Recently, in Melbourne I watched a wonderful production of Richard III. It was set in a corporate environment, complete with laptops and messages on cell phone. It was a gripping production, filled with venom humour and, of course, lots of blood and betrayal. It opens with Richard’s soliloquy: ‘This is the winter of our discontent…’ And ends with ‘My kingdom for a horse…’
As I have said before, there is something everlasting about Shakespeare. He wouldn’t at all be out of place in India today. ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat; and we must take the current when it serves, Or Lose our Ventures’. (Julius Caesar). I’m sure our politicians must remember these lines as they push out their boats into the sea of absolute power.
I can well imagine what’s happening in Sonia-ji’s residence at this very moment. She’s turning to her chamchas and saying: ‘Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have immortal longings in me’. (Anthony & Cleopatra).
And while she prepares, we see her party man himself in the wings, Mr P.C ‘ whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath rides on the posting winds, and doth belie All corners of the world’. (Cymbeline). And surely, Sonia-ji must admit about her man, the PM: ‘An ill-favoured thing, sir, but mine own.’ (As You Like it).
I thought old Will had a kind word for Mayawati too : ‘There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass’. (King Lear). And I guess we can apply that to all the politicians who swore undying allegiance to one party on the 7 o’clock news and switched sides by the 8 o’clock news swearing with equal fervour for the opposition. I suppose he would say of our political leaders: ‘Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile: Filth savour but themselves.’ (KL).
Unfortunately, our politicians can’t boast: ‘A jewel in a ten-times-barr’d-up chest is a bold spirit in a loyal breast. Mine honour is my life; both grow in one; Take honour from me, and my life is done.’ If this were the oath of loyalty to be taken by our politicians, I fear they’d all have to impale themselves on their party flags or drown in their money chests. Of course they wouldn’t dream of uttering such dangerous words. On second thoughts they would, as words mean little to them.
Most of them would be able to say with full truthfulness: ‘And thus I clothe my naked villainy with old odd ends stolen out of holy writ; And seem a saint, when most I play the devil’, (Richard III).
On leaving his office as Minister of State in the Foreign Office and brooding over his resignation letter, pen in hand, our Shashi Tharoor must have thought to himself: ‘Is this is a dagger (or twitter) which I see before me, the handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feeling as to sight? Or art thou but a twitter of the mind, a false creation, proceeding from the heat oppressed brain?’ (Macbeth).
While those of us one billion-odd who watch from the sidelines can only say: ‘All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players, they have their exits and their entrances…’ and the speech finally ends: ‘ Last scene of all, that ends this strange history, is second childishness and mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.'’(As You like it).
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
DRIVING IN THE INDIAN JUNGLE
Mastering the laws of the Indian Jungle.
I picked up my friend, Mark, from the airport the other day. He had never visited India before and he was so keen to explore this incredible country.
‘I want to rent a car and drive,’ he said immediately. ‘That’s what I always do when I visit a new country. Which side do you drive on?’
‘Whichever side you like.’
‘In the UK and Australia you drive on the left, Europe and America the right. So which side in India?’
‘Both sides, right side and left side’ I repeated. ‘It depends on your mood. Now, look ahead. What do you see?’
‘A short traffic jam.’
‘No problem.’ I swung into the right lane. Oncoming traffic swerved away and allowed me a free passage. Mark cringed and looked back, a dozen cars were following me. ‘If there is a vacant lane, it’s your right to fill it up. You see what I’ve done – I’ve over taken four cars waiting stupidly in the left lane. Buses and trucks drive in the centre of the road, so you can’t over take. This is a free country and we have the freedom to drive the way we want to.’
I swung back into the left lane when the right lane blocked my passage. Ahead of us were traffic lights, the world familiar red, orange and green. As it was turning red, I drove right through.
‘Don’t you stop for lights?’
‘You kidding. If you stop for a light the cars behind you will crash into you. Just keep going. They don’t expect you to stop or slow down for any reason, including hitting a pedestrian or a cow. And never ever stop at a zebra crossing for a pedestrian. You’re condemning him or her to death as cars, buses and motor bikes on either side of you will just keep going.’
‘But where do pedestrians walk?’ He was looking out at very narrow strips of raised broken ledges on either side of the road. ‘I don’t see any pavements or sidewalks. In my country, they are given a lot of space.’
‘Not in India, as they waste valuable road space. See, in India, our politicians might make big speeches on the common man to get his votes but they don’t believe he has any right to a pavement. All the road space is reserved for us middle class in our big shiny new cars and I’d say 90 per cent of the owners have never even seen the inside of a polling booth.’
Reluctantly I stopped for a traffic light behind a car in the right side of the left lane. ‘Now you see that car in front. When the lights change he will turn left. And that bus on the far left of our lane is going to turn right. So while the two drivers disentangle themselves, the lights will change and we will still be sitting here. One of the great joys of driving here is to psychically try to figure out what the driver in front is going to do.’
I saw how nervous he was as a two wheeler missed us by inches. ‘Two wheelers are free to do whatever they want. It’s in the Indian constitution that they can jump lights, swerve into incoming traffic, squeeze in between two cars and if there is enough space when you stop at a traffic light they have the right to inch past you sideways so they’re a foot ahead of you.’
‘I notice you don’t have any rear view mirrors,’ he said quietly. ‘What about the traffic behind? In Europe you can be fined if you…’
‘The first lesson you learn is pay attention only to the front of your car. Never ever look in the rear view mirror, as you’ll have a nervous breakdown and turn to stone.’
I picked up my friend, Mark, from the airport the other day. He had never visited India before and he was so keen to explore this incredible country.
‘I want to rent a car and drive,’ he said immediately. ‘That’s what I always do when I visit a new country. Which side do you drive on?’
‘Whichever side you like.’
‘In the UK and Australia you drive on the left, Europe and America the right. So which side in India?’
‘Both sides, right side and left side’ I repeated. ‘It depends on your mood. Now, look ahead. What do you see?’
‘A short traffic jam.’
‘No problem.’ I swung into the right lane. Oncoming traffic swerved away and allowed me a free passage. Mark cringed and looked back, a dozen cars were following me. ‘If there is a vacant lane, it’s your right to fill it up. You see what I’ve done – I’ve over taken four cars waiting stupidly in the left lane. Buses and trucks drive in the centre of the road, so you can’t over take. This is a free country and we have the freedom to drive the way we want to.’
I swung back into the left lane when the right lane blocked my passage. Ahead of us were traffic lights, the world familiar red, orange and green. As it was turning red, I drove right through.
‘Don’t you stop for lights?’
‘You kidding. If you stop for a light the cars behind you will crash into you. Just keep going. They don’t expect you to stop or slow down for any reason, including hitting a pedestrian or a cow. And never ever stop at a zebra crossing for a pedestrian. You’re condemning him or her to death as cars, buses and motor bikes on either side of you will just keep going.’
‘But where do pedestrians walk?’ He was looking out at very narrow strips of raised broken ledges on either side of the road. ‘I don’t see any pavements or sidewalks. In my country, they are given a lot of space.’
‘Not in India, as they waste valuable road space. See, in India, our politicians might make big speeches on the common man to get his votes but they don’t believe he has any right to a pavement. All the road space is reserved for us middle class in our big shiny new cars and I’d say 90 per cent of the owners have never even seen the inside of a polling booth.’
Reluctantly I stopped for a traffic light behind a car in the right side of the left lane. ‘Now you see that car in front. When the lights change he will turn left. And that bus on the far left of our lane is going to turn right. So while the two drivers disentangle themselves, the lights will change and we will still be sitting here. One of the great joys of driving here is to psychically try to figure out what the driver in front is going to do.’
I saw how nervous he was as a two wheeler missed us by inches. ‘Two wheelers are free to do whatever they want. It’s in the Indian constitution that they can jump lights, swerve into incoming traffic, squeeze in between two cars and if there is enough space when you stop at a traffic light they have the right to inch past you sideways so they’re a foot ahead of you.’
‘I notice you don’t have any rear view mirrors,’ he said quietly. ‘What about the traffic behind? In Europe you can be fined if you…’
‘The first lesson you learn is pay attention only to the front of your car. Never ever look in the rear view mirror, as you’ll have a nervous breakdown and turn to stone.’
Sunday, February 14, 2010
sex clinic experiences
Recently, I found myself living next door to Tiger Woods in the world famous F------D sex clinic, in Arizona. We were undergoing treatment for our addiction. He had a suite; I had a room, as I couldn’t afford those kinds of prices. On the other side of me was the England football captain, John Terry. We met only when we were allowed out of our luxurious quarters for our daily treatments. Tiger and Terry would hang out together in the hall, exchanging notes and cell phone numbers. As I had no notes or phone numbers worth their great talents, they excluded me from these intimate moments. As I had yet to start treatment for my addiction, I thought I should find out what happened in their therapy.
They were wary of this newcomer as they didn’t recognize me from the thousands of my photographs. Admittedly, their faces were seen in newspapers, magazines, online and on television. Mine were all in the family album.
‘So, guys, tell me what happens in therapy? Does the doctor show you a photograph of a beautiful girl and when you react to her you get zapped with a few heavy volts?’
‘What do you think we look like?’ Tiger growled. ‘We’re not mice or Pavlov dogs. I’m a tiger.’
‘Yah mate,’ Terry snapped. ‘Photographs may do things for you but does zip for guys like us. We get to see the real stuff, y’know, live, beautiful women to test our self-control. Nude too. And if we pass the test I get a pint of Fosters as a reward.’
‘What happens if, y’know, you don’t pass the test and make a grab for her?’ I riposted. ‘You get zapped or strapped down? Do they, y’know’ attach electrodes to your brain and delete nude women from the memory banks?’
‘You read too many comic books,’ Tiger said. ‘I dunno about Terry but everyone knows I’m a control freak so I have pretty good control when they show me these women. I think about a long putt on the 18th hole…’ His eyes went a bit dreamy and he chewed his finger nails.
Terry studied me, up and down. ‘You sure don’t look like a jock to me. I mean you’re kinda old, not too fit and what’s your sport mate? Marbles? I didn’t know women went crazy over that game.’
‘I’m a writer…’
‘Writer!!!’ They both fell over laughing. ‘Which woman would throw herself at a writer?’
‘Hey,’ I defended myself. ‘When I walk down the street hundreds of women throw themselves at me. Okay, 99 miss and I may be hit by the 100th. But writers were up there once with you guys. Hemingway, Norman Mailer, Proust, Sartre had women thrown themselves at them. They fought them off with their fountain pens, typewriters and pencils.’
Tiger being the only one who had read a book, said. ‘Those guys are dead and gone. Times change. Now a days the chicks throw themselves at jocks. The more money you make, the more famous you get, the more they fall on you like confetti at a wedding.’
‘More under you, Tiger,’ Terry laughed. ‘Hey, then we get blamed. What did we do? Tiger plays golf, I football. We’re minding our own business when …wham.. a thousand chicks hit on you. We’re only human, y’know. Why are we blamed? No one says anything when Warren Beatty sleeps with 12,000 women or when Mick Jagger makes out with 9,000.’
‘It’s all their fault,’ Tiger says mournfully. ‘Back in those days the women wouldn’t admit they screwed around with famous jocks.’ He glanced at me. ‘Or writers. I mean they kept it quiet for their diaries. Now, they sell their stories to the National Enquirer for a million bucks. There’s no integrity left in the world.’
They were wary of this newcomer as they didn’t recognize me from the thousands of my photographs. Admittedly, their faces were seen in newspapers, magazines, online and on television. Mine were all in the family album.
‘So, guys, tell me what happens in therapy? Does the doctor show you a photograph of a beautiful girl and when you react to her you get zapped with a few heavy volts?’
‘What do you think we look like?’ Tiger growled. ‘We’re not mice or Pavlov dogs. I’m a tiger.’
‘Yah mate,’ Terry snapped. ‘Photographs may do things for you but does zip for guys like us. We get to see the real stuff, y’know, live, beautiful women to test our self-control. Nude too. And if we pass the test I get a pint of Fosters as a reward.’
‘What happens if, y’know, you don’t pass the test and make a grab for her?’ I riposted. ‘You get zapped or strapped down? Do they, y’know’ attach electrodes to your brain and delete nude women from the memory banks?’
‘You read too many comic books,’ Tiger said. ‘I dunno about Terry but everyone knows I’m a control freak so I have pretty good control when they show me these women. I think about a long putt on the 18th hole…’ His eyes went a bit dreamy and he chewed his finger nails.
Terry studied me, up and down. ‘You sure don’t look like a jock to me. I mean you’re kinda old, not too fit and what’s your sport mate? Marbles? I didn’t know women went crazy over that game.’
‘I’m a writer…’
‘Writer!!!’ They both fell over laughing. ‘Which woman would throw herself at a writer?’
‘Hey,’ I defended myself. ‘When I walk down the street hundreds of women throw themselves at me. Okay, 99 miss and I may be hit by the 100th. But writers were up there once with you guys. Hemingway, Norman Mailer, Proust, Sartre had women thrown themselves at them. They fought them off with their fountain pens, typewriters and pencils.’
Tiger being the only one who had read a book, said. ‘Those guys are dead and gone. Times change. Now a days the chicks throw themselves at jocks. The more money you make, the more famous you get, the more they fall on you like confetti at a wedding.’
‘More under you, Tiger,’ Terry laughed. ‘Hey, then we get blamed. What did we do? Tiger plays golf, I football. We’re minding our own business when …wham.. a thousand chicks hit on you. We’re only human, y’know. Why are we blamed? No one says anything when Warren Beatty sleeps with 12,000 women or when Mick Jagger makes out with 9,000.’
‘It’s all their fault,’ Tiger says mournfully. ‘Back in those days the women wouldn’t admit they screwed around with famous jocks.’ He glanced at me. ‘Or writers. I mean they kept it quiet for their diaries. Now, they sell their stories to the National Enquirer for a million bucks. There’s no integrity left in the world.’
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