Desicritics Category: Culture: Consumerism

Comic Strip: It's Not A Lie If It Makes Someone Happy

IdeaSmith — Fri, 13 Mar 2009 10:30:22 EDT

Well, what else is a woman to do?

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Material Girl

IdeaSmith — Sun, 1 Mar 2009 10:20:27 EST

I went diamond-shopping this weekend. Last year I received a corporate pat-on-the-back with a financial award. Someone suggested that I spend it on jewelery instead of frittering it away on clothes, books and shoes. It took me months but I finally agreed.

It's not even the first major purchase I made, even for jewellery. I saved up on my first job and bought my father a new cellphone and my mother, a diamond ring. That was a funny feeling. A memorable feeling, a funny one and one I'll treasure all my life - the exhilarating thrill that comes from being able to buy something for the people you love, who have provided for you all your life.

A few years later, I'm going big-purchase-shopping again. But it just is different. A different kind of different.

I think in my head, despite all the wondrous freedom of financial independence and mental release, my liberated-ness has a few gaps in it. Like little stitches still binding me to old ways of being, long after I've snipped away the life I want to wear.

Diamonds are usually received as gifts, not bought for oneself. Gifted by a man - a father, a brother, a lover, a husband. If diamonds are a girl's best friend, it's because those sparkly stones carry the monetary value that they were bought for, but also the power of being cherished and indulged by men.

Diamonds have been symbolic for years and they continue to be so. Only my diamonds don't list out the men who will lavish their affections on me. They remind me of everything that I've worked for and achieved. The power to buy a diamond as well as the right to wear one that is truly my own. It's just odd how long it took me to accept the feeling. Not feel guilty about lavishing it on myself, not feel obligated to spending it on someone else or something more important/intelligent, not wonder if brandishing my economic power made me seem like even more of a man-hating feminist than people usually accuse me of being. It took me a long time to accept that it was okay to buy a diamond for myself and feel good about it.

Newfound power doesn't come easy; it's scary.

Singing Telemarketers Away

Mike Ghouse — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 10:50:52 EST

On a Sunday afternoon, the phone rings as I was wrapping up with my usual routine; folding the clothes. It was a tele-marketer from India and she wanted to sell the long distance phone service to me. I thanked her for the call and said that I already have a service and will stick with it.

The Tele-marketer was not easy to get away from, and I wasn’t going to be rude to her, she is earning her living. She was determined to sell the service to me no matter what and later on her boss joins her. Now a team of them have decided to “get” me.

I insisted that the service is not for me and that they should take my number off their records.

She would not give up, so I decided to have fun, instead of getting frustrated.

The phone rang again and I picked up and without missing the beat, I started singing. Those who know me from my Radio days know what it means; some one has to pay me to stop it. If you are in the fifties and are a Desi (they-see), meaning people from the Subcontinent – i.e., India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nepal and Sri Lanka, you would enjoy the following scenarios. Heck you may smile any ways.

The kids on the other end were debating about the song, the singer and the like. I started out with “I yeiy ya, karoon my kya, sooku sooku”. I can hear the debate on the other end, “it’s got to be Jeetendra” and one actually said Shah Rukh Khan. I jumped in to their conversation, “it is Shammi Kapoor in Junglee singing Rafi and not Sonu”. Jeetendra was Oo, Ooo from Farz.

A “Thank you sir” in unison came from the other end. They could not be happier, they were courteous and hoping that at least at the end I would listen to their pitch. I wasn’t going to do that! They hung up, and called back to see if they were calling the right number.

I started “ O door ke musafir, hum ko bhi saath ley lay” .. there goes the debate again… They hung up and called back.

“ Ai mere dil kahin aur chal, gham ki duniyan say dil bhar gaya” This time the response was “What the hell was that?”. They did not know the song, nor could they figure out the singer, if it was Sunder Naidu singing, they could have guessed it, but meri tooti phooti awaz say o gana kaisay pehchanien ge? Even if it was "Yeh mera deewana pan hai" they would have recognized Prem Shah's awaaz. And of course, their parents would have just born in 1957 to recognize the movie Daag and the singer Talat. (yes, Lata also sang). They were saying in unison “thank you sir” hoping again to possibly get business.

You may be surprised at my attempt to do “Sunshine on my shoulder” I did not even complete the sentence they were gloating on the other end “John Denver” they knew the song even if it is an oldie, at that time most of the songs remained fresh in India for another decade or two. Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline is an evergreen, ever fresh number.

It went on for about 20 minutes… Finally they gave up.

By God, this is the first time in my life, that I sang the whole song to a captive audience, may be second time. I sang once celebrating Najma’s life a month after she passed away. Growing up, my sister did not want to hear me sing, she pointed out the mangled up words and then my late wife did not want to hear either. She told me to take voice lessons and then she would listen, and I had seriously considered learning from Renu Chandra or Nasreen Reza. Heck, my friends in India did listen to my songs, on Sundays, five of us used to go out on a farm or a lake and sit down and take turns and I lucked out being in the circle and took my turn gleefully.

Thanks to the tele-marketers, I sang to my heart's content, five songs in full! I have memorized 1000 Songs. I was ready to play their game and was going to go all night.

Then the phone rings and I start singing again… they called back, and I sang again… then when they called for the third time, I realized they were calling about a remodeling job I was doing for them. They enjoyed it though and they knew it was me.

Poornamadah Poornamidam - You Can't Give Love Away

Blokesablogin — Sat, 7 Feb 2009 00:58:16 EST

This ancient Sanskrit verse from the Vedas speaks of something complete and when given away, remains complete and the part that is given away also is complete or whole!

As a child when I had learned that verse, I wondered at its mathematical impossibility until I realized love. Be it joy or love, when given or received, there is a sense of completion to it. The very process of loving makes us feel complete and the "object" of our love, complete, too! Like Sri Sri Ravi Shankar reminds us, Love is not an emotion, it is our very nature. So true.

Way back in college, we had to read the book by Umberto Eco, titled, The Name of the Rose. The book deals with the interdiction of laughter in religious life and a monk who researches a manuscript on humor. Today, we have an interesting case of love being denied owing to its crass commercialization.

Too often, the word love conjures up images of carnal pleasures rather than the warming of our hearts owing to the excessive material campaigning via mass media. Red roses, chocolates, cards with cheesy verses and sometimes jewellery, make up the "offerings" of this "Day for lovers".

The story of Kama, the god of desire, in the Bhagavatham is interesting. It is said that Kama aids Parvati in winning Shiva and in the process gets burned himself. On her supplication, Shiva "resurrects" Kama, but making him invisible to human eyes with whom he continues to play his games.

The story is layered with symbols. Firstly, the word associated with kama is NOT LOVE, but desires. Another name for Kama is Manmatha, one who churns one's mind! In a spiritual context, desires cause the churning of one's mind causing the restlessness within that demands actions in the physical plane to fulfill them.

The word Prem alludes to the divine. Premswaroop, love being the self-image of the divine, is one of the attributed names of the divine. In this context, the ideal "Valentine" would be one who is in deep meditation.

Bhakti, is the ultimate experience of this love. Pyaar ko pyaar hi rehne do ise koi naam na do (let love be love, do not give it a name) is the ultimate exultation of this experience. This is borne of wisdom, not of hormones.

I would like to see Valentine's Day celebrated with people keeping a Mouna vrat (vow of silence) and recognizing their very nature of peace, love and beauty. We always have Holi to compensate for in March!

A Landmark Love Story

IdeaSmith — Wed, 21 Jan 2009 09:14:26 EST

The Landmark bookstore opens its doors on 23rd January 2009. Landmark has been shut these past three months after a fire broke out in Infinity Mall where it is housed, causing much damage to merchandise and fittings. Mercifully no human casualties except of course for avid Landmarkers who've missed the store sorely all this while that it has been undergoing renovation.

I'm irrationally excited over this. Come Friday and I'm making no plans, except to trek back to my favorite bookspot and just savour the feeling of being able to walk around in its interiors again. Is this an indication of the shallow, consumerist lifestyle I lead, that I miss a shop so much? Let me tell you just what Landmark means to me.

I've been an avid reader from my early childhood, dating right back to when I missed having siblings to play with, fight with and keep me occupied and hence turned to books for company, for entertainment, for solace, for answers and finally for identification. I've also been a loner all my life, never mind the huge groups of people I always seem to have around me.

For the longest time ever, in Mumbai, a booklover's only source of soul nourishment was to scour the neighborhood raddiwallas and make an occasional trip to Churchgate to browse the street stalls at Flora Fountain. Then came Crossword with its ubiquitous yellow-and-black stores, retailing books. So books were available in a shop close to home. Though, if your tastes extended beyond potboiler bestsellers and management/self-help books, you were still obliged to fall back on your bohemian book-haunts or still brave the journey to town to visit Oxford.

Landmark opened its first store in Mumbai in 2006.

I remember stopping and staring at the poster announcing its soon-arrival at the mall and smiling with sheer joy. My Chennai soujourns had made me quite familiar with this bookstore chain famous in the south. On my first visit to the store, I wandered in curiously, wondering whether the insofar bookstore had only decided to set up its music and movie business in Mumbai. All I could see were aisles and aisles of DVDs and CDs! And then at the very end, almost like a tunnel suddenly opening up, I stumbled into a huge...paradise. Books, books, books as far as I could see.

I'd only ever seen so many books in one place at the annual Strand book sale, which would still be unorganized piles of books, stacked onto cloth-covered tables. But here I was standing among rows and rows of gleaming shelves neatly categorized as Humour, Literary Fiction, Classics, Romance, Spirituality, Teen Fiction, Children's books, Feminism, Travel, Science, Architecture, Movies, Art and so on. I walked passed authors I'd never known existed, genres I'd never conceived and books I'd never heard of.

Landmark became an integral part of my weekend schedule. I'd plan to catch a movie or lunch or dinner with a friend and find an excuse to be at Landmark. I'd either ask to meet them at the mall that also has a theatre and a food-court. Sometimes I'd drop by after an outing or arrange to meet someone between Magazines and Featured Books. Some days I'd go there by myself and spend hours browsing, walking out for a snack, poring over a book I'd bought or just feeling - something - just walking around.

My relationship with Landmark has grown in parallel with my relationship with my own writing. For a very long time, writing and creative endeavours were distant dreams, fantasies that I never really thought about seriously. I started my blog on a whim, to 'get it out of my system' so to speak. Surprisingly I found, my inspiration and my inclination...and my obsession to write only grew with time. After much teenage angst, anxiety-ridden desicions of education and work, job-switches and on/off relationships, I've discovered my passion. Words are my one and only real passion.

Writing is an indescribable feeling, one that rejuvenates me and one that takes me over in a fury and leaves me feeling quite spent - and fulfiled. I've never felt the same sense of completion with anyone or anything or anywhere else. The best thing about my job is how much it allows me to write. And where is a poet more at home than in a garden? Landmark is a garden of ideas, of people and stories and poems and articles and books all the many different ways we find to share our impressions with each other. The world outside disappoints me, hurts me, wears me down. But I walk back into a world of books and I find authors I deeply admire, words that bring me comfort, ideas that rekindle my zest for life, so much inspiration to just be me.

You might argue that I could have this in any other bookshop in the world. Yes, perhaps, if only there were others that offered the mind-boggling variety of books, a friendly but not intrusive staff and the convenience of location. If you've seen the movie 'You've got mail', you might say that Landmark has the staggering variety of Fox books set in the cosy ambience of the corner bookshop.

Now, three years later, I have a sentimental attachment to the Landmark store as well. The staff not only knows me by face and name, one of their employees has become a close, personal friend. I remember meeting Lord Jeffrey Archer, idol of my teenage years and buying a book for a special lady in my life. I walked through the aisles playing a 'now-you-see-me-now-you-don't' with a date who enjoyed books as much and picked out Knots by R.D.Laing for him. Weeks later, when he broke my heart, I healed myself in the comfort of Milan Kundera and Alexander McCall-Smith. I found a new friend, a new circle of people, a new interest and a new path to the future in Graphic Novels. I nurtured the early stages of a long-distance relationship through my SMS-chats and whispered conversations about the books I was browsing (while he'd be doing the same in the store in another city).

In these past three months, I've visited two countries, been in love and out of it, borne two deaths, has my sense of stability shaken by the terror attacks, discarded a friendship, renewed a few, acquired some more. I haven't had that haven that Zen calls 'the place of stillness' through all this. My friends have made babies, celebrated wedding anniversaries, had birthdays, returned to India after years. And I haven't been able to greet them with my choice of gift - a book specially chosen for the person and the occasion. Yes, I've missed Landmark so much. Friday, reunion!

And of course if any of you reading this post, have decided you love me enough to send me a gift, Landmark has a gift voucher program! ;-)

MTV Roadies - Hell Between The Legs

Deepti Lamba — Sat, 17 Jan 2009 14:28:53 EST

The pain really did begin down and under. And it was the type that had men on bended knees. And they took it like men between the legs. The wacks landed on the balls while they wore nothing more than their boxers.

That's what it means to a Roadie - to have balls of steel!

Did I get put the cart before the bull or was it a Pushkar camel?

MTV Roadies- Hell Down Under seems to have turned gorgeous Rajasthan into a simmering desert of politicking, kitty fights, shit picking rigor, ball-whacking terror and tears of sadness.

The Roadies were divided into green and blue teams and the war began from then on. Their first task was to pick up animal shit - cow dung, camel dung (one Roadie even touched human poop) at the Pushkar animal fair and whichever team picked the maximum poop got fifty grand in their team's account.

Bobby's team won the round and consecutively they won the next round(which granted them immunity against being voted out) as well where they had to interpret words spoken in pure Hindi. And for the generation that grew up with Hinglish the price for every wrong answer was payed not by the girls but by the guys who had to take the punishment between their legs and boy did it hurt bad.

We sat and watched with horrified expressions. The whacking was painful and the girls empathized with the the boys of their teams with every answer they got wrong.

The tasks were fun to watch but more so were the fights Gurmeet found herself embroiled in with other girls. Back biting, cussing and boys holding Gurmeet back from beating the girls in question into pulp made the show worth watching. The woman has a mouth that would put even a sailor to shame. Come to think of it no sailor worth his salt no matter how many years spent on the sea alone with his mates would want to spend a minute with that feisty babe much less do her.

Which is why when the voting out of one of Gurmeet's team members came up Puneet from Bobby's team gave her the right to have her vote be counted twice over. And as it happened one of the strongest member of Gurmeet's team- Varisha was booted out and Paulami the head nodding brainless sweet twit remained.

Gurmeet it seemed to be under the delusion that Puneet was siding with her. Little did she realize that not only was he looking out for his team but more so for being the last to be left behind - for him to be the Roadie of Season 6.

Gurmeet is a team breaker and yet none of her mates had the balls to vote her out. Why? the question remains and sweet booted out Varisha knew they had cooked their goose well.

MTV Roadies - Hell Down Under is slowly cooking the little froggies well in the broth of future fame and money. How far are these children ( as Bumpy from the crew called them) willing to go and at what cost?

By the way Bumpy Baba, the director of the show also took the rap between his bright red Boxers just to make sure the ball-whacker was effective. And it hurt like hell.

The ball-whacking activity was the idea of none other than Raghu the imp.

The show is worth staying tuned to and has me hooked. Darn it! that girl Gurmeet has me hooked line and sinker with her shrewish temperament.

Yes, you Gurmeet. You are a rowdy but a Roadie? That remains to be seen.

Photo Essay: Smell of an Indian Bazaar

Tanay Behera — Fri, 16 Jan 2009 10:34:46 EST

It was long since I had been out to shoot with my shutterbug friends. When I got an invite, if I could join them for a weekend shot at Russel Market, one of the prominent landmarks for the native Bangaloreans, I thought why not. The reply was prompt because I have always preferred colder climes and at present winter is in full flourish. Also, wintertime mornings are usually marked with less activity and lots of freshness rules the air.

So all set and done and I reach the market place at 6:30AM. The market place was a melange of action, buying, selling, trading, chaffering, transporting, cleaning and lots more.

Russel Market is one of the oldest markets in Bangalore and it was built in 1927. The freshly painted minaret that stands across the road is a testimony that this place which was once the frequented by the memsahibs driven in their carriages is now replaced by the Marutis, the Fords and the Toyotas.

Even though the city today offers plenty of departmental stores from Sunday-to-Monday to Food World, from Reliance Fresh to Nilgiris, from Spencers to Spar but still there is a sizeable population that visits this bazaar for its weekly stock of fruits and vegetables and other requirements. The building that accommodates close to 100 vegetable shops and mandis today looks a bit jaded.

This place has narrow streets, filled with people unloading mini-trucks ladened with fresh vegetables and fruits. At one corner an old woman is selling a handful of vegetables, while at the other corner there is a middle-aged lady making a garland with different kinds of flowers, sipping hot tea from a glass. Even found a man who was so bitten by Bipasha Basu's 'Beedi Jalai le', that early in the morning he was puffing his jigar maan bari aag in a foolhardy way.

At this early hour of the day, there is action all around as vegetable vendors were busy sorting the vegetables into gunny bags which would be sent to various restaurants and hotels across the city. This place is a trading center for flowers, and florists can be seen exchanging their supply for cash. The topsy-turvyness here is more complex than what one would find in any stock exchange when in action.

As I was walked a little ahead, I saw the central courtyard, where there were neatly arranged rows of meat shops. Strung up were fresh cuts of mutton with hooks. Adjacent to the dark alleys of meat shops, dimly lit with bulbs is the street, which is a must visit place for any sea-food lover.

Variety of fish, prawn, crab, squid, etc of all sizes were available and the best part is it was all fresh stock unlike the refrigerated and preserved ones sold in department stores. This place is a beehive of activity and chances are high that a visitor would soil his/her clothes while purchasing sea-food here.

It was 8:30AM by now and people returning from the early hours mass at the nearby church were indicative of city life about to get started in a while. I along with my friend, proceeded to a nearby shop, which offers chai 24/7 and while having the chai, a person rushed hurriedly towards me. Seeing, a camera in my hand he told, 'Saab ek photo aap jaldi se lea lo, abhi thodi deear maain guard ke naukri ke liye, ek interview hai' [Can you take a pic immediately because I have an interview for the post of a guard to attend]. I had to politely decline to his request as my camera, doesn't have the instant printing capabilities.

Don't be surprised when I saw, you can click and publish pictures instantly, infact you can do this something similar to the Polaroid cameras of the 70's. This year PoGo, an Instant Digital Camera unveiled at the annual Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas, allows one with a push of a button to take pictures, edit those and then print those on full-colour, 2x3-inch prints. Can someone gift me one of those :)

You can see the rest of the pics here.

MTV Roadies - Hell Began In India

Deepti Lamba — Fri, 16 Jan 2009 10:33:07 EST

I used to consider TV game shows to be below my dignity. Yeah, add your idol frenzy to it or that damn dance Nach Baliye type of crap till one fine day my husband made me see two bald men take the trip of goonks who had come to audition for MTV Roadies - Hell Down Under. (I woke up to the show on the sixth season; shame on me)

I watched them fuck around with people who could best be classified as losers (of course there were exceptions) with dreams of being the next Roadie in their eyes. Raghu and Rajiv, the two bald twin brothers had this strange synergy between them that only twins apparently have. They picked up each others' conversation as if they knew what the other was thinking and they ripped apart the participants' self esteem within a matter of few minutes and that too in classic Hindi vulgarity that I so love.

Some left with tears in their eyes. Yeah, well, they had been warned. The two brothers weren't there to make social chit chat but to select people who had nerves of steel and sadly the one who truly was Roadie material in my books was voted out in the first episode itself- Sufi.

It was obvious why Sufi had been voted out. The man had the makings of a Bollywood hero. He had camera presence, seemed to be a man of stable character and integrity. When he was voted out he said he wanted to use the money to help build his parent's business. His words seemed genuine and I felt bad watching him go.

But a man like Sufi seems to have the will to make it big and I sure hope to see him make it big in Bollywood.

There are three other people I have taken a liking for - Bobby, Roop and baby faced Sandeep.

Bobby and Roop seem to be the only girls with intelligence in the show and I especially liked the way Roop took Gurmeet's trip.

Gurmeet tried her best to project herself to be a hip girl with a devil may care attitude but she turned out to be a chicken shit babe unable to deal with criticism when it came at her headlong from Roop. At the truth or dare game she tried to put Roop in a spot but when Roop turned tables on her she pulled the - 'I don't want to play this game' shit and had the other contestants guffaw.

The less said about Gurmeet the better. Actually the less she shows of herself the better for the viewers. Her bulky curves in tight t-shirts and thunder thighs in tiny shorts are complete eye sore. But the one person who beats Gurmeet hollow is Paulami.

Paulami thinks she is da bomb! Wait! she thinks she is a Bipasha look alike and thinks she is the best dressed and hottest babe amongst the Roadies. Fact is anyone who meets Paulami would die to ask her if her plastic surgeon had botched her face.

The woman looks like witch out of one those horror Ramsay brother flicks but even witches are allowed to think they are hot- its a matter of self esteem and who am I to disabuse them of these notions.

The women of substance on this show are Roop and Booby. They are witty and can easily take the other women up and shred them into bits and on Roadies cat fights are always hot especially when the air headed 'I am so hot' babes gets slammed by the real street smart goddesses.

The men become insignificant at that point. But the men I am rooting for are Sandeep and for Pradeep.

Pradeep is a street smart surd and knows how to manipulate his way through the game. He understands its better to have a wise enemy than a foolish friend. He sidelined Gurmeet when he backed up Roop. Gurmeet, he seemed to have realized was nothing more than a dumb babe with a loud mouth and he didn't want to be seen siding with her. Clever dude.

Sandeep till now has stayed out of controversy but been yakking a lot in front of the camera. I know this baby faced dude with thick Delhi-ite accent would not last on Roadies Down Hell Under but then again it would be fun to see how a gentle giant handles himself amongst poisonous snakes.

The other Roadies wanna be players are insignificant in my mind since they have not done much to get my attention. And for those who want to read up more on them there is stuff about them on the main site but it would do them good to get a bit more in the limelight because the audience doesn't care much for wall flowers no matter how pretty (yeah like Suzanne with her hooked nose) may be.

The behind the scene peek was also fun to watch and Ragu's departure was indeed a loss to the show but these people are weird enough to keep us entertained in Hell Down And Under for an entire season.

Supersized Kids - Don't Do What America Does

Harold Bergsma — Sun, 11 Jan 2009 05:45:45 EST

I watched a group of school kids being shepherded by their teachers on a cultural outing to the San Diego Zoo. There were two children who were lean and athletic. Twenty others were, shall I say, fat! Many carried bottles of Coke or bags of chips as they walked by. Supersized kids abound. We are looking at a ticking time bomb regarding future health issues in this county. This time bomb is ticking for many other countries as well that imitate the American life style. It was not always this way.

Twenty years ago, one could travel to Chingmai, Bombay, Kandy, Pokhara or Karachi and be struck with the unique cultural identity of the inhabitants by observing their clothing, their head dress and what they ate. The streets used to be filled with vendors, small shops, and specialized market areas where only pots and pans were sold, where sweet merchants shoed the bees away from their displays of jalabees, where cloth merchants occupied small stalls filled with bolts of cloth that even a rajah would covet. The streets were filled with skinny people, muscular workers, slender women dressed in traditional costumes which did not reveal their curves. And the children ran here and there; ran, not waddled here and there. Traditional modes of transportation were available including horse drawn carriages, rickshaws, dandis, wildly decorated lorries, bikes and it seemed all the rest were walking on two feet.

Of course I am being nostalgic for the ‘good old days’ where what was ‘cool’ was what was Nepali or Thai. Are those days gone forever? We now see replicas of downtown Chicago or New York in Karachi and Mumbai? Must we see clothing that only was worn in Los Angeles in December now in January on the backs of practically every young man wandering the streets; blue jeans, T shirts, and those god-awful visor caps worn backwards just like in El Paso, all duly emblazoned with slogans that were rejects in San Diego? What has happened to the Burmese wrap around ‘longee’, to the elegant sari, to the loose fitting pajama pants and kamiz? “Where have all the chaplis gone, long time passing?”

In my childhood dormitory room there were twelve youngsters who slept together in the Woodstock hostel in Mussoorie. Eleven of us were skinny, always hungry, beanpoles. The twelfth was an unfortunate young man from Delhi, from a very wealthy family who sent him sweets, candies and biscuits every week. His nick-name was Motu, and he was a fat little guy who had a box under his bed with a lock on it. In it he hoarded his candy bars which he sneaked when we were all fast asleep. It was where he kept his shiny silver rupees which he used on Saturday to buy cakes from the box wallah. We coveted his stash, but, unfortunately gave him a hard time on the running track, on the basketball court or when football teams were selected; he was the last one chosen. He was there for a year and did not return. Children back then were cruel.

On the June 23rd. Time Magazine cover there is a picture of what could be Motu’s younger American brother. The cover shouts, OUR SUPER SIZED KIDS. “It’s not just genetics and diet. An in-depth look at how our lifestyle is creating a juvenile obesity epidemic – and the scoop on how to cure it.” The American way, (you know the WAY that the rest of the world copies so slavishly), has produced a generation of people who are overweight, fat, to use the forbidden three letter word. Not just the kids, adults, particularly those from poorer families, families that don’t read books, that get food stamps to survive, families that have marginal incomes, it is among these that the problem of being overweight is most severe. But young people from families of both the rich and the poor are suffering from the same problem, obesity. It is the American way. Fast, unhealthy foods.

I was on Newport Beach last week and did a survey of preteen kids that walked by our beach-house. Many were fat; most were eating or carrying food in their hands. Time’s report was correct; we have a real problem here! Supersized kids, super-fed kids.

We brought a variety of things to the beach house to share with the other four families that were together, you know, potluck. We brought whole grain cereals, and fruit, strawberries and lots of mangoes and peaches. Guess what? We seemed to be the only ones who ate them. The other food, the American stuff was more delicious. Chips, dips, cheeses, breads, deserts, hot dogs, Kentucky fried chicken, you name it we had it. (Ice cream cones were only consumed when we walked along the board walk.)

American children who are overweight are setting themselves up for a lifetime of problems, diabetes, high cholesterol, arthritis, heart problems and a host of other diseases related to adiposity. It is a national problem. Certainly, this aspect of our way of life should not be coveted, mimicked or adopted in ‘developing’ countries. Interestingly, the highest rates of obesity among adults and children are among those with high rates of poverty and even ‘hunger’. Poorer people, Mexican laborers, migrant workers, maids, are frequently people who live close to a financial margin that is, just getting by. Obesity and hunger go hand in hand in America the land of opportunity. Why? In America, prepared foods are the most easily available and very cheap. A greasy, double meat, and double cheese bacon burger fills a hungry stomach cheaply. But where is the subzi? Vegetables, if you see them are tossed salads, if you are lucky. White flour, grease, sugar makes things taste very good and these are the culprits. Where are the fibers and fruits? Most Americans love to drink. No, I don’t mean water. But with their meals a beer sounds good as does a Coke, Pepsi or Orange Juice. Small containers of sugared, fruit-flavored water are the first choice for most school children. Pure carbohydrates which give a quick lift and a fast let down. Fast foods, fast life, slow kids.

I read a very nice study by Stephanie Schulze, a Student Participant from North High School, Iowa entitled, “Education for Poverty: Information against Hunger and Obesity in India.” I was struck by the title, the topic and the research this student did about India, half way around the world. “Hunger and obesity can coexist because of a lack of nutritious food and a lack of education about healthy lifestyles. Hunger is prevalent in many countries, including India.” Her point of view is that education will be the answer to better living, better nutrition and less obesity in India.

The National Institute of Nutrition in Hyderabad, India, has published studies that show that the “…primary deficiencies in the diet of people in India are mainly whole grain calories, vitamins and minerals.” Stephanie’s study goes on to say that one-fifth of the population in India is undernourished (21%) in spite of the food distribution programs that exist. The kinds of foods that are frequently distributed are high calorie foods, white rice and flour, sugars, and animal fats or hydrogenated vegetable fats. Not only is there a growing obesity problem among poorer Indians but among women. Studies show that Indian women are genetically more predisposed to gain weight around the middle and their posteriors. I didn’t notice that among the Bollywood dancers. Are they a different race?

It is not just the poor that are getting fat in India. “India is facing an obesity crisis among its newly wealthy middle class as millions of its rural poor still struggle for enough to eat. As the country becomes richer, many people are becoming fatter and, like Westerners, they are seeking medical help” (See Amelia Gentleman in Mumbia, “Observer”, Dec.4, 2005, “India’s newly rich battle with obesity.” Not only are Indians wearing blue jeans, they are getting gastric bypass operations that restricts the amount of food absorbed. Even men are …concerned about the male breast area and love handles.”

For the wealthy, Indian foods have always been heavy and rich. (silver covered) Stews, curries, ghee cooked breads and sweets are favorites. The newly affluent are concerned, like the Westerners in an epidemic weight gain problem. Now diet pills sell like hot cakes, and cosmetic surgeons are doing a good business in Mumbai.

But there is a vast divide between the newly affluent and the millions who struggle to feed themselves. A World Bank study said that 45 % of Indian children under five suffer from malnutrition; while a McDonald’s branch in Delhi is selling Chicken Maharajah Macs to the newly middle class. A beefless burger?

Amelia’s article reveals that an estimated 25 million Indians have diabetes and the numbers are growing. The medical profession and medical journalists need to become assertive in their statements to those who make laws, those who teach, and those who lead. Diseases like TB, malaria and dysentery can be treated with pills. Those who become fat, particularly our children face a lifetime of problems, the hardest of which is loosing the fat and eating more healthy diets. Motu, I wonder if you are still with us.

The Storyteller And His Audience

Deepa Krishnan — Fri, 26 Dec 2008 05:27:28 EST

If you are visiting North India, you will probably come across a kathak performance somewhere.

The word kathak comes from the word katha or story. Kathak dancers are traditional story tellers, showcasing legends through music and dance. A kathak performance teaches as well as entertains, using a rich and sophisticated poetic literature in Sanskrit and Brajbhasha.

I spotted this kathak dancer at an upscale hotel in Agra. He was on a little stage, dancing to a piece of recorded music. His audience was a bunch of foreign travellers, several of whom had just made the 5-hour drive from Delhi, and were now relaxing at the bar watching him over their beers.

The dancer told the story of the blue-skinned God Krishna and his lover Radha. It was a beautiful story, embellished with subtle glances and elegant footwork. In the story, Krishna and Radha meet in the forests of Vrindavan, he plays the flute for her, and even the birds and the deer stop to listen to the magic of his song. She quarrels with him, over the attention he pays to other women. As he cajoles and teases her into forgiveness, she becomes lost in his leela. In the eternal all-consuming fire of her love, she forgets herself and merges into the divine.

The story was well told, but the audience understood absolutely nothing.

I was not surprised - the song was meaningless to them, and the vocabulary of the dance was entirely foreign. How does someone from a strange culture understand the symbolic mechanisms that dancers use while switching roles? How do they understand what the arched coquettish eyebrow, or the sideways glance, or the delicate flick of the wrist means, when they don't even get the context of the story? Not surprisingly, at some of the most sublime moments of the performance, the audience merely stared into their beer mugs or looked around for the bartender.

The real tragedy of it was that the performer was quite competent, with at least 10-15 years of rigorous training behind him. In spite of people moving around, or ignoring him completely, he danced with grace and dedication, as if he had all eyes upon him. I felt so bad for him, I wanted to run away and hide somewhere.

That night in my hotel room, I asked myself - Why does this happen in India, this trashing of our art forms until they become a pathetic mockery of themselves?

I realized that there are multiple issues, some of them quite complex. But I believe our lack of respect and value for our art forms is definitely one of the problems. The hotel staged this performance in their lobby, in a noisy area near the bar, perhaps because they had no other venue. But because it was presented like that, as an optional "cultural" show with drinks at the bar, the dance became a trivial tidbit, a take-it-or-leave-it affair. There was no formal introduction to the performer and his background, no explanation of kathak traditions or gharanas, no story outline – as a matter of fact, there was even no seating around the stage for anyone who wanted to watch the whole performance. It is as if the hotel had decided already that this was a boring performance, and not worth the effort. Naturally, the performance just tanked. When you yourself treat something like trash, it is very difficult for others to treat it with respect.

Contrast this with my experience in The Oberoi Bali. The hotel arranged a Balinese dance show with dinner, a rendering of some scenes from the Ramayana. They had amphitheatre style sunken seating for those who wished to view the show. For others, there were tables set discreetly so that every single person had a view of the dance. The waiters were quiet and hushed, you could order food and drinks, but it was clear that there was a performance, and you had to give it due respect. On every table, there was a one page description of the show, describing the acts that it was broken into, and giving a brief summary of the storyline. I’m sure we didn’t understand all the nuances of the performance – but we enjoyed it because of the way it was organised.

Some would argue that it is not the hotel, but the artiste who is responsible for audience delight. If the audience doesn’t like something, then either the dancer is to blame, or the dance form itself is to blame. Why was the kathak dancer not able to have any impact on his foreign audience? In spite of the poor seating and noise, could he not have drawn the audience towards him? Could he not have told them the story before dancing?

Unfortunately, our classical performers are not geared to explain their art to people from other cultures. The Indian art tradition assumes that audiences come from the same broad cultural milieu. It presupposes a shared cultural background where the stories and legends are commonly understood. In addition, the classical dance forms also assume that audiences understand the format in which dance is delivered, for example, the way in which sections of story/emoting are interspersed with sections of pure rhythm/dance. The other problem is purely practical - I very much doubt the dancer had the necessary English-speaking skills to explain the origins of kathak, or its morphing over the ages, to a foreign audience.

My personal view of the matter is that in our country, it is not practical to leave the matter to the artiste. Most Indian performers, including those from both folk and classical traditions, have poor/basic English education levels, with little or no exposure to overseas audiences. Their skill lies in their art, and not in the packaging or marketing of their art to overseas visitors. In my mind, it is very much the responsibility of the intermediary – for example, the hotel, or the tourism development board or the tour company arranging the performance – to ensure both the dignity of our arts as well as an enjoyable experience for the tourist.

As someone who is part of the tourism industry, I will do my bit to make things better. But I suspect it will take a while to get to the point where "cultural" performances don't make me squirm.