Desicritics Category: Culture: Dance

Ishq-Mohabbat-Pyaar-Vyaar: A Tribute to Filmy Love

Seema Dhindaw — Sun, 8 Mar 2009 03:42:39 EDT

Now that the controversies surrounding Valentine’s Day are in the past, I thought it would be fun to have a glimpse at the strange, comic and unusual things that love compels us to do. Catchy toe-tapping Bollywood tunes, the occasional romantic comedy, and sometimes corny poetic expressions have encouraged many of us to perform otherwise unthinkable, highly embarrassing acts of love. We can look back and laugh at spectacles that love or the illusion of it has inspired. The influence of the film industry, particularly Bollywood, hasn’t made matters any easier for those who have been pierced by Cupid’s arrow. In fact, many a times it is the sole culprit for implanting those bizarre and unrealistic ideas about love during those vulnerable, young growing years.

I grew up listening to Hindi film songs and religiously watched one Hindi movie a week with my family. When we were too young to know the implications of romance or love, my brother and I would act out the parts of hero and heroine, using trees at the park to play hide and seek which was followed by a high speed chase. We would eventually find ourselves running towards each other only to end the charade in a playful sibling fight instead of breaking into a song. When we didn’t know lyrics we would make them up. If we didn’t know the steps to a dance, we would choreograph our own crazy moves and our parents would watch sometimes in shock and at other times in dismay.

At home, it often felt like our parents were either villains in our lives or the stars of an ongoing Hrishikesh Mukherji film about complex marriages. When mom got upset over something, dad would sing and dance in a comical attempt to cheer her up. My brother and I would laugh in amusement, squeal in embarrassment or even play along. On Saturday mornings, mom made delicious parathas while melodious tunes played on the weekly Indian radio program. We anxiously counted the minutes, our eyes on the clock for the parathas and for the eagerly awaited weekly Namaste America television program that aired with previews of latest Bollywood movies, top ten songs and sometimes a special treat: an interview with one of the stars. Every week, I had a new crush depending on who was being interviewed and my brother had a new fight scene or dance move to play out. When Prabhudeva came on the screen we lost quite a few porcelain items. One of my first crushes was Salman Khan. I had a shirtless poster of his on the wall of my bedroom. That poster made a long journey with me from a small back alley in Rourkee, India and lived through my teen years in L.A. I remember my cousins hollering at me then for picking Salman over Shah Rukh. Today, if I make it back to Rourkee, I know for sure I will bring back a Shah Rukh poster instead. Tastes have changed.

In my teens, thoughts of how I would meet my knight in shining armor and what he would be like were always at the back of my mind. When I looked at Bollywood films for answers, the romances and love stories were fun and exciting, full of song and dance sequences, offering me hope but none or little practical advice. Hollywood portrayed a completely different perspective. Issues surrounding religion, career, premarital sex and race were at the forefront. Titanic, Father of the Bride, Sliding Doors, Sleepless in Seattle and many of Woody Allen’s films made things either too simple, fairytale-like or way too complex for me to grasp. Movies like Silsila, Lamhe and Chandni gave me hope that even if my soul mate was much older, married, missing after an accident or suffering from a predictable bout of amnesia, somehow miraculously and by defying every righteous principle, moral value and perhaps by way of nothing short of a miracle, he would end up being with me.

After watching Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, the prospect that I could have a guy best friend who would suddenly start to develop feelings for me years later when I grew my hair out, lost some weight and played basketball in a saree was extremely exciting. After a few years of shooting hoops, it didn’t take me long to realize that wasn’t happening. You’ve Got Mail offered hope of a promising fairytale romance which began after meeting a faceless stranger in an internet chat room. Thereafter began my brief and dangerous love affair with virtual chat rooms. I had my share of terrible experiences and realized that in the online world everything wasn’t as perfect or safe as the movies portrayed. As an adult, when I watch my nieces online, I feel a protective urgency come over me.

I slowly began to lose hope of finding my Prince Charming when one day I watched Dil to Pagal Hai. It suddenly all became crystal clear to me. Learning how to dance would lead me to the love of my life. I had to become just like Madhuri Dixit. A famous Kathak teacher was coming to Southern California for two months and taking her class was my only hope. I begged and pleaded with my parents. My dad made a few ill-timed jokes about California being earthquake prone and my mother politely suggested alternate hobbies that did not require much grace or rhythm. But they finally gave in to my childish whims and soon I was practicing tapping my feet to “tha thayi thayi” and undulating hand movements.

I observed in dismay that the Kathak classes were going too slow and I wondered if all this foot-tapping would break into a full-fledged dance any time soon. I figured I would have to be dancing to a song and not just these random beats in order for the love story to proceed smoothly. Nothing of the sort happened of course and the lessons were aborted within six months. I was left dolefully massaging the blisters on my soles.

After watching Maine Pyar Kiya, I turned to my amused parents and asked them if we had family friends that I could visit for a vacation in India. They did! And they even had a son. But as luck would have it, before my flight even took off, their beloved son had announced that he was in love with the girl next door and by then I wasn’t into love triangles any more. So I spent my vacation falling in love….with India and its people.

Recently, Hollywood, after years of criticizing the blatant escapism showcased by the Hindi film industry, finally caved and embraced the rags-to-riches, love story of Slumdog Millionaire. While controversies over the depiction of poverty in Slumdog continue, as an American, I was more taken by the moving story which spans several years and brings us a saga where tragedy, separation, loss and hardship, are all conquered by the one relentless pursuit of love. In India, love trumps all and I felt like this film captured that spirit.

I find consolation in knowing that I wasn’t alone in my filmi craze. Cousins, friends and siblings were also influenced by the love stories in the popular movies of the time. Unrealistic expectations and dreamy romantic ideas had infiltrated their minds as well. They too have sung in the shower, practiced pick up lines in front of a mirror and danced around the room in a towel like Kajol. I remember watching as my cousins practiced the famous pose of Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic, standing on the edge of a balcony above a sea of busy city traffic amidst the beautiful symphony of random honks. Much to my delight, on one trip to India, I helped a cousin plan many a secret rendezvous with her lover. Objections of their being together by their parents didn’t stop them from eventually eloping. The rage and tragic aftermath they faced from their families caused them much grief but their ambitious first steps together set off a trend in the family. Five other elopements followed in quick succesion within the next three years. Inter-cultural, inter-religious and inter-racial marriages were becoming more common. Old barriers fell away over the years. Thanks to inspiration from the popular films of the time, stale prejudices began to dissolve, bringing together soul mates across these divisive lines.

So all in all, these filmi influences have had the power to unite, bring positive change and offer hope to all of us who wait patiently to find that one true love. In addition to the cute, comic and sometimes foolish things that films have inspired all of us to do without their influence, life, both in love and looking for love, would not be as much fun.

Ramakrishna: A Lover of God

Dr Bhaskar Dasgupta — Sun, 1 Mar 2009 10:22:23 EST

The Ramakrishna Mission has been an integral part of my growing up. My grand parents, uncles and aunts, my parents, my wider family all have been associated with this mission. And singing in front of Ma Kali and slipping into a near trance was quite common back then. While I was growing up, two things happened which are pertinent. The first related to the regular visits to the Mission in Bhopal. At that time, it was in the middle of a vast stony rocky field. A temple of calmness in the midst of a very stark landscape. And you would get a sense of peace as soon as you entered the temple grounds. The teachers over there were wonderful, they wore simple clothes and their laughter was so wonderful. A childlike wonder at the world all the time and infinite patience to deal with zillions of questions. I regret to say that I do not remember their names. Singing the bhajans and the trance like state one would enter while singing to Ma Kali, just wonderful. Even now, it brings a strange sort of peace to myself and tears to the eyes.

The second related aspect was my visit to Vivekananda Rock. If somebody asks me if I have met God, I say in the affirmative and that is one of the places I met him face to face. Strange no? So when I read this paper: Kali's child and Krishna's lover: An anatomy of Ramakrishna's Caritas Divina by Narasingha P Sil of Western Oregon University, published in Journal of Religion, 2008, I felt the tug of memories so badly. I quote the abstract:

The famous 19th-century Bengali saint Shri Ramakrishna Paramahamsa has almost universally been regarded as a Shakta (sometimes confused with Tantrika) devotee of the Mother Goddess Kali. His association with the Kali temple at Daksineshvar, in the northern suburb of Calcutta, has no doubt been a powerful argument behind his Shakta/Tantrika affiliation. This paper argues that Ramakrishna was essentially a bhakta (devotee) in the Vaisnava tradition and his cultural and family inheritance. His idea of the divine and his career and logia as a priest and a saint provide ample justification to consider him essentially a Vaisnava whose spiritual battle-cry was to demand to have dalliance with God.

The paper tries to decompose his feelings and his religious leanings by a variety of references, ranging from references to tantrik aspects to Vedanta to you name it. After reading the rather bewildering variety of references and attempts to decompose his faith, I was lost. But in the middle, the author hits on the precise nature of this wonderful man and I quote:

Nevertheless, it is important to bear in mind that Bengali folk culture essentializes simple fiducia and that Ramakrishna, an untrained and unread temple priest (although initiated into Shakti or Kali mantra by a professional priest named Kenaram Bhattacharya) cannot be pigeonholed neatly in any one sect formally. In other words, he was basically a lover of god

That is it. You really do not need a full fledged scholarly paper to know what he was, he was a lover of God. He investigated Islam and Christianity, delved into Buddhism and found that at end of the day, all paths lead to the same God. Sometimes, I think we make our relationship with God far too complicated. It is not, it is very simple. She loves us and we just need to love her back. Be like a Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, just love her.

It is very difficult to explain this feeling of wanting to be one with God or personally speaking, one with Ma (whether it be Kali or Shakti or Durga, or what have you, they are all the same) but it is an indescribable feeling and I tear up every time I experience it. But still, the article is good, if nothing else for the good discussion on tantric scriptures and practises, Vedanta and Ramakrishna’s life.

Oh!, the references are good as well.

Technorati Tags: Hinduism

Music Review: Trickbaby's Chor Bazaar

Aspi — Mon, 9 Feb 2009 00:29:24 EST

Trickbaby are an Asian fusion band who are precisely two albums old. Their first - Hanging Around - a delectable collection of amped down fusion of Punjabi and low key British house beats came out in 2004.

It was a year later that they broke big for fans in India when Rohan Sippy invited them to reboot "Sabse Bada Rupaiiya" for his movie Bluffmaster. In a CD full of highlights composed by Vishal and Shekhar, Trickbaby's composition was a standout. A few of their songs also made it into the background score - "Neelaa" (which samples Silsila's "Sar Se Sarke"), "Indi Yarn" and "Nine Parts of Desire".

One more year went by and Trickbaby did more Bollywood - composing the title track to the Fardeen-Vivek Oberoi-Esha Deol-Amrita Rao starrer "Pyare Mohan".

Now, two years later, Trickbaby have their sophomore CD - Chor Bazaar - out. And it's got its own India release on the Saregama label.

What exactly is Chor Bazaar like? It's a signature Trickbaby album, which means it's full of synth beats, seductive vocals and Indian percussion via dhols, tablas and drums. There are some clean guitar riffs - there is only selective feedback laden picking on a couple of songs to fill out the beat. The whole thing is very melodious - each song has multiple hooks that prompt sing alongs.

On "Fighter" which opens the CD, Saira talks about getting into arguments without intending to. She narrates an addiction to auctions just because she wants to win the final bid. As in all songs, she drains the emotion of the song in favor of sexy, breathless vocals. And combined with Steve Ager's smooth production - it sets the tone for the rest of the material to come.

There are twelve tracks on Chor Bazaar - two are remixes: Nine Part of Desire gets the cowboy guitar treatment and Neelaa has some minor tweaks. The other nine tracks are new songs. And while I'll let you discover the CD for yourself, there are a few worth highlighting.

On the title track, Trickbaby invite Gogol Bordello's Eugene Hutz (vocals), Sergey Ryabtzev (Violin), and Yuri Lemeshev (Accordian) to create a zany, Russian flavored tribute to India's one of a kind, dubious-goods markets. It's a bold move - perhaps even a confounding one. But it works really well because it not only captures the fervor of a chor bazaar but the Russian lyrics reflect the phoren-maal nature of the items usually found on sale.

There are plenty of genuine fusion tracks as well. Trickbaby use a clap driven percussion to power "Babu" which is sung in Hindi. "Broken Dreams" is in English and Punjabi and uses faded Bollywood influenced backup vocals.

Chor Bazaar is so groovy its well worth the wait. But next time, guys, please don't take so long between CDs.

Freedom, Pub Culture, and the Police State

Deepti Lamba — Sat, 31 Jan 2009 02:16:14 EST

When do we let the government infringe on our freedom in the name of security? Bangalore is already going down the slippery slope of becoming a police state. Prohibition will probably be knocking on our door soon enough and we will lose our right to make adult decisions if we do not protest.

The State considers us to be children who need to be kept in line. The chief minister probably believes that only the laws of the land can keep us in line. He is against the pub culture. He blames the night life for drunkard accidents.

But closing down the pubs will not stop people from getting drunk nor would the extreme step of Prohibition stop people from smuggling in alcohol and getting high. It will only make matters worse.

When a state curbs freedom, citizens find insidious ways to rebel. A couple of months ago while sitting in an empty pub on a Friday night, I complained about lack of 'happy hours' where we could leave our worries behind and dance the night away and a nearby person who eavesdropped on my conversation talked about rave parties that went on in Farm Houses.

There were places one could go to have fun. I felt like a naive twenty year old. Why was I so surprised that people had found ways to go on living the lifestyle they wanted to despite the risks posed?

I've never been in favor of rave parties. A lot can and does go wrong in rave parties. They don't provide the sense of security one enjoys in a pub and the young adults can easily be roped into the drug culture.

In places like Delhi and Mumbai, rave parties are quite common (and illegal) but then the young can choose not to go there and hit the regular pubs and discs. When the choice is not there, however, we may just be sending our young to the slaughterhouse in the name of protecting them.

Apart from rave parties, the young of Bangalore now hit the dhaabas where nasty incidents are known to happen and many have been reported. Going across the border to get drunk is a sure way of letting death hitch a ride in the backseat. Unfortunately they have become the norm since the pubs have become boring and the discs shut down.

Bangalore is a city of youth and the youth work hard and they want to party hard. Thats the way the young are. Suppression invites rebellion, its the age old teen knee jerk reaction.

Party they will but in all the wrong places and we will have only ourselves to blame.

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.

Poessay: Rosary 17 - Hemashree

temporal — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 10:29:50 EST

the hemashree whose hand
i held in palliative care
was not the one with golden body
and infectious laughter
though i could see the wrinkles
where smiles danced once
around her eyes and mouth

she was skeletal, taut skin
throaty almost shrill voice

everything is for sale babuji
some you buy with money
others you can barter
or purchase with promises
there is no person or object
that is without a price tag

ghungh'roo ho ya mangalsutra
sub kay sub hee bikao haiN ji*
said hemashree, unread, street-smart

* everyone has a price on their head

Earlier:
Poessay: Rosary 1 - Pink Sand Beach
Poessay: Rosary 2 - Fishing
Poessay: Rosary 3 - Adam and Eve Limited - I
Poessay: Rosary 4 - Adam and Eve Limited - II
Poessay: Rosary 5 - Descending
Poessay: Rosary 6 - Dinner In The Park
Poessay: Rosary 7 - Under the Jamun Tree
Poessay: Rosary 8 - Voices In The Air
Poessay: Rosary 9 - Life Rosary I
Poessay: Rosary 10 - Life Rosary II
Poessay: Rosary 11 - Creating In Isolation
Poessay: Rosary 12 - Kohled Eyes
Poessay: Rosary 13 - By the Lake
Poessay: Rosary 14 - Snow Flakes
Poessay: Rosary 15 - The Drop
Poessay: Rosary 16 - Ageless Quest - tishnagi

Poessay: Rosary 16: Ageless Quest - tishnagi

temporal — Tue, 21 Oct 2008 11:56:05 EDT

the bachcha
chasing chimera
cheerfully crisscrossed
the same rivers, plains
and mountains
- merciless sun of desert and
moonlight cascading through clouds -
trekked through rain, hail and snow
the elements failed to dampen
the mad march -
if that was the writ

a vigorous pursuit
of flickering shadows dancing
with foggy apprehensions
to nature's cascading melody
with partners in new(er) garbs
till spiritartheritis exacts halt
and the bachcha
now a somnolent bu'zurgh
is replaced / fades away

***

tishnagi

sawaalON kay ta'aq'qoob maiN
janay kitni nadiyaaN, pahaaR
ooboor kertay jatay haiN hum

kia hay who joos't'joo
sehra, maidaan, darya
dil, jig'r, dimaagh, wajood
her ik rah e safar
kay doosray paar bhee
tishnaa hee reehti hay
kya kabhi.......?

Devi Comes Home

Blokesablogin — Tue, 30 Sep 2008 00:03:17 EDT

It began with a trip to the local hardware store and we found several Tamilians looking for the same item: deck steps. What is that for?, you may ask. Well, it is time for Kolu.

While the Bengalis begin their Pujo, many of us in Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh, set up "steps" and have a dolls exhibition, many of them themed after stories from the Ramayana, Mahabharata and Shrimad Bhagavatham. The exploits of Krishna, Dashavatharam, Rama Pattabhishekham, Shiva-Parvathi, Durga-Lakshmi-Saraswathi, Ganesha, Santa Clause, Buddha, Sai Baba, every one exists in harmony, rubbing shoulders with each other, adorning the "steps". There are always odd number of steps- three, five, seven, or in some elaborate ones, nine and so on!

My Gujarati friends are gearing up for nine nights of Raas Garbha and there are several Non Profits hosting Raas Garbas as fundraisers which are jam packed. You will never feel that you are in America, given the next few days: Everyone is decked up in their Indian finery, going to temples, attending Paats, Jagarans, Raas nights and Kolus.

The weather has turned cooler reminding us that autumn is here. The tree tops are slowly turning color, getting tinged with yellow, orange and red. My Jewish friends celebrate their "New year" (Rosh Hashana) on Mahalaya Amavasya and on Vijaya Dashami, Yom Kippur.

The Kalash, symbolic of the universe, represents the Devi, during these nine days. Chanting and recitations from special texts, especially Durga Saptashati (called Chandi Paat, in the North) are part of the festivities.

The Devi is here, ready to be propitiated for the next nine days. Let us reflect upon the mysteries of the Divine Feminine. Just as we reside in our mother's womb for 9 months, these nine nights take us deeper within the spiritual realm of ourselves. This is a great time to meditate and engage in other spiritual practices such as fasting and Kirtan. Happy Navarathri!

Understanding Myself in the US

Chaitanya S — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 02:35:39 EDT

The past year in the US have made me believe I’m God. And by God, I’m not talking about my divine experiences of floating in air or walking on water by the grace of the Holy Spirit called Smirnoff. That’s a different story and hard to pen down since all my friends have a different take on that.

The cause of this godly sensation is because I have read in the Bible that 'You shall not put God to the test’. Well paying heed to the Holy book, my university did not test me with a single exam this semester. My belief in my divine abilities were confirmed when my friend heard about the situation in my school and commented in a tone of reverence, “You are in heaven, dude”. Duh, of course, you mere mortal, where else does God reside anyway!

This conversation took my mind to one of my favorite songs “stairway to heaven”. All I want to say is that if you want to take the stairway to a university in heaven like mine, I’d recommend you slog your ass off under the supervision of a “verny” devil in hell called Mumbai University for 4 years and bear the scourge called Mechanical engineering. Toss in another 3 years of working in the city and you’ve won the devil’s sympathy to be granted parole in heaven for 2 years.

“I never knew my first time would be this good”, I said as I handed the pretty blond girl some bills. She gave a smile and said “Come again” before handing me my denims, belt and shoes. I gave her one more look as I walked out of the door feeling rejuvenated. After almost 5 months of self control I needed this. The urge to resist temptation is too great for a single young man to bear. I’d made a promise to my soul before coming here that I would not indulge myself in such acts. But some pleasures come at a price and every person has to pay a price for that. For someone in a distant land, such prices are usually paid either in cash or card.

I’m not ashamed to say my friend had recommended the place to me. He said it was where students usually went to seek “solace”. As I entered and looked around, I knew it would be addictive. Everything about the place was enticing. “Retail therapy never killed anyone”, I smirked as I came out swinging my shopping bags.

I was chatting with my friend the other day and she proclaimed something on the lines of “dancing is more of a mental skill than a physical one”. Now before I contest this statement, let me clarify that I suffer from a syndrome called “dancing dyslexia”. I just cannot read the steps which are being taught. I shamelessly admit that have I fractured my ankle while learning to dance. And it wasn't even break dancing (pun intended). It was jive. The only person who showed no hint of sympathy was my dance partner. To her the “accident” was a blessing in disguise as she had already suffered sore toes because of my flat footed stomping. Also, she almost had her arm ripped off a couple of times and narrowly missed crashing into a pillar when I spun her round.

But before I dwell too much in the dark ages of my youth, back to the mental aspect of dancing. Well I believe if dancing is such a mental activity, Einstein would have been an award winning choreographer. Also, Shakira would have made an amazing physics professor. Not that you’ll ever hear a whimper of a complaint for the latter. Some purists may argue that Shakira lacks the communication skills and knowledge required to teach the subject. Such purists have definitely not attended lectures in Mumbai University then.

I’ve been here for quite a while now and have been picking up some local terminologies. Americans have a habit of saying “I’m good” akin to our “No, thank you”. For example if you are asked by a host “do you want another drink and pastry”, the polite thing to do is smile sweetly and say is “I’m good”. I know I don’t do that for such invitations, but it’s just an example.

Now in my native country, the new age national language is “Hinglish”. Whilst conversing in it, at times you have no idea whether you are conversing in English or Hindi. So saying “I’m good”, if not interpreted correctly, gets a look of scorn from the conservatives, quaking in the boots by the conformists and a whoop of joy from members of the Indian Gay Society (or whatever it’s called).

Had a kind Indian lady ask me the other day, “so beta, do you want me to help you find a nice Indian bride after your graduation”. Instinctively I gave a sweet smile and replied seconds before I saw palpitations for the first time in life, “thanks auntyji, I’m good”.

Movie Review: Bhoothnath & Desi Little Miss Sunshines

Deepti Lamba — Mon, 12 May 2008 12:39:16 EDT

Here is the thing about the much talked about movie - Bhoothnath – Amitabh Bachchan did a great role as the ghost obsessed with his house, Juhi Chawla acted well as the 'much suffering always on the move' wife, Banku was the mischievous imp and Shahrukh Khan overacted as usual, while managing to look suave in his guest appearance but it was watching little tots dressed as hip hoppers and cheerleaders or little Fergies in a song that made me shift uneasily in my seat.

Like any other parent, I am used to seeing my little daughter grab my purse, wear my sandals and act like a grown up, but if she happens to gyrate and shake her hips like Mallika Sherawat or shimmy like the cheerleaders nowadays at the IPL cricket matches, I would hang my head in shame as a parent.

But it seems this Bollywood virus is quite contagious amongst the current breed of parents. There are specific dance instructors who hold workshops where tots are taught Bollywood dance steps, wear skanky clothes and perform for the proud parents.

It seemed the audience found more reason to say Aaeeyo when Anthony, the street bum, took a swig of alcohol but no reason to blink seeing little tots do dance steps that screamed sexuality loud and clear. They seemed more offended by drunken behavior.

There is much reason for us to be disturbed if such trends are allowed to take root. We used to find little girls dressed as little Britneys to be horrific but now it’s being promoted in India as well. Where is our censor board? Where are the women organizations screaming morality and claiming this is against Indian values this time around? Is no one going to protest that we are taking away their childhoods too soon? Are we to have desi ‘Miss Little Sunshines’ soon?

For Christ sakes - eight year olds wearing torn leggings, skanky tube tops and minis that barely cover their bottoms is not okay whether in a kids movie or in adult movies.

While leaving the theater, I wondered why otherwise such a sweet movie left such a bitter taste in my mouth. Take that song out and the movie would be a pleasure to take the tots to.