I dance with the Green Fairy

La Fee Verte

I danced with the Green Fairy this weekend. She was 70% alcohol volume, or 140 proof. Even my room-mate's brother the sea-man had not encountered such potent poison before. Alas, I have nothing special to report. Inspite of drinking to excess, there were no fatal effects of wormwood poisoning, nor was I visited by strange and creative hallucinations.

A bit about absinth and wormwood here:

Absinthe is the main source of wormwood's notoriety. There is simply no other beverage which has been surrounded by so much mystique and ceremony. Its mystique is of course helped by the fact that the liqueur has been banned in most countries since the early part of (the last) century.

Absinthe remains controversial today. The psychoactive principles are not well understood.

Photo also from same site.

Amaninder

I was speaking to one of my cool brothers this weekend. He said:
"A laptop would have been really useful, but I bought a rifle instead."

I felt sudden urge to yell that mysterious "west punjab!" shit that guy on that tv show was saying. (see here)

Thought for the day

The Trial

The bizarre trial of A Nonymous Man continues, long after verdict and sentence having been passed, to the embarassment of all parties involved. It is awkward. Like the silence at a deathbed where farewells have been completed but death has not yet arrived. Or when at the gallows a condemned neck refuses to snap instantly, and the executioner and loved ones watch in discomfort the hopeless squirming of a body pleading for life, and wait and pray for it to end quickly. The crowds, of course, cheer.

Appropriately, this trial too had resulted in a sentence of exile until death. The judgment was unanimous, and there was no right of appeal. But now experts have arrived, motivated by love and care for the victim, condemning the leniency of the sentence, quibbling that the definition of exile should be harsher, more comprehensive. It is not that the condemned is not already suffocating in his cell, denied light and air, but would it not be better if we bricked and mortared him in completely. He deserves it.

The court considers their arguments, and it hears with sympathy their pronouncements. Their zealous hearts are pure and full of love, their motivations noble and selfless, they are the new inquisitors, and this is a witch burning, this is their auto de fe. They see the charlatan and liar for what he is, everything he says and believes is a lie, the truth is always the reverse. His face is not his own but a mask, to be torn off and exposed. It is not enough that he suffers, he must be loathed. And all that the condemned had and lost, perhaps they might take over as their rewards for their service.

Meanwhile the crowd salivates in eager anticipation of a dreadful and macabre climax. Hopefully they will not be disappointed.

Is George Lucas just nicer than every other monopolist?

So the Episode III has opened, and according to CNN, midnight screenings at 3000 theatres in the US grossed an estimated US$16.5m — more than twice the midnight revenue of The Lord of the Rings: the Return of the King in 2003.

That some people are willing to stand in line for hours, forgo sleep and otherwise incur costs suggests that they are willing to pay an amount that far exceeds the admission price, observed Anthony's fellow driver, who also holds an economics degree from Desh. This begs the question why Lucasfilm doesn't price-discriminate by charging a higher price on the first weekend and a lower price subsequently?

More on the movie in due time.

An old friend visits:

That life is suffering, this is now clear
Hope is gone, and there only remains fear
Who wants to see what tomorrow will bring?
I would rather into the darkness disappear

Grumpy Old Berliners 

Sharing cake with friends

Seen at a sausage joint, Berlin 2005 

ghalib

The Ghalib couplet referred to earlier:

zikr us parivash ka, aur phir byaan apna
ban gaya rakeeb akhir, thaa jo razdaan apna

The mention of her ethereal being, and my powers of speech;
They turned into a rival, one who had been my confidante

Welcome my new notebook

Welcome, my new notebook, and apologies too, that your pages should suffer the burden of my thoughts, unhappy and strange as they are. Your predecessor, you may be aware, left in unfortunate circumstances.


first entry 

I notice that in choosing you, my heart has already betrayed me. There were a variety of notebooks to choose from, their covers printed with many great works of art. I considered a Japanese painting of a lion, signifying a fierce and combative me, or Da Vinci's Universal Man, to feign a cool scientific attitude to the world. Instead I settled, most uncharacteristically and surprising myself in the process, on a painting of two young women picnicking in a garden (Gauguin apparently). As I was walking away from the shop, in search of a place to sit and write, it occurs to me what is wrong, and why this painting had the pull it did. The light brown skin of the young woman, her dark straight hair, those expressive eyes, they are reminiscent of her. My conscious torments me unceasingly with her memory anyway, now my subconscious admits to also thinking of little else. And you, who should have helped distract me with other thoughts, you too will serve to remind me of her. And one who would have been my confidante also becomes my oppressor.

There is a Ghalib couplet which is a variation of this. More on that later.

Faulty economics of Per un pugno di dollari...

... also known as A fistful of dollars, the first of Sergio Leone’s Dollar Trilogy. The movie that made Clint Eastwood a superstar. The movie that was inspired by Kurosawa’s Yojimbo, and then inspired many around the world, including our own Sholay. And who can forget the score by Ennio Morricone?

A quick recap of the story if you haven’t watched the movie (courtesy of http://www.imdb.com/):

An anonymous, but deadly man rides into a town torn by war between two factions, the Baxters and the Rojos. Instead of fleeing or dying, as most other would do, the man schemes to play the two sides off each other, getting rich in the bargain.

So, what is the faulty economics then?

Well, when Eastwood’s character, the man with no name, walks into the town, we’re told that the Rojos and the Baxters have fought each other into a stalemate. Then the stranger plays the families against each other, and the Rojos completely wipe out the Baxters. This is not rational behaviour. If the Rojos could wipe the Baxters out so easily, then why didn’t they do so earlier? Surely the rewards, monopoly over the smuggling route, was large enough for the Rojos to at least attempt an all out war against the Baxters?

Accepting the Unacceptable

Amar has two choices. He can either accept what his heart and soul cannot, and prostitute to necessity his self, his beliefs, his raison d'etre, discarding them because of the impossibility of their success and survival in a reality he is powerless to change.

The other option is to stand up and oppose. To fight a battle he cannot win, for a cause he cannot abandon without abandoning himself. To struggle and war in a hopeless cause is to assure one's own misery and destruction. But you see, misery and destruction became inevitable anyway when what is right and true became what cannot be.

One does not abandon what one holds most dear simply because it's a losing cause. Amar will oppose reality and fate, and he anticipates his own destruction.

But he does not accept. He will fight, and he will lose.

Ideal behaviour

The ideal of behaviour , according to Xerxes (Khashayar Shah), was certainly not to treat everyone equally or the same, but to be more cruel to your enemies (than they to you), and more generous to your friends (than they to you).

The Desh that Sahir celebrated also subscribed to the same philosophy. "Dil-bhar ke liye dil-daar hain hum, dushman ke liye talwar hain hum"

More another day.

Mr. Manager! You are number 1!

All organisations (big or small) have an appraisal system for their staff. Our company is one such mutinational accounting firm who have a sophisticated system of sorts. After a tough audit season, we are currently in the process of doing appraisals of our colleagues and seniors.

One aspect of appraisal is to grade the randomly selected colleagues on a scale of 1-5. Number 1 being 'Significant improvement required' to number 5 being 'Outstanding'.

Apparently, one guthra clad Saudi colleague goes to one manager and says ' Mr. Manager (name not disclosed) I like working with you very much. So I give you no. 1 Because you are really no.1! All manager very good. I gave number 1 to all!"

Knowing that peer appraisals are being carried out...our Mr. Managers rush off to the HR partner on this blunder of unimaginable proportions, fearing that the next promotion would be stalled.

A lighter moment to share with you after a hard season of number crunching.

Lota hai Lota

Maha Lota

Lota hai lota
lotay kay peechay
hai musharraf ka sota*!


Lota...the symbol of desi hygiene, desi family values, political clout and and a basic tool for washing one's ass. Yes, i am talking about that lota. The one which NRI, NRP and the whole non-resident alphabet have forgotten.

Such a simple piece of 10 rupee plastic, aptly called by one firangi in a Jang news paper as the lidless tea pot, could stand for so much in any part of the world, which amazes me and is linked to so many aspects of our lives.

First the colour and shape. The lota comes in various shapes and colours, just like people do. The bigger the ass the bigger the lota required.

Moving on to its beak. You see in some parts of world like good old saudia...its called a dallah in arabic. yea...the same dallah (apt name for pimp in urdu), which brings me and a local whore few inches closer.

Now the lota when pushed, slips across the washroom floor, just like when Musharraf gives a push with his martial sota* a whole political party changes sides and loyalties by slipping across the parliament floor (this act of switiching political loyalties is appropriately named lota for individuals).

Apart from slipping the lota does lotsa international travelling. I have seen it in New Zealand, Saudia, and it will probably be found in USA. Thanks to old grannies who migrate to firangi countries in order to assist thier daughter in law for their next green card delivery, carry this desi symbol of hygiene and purity. And if one forgets this plastic, well tsk tsk, one has to make do with aqua fina plastic bottle :-).

Such is the versatility of our home grown lota. A symbol of hygiene, political upheaval and unity. I wish I could post a few pictures of lota, since I couldnot find the picture of a plastic lota, I decided to put the above gentleman's pic. This is Mr. Sheikh Rasheed aka The master Lota. He not only switched sides in a tough pakistani political career but managed to rise from the depths of Mushrraf's Jail to become his right hand Minister of Information. Salute to Thee O! Lota of Lotas!

* Sota ; Stick in punjabi

a subsidiary lota story

Deferentially, this story appears as a footnote of Akbar's Lota tale.

It was the spring of 2004, love was in the air (both fraternal and romantic), Turbans were to be found on the streets of Lahore (Amar too), as well as young men riding motor cycles waving Indian flags. And cricket was just an excuse. Yes, reality had been suspended.

There was Amar at Lahore's Gaddafi stadium. The Pakistani fans were enthusiastic, cheering for both teams, celebrating when good cricket was played. Naturally when one of the local heroes did something spectacular, the noise levels would rise greatly. But the man who really got a response from the crowd was not a cricketer. It was the Chief Minister of Punjab.

As soon as his face appeared on the giant tv screen, the reaction of the crowd was both spontaneous and in unison. Beating the chairs in front of them like drums, young and old, men and women, rich and poor alike, the stadium rose as one to acknowledge his presence. All screamed their recognition at the top of their lungs:
"LOTA! LOTA! LOTA! LOTA! LOTA! LOTA!"

Mystery Number Two: Abhi to Main Jawaan Hoon

Oh, I am going to get a rightful smack on the back of my head for asking such stupid questions. But here goes.

Song: Abhi to Main Jawaan Hoon
Year: ?
Lyricist: Hafeez Jalandhari

Written by the author of Pakistan's national anthem, most memorably sung by a singer from the court of the last Maharajah of Kashmir, this is not a song to be trifled with. It is full of complex ideas and metaphors (so Amar is told), and also so many difficult and uncommon words that Amar isn't even sure whether they are urdu or farsi.

Sample couplet:
nah gham kashood-o-bast ka, buland ka nah past ka
nah bood ka nah hast ka, nah vaadaa-e-alast ka

This is not a man short on vocabulary. So what confuses Amar is the small matter of this verse:
ummid aur yaas gum, havaas gum qayaas gum
nazar sey aas-paas gum, hamaa, bajuz gilaas gum

What's 'gilaas'? Surely at the end of this couplet, towards the end of his poem, Hafeez didn't scratch his head and decide to suddenly go colloquial, and call a 'glass' 'gilaas'? To do that is completely out of character from the rest of the poem.

He certainly doesn't use gilaas anywhere else in the poem, peferring to talk of pyaalas instead.

So question one, why would a writer who prefers (in these ignorant eyes at least) to use 'pure' and literary urdu and farsi suddenly switch to a colloquialism borrowed from english? Is it not a damn odd word to be there? Or does gilaas not mean glass at all, but mean something else completely? If so, what?

Another A

Amar has a pyschopathic Sikh room-mate.

Amar's room-mate looks something like the fellow on the left

He is always pissed off about everything. The loss of the beloved Khalsa to the Bastard Emperialists in Anglo-Sikh war of 1840s. The fact there was no Sikh in the Amar Akbar Anthony triumvirate. The inadequate amount of malai in bottled milk. The bifurcation of Punjab. The trifurcation of a bifurcated Punjab. This all furcing irritates him. I am unable to ascertain how widespread these resentments are among his people.

Anyway, he says to let you know that maybe henceforth he will be posting on this blog using my identity, because frankly, Amaninder Amar Akbar Anthony doesn't have quite the same ring to it.

He says he will be inciting revolution, ranting against humanity, and throwing abuse at one and all. Amar is always happy to give a brother a chance to speak and express himself. All I ask, friends, is do not confuse him with Amar.

jurm-e-ulfat pe hamein log saza dete hain

Greetings non-existent friend and reader

Amar is an ignorant enthusiast of urdu poetry, and he also has a passion for old hindi cinema that for reasons that shall remain mysterious he has not seen (nor intends to). He is constantly thus stumbling upon mysteries which he cannot resolve (and which in fact may not be mysteries at all), and thus he turns to you, wiser and more knowledgable in these matters, for kindly assistance, and benevolent guidance. There are many such mysteries, it is hard to say how many will be tabled here eventually, but let us for the moment make a beginning.

Mystery Number One

Film: Taj Mahal
Year: 1963
Lyricist: Sahir Ludhianvi
Song: Jurm-e-Ulfat pe hamein log saza dete hain
Line: "Takht kya cheez hai, aur laal-o-jawahar kya hai, ishq wale to khudaee bhi luta dete hain"

In the year 1963, Jawahar Lal ("laal-o-jawahar") sits on the "takht" of India. Surely in some obtuse way the line is a reference to Nehru.

It cannot be a coincidence to talk of thrones, and then find it necessary to mention "red jewels" (is this translation even correct?). Why jawahar, why lal jawahar in particular? Is there a historical cultural non-Nehru association that explains why the talk of takht brings up lal-o-jawahar? If so, what?

And if it is a reference to Nehru, then what is it that Sahir wishes to say to us, besides showing his mastery of word play (a rich tradition of Desh incidentally, going back to the classical sanskrit poets)? Is it a criticism? What does Sahir want to say? That those in love are capable of losing even more than Nehru managed (1962 war?)?

There is Amar's mystery number one. Wise reader, enlighten Amar, and earn his everlasting gratitude.

ps: Amar doesn't translate the couplet, frankly, because he doesn't dare to. To those who are left stranded, apologies, but he fears the sacrilege of murdering poetry by dire translation.

Heading from East to West

Southall Classifieds 


Not from Desh to Phoren, my friend. But from East London to West London.

A shop window from Southall, an outlying but well-connected island of Desh. One of the first points of reference for new arrivals, the pieces of paper on this legendary window have helped many find what they search for: a job to earn a living, a place to stay, phone cards to call home cheaply, and company and entertainment to pass the time.

Some of the services offered in this photo:

A job 


A place to stay 


Other 

The Jewish East End

Brother Anthony writes (somewhere below, I don't know how this linking shinking works, not all desi brothers are computer geniuses) about the erstwhile Jewish, and now Muslim, East End.

Amar lived in the East End once. It was a time of poverty and fear for him, but he loved and was loved, so there was hope too. Anyway, he does not bore you with his pathetic life, but shares an anecdote or two about the East End.

The Brick Lane is world famous now, both for the plentiful bad curries catering to undiscerning european palates (and making Deshi brothers prosperous in the process, so that's all right then), and also as a street sharing name with and being chronicled in a most successful novel of award winning proportions which Amar hasn't actually read.

Anyway, Brick Lane has interesting history. The city of London was almost completely burned down in a fire in 1666. When it was rebuilt, many many bricks were needed. The brick-making factories that supplied these stood here in the east-end, and that is how the lane got its name. Later, there came refugees and immigrants. French Huguenots (Protestants) escapting Catholic persecution, and then in the 19th century, Jews, escaping persecution from both Catholics and Protestants, and then sometime in the second half of the 20th century wandered into this mess a brother from Sylhet, who had a look around, and decided what this dump needs is a curry house.

There is not much left today in Brick Lane to remind anyone that this was once the "Jewish East End". There used to be a synagogue (which used to be a Huguenot church, and also a Methodist one), but it's now become a mosque. It's a long long street, and most people concentrate on the south side, where all the curry houses are. But if you were to wander up to its northern tip, you will find two "beigel" (bagel) shops on your left. One claims to be "the oldest beigel shop in England", having been there since 1858 or some similar number, when this would really have been a very different place, and arriving Ashkenazis would have brought along the beigels and other culinary favorites of the lands they left behind.

Amar loves food, and he loves history, (and also, he is broke, and the beigel shop is very cheap), so he likes to visit these shops often. But one day, between bites, he realises that times have changed, and that even these shops have begun to lose the connection with their Jewish past. He shakes his head sadly, and takes another contemplative bite of his crispy bacon beigel.

freedom: churchill style

Rule Britannia. Long live the cause of freedom. God save the King.

Thus ends Churchill's speach announcing the victory in Europe. And I bet he said this with sincerity too!

people's republic of east end

In 1945, Phil Piratin won from the ‘Jewish’ East End. Mr Piratin was a communist.
He campaigned for class war, people’s democracy, and oh, a homeland for the European Jewry. 60 years later, Goerge Galloway, an unreconstructed socialist who bemoaned the end of the Soviet Union, has won from the ‘Muslim’ East End.

Means justify the end ­– the old party line goes. Mr Pilatin used appealing to Zionism as a mean to end capitalism. Mr Galloway’s means involve establishing gay rights and the rights of Muslims to enshrine their homophobia in state policy. Respect and Unity indeed! Wonder what place Mr Galloway has for a gay brother.

And to what end is Mr Galloway’s mini Hitler-Stalin Pact – parliamentary pensions or permanent revolution? And what end did the brothers and sisters have in their mind when they voted Mr Galloway?

great indian ripoff - season 3

Previously on the ultimate Desi mega serial ­– Mohandas is killed by his depressed wife’s jilted lover.

We return to Ali. Despite being evicted by Mohandas with the shame of named a thief, Ali’s career is unhindered. How? We don’t show that. Let’s take it for granted that he does well. He does so well that he is sent to Vilayat to study law. Before going to Vilayat of course he has to be married off. His family arranges this. The bride is a shrewd village beauty named Ayuba. Ali finishes his study in double time, and becomes a solicitor in Londonistan. Ali and Ayuba are soon joined by Fatima – Ayuba’s divorced younger sister, and her infant son Mujib.

Jawahar also sails to Vilayat. He is joined there by Moti and her daughter Jaya. Jawahar quickly develops an intense rivalry with another Desi student called Subhas. Subhas taunts Jawahar for his trading class non bhadralok background. Jawahar replies by setting Subhas up on pranks. The two are to be found in every contest such as rowing, cricket and bhangra night – bhangra night? Well why not? This is a Desi serial, and phoren Punjabis are a big demographics.

Anyway, pretty soon the Jawahar-Subhas rivalry takes a nasty turn. One day, in the heat of the moment, Subhas charges after Jawahar with a knife. Jawahar ducks, Subhas falls and breaks his back, becoming paralysed. The whole incident puts an end to Jawahar’s dream of becoming an ICS officer. He moves to Londonistan instead, becoming a school teacher.

Qari Bond 00786 aka Bismillah Khan Wald Ravi Shankar or Ali Baba chaalis chor?(Yeah Ravi came to Pakistan and planted a seed in Peshawar)

If bond had been a Muslim and a desi, he would have been called Qari Bond 00786. He would have married every woman on his mission before shagging her royally and divorced the one before to keep the legal quota at 4. (Well unless he was shiia. Then he could have just done the 2 hour nikah by mutta). Instead of martini he drinks dhoodh Patti, stirred not shaken (obviously its scalding hot stupid). And when he kills, he recites the Quran…hence the name Qari (the one who recites Quran like a professional). His pet taste included a special brand of taclum 'shag me not' sandalwood perfume acquired from the Sufis of Harappa. A very distinct smell and its source closely guarded by Qari Bond.

So this crazy idea starts and bond sahib (neighbors call him ‘bund’ sahib (asshole) behind his back) as of course they are jealous of suave bearded ass hole going on international missions (he crosses the Peshawar afghan border to supply water to Taliban donkeys and horses).

Qari sahib is such a personality from within my family. Whose antics resemble bond but at a pind level. Wearing bifocals and a gold tooth we call him Qari 00786 for his sneaky idiotic ways. You see we are a family of spies. Qari is the uncle of my dad. That would be my granddad. He was so impressed by my first act of informership…he named me muakbari (informer). Those of you reading see Akbar… some wily Hindu called Amar posted my name wrongly. Yes my name is muakbari…

So going back to Qari sahib’s antics. He was the original 007, as his antics started from the innocent place called East Pakistan aka Bangladesh pre circumcision…. (Sorry Anthony…you are the discarded foreskin of Pakistani society).

His first antic was to free insects from the lab of local girl’s college. Yes he was a green peace activist of his time…but there was nothing green to save in East Pakistan at the time (due to heavy floods, hence the insects). He ended up getting sandaled by the girls as they thought he was trying to impress them by climbing over the college wall.

Qari’s partner in jurum (crime) was DDC (doctor dhakkan chaudry). A medical student of disrepute, who ended up getting a degree with a fail stamp on it after 5 years. Another grand dad….my mother’s uncle.

Theses two grand daddies’s caused quiet a stir in the land of the ‘discarded foreskin’. Every body had been castrated by their antics, including the local graveyard. Graves were robbed of dead, ending up being sold at premium to the medical college.


The peak of their activities culminated in the year of circumcision. This time round it was an army Afsar (a deshi log...bound to become a mukti baini gang member after qari’s treachery). Poor guy thought Qari sahib being a shareef insaan and a dutiful citizen, lent him his army bike for an apparent emergency. Those classic army bikes from the 60s…..yeah…it ended up in mainland Pakistan three days after the ’71 war.

However three days earlier, all Punjabis scurrying to gather their belongings and hop on the next plane/boat to Pakistan, one Punjabi Qari sahib, riding on the bike singing Talat Mehmood ghazals, makes his first stop before his royal departure to Pakistan. It’s the Afsar’s house….and in it is his sexy wife, waiting to be swept away to Pakistan by a perfumed gold toothed bond. Unable to control his temptation Qari ignores the sirens and the riots, and does what all bonds do with beautiful girls. Meanwhile afsar sahib is busy controlling riots.

On the bus to Pak, going via India…holding a valuable bag from Afsar’s safe in one hand and his busty wife’s waist in the other, life could not have been better for Bond. But fate came into play and two days later was waiting in an Indian prison for illegally crossing border.


Time flew by, and East Pak was now officially operating as Bangladesh thanks to those wily Indians. Eventually Indian hawaldars got tired of Qari’s insults about Indira and their mothers, and the daily daal, so they let him go a year after the war. But his love was lost. Getting no news about her, he arrived in Pak with broken heart.

However, Qari bond did not retire into anonymity, instead had kids through an arranged marriage and managed to settle in the land of the two holy places and eventually retired after losing two kids to the shiia faith and a daughter with epilepsy, residing in Peshawar supplying water to Talibani donkeys but actually smuggling terracotta pottery looted from the Harappa and Mohenjodaro valleys.

Such is the life of our desi bond. Always the oil slicked hair and golden tooth with the shag me not taclum powder smell acquired from the secretive sufis of Harappa. Even the real bond could not match the mojo of desi bond aka the 41st chor.

Church and Umbrellawallah

Church and Umbrellawallah, Rome (2005)

In Rome there are many great and beautiful churches, testament to its importance as the home of the Catholic church. Also in Rome are many brothers from Bangladesh selling umbrellas, testament to the courage and spirit of the people of Desh, who will undertake any challenge and any difficulty to provide for their families.

great indian ripoff - season 2

Last time round we saw Jawahar steal his mother’s jewellery and frame Ali, who is kicked out of the house by Mohandas. We also saw Archie Wavell jilting Jawahar and sail off to Vilayat. What happens then? Find out below.

Mohandas soon finds out about his son’s misdeed. He becomes very remorseful over his unjust treatment of Ali. In good Desi fashion, he turns to the gods. He begins to spend a lot of time in the local temple. Pretty soon, in his quest for spirituality and repentance, he turns to abstinence.

This last development makes Moti Bai, who recall is 20 years his junior, very unhappy. Moti finds solace in the arms of Nathuram Godse, the local gardener. Yeah right – Desperate Housewife rip off. Sure, we are not unaffected by the US!

Anyway, to the story. Mohandas is guilt ridden and spending time prostrating before Shivalingam. Moti is unsatisfied, and makes illicit trysts with the local gardener. And before you know it, she is pregnant. When a baby is born, Mohandas accepts her as God’s child, and names her Jaya Narayan. The stresses of the affair and pregnancy turns Moti into a manic depressive. Blaming Mohandas for Moti’s condition, and deprived of the fatherhood, Nathuram kills Mohandas in a prayer meeting.

The Wrong Attitude

The Wrong Attitude

Sadly, not all brothers have the right attitude. Then again, what's a family without some misunderstanding?

the good old days

For no particular reason, Amar's memory turns to the events characterised in 1975 super hit Sholay. In a faraway village, Brother Veeru woos his beloved Basanti in comic fashion, at one point outrageously threatening public suicide if his love is rejected. Veeru wasn't the suiciding type, but the innocent villagers, unused to the dramatic and devious ways of big city folk, did not know that. In the end, disaster is averted, Basanti falls for Veeru's charms, and all is well with the world.

The modern version of this tale was in the papers a year ago. An inspired and idealistic young Deshi Romeo had climbed up on the town's concrete water tower. He was in love, but the girl's parents were being obstructive. A crowd gathered around to watch and listen as the lad made threats interspersed with declarations of love. Someone went running to fetch the girl and her family to the scene. I will jump unless I can have her, the lad yelled with bravado. The girl's parents weren't ones to blink. Nothing doing, they said, go ahead and jump. He did. Splat. End of story.

the great indian ripoff - season 1

Some time ago I wrote about Shashi Tharoor's the Great Indian Novel. Tharoor the international bureaucrat / graduate of a top Delhi school was inspired by Mahabharata, and wrote . I'm no bureaucrat, nor did I ever attend a fancy dame school. I do like to write, but I'm much more influenced by soap operas than epics. Kahani ghar ghar ki and Dallas rather than Mahabharata. So while Tharoor comes up with the Great Indian Novel, I conjure the great Indian ripoff - the ultimate Desi soap opera. Here we outline the first season.

We set our scene in the fair city of Calcutta. It is some time in the first half of the twentieth century. Mohandas Karamchand owns several small businesses. He is married to Moti Bai, twenty years his junior. Their son Jawahar Lal is a student in the Scottish Church College.

Mohammed Ali, a young man from Mohandas' village, arrives in the city to study. Mohandas takes Mohammed Ali into his house as a tenant. Yeah right, you say, didn't you hear your grandmother talking about those Hindus treating Muslims as dirty and all, I hear you ask? I argue that the social norms of the village often break down in big cities. A Desi is a brother, regardless of which Desh passport they carry. Not convincing? Well maybe it's improbable, but hell, this is a soap opera, not social history!

Anyway, back to the story. Ali and Jawahar are of similar age and it's not long before they become good friends. They go to the movies, talkies as they called them back then. They support Mohunbaghan against the Goras. They debate the merits of socialism and nationalism. They are like any other young men of that era. And like any other young men of any era, they are mesmerised by pretty girls. Well, one particular girl - Archana Wavell, a local Anglo-Indian hussy - besets both Ali and Jawahar.

A good soap opera must have love triangles and twists, who will get girl, the audience must be made to wonder. This is no exception. Archie Wavell flirts with both our heroes, but she actually has a boyfriend - a local tough called Sirdar Ballabh. Our heroes are unaware of this, but soon become aware of the other's attraction to the girl. They maintain their outward friendship, but secretly, each plots the other's demise.

Jawahar comes up on top, stealing his mother's necklace and framing Ali. Mohandas kicks Ali out of the house. But Jawahar's triumph is temporary. He gives the necklace to Archie, who sells it, takes the money and sails off to Vialayat with Ballabh.

We end the first season here, stay tuned for more.