last word and simply said…nobody’s perfect:-)

It has become quite fashionable to say that Brand Launches are a very expensive proposition. It may make the launch more ‘prestigious’ but at the same time it becomes a deterrent to many new entries into a burgeoning marketplace.

I am by no means of imagination an advertising Guru but I have been keenly involved with the trade for over three decades and feel that I have an opinion that needs to be given a chance. To be heard. To be evaluated. And perhaps, to be tried.

You see we were taught and told many years back that advertising is essentially a technology that generates word of mouth which is popularly accepted as the best marketing weapon of all times. And is a function of a media mix that includes everything from press to television, from film to magazines, radio to outdoor and so on.

But what seems to have happened is that skill sets have been sharpened only in some segments to suit the predominant media that was being used. For example, we have hundreds of agencies who propound the use of daily press but very few that talk of radio. Etc. Etc. Etc.

The reason for this may not all be the easy availability of writers who are tuned to the press but may in fact be simply because the Press as a media is more measurable, more structured in terms of prices and a medium that earns the agency more than any other. Radio, like TV and other media still remains in the realms of guesstimates of reach and effectiveness and thus are conveniently swept under the carpet as being more ‘reminder’ media than prime.

This brings us back to the concept of word of mouth. I believe that all media calculations whether they be of simple circulation and reach or OTS and other intimidating alphabets all work on a number, notional or otherwise that represents the multipliability of the medium.

So you have a newspaper with a circulation of a million with a multiple reader factor of 5…that means 5 million people can be reached by the vehicle. Assuming only that a certain percentage of these readers read it is mandatory. But it is also assumed that if the message is convincing enough, relevant enough…then the amount of people one reader talks to and informs about the product or service being advertised is at least 5 or in exceptional cases, 10.

Please note that all figures in this diatribe are being used only as an example based on trend analysis but not on any seriously researched data.

So when you assume that eventually between the people who see your ad and the people who talk about (or are made aware of) your product or service there is a tangible ‘value for money’ equation, press seems to be an option and often the primary medium of choice.

But if for a moment, we assume that relevant reach of word of mouth is the only yardstick that should be used to evaluate media we may find to our surprise that the numbers are not very impressive…or worse still, they could have been achieved at a lower cost.

Of course, parameters matter. Where…when…to who…and how…all these become dimensions that shape the decisions involved in an advertising or promotion exercise.

One of the lessons we were taught by our seniors is that it made a lot of sense to dominate a medium in our attempt to gain significant share of voice. And we were clear that while use of a multiple media always looked comprehensive, it often ended up diluting the overall effort.

Several examples are available in…in fact I am tempted to say…even in Hyderabad.

KSK Energy Ventures Ltd., sponsored a series of feel good films featuring people like Sai Baba, Baba Amte and so on. And managed to get substantial airtime from television channels. The one credit slide at the end of each film gave them tremendous exposure, reflected their humility and other corporate values and built an image in the shortest possible time at the lowest possible cost.

Maha Cement which is a top notch brand today rose from its humble beginnings and grew to great heights based on just one jingle, one film and the use of film, television and wall paintings in a strategically drawn up geography.

When the Electricity Board wanted to launch a campaign to inform people about the dangers of electricity pilferage, they used electric poles and small tin plates on them to become a message at the point of contact.

When they wanted to address the unrest amongst their employees, they used simple docudramas exhibited in arranged on-to-one meetings.

The list can go on and on.

But what caught my attention was not that such a variety of innovations was used, but that most of the time, the innovation was NOT an advertising agency initiative.

Of course there are exceptions and I remember fondly how an agency used matchboxes as a medium for a political party a few years ago. But I think a point can be made about the general lack of interest of traditional agencies in attempting media options that may be more speculative or less remunerative.

So what am I preaching?

Well I believe that brand launches can be done at more reasonable costs. All it needs is the courage of conviction. The plethora of digital media and many unexplored product specific media innovations are easier to mount and substantially reduce the budgets involved with traditional high profile launches.

And I believe that those of us who have benefitted from the advertising profession, need to turn evangelical about this phenomenon and convince clients to take the plunge. With accountability becoming a norm and incentives being common carrots, clients too need to open themselves to some out of the box thinking.

I for one, am all open to a discussion of the many possibilities in this domain.

I often feel that I am part of a blessed generation. A whole generation of people to whom the world gave a huge dose of the WOW factor. We’ve seen more innovations, more inventions, more horizons and more vistas than any generation before us, and quite possibly more change than any of the future generations will see.

The list of things that enthralled us during our lifetime is too long to enumerate but one colorful story begs to be told.

I have no idea whether people wore undergarments a few centuries ago. I have no idea what they adapted into crude little support mechanisms. But yes, it was during our lifetime that the undergarment revolution took place. While the ladies evolved from being corset slaves to being lingerie princesses with dark secrets to hide in the privacy of a blush, the men moved up from jockstraps to Y-Fronts and Boxers.

I would in fact go so far as to say that in the last 50 years, undergarments have changed shape so drastically that they barely resemble what they started off as. A lot of science and technology has been infused into the designs and cognizance has been taken of a multitude of body types and fashion requisites.

But all these changes have remained a personal domain, to be appreciated by the wearers only…and perhaps some of the romantically inclined who may have had the opportunity to disrobe their partners from time to time. No, this blog is not swinging towards any kind of ‘kiss and tell’ naughtiness…but sticking to the simple joy of looking at a rainbow.

You know, I’m sure that just as Henry Ford offered his Model-T cars in any color as long as it was black, the early lot of underwear, both male and female, were predominantly white. So we had white bras and white panties for the girls and white loin guards and white vests for the boys. A lot of innovations crept into the domain…everything from elastic to whalebone supports…but the color remained a pristine white.

And peek-a-boo became a flash of white that would cheekily dare to show itself from behind ‘other colored’ garments. The top of a white bra peeking out from behind a red blouse was seen as being more provocative than the sight of the actual cleavage for instance. But the reign of white was to end, and we of this generation were destined to be its witnesses…and its victims.

In the women’s section someone obviously started to think of transparency and body shades. And soon we had skin toned undergarments with a gossamer feel that gave both the wearer and the viewer a feeling that nothing was being worn after all. And we had another school that said…if the undergarment is going to show, let it be shown in full color…any color. Just as the automobile revolution went from black to white to a million colors, the underworld too graduated from white,flirted with black and then exploded into a climax of rainbows.

And suddenly the pictures changed. Magazines were full of images, stolen images of stolen moments…with just the hint of a color showing through…and the saucier the better. Even a whole cluster of blue jean advertising was built around the inner colors. But the image that I am yet to see is that of a Dhobi Ghat…a washerman’s corner…

Where once upon a time we used to see hundreds of male undergarments hanging out to dry…all of them white…and all of them of different sizes…small, medium, big and grotesque…firm and hang loose…stringed and elasticized…I want to see how the frame has changed…and risen to welcome the new palette. And flying in the air you should be able to see, along with the colorful sarees and dresses, along with the colorful shirts…shirts of many a shade, trousers that have experimented with colors other than black…and underwears…in every color possible…in every design, in every size…all fluttering in the wayward wind…announcing the arrival of a pirate ship on the shores of a world that has lost its innocence and discovered the inner meaning of sin.

It was perhaps fitting that on LaMakaan’s third anniversary, three new voices made a lasting impact on the full house. Ramya, Tejaswini and Ben were a delight to listen to and a pleasure to look at.

Of course the evening was started off by the ever dependable Shakila who had Sarosh and Joe Coster accompany her through three hastily put together songs.

In all fairness though, one must confess that Shakila seemed a bit off colour tonight. Maybe because she was unable to hear feedback…maybe because the mike in her hand was picking up too much noise – blows, deep breaths etc. Or was it because she was a last minute replacement for the singing sisters Sukanya and Sanchita.

Thankfully she came into her own for the rest of the show. And delivered her stuff near flawlessly.

Raghav, who handled the announcements in his usual wry manner was full of info and that made the music so much more connectable. When he introduced Ramya and Tejaswini as new voices that the group was blessed to have discovered, he wasn’t kidding. The way these two young girls bubbled onto stage and presented a seemingly effortless performance was heartwarming and infact became the signature of the Soprano section where they were joined by an ever smiling Jayanthi and a mischievous ‘aunt’ called Prema.

But the show stopper however was young Ben who joined Shakila for a rendition  of Let’s call the whole thing off…mention must be made here of Raghav who cleverly wove the title of the song into his introduction and got himself more than a chuckle.

It was wonderful to see Joe Coster loosen up and let fly on the keyboard. The way this otherwise stiff maestro moved was inspiring even if the audience was forced to look at his rear:-) And his eye contact with the voices was remarkable.

On a bit of a sorry note, the Hyderabad Western Music Foundation Banner that was hung up behind the group was a wee bit shabby, and someone must take care to see that this display is corrected.

The audience was participative…with lot of clapping and hooting encouragement and the evening ended with an encore of an ABBA item that almost had all of us on the floor.

All in all, a wonderfully musical evening with Ramya and Tejaswini hitting the high notes of performance and Ben and Shakila ‘calling the whole thing off’ with panache.

I have heard

of Russian rituals

where the father leads

his son from puberty

to maturity

by taking him to

a house of pleasure

and walking him through

the sexiation.

I am told

that similar rituals

are being practiced

in my own country

though I myself have not

been thus initiated.

But what is this

I hear

about a new ritual,

a new culture,

A new instigation

inspired by law.

Where one day before

the boy stops being a juvenile

he is asked to be

a man.

Indulging in crimes

for which he cannot

be punished.

In deviations from

social norms

that will give him

an afterglow for life.

So he rapes, plunders,

murders and loots

knowing full well that

he cannot be punished

In the eyes of the law.

And in the eyes

of society

and especially his peers

he emerges as the hero,

Macho and proud…

Strutting about

Flashing his manhood

as he makes urination

In public places

a mockery of modesty

and a display of insensitivity

that leaves blushes blushing.

Yesterday was the 29th anniversary of our meeting. It's a day we've always celebrated with a quiet evening somewhere, mostly just the two of us, sometimes with the kids.And all we would do is sit back, relax, thank the powers that be for all they had blessed us with and introspect a little about how much we had helped each other realize our dreams.

So last night was no different. At least to start with.

But all of a sudden, in between my anecdotes about my work and my hobbies, she stumped me by saying...Vijay, I am actually quite disappointed with you.

Not being a very versatile batsman I took some time to react, and luckily managed to stay at the crease without being declared out. Having adjusted my stance a la tendulkar,I asked innocently...but why?

And what she told me by way of answer made me wonder if I had stumbled onto the wrong pitch.

Vijay, she told me. You obviously don’t know how to brand yourself. When I objected with a stutter she shut me up with a 'LISTEN'.

You are a corporate and ad film maker...and from all that I have heard and seen, a good one, she said. I nodded mutely, wondering where the conversation was headed.

I didn't have too long to wait as she continued...

But everyone around you seems to know you as a theatre personality, a food critic, a blogger, a writer and even God Forbid, a poet. Even Shankar, your dear friend refers to you only as a professional voice over.

Now, she said, I have no objection to you being called all that and more, but I do have an issue if you are not known as a film maker. And a good one at that!

But those who need to know...know this, I protested, but to no avail.

I want people to know you, know of you and refer to you as a filmmaker, she emphatically said as she reached for her next beer.

I indulged her with a smile and allowed the kids to steer the conversation to the difference between paani puris and phuchkas, and that was that.

But after every one had gone to sleep and I was signing off from my mail and social media accounts and as I was getting my nightly fix of telugu comedy with Brahmanandam, I thought about what she said.

You see I come from a very peculiar school. And have turned out to be a bit of a maverick where imaging and imagery is concerned. I tend to be low profile about my work...I dont’ advertise...I don’t even have a website. And I have always believed in and depended on word of mouth. Over 90% of my assignments came to me because someone told someone else about me. In fact I have very rarely had to make pitches to clients. So if the world wanted to see me in different avataars, I really had no objection.

But the one point she made kind of struck a raw note. People can think what they want about you Vijay, I don’t really care, she said. But if you believe that it is the films that keep the moolah coming in and our home fires burning, I think you are being rather stupid...and not doing enough to promote yourself as a film maker.

On afterthought I confess that I have been guilty of the crime. I realize that I have been preaching but not practicing what I preach. And that's so not me that I am disappointed. No, devastated.And I better make amends soon.

Now I have too little hair left to attempt ponytails. Too many problems with my feet to attempt kolhapuris. And I am too tired to think of a mistress. All well known traits of filmmakers. So I have no option but to renew my faith in the old value system and hope that word of mouth will still prevail and words of wisdom will always be heard.

However I think that using the media at my command and reaching out to friends like you...and asking you to help spread the word...is still conventional enough for my liking and upfront enough for hers!

So if someone is looking for a good corporate or ad film, preferably one that they hope will go viral, do tell them about me. I do specialize in these domains. And I am quite honestly, good at what I do.

Cheers, and do wish me all the best of branding luck...

And yes, if you do bump into the wife somewhere, sometime, don’t forget to enquire about her filmmaker husband...I will be grateful:-)

You must have seen them. I'd be surprised if you haven't. I mean, they are everywhere.Every time. And they are too colourful to miss. Yeah, I think they are pathetic in their attempts to be...well, be! And it's a pity that by virtue of their domicile they qualify to be called Hyderabadis. I have been seeing them for quite a few years and have often imagined doing something suitably violent to them, but have had to hold back.

There is no particular reason why I am reminded of them today. And why I am in the state of anger that I am in. But I feel like going out there and killing them. Find a machine gun perhaps and perforate them. But then again, I wonder if they are worth my passion. So I step back, take a deep breath, relax and decide to just vent my anger online.

I know I have friends here who'll understand, commiserate...nod their heads in agreement and tell me that it's not necessary for me to take things so seriously. ‘Take light’ is obviously a sane piece of Hyderabadi advice.

But wait. I haven't told you who I am referring to. Oh damn! You must be wondering if I have lost my marbles. Sorry.

But you see what these guys do to me. They make me lose...lose track, lose sanity...lose my breath...lose control. Losers!

Now please understand, I cannot take names. We live in a free democracy where the definition of freedom changes with every 'like' pressed on Facebook and with every alternate tweet that threatens to go viral. But I can tell you that there are quite a few of them. Men, women and even those I suspect are in between.

Today however my energies are focused on a couple of men.

One of them is I think, a numbers man...with strange pretensions of divinity. The other is into infrastructure and obsessive narcissism. Both of them obviously went to the same finishing school (nowhere near Switzerland I assure you) because both of them practice the same strain of 'in your face' with the same degree of shamelessness. Both their tastes in fabric too border on the glitzy. And both believe society owes them big time.

If one guy gets called to almost every function due to the glamour and comic relief that he provides, the other normally lands up uninvited and hogs front row seats with flair and media attention with a ridiculous display of bonhomie.

If one of them basks in political glory bought by obscene largesse, the other lives in the afterglow of superstitious hoods. Both have smiles spelt with a 'lie' and both are disciples of falsehoods and fake spirituality.

Both have been the subject of a lot of bad press...having been accused of being third rate fellows, not so petty thieves and social embarrassments. Both walk with that confidence that's exclusive to conmen and strut about like peacocks in heat.

Now what brought about this tirade? Was it something specific? Something they did?Well...No, actually. I guess it has to do with Maha Shiva Ratri...both are ardent bhaktas you see...or so they would have us believe.

But I know that these guys are guilty of so many sins that God cannot, absolutely cannot accept them as disciples...not even for a joke!

And I have God's permission to say it...I hope:-)

As I am punching in this via my keyboard, I feel my anger ebbing away and a reluctant wave of tolerance sweeps over me. I don't want to kill them any more...I don't want to be the weapon of God...not His killing machine. I am sure God has planned a good after party for them. Soon. And arranged for goons to rough them up.

So until the next time my anger boils over, until the next man or woman irritates me and triggers off my ‘Kill’ mode, goodbye gentle people...let's give peace the chance it deserves. Let us give these guys a little more rope:-)

No, it’s not your anniversary. Nor your birthday. Not even your wedding anniversary. All dates that I still remember…even though it’s over 25 years since you left us. But hey Dad anyway. You have such an unique way of reminding me of you at the funniest of times and in the strangest of ways.

Just this morning for instance, I woke up…slumbered up to the sink to wash my face and looked up into the mirror and I swear, I thought you were standing there in front of me. What brought about that apparition? It was a surprisingly sober Saturday night. And I had enjoyed a five hour sleep at a stretch after a while. My stomach was not too busy digesting my sins. And I hadn’t had any altercations with the kids (oh those remind me of you often, the way you and I used to argue sometimes). So what was it that triggered off that paternal thought process.

I took one more look at the mirror before shutting off the light and going about starting my day when it hit me. It was the banyaan.

There was a time when I was fourteen or fifteen when in the manner of all things South Indian, and perhaps Brahminical, I used to wear a banyaan…or vest as it was fashionably called…or should I say I was kind of forced to wear this strange ‘girdle’.

You perspire too much…a banyaan will help absorb the sweat…save your clothes…you are fat…the banyaan will help you appear firm and not too jiggly…logic of different varieties was thrust down my throat and I had to wear the offending item. Small wonder therefore that when I moved on to college and hostel life away from home I dispensed with the custom of wearing this undergarment.

And do you know what? I almost felt that I had ‘burnt the bra’. It was a gesture of independence no less significant than my decision to pursue the arts instead of tucking my tail between my legs and going after that engineering degree and career which everyone opined was best suited for me.

Of course I grew up fast enough and realized how childish I had been but somehow the habit of wearing undergarments on my upper torso never restarted and I led a fairly chest free existence all these years.

It was only a couple of years back, when I was in hospital that a sudden urge to wear a banyaan overwhelmed me and I immediately sent my man Friday to pick up a couple from Punjagutta. I wore them for a few days but didn’t really find them comfortable and so they went back into my cupboard. Into the backburner of my mind so to speak.

Now how yesterday evening, as I was getting ready to go for dinner, one of these perked up in front of my socks and underwears, I don’t know. But pop up it did and I wore it. When we came back I was too tired to have my usual night shower so I just slipped into my pajamas and went to bed.

And so when I woke up and walked into the loo I saw my upper half wearing this apparition. And I thought I was seeing you.

Remember Dad, this was your home uniform. A pristine white dhoti and a matching banyaan. The image of you reading the newspaper every morning in this ‘get up’ will never fade from my memory. Nor will the image of you sitting in the balcony in front of a small mirror, a shaving brush, shaving cream, a basin of water, a mug of warm water and a razor that needed its blade replaced ever so often.

How elaborate your shaving ritual was. How much pleasure you used to get out of it. Humming pathetic little Telugu tunes. Looking out at the world in front of you from behind a lathered smile. And the way you left cream on the telephone handset when you had to answer calls between your shaving strokes…priceless.

And what a contrast my shaving is…a two minute operation in front of a wash basin…running water, a modicum of soap and Gillette technology…up…and down…and through!

But yeah, that banyaan sparked off some real old memories. Of you. Of our mornings. Of moments like when you told me that someone had landed on the moon. Or that you wanted me to get the car serviced. Or that you were angry that I did something at college. Or something.

And you know what a single memory does. Triggers off a barrage of memories that come tumbling down in a cascade and drown you in nostalgia. So before all that happens, and I can see my Sunday unfold into a series of stories that I will share with the kids until they run away from sheer boredom…before all that happens, let me just say a warm and loving hello.

Hey Dad…all is good, getting better. And thanks for that:-)

It started off with a friend asking me for inputs for an article she was writing. I guess it’s been growing in me, this utter discomfort with a celebratory month, week, day to focus on the misfortunes of women in general and women in my community in specific. It perhaps bubbled over a few weeks ago when at my daughter’s request I penned the words of a song/poem that she’s trying to take into music video form. I don’t know. And I confess I am confused.

I was never, you see given the opportunity to gloat over the fact that I was the male of the species. In a single sister-single brother home my parents dished out treatments of all kinds with great equanimity. We were given access to the same resources (yeah sure I was more demanding than my sister, but perhaps that was because I was less sensitive). It was she who went on and completed her MBA though I was supposed to live up to that expectation. Oh I can think of very few instances when my parents favored me simply because I was a boy. And maybe that’s the root of my take on this present day issue.

If my mother taught me to respect ladies, my sister taught me to give her space. And the both of them sensitized me to the quirks that make woman a special breed. When I got married to a girl who was a tomboy in her environment, my reaction to her womanhood took on different dimensions altogether. And when we parented two girls the circle was complete.

The decision to have two kids was mutual. And we both decided that the question of boy or girl was to be left to divine forces. So two girls. And a natural ‘So What’ kind of response to anyone who dared to ask.

I have never consciously done anything for my wife or my daughters BECAUSE they were female (except mundane things like buying them perfumes and lingerie). I have never treated their opinions as being of less importance because they were after all feminine. And I have respected their wishes just as if they were equal partners in a business called life.

Come to think of it, except for my carnal desires I don’t think I ever thought of their sex at any given time. And I don’t plan to.

And that brings me to a question. Is the way some people are taught or allowed to think…to distinguish between man and woman…is the way they think, the root cause of the problem? Are we in some fashion encouraging the projection of some traits to drive home deeper the basic difference between male and female. And in the process are we alienating some people. Creating a situation where a man has a reason to look differently at a woman…to love her more than necessary or to hate her more than called for?

My girls are not ‘one of the boys’. They are their own selves and beings created from their desires and wishes. Influenced perhaps by my inputs but very clearly left to themselves. So if my wife wants to work it’s her call. If she doesn’t it’s hers. If my daughters want to work they have my support. If they don’t, they have my home.

This is not an attitude that I have consciously adopted. It’s an attitude that I have grown into. My parents, my schooling, my girl friends, my crushes, my profession, my hobbies…my family…all have taught me different dimensions of my stance. And I find I am comfortable.

I like it that my male friends find me comfortable enough to hang out with. I like that my colleagues know that they are evaluated on the basis of performance and not measured on the sex barometer. I like that my children are content with my take on life. Most of all, I am at peace with myself.

Now I am too humble and too pragmatic to offer this formula as a panacea for the evils that hound society today. But maybe there is a beginning somewhere. Maybe the oneness of look is the solution to the cross eyed perspective of a perverted soul. I don’t know. And I rest my case before it’s even begun.

Once upon a time there was a protocol. Your full name had to reflect the ‘village’ you came from, the God/s that your family believed in, a few other Gods for luck, your birth star and your ‘given’ name etc. And to make the whole package more palatable someone invented the concept of initials.

So we lived in a society where M. L. N. S. C. V. Kumar (yes, that’s my name) would go around hobnobbing with a K. V. L. N. S. P. Raju and be known by easier names like Chinna and Pedda, depending. Of course the meaning of the initials were well known and people at large knew us as the Marur’wallu’ or as the Kanala’wallu’ and so on but  nomenclature was largely an initialised domain.

Perhaps the early migrants to foreign shores had to expand upon their alphabets but many of them made that option a purely offshore one – retaining their God given name (with full initial regalia) in India but shifting to expansions and short forms abroad.

It was in school (HPS, Begumpet) that I was christened ‘Marur Vijay’ and my signature to this date is a flourish of the same. It made it convenient to distinguish me from the M. Vinod who was a classmate. Why only a few of us were chosen to have our initials expanded is beyond me but M. Vijay became Marur Vijay, A. Arun Rao became Akin but C. Jai Kumar Gupta remained, and so did CJ Karira except for a few of us who chose to call him Chandu or something even more elaborate.

Around that time my sister experimented with calling herself Shailaja Dixit instead of M. Sailaja and borrowed from Dad’s name Deekshitulu to concoct a sufficiently ‘North Indian’ moniker. Maybe the fact that she studied in Nagpur had something to do with this phase in her life. But then she got married and became A. Shailaja Rao and that was that.

It was only in 1972 when I was filling in forms for college admission that I stumbled upon a first name, surname conundrum. I had a first name – Vijay, but damned if I had a surname. I had a whole string of initials that I could offer at the altar of any temple but I was not a ‘Reddy’, not a “Rao’ nor a ‘Raju’. So what was I.

The answer was obvious. I was a Marur.

And so I rebranded myself. And perhaps set in motion something that seems to have become an established trend, not just in the Marurs, but also the Virurus, the Kanalas and so on. Hey, I have no evidence to prove that I started it all, but there are indications to this effect and I am suitably proud.

So I became the first telephone subscriber with the name Vijay MARUR in the directory. And I became the first MARUR byline in newspapers and magazines. But by George, I was definitely the first Mr. & Mrs. Marur in quite a few social soirees.

Of course, the limited scope of creativity in the choosing of names meant that there were soon more than just one Vijay Marur or Sravan Marur but that was an acceptable price to pay for the honour of sparking off a trend. A trend that transcended immediate family boundaries and soon engulfed a host of first and second cousins (one of whom still extends me the courtesy of forwarding mails sent to vijaymarur@gmail.com).

Damn. It’s taken the better part of almost half a century but the brand has been built. It has become something of an identity. A small village near Anantapur is more than just the toll gate that it has now become. It is a global entity with a myriad dimensions. There is a Marur who is a font designer and actually has a font named after him. There is a Marur who will soon join the ranks of the highest echelons of the nation’s armed forces. There are quite a few Marurs who have painted their cards green. And the name has become a bit of a bond.

Of course I still need to figure out who say Madhu Marur is. There’s a friend request on Facebook I am saying yes to but I am doing it ‘blind’. He is after all, a Marur. Too.