Monday, February 23, 2009

Our Rah-Rah man!


So, we've lived through the biggest anti- anti-climax of the year, definitely bigger than when George W. Bush flew away from the White House in that chopper, without any shoes being rocket-launched from American porches at the departing bird. Though that is not to say that he didn't get the bird from all those on the ground and glued to their TV screens, who let out huge sighs of relief. Apparently, taken as a whole, they were loud and loaded enough to power our next mission to the moon!

More on that some other day. For now, its on to what is probably going to be the ass-saver of the day for the Indian media, most of whom had written their own scripts and acceptance speeches way before we grabbed all that gold, and by "we", I mean "we", Brit claims be damned.

What if Vikas Swarup had not writen that book? What if Loveleen Tandan had cast Johnny Lever as a "naye zamaane ke jailer" instead of the brilliant and suitably sardonic Irrfan Khan, or that eternally bugging Aditya Narain as senior Salim, or (heaven forbid!) Amitabh Bachchan as himself? What if Anu Malik had crooned a "baarish" number in his desperately smoky voice, set to a hat ke maha-'original' score, with Pinto and Patel getting jiggy with it at the suitably grand Grand Central or Paddington tube station? Actually, what if there was no Bollywood at all? And, WHAT IF there were no (at least a fraction of a billion?) Indians glued to their screens to boost the TRPs of a show that saw its lowest audience ever last year!

The strains of Jai Ho! are echoing through the entire floor I work on from countless TV screens tuned into a myriad channels and my brain's about to short-wire. How we hop skip and jump from event to event with matching anthems. If Chak De was the clarion call at the Olympics, and Singh is Kinng captured the short-lived triumph of a smiling, V-flashing Man-Mohan after he won/lost a few hearts with the nuke deal and the trust vote, Jai Ho! is our war cry as we get set to invade Hollywood.

Oh, I'm definitely proud of AR Rahman and all that, but he has set abysmal standards as far as acceptance speeches go... indirectly proportional to the magic of his music. I mean, Resul Pookutty is my man! Sweet little thing. He probably had less reason to rehearse his speech but definitely more passion than Rahman, who was a poor match for the elegance of his sherwani. And of course, there was Sean "almost-PC" Penn, and Danny "Pooh" Boyle, and Robert "I so still love you" De Niro with his crackling introduction of Penn's gay gambit for yet another Oscar.

I had some to drink last night so missed the early morning red carpet stuff and barely caught a bleary-eyed glimpse of Mrs. Mummyji Rahman. Cho chweet, bringing mummy to the Oscars and all that, nah? By the by, has Piranha Pinto let go of Poodle Patel's arm since the Globes or not? Oh, of course, she must have... for she was a presenter too!

And with kitschy pink ghagra cholis in the backdrop, and Rahman exhorting us all to soar, was it any surprise that poor futuristic Wall-E got trapped in Bolly-in-the-hood while his mushy anthem got lost in the cacophony of desi fushion cheer? And now I'm entering the ramble-strip of all blog posts... enough said. More when I recover from the shock of this anti-climactic, oh-my-Gawd-we so-believe-it orgy of celebration. Clap ya' hand over ya' mouth in shock and awe, y'all, and talk about dedicating your life to world peace... we won!

Jai Ho and Rah-Rah man!!!!

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

♪ ♪ Sab ne pehna di chaddi... ♪ ♪ ♪


I am not sending them perverts a pink chaddi.... and this has nothing to do with the fact that I am petrified of posing for photographs, for as I write, there is a photo shoot in progress where all our in-house chaddi chuckers are posing with the package.

Now, there is no way I am parting with any of my killer pink underwear for the under-developed morons that populate the over-hyped misogynist Senas of the world.... but to go all the way and buy one to send out? Well, now THAT is what you call a moral dilemma! What to buy? Cotton comfortables from your neighbourhood store or uber-sexy unmentionables from the lingerie store downtown? I know I speak for a lot of women who parted with their panties this week, for it all boils down to one thing: what does you underwear say about you?

Now, I am willing enough to wear my slip on my sleeve, but I am a bit petty about what I let peek. So, do I want to make a general statement or a much more specific one? Hmmm... now which chaddi to send?? The luxe, lacy one, or the one in the corner of the dresser whose elastic has reached the point of no rebound, but which survives as a sentimental souvenir? Do I inscribe it with little hearts? What perfume do I spray on it: the floral for the demure or the spicy for the saucy? And what should my message read like? Love you hamesha? Or... Kutte!! Mein tera khooooon pee jayoongi?

The problem is that the chaddi campaign seems to be taking on the avatar of a snob hit. Much like Dev D, the psychedelic psych-fest I quite enjoyed this past weekend. For there's a whole lot of grey amid the pink. I'm fiercely independent, jealously guard my privacy and right to be and love the odd pub-hopping night out. But do I think that the next time I have to leave my favourite watering hole well before the guys, as it is 'getting late and I need to drive home alone', the thought of Muthalik and his Morons sniffing a carton full of lingerie is going to make me throw caution to the winds and decide to linger? Or maybe that the next time I hear that old hat about "ladeej who drink and have cigrate", all I need to do is strangle the bastards with a pretty pink peignoir and all will be well?

Above all, what I find a bit baffling is that by christening the FB group that started it all a "Consortium of Loose, Pubgoing... blah blah", i.e taking two steps back in trying to take one forward, they might have lost the plot way before they hit the climax. I mean, isn't that the same connection those cretins made? So, are we throwing them the gauntlet or throwing away the game by beating the issue pink, instead of ignoring those ignoramuses and truly painting the town red?

Oh, its all very well, I suppose and maybe I am just pissed cos I couldn't strike a pose while finding the heart to part with my pretty pink polkas! So, for now, I'm holding on to my chadds and getting the hell out of here. Man, I need a beer. Aye Ganpat....!