Of heartbreak and weight-loss

It was a friend of mine who inadvertently put me on to this amazing discovery. Even as we were gorging on some sinful brownies available only at our secret bakery, she explained how she had been losing weight without doing a damn thing about it. And she was right. I probably hadn’t noticed because we met each other every day. But there was a definite sleekness to her once full figure. When I pestered her for a while, she finally let me on to her secret.

She said that it came as a natural side effect of heartbreak.

This set me thinking. Maybe heartbreak is another one of those all-natural weight-loss programs that just doesn’t work for me. Although I’ve had more than my fair share of heartbreaks, I’ve lost no weight whatsoever. Not a gram. I know. I check the scale each morning. And looking closely at my friend — really looking — I realized that I don’t seem to have any of the outward manifestations as well.

I still remember my first heartbreak. It was so horrible that I was repulsed by food. Every time I saw food, I became queasy. But it never showed. Not once. I became an insomniac and suffered from severe sleep deprivation for more than a year. But it never showed. Ever. I was terribly, horribly miserable from within. Even that never showed. Not even to the people closest to me.

After my second heartbreak, I slept all the time. I stayed in bed for as long as it was humanly possible to do that, without my parents dragging me to the nearest polyclinic. I was more than rested — I was over-rested. But it didn’t show. I ate well. In fact, maybe too well for my own good! Even that didn’t show. I didn’t lose any. I didn’t gain any. Weight that is.

After my third (and hopefully last!) heartbreak, I slept like a baby. Always had pleasant dreams. I ate normally and on time. I felt happy on the outside and was shocked to discover that I was mostly happy on the inside! I realized then that it was important to be in love. For the very first time in my life, I took pleasure in being in love. And for the first time, it didn’t matter whether it was reciprocated or not.

I guess I had managed to convince myself that whatever may happen, the dream is always going to be better than reality. A dream is always soothing and acts as a calming influence. While reality bites. And breaks and rips and tears apart. And doing justice to the dream seemed the most natural thing in the world. So obviously, there was no scope for weight-loss.

While I’m still almost always ecstatically in love, I can’t deny that I’m also constantly in a state of heartbreak. Because the object of my affection is much like the unicorn in that he is mythical. Just like a shiny, happy fairy tale where they always live happily ever after. Heartbreak of course needn’t always be due to a lover. It can just as easily be because of a friend with little or no heart. In my case, even that has happened. And guess what? No weight-loss!

As is amply evident, I shouldn’t sit around waiting for the ‘conventional’ heartbreak to hit me. All the people I’ve loved have been anything but conventional. They deserve more — much more — than the regular kind of yearning and tears. Having come to the conclusion that they are mostly wonderful in a bizarre kind of way, maybe it is time I made my way to the gym!

Terror Tuesday

She stood there seductively — even though she was clad in some as un-alluring as a trench coat. Her hat drooped over her eyes and her hair curled all around her. It seemed like a halo had ensconced her. But the most striking fact of all was that in her hands, she held a flashlight aimed at the stars. “Blackout Survival basics” said the big, bold headline. “It pays to be prepared!” advised the sub-head. The catalogue-like ad below peddled candles, headlights, batteries, spotlights, energizers and even regular flashlights for a popular supermarket chain — everything that a survivalist would need in a no-power scenario. And Singapore erupted in a new shopping frenzy.

Welcome to the world of crisis in efficient Singapore!

Coming as I do, from a land where blackouts for long durations are the norm rather than the exception, I viewed the reportage on the ‘Great Singapore Blackout’ with some amusement. For the past few days, my television has been bombarding me with images of people seemingly suffering through a candlelight dinner, a solitary car having crashed against a median, civil defense personnel giving errant elevators the benefit of their eagle-eye and even families strolling in parks and near community centers with red lanterns for illumination. Not even 9/11 or the recent Iraqi beheading incident I’m sure, garnered so much coverage in the national media.

I’ve read and re-read statements from the Ministry of Trade and Industry, the Energy Marketing Authority and even the Economic Development Board with incredulity, surprised that something as normal as an occasional blackout (normal to the likes of me that is) can cast aspersions on the entire nation as a viable investment destination. I read in amazement, statements by officials concerned that policy-level decisions would be taken to ensure that this is not repeated and that Singapore should probably stop relying too much on natural gas from Indonesia and Malaysia.

I’m waiting for the knee-jerk reaction from the extremely worried Indonesian and Malaysian natural gas suppliers who will land at Changi in the next available flight to ‘express concern’ over the incident and brainstorm to ensure that ‘such lapses can be avoided’. All the while getting ready to submit their tenders for liquefied natural gas and compressed gas in which, sufficient interest has already been expressed. And once the ‘careful investigations’ unmask those responsible, they will be penalized, the irresponsible pipeline disciplined and Singapore will be back to the bright and glowing-with-promise country that it is positioning itself as.

But I’m beginning to understand why the average Singaporean was so terrorized by the blackout. After all, he has enjoyed more than three decades of economic development and stability. His nation is the cynosure of all eyes in the region. His ‘government’ is proactive and responsible. And inefficiency, a much-detested (and rightly so) crime. But it hits closer home. On Terror Tuesday, when the lights went out, he, his wife and children were cowering in their cozy HDB dwelling. The microwave glowed dully from the light of the nearly done dinner. The new 24-inch LCD television set glowered by the candlelight — as miffed by the outage as by the disruption of the Euro 2004 semis viewing. The near-silent split air-conditioner fell deafeningly silent. The myriad gadgets, gizmos and security cameras lay still and lifeless. And some hapless neighbor, banged dully against the doors of the lift he was trapped in, waiting for the civil defense to extricate him. It was an occurrence enough to psyche out the best of us, don’t you think?

But what was really amusing was the ‘plight’ of my countrymen — most of who, one would think, were used to the regular-as-clockwork power outages back home. They cribbed about the ‘unbearable heat’, cursed the silent air-conditioners, and sulked when the minutes passed them by, whined long and hard and in general decried the state of affairs. As one of them put it, “I never thought this could happen in Singapore! I didn’t come all this way to see this!” Given the pitch darkness enveloping us, I was pretty amazed that he expected to see anything at all!

Anyways, in the hullabaloo about the blackout, most Singaporeans forgot their other pet paranoia — terrorism. The fact that Singapore is one of the only two ports in South East Asia that complies 100% with the rules of the International Maritime Organization is something that was relegated to the inner pages of most dailies here. So for now at least, the towering buildings near the sea face are safe.

Wonder how they’ll cope with another blackout though?

Branding — Bollywood style

By Prakup Iyer

If the attendance and the accompanying frenzy that Singapore witnessed during the recent Samsung IIFA event are any indication, Bollywood as a brand has well and truly arrived. What started off as a tongue-in-cheek reference to the better-known (and arguably more popular) Hollywood has today established a space in the minds of the global cinema viewer. A space that is defined by vibrant color, joyous song and gyrating dance — a hallmark of the Indian Entertainment Industry

But what exactly does the present-day Bollywood — with its global outreach and metrosexual image — stand for? Is it something that has evolved from the work of past masters like Satyajit Ray? Or is it the new wave of cross-cultural cinema spearheaded by the likes of Meera Nair and Gurinder Chadha? Is it lavish, utterly elaborate, musical productions like the Sanjay Leela Bhansali Devdas? Is it something that can be found in the ‘inspired’ works of Baz Luhrmann and Andrew Lloyd Weber? Or stylized renditions of universal predicaments like Mani Rathnam’s Yuva (incidentally, premiered at the IIFA)? What is the defining aspect of Bollywood today?

A strong clue is provided by the doyen Satyajit Ray in his 1948 book, “What is wrong with Indian Films”. As he says, Indian Cinema is wont to "…starting a production without adequate planning, sometimes even without a shooting script; a penchant for convolutions of plot and counter-plot rather than the strong, simple unidirectional narrative; the practice of sandwiching musical numbers in the most unlyrical situations; the habit of shooting indoors in a country which is all landscape; — all these stand in the way of the evolution of a distinctive style" The resultant exotic kitsch is still the basis for numerous productions that fill Indian Cinema halls. Ray however, wasn’t even mentioned at IIFA Singapore.

But a number of things have changed since Ray’s times. For one, the size and scope of Indian cinema has broadened. Bollywood has overtaken even the traditional master of scale — Hollywood — by strength of sheer numbers. Nearly 1000 films are made in India each year, around 200-300 of them in Hindi. Nearly 12 million Indians go to cinema theatres in India each day. Global markets have become the norm rather than the exception. And the amounts of money invested too are now significant: the biggest hit of the 1990s, Hum Aapke Hain Kaun? brought in an estimated profit of $21 million, and the most recent annual revenues for the industry are estimated at around $1.3 billion — extremely large by the standards of a poor country. A truly fitting collective experience for the citizens of the world’s largest democracy!

While the concepts, themes and content may be local, the focus is now more global than ever before. Not only do the actors and actresses look more global than ever before, the directors too have started making (and some would say laughing all the way to the bank with) films that cater predominantly to the Indian Diaspora. The United States is now responsible for some 30% of all box office collections. And markets like Canada, Malaysia, Singapore and even Japan account for a sizable amount as well. While it may seem like this is an attempt by Indian filmmakers to fit into the Hollywood paradigm, there are people who want us to believe that, it is essentially a strategy that successfully enables Bollywood to hold its own against global domination. The Indian film industry has, the argument goes, thus emerged as the most potent resistance to Hollywood imperialism — even if it be by sheer force of numbers.

This is a view that Shekhar Kapur of Oscar-nominated Elizabeth fame seems to agree with. At a press conference at IIFA Singapore last month to announce the launch of his comeback-to-Bollywood film, ‘Paani’, he spoke about reverse culturalism and how it was the turn of India to impart cinematic wisdom to the world. His was a rather tame affront, considering what Alfonso Cuaron — the Spanish Director credited with the success of the third Harry Potter film — had to say. “Hollywood is a machine, 90 percent of whose product is garbage.” He also rejected being labelled as part of Hollywood and also went so far as to declare that it was “a cultural crime to encourage Mexican filmmakers and those of other Latin American countries to produce films with the only goal of entering those markets”. Even gods among directors like Quentin Tarantino and Martin Scorsese are self-confessed Indian-Cinema lovers. Not to forget Baz ‘Moulin Rogue’ Luhrmann. Mavericks and rebels all, but this still brings us back to the crucial question… what is it that makes the Bollywood formula tick globally?

It is difficult to say really. Because in India and for Indians, cinema does not stand alone. Bollywood is a powerful and prosperous industry that encompasses a universe of music, videos, magazines and touring stage shows into which piracy and the underworld are inextricably woven. It is this unique mixture that has insulated large chunks of the Indian population from the effects of foreign media, western television programming and even the omniscient cable television. For Indians hooked to popular cinema, Bollywood films transport them to a make-believe world — a world that they know exists in their dreams. It is more real than the real world, which is why, unlike the once-dominant martial arts films from Hong Kong, they continue to command crowds.

Where now? Despite attempts to corner, critique and classify it, Indian Cinema has been resilient enough to constantly evolve new formulae, adapt to changing tastes (sometimes even setting them) and finding new markets. For the present, the Non Resident Indian seems to be the focus of all attention. The biggest names in the business are busy pandering to his taste for the nostalgic and the existential. Which is resulting in the creation of a new canvas. A showcase that is drawn selectively from Indian and other experiences, embellished with local and global settings, bridging the modern and the traditional but presented in an essentially narrative, native language of cinema. But above all this hype, a dose of realism is needed urgently. And that is: Don’t you ever believe that Hollywood with all its money, machines and magic is going to allow a reverse culturalism to take place.

Ray, if he were alive today, would have provided that reality check.

Surveillance Culture

It was not without some amusement that I glanced at the newspaper advertisement that said, “Real people. Now featured in our shop window.” Like with all good advertisements, it was the headline that caught my eye. But the body copy was altogether a different thing. Here’s a sample, reproduced in its entirety, and absolutely faithful to the original.

“Watch four men live in a sealed glass box for 15 days straight! Making its Asian debut, the award-winning Urban Dream capsule will feature the actors cooking, sleeping, shaving and even showering in public view. It is a performance as real as it is theatrical — a shower becomes slapstick gymnastics, and dinner becomes a dance. “

But the fun has just started. Not content with the fact that they are practically living their open book lives as a window display, you also have the option to fax or e-mail them at any given time of the day or night! And the best part of all is that this is something organized by the National Arts Council of Singapore in order to make Singapore an ‘Arts City’. Now who says these ministry guys don’t have a sense of humour?

Anyways, I was rudely reminded of this advertisement when the item was featured on a television channel. After the mandatory coverage and the P2C’s, the correspondent at the station had a phone-in interview with one of the members of the group. And she popped the big question… not why or even how they came-up with this crazy idea. Not even about how they felt about it or what they hoped this would achieve. She asked them if they considered this entire ‘Urban Dream Capsule’ thing voyeuristic in some way!

Beat that! Although I haven’t been in Singapore for long, if there’s one thing I have noticed, it is the omnipresence of the nifty little voyeuristic agent called the ‘camera’. It is all-pervasive, all-encompassing and all-mighty. Most traffic signals have it to ensnare speedsters. All banks and ATM machines have it in order to discourage criminal intent. Shopping malls have it as a kleptomaniac deterrent. Offices and commercial complexes have it for employee and/or visitor monitoring. Private apartments have it in-your-face to discourage salesmen from troubling their residents and supermarkets and convenience stores have it to monitor shoplifting. A recent proposal even calls for cameras to be mounted in all HDB lifts!

Nothing escapes its beady electronic gaze and if you are unfortunate enough to be from some other culture where privacy still continues to exist, you’ve had it. However, I can still come to terms with all this. After all, there are times when I’m willing to have my privacy invaded in the interests of the greater common good. But the camera has gone from being an innocuous monitoring device to a stealthy surveillance equipment. Ready to record at all times.

It’s actually a little scary when you see that it is omni-present. What looks like a mirror in the bathroom could have a camera lurking behind it. Most office corridors open into the frame of a haughty wall-mounted lens. ‘Sensitive’ areas of companies are guarded by spools of magnetic tape and security guards play peeping tom with their array of screens, focused continually on various levels, nooks and crannies of buildings. I’ve been told that the immigration lane at Changi has close to 26 cameras! Whatever for? The cross-section of a potential illegal-alien? Things have come to such a pass that my neighborhood Kopi-O vendor has an insidious Panasonic perched atop his cash counter.

You even have it on hand phones for heavens sake! Is that creepy looking man with his phone in front of him merely peering at a number on the screen? Or is he blatantly violating your personal space to capture you in tiny mega-pixels to later super-impose your face on the heaving bodies of Internet porn characters. Why does that slimy looking character in the gym need to use his phone during an undress session? Is he playing peeping tom and capturing parts of your anatomy for a drooling session with his cronies later on. The little electronic monster has enabled otherwise harmless people to become sinister roving eyes.

But maybe, just maybe, it is only me who has gotten this whole thing wrong. Considering all that I’ve said, there is the possibility that these ‘artists’ are a bunch of guys who are so bugged with the surveillance culture in Singapore that they’ve decided on an elaborate spoof. Maybe this entire living-in-a-window-display thing is an intellectual mockery of the rest of our lives. Which the cleverly hidden and sometimes camouflaged cameras monitor constantly.

Wonder when this urban dream will end?

Pain in the proverbial

Ever since I came to Singapore, a number of things about me have changed. For one thing, I have become a very orderly person. Nowadays, there is a sense of orderliness about the mess on my table. Another thing is that I have become more conscious about fitness. Everywhere I look around, I see trim, fit and healthy people enjoying themselves. A third things is that I have started saving-up some money. If there ever comes a rainy day, I have sufficient funds on my credit card to scurry into a shop and buy myself an umbrella.

But the changes have been more than just external. I have undergone drastic biological changes as well. The most prominent of these is the development of what I would like to call the ‘Gluteal assault and resultant trauma’ symptom. It is better known as the pain in the proverbial, and no. I am not referring to anyone’s spouse or children here. Many learned men of science have attributed reasons ranging from muscle problems, piriformis syndrome, sacroiliac joint restrictions and even sciatica to it. But as far as I am concerned, it is all thanks to the weight of my wallet.

Before anyone starts making preposterous assumptions about the kind of money I carry on my person, let me declare that I usually travel with little more than a couple of tenners, some small change and maybe a paper or two in my wallet. But when it comes to the number of cards I have to carry, things get a little burdensome. First of all, there is my Foreign Identity card. Whether I have to open a bank account, borrow a DVD, access government services or even fill-up a discount coupon, I need to have my FIN around. Then there is the really useful EZ-link card provided to make my usage of the public transport system hassle-free.

In order not to be left behind, my company too has benevolently given me an identity card that I need to use each time I enter or exit the office. And everybody’s friendly neighborhood DBS bank too has provided me with a nicely embossed card. Citibank chooses to announce my status as a credit customer through yet another card and the lift in my apartment block refuses to allow me access unless I flash another access card at it. Then there’s the membership card at the community center, the card issued by the Internet parlour, the DVD club membership card, the phone card I use to call overseas, another phone card of the insertable variety to make local calls and even a card that gets me a discount of 5% at the local grocery store. And finally there are my own visiting cards and those of the numerous people I meet on a daily basis. Enough cards for a full deck.

Although I must admit that I wouldn’t be carrying all these cards if they weren’t useful, I must point out that by carrying them, I am greatly increasing my chances of becoming a cripple. What started of as an annoyance to my stride has already progressed to a level where I practically hobble to and from wherever I am going. And at the rapid rate that everyone seems to be handing out cards for all occasions and purposes, the day is not far when I may move on to a more debilitating stage. My friends have often pointed out that I walk with my chest puffed. I can’t even gloat about this fact because the truth is that my chest is puffed only because the cards are weighing me down. And the only way I can continue walking like a human being is to puff my chest out to regain my natural balance!

I haven’t been able to discuss this problem with anyone. After all, who would be interested in the travails of my butt? And most of the people would anyways only look at the sickeningly positive side. About how everything is so ordered… how no one needs to carry cash around… how transactions are so simple nowadays, when compared to the days when people had to lug around tons of small change etc.

But each time I sink into a reasonably hard chair (or even a cushioned one for that matter) I am painfully reminded of my very real Gluteal assault and resultant trauma. And I would any day retain my posterior if it comes to choosing between that and convenience. Suggestions anyone?

Blame it on Nicoll

I work in a wonderful organization. First and foremost, the work is meaningful. Colleagues are bright and cheerful and the pace of work, active. Pay is decent and the creature comforts are all catered to. But if there’s one thing that rankles, it is the insistence that all employees clock-in at 9.00 am sharp.

This is one area where no delays are condoned. No excuses accepted. Never mind the fact that you practically worked through the night. You come in late, and you are fined for the delay. You come in really late and you might as well go home. The fine you’ll end up paying will be more than the wages you’ll lose for the day!

Each day, it was not uncommon to see dozens of employees gather at the gates between 8:55 and 9:00 am. Often, fights would also break-in as some slowpoke employee would have taken more than his/her fair share of time, thereby causing the unrelenting clock to cross over to 9:01. Oh! ‘A scuffle at the gates’ became more than a turn of the phrase for most of us.

One would think employees would be miffed with the management and would crib, sulk and even complain about this issue. Or, that most of them would at least try and make it a couple of minutes in advance. But I was shocked to discover that they viewed something else as the root cause of all the evil. Yes! The salary deductions pinched them. The unfairness at times hurt them. But all of them seemed to have ganged-up to collectively put the blame on the already bruised and battered — I’ll bet you never guessed — Nicoll Highway!

Take Ms. Tan for instance. Each day as she walks towards her desk, huffing and puffing, all she can do is rant and rave at the ‘betrayal’ by the Nicoll highway, which forces her bus to take a loger route, thereby resulting in a late clock-in. Or Mr. Ng for that matter. He invariably ends-up fighting with cab drivers because, according to him, they take the longest and most expensive route to work each day. As for the cab drivers, they conveniently blame the Nicoll highway. At this point, the two warring sides gang-up and together, curse, spew venom and direct their ire at the collapsed arterial. In fact, things have come to such a pass that Ms. Rafiyah has moved with bag, baggage, kids and reluctant husband in tow, to a HDB just two minutes from the office gates!

This does not seem to be restricted to my office alone. Just the other day, I happened to read a letter published in a newspaper, in response to a complaint by a commuter. The focus was on the bunching of buses on some routes, especially during peak hours. The SBS Transit official who responded apologized for the inconvenience, but in doing so, also mentioned the closure of Nicoll Highway as the reason! Never mind the fact that the bunching has been happening from long before the collapse!

Or another letter, this time by a foreign tourist, who claims that a taxi she boarded at Lucky Chinatown, took well over an hour to get to Plaza Singapura — a grand distance of 2.8 kilometers. When she asked the cabbie about the inordinate time it was taking, he shrugged and — yes you guessed right — blamed it all on Nicoll. It is an altogether different matter that she called the taxi operator to complain about being taken for a ride!

There was an instance, not so long ago, when a native Hopea Sangal tree, the last of its kind in the world, was felled by the DTZ Management Services guys as a result of the ‘mis-appreciation of the true condition of the tree’. Only when some members of the public rose in protest at the desecration did the authorities intervene to rectify the oversight. The contracting company was fined and the sculpture society roped in to sculpture the trunks with vignettes from Singapore’s history. These sculptures are displayed at Changi village, near where the mighty tree finally met its end at the callous hands of man.

Maybe it is time bits and pieces of the collapsed Nicoll Highway structure were carted away and placed prominently on a pedestal as a monument to the National scapegoat?

Conversation in a cab...

When any cabbie in Singapore, especially an old hand starts a conversation with “You new to Singapore ah?”, alarm bells start clanging in my head. For by now I have had enough experience with them to predict what’s coming next. And so far, I’ve unfortunately never been proved wrong. At the very first opportunity he gets, he will demand to know, “So, which road you want to take?”

I’m sorely tempted to retort with ‘the longest and the costliest’. But I usually ask him to take the quickest. Big mistake. For no cabbie can resist the temptation to extol the virtues of the fascinating roadways, the efficient ERP systems and the streamlined traffic. He will immediately launch into elaborate descriptions of the island’s several roadways, expressways and the toll that using them will invite, all the while whizzing through traffic, tunnels and even steep curves at a speed Schumacher would be proud to attain.

I try and squirm out of such situations with complete and stoic silence. But on one instance, probably somnolent due to the heavy nasi biryani I had just consumed, I absent-mindedly let out a ‘whatever’. The cabbie pounced at the god-given opportunity to regale me with some deep insights into the Singapore psyche.

“Nah beh! You kena whatever lah! Here, all costs money.” Then, as though to verify the authenticity of his pronouncement, he turned around to quizzically ask, “Where you from?” “India,” I offered meekly. Condescension dawned upon his features. Understanding too. “Aah! You tourist here. You can afford lah! But citizen. He kena. All is costly here in Singapore.”

I began opening my mouth to clear his misconception, but quickly thinking about the extended misery, kept it firmly shut. It never deterred him though. He continued as though nothing had happened. “Ordinary Singaporean die, die in Singapore with pockets empty. Here people come to make money. But kena spend. Must save,” he counseled. He then launched into a painstakingly elaborate description of his halcyon days as a building contractor, his struggles to own a HDB flat, the cost of education in Singapore and even found time to mull over whether he should pack-up and migrate to Perth for the good life like several of his cronies seemed to be doing.

I restricted my part of the conversation to grunts of agreement, mortally afraid that each attempted utterance would result in another tangential soliloquy. But my cabbie couldn’t have cared less. On and on he went speaking about the unfairness of it all. The long hours, the prohibitive cost of living, the lousy economic scenario… nothing was spared from his recitation of woes.

By now I had had enough. Although my destination was another kilometer away, I was ready to get out of the whizzing cab then and there. I was literally suffering under the might of his talkativeness. Claustrophobia seemed to be setting in and I desperately looked out of the window for some means of escape. And then I spotted a coffee shop. Tucked away at the foot of a corner building, and happily for me, almost empty.

“Please drop me here,” I pleaded, managing to get my words out in the midst of his verbal barrage. He stopped talking, peered into the rear view mirror, and accomplished a feat of parallel parking with such élan as to make stuntmen proud. But I didn’t have the time or the inclination to admire his handiwork. Although the digital meter said 4:85, I fished out a fiver and thrust it into his hands before stumbling out of the air-conditioned cab and into the heat of the midday sun.

What a relief! Although it was unbearably hot, the heat seemed more bearable than the constant drone of my cabby’s voice. I stood there for scarcely a moment. Then I dived under the protective shade of a parasol and ordered a chilled glass of Red Bull. A man needed to recoup his energy after that ordeal!

Scarcely had I paid for my drink than who should I see before me, but my cabbie! I sputtered over the drink even as he stood before me, grinning widely. Extending his hand, he dropped 15 cents into my palm saying, “You forget your change lah!” He then turned around quickly, walked over to a faraway table and proceeded to eat the biggest, fanciest meal I have seen any human being consume in one sitting.

Wonder how much he paid for that hearty claypot fare?

Modern Art. While pursuing my masters in communication from the University of Hyderabad, I had the opportunity to interact with a number of students of Fine Arts. Most of them were very skilled. All of them were dedicated. They spent long hours poring over their scrap books, easels and etchings creating stuff.

Whenever I had the time and the inclination, I would go sit beside them and view the work. Believe me, a load of effort went into those works. They would slog day and night. In fact, they were the only people who had access to theeir classrooms at night. Because their work demamnded that sort of access.

Once a month, they would have an exhibition of sorts, where all the work produced over the previous month would be displayed for the benefit of whoever was interested. I often when to these exhibitions. And I must confess now, that I was mostly dissapointed.

Call it my ignorance or term it the lack of a faculty to understand 'art' but to me any art must be recognisable. I may be neo classicist in my taste, but when I see human beings, they must look like human beings that I have so far had the opportunity to see. Not blotches of paint that are termed humans.

When I am told I am looking at a flower or a petal, I must immediately grasp that I am seeing what the artist has seen and therefore captured on canvas. Often I get to see some reptile morphing into the torso of a woman that is merely titled 'Petal' and displayed. Others seem to catch the essence, the hidden meaning, but I am often left clueless.

I have tried to derive some meaning from the so-called works of modern art by talking with a number of artists at the school. To them it is clear, and a manifestation of the essence of comprehension. As they see it. But to me, any method of communication must do that, namely communicate. Of what use is art, if someone has to stand beside it explaining what it is meant to be. And more often than not, it hardly seems like that even after all explanation.

To me, most modern art seems like childish scribblings with paint daubed all over the canvas. I don't intend to demean the capabilities of the artists. They can create some pretty lifelike drawings and paintings when they want to. Somehow, and for reasons best known to them, they 'choose' not to.

What sparked all this off is an article I had the opportunity to read in the India Today. This pertained to how the western world was finally beginning to accord the indian artists with their true worth. Tyeb had sold his painting for 317,000 dollars! And believe me, I honestly felt from the look of it, that my landlady's 5 year old daughter could very well have been the artist!!

The description said that the painting represented the fractured dancing steps of a group of tribals dancing their traditional dance. Frankly, it seemed like an unfinished work that had no faces, no limbs. Just colourful figures swathed in romanesque togas drawn from differing geometric perspectives.

Another one (I cannot recall the name of the artist) was even worse. It was a red canvas with blotches of yellow dimly visible in places. And some rich individual had thought it worthy of paying a couple of hundred thousand dollars for it! Seriously!!

I still don't see what the big deal is.