मेरा एक घर था घरोंदा था आशिअना था
बड़ा छोटा था और बेहद पुराना था
अब रेत के किले में बैठ कर याद करता हूँ
वो बारिश कि बूँदें
वो चीटियों जैसी गाड़ियों कि कतारें
कोई किसी जल्दी में नहीं
सबको ये यकीन कि पह्नुचेंगी कहीं
मैं चाहता था तेज़ रफ्तार
तेज़ ज़िंदगी, तेज़ और तेज़
अब उस तेज़ी में गिरफ्तार
याद करता हूँ वो धीरी पकती दल
पड़ा था जिसमें सालों का प्यार
वह हस्ती सुबह वह झिलमिल दोपहर
यहाँ बस तेज़ रौशनी है
बदन कटती धुप दिल चीरती हवाएं
सब धोके का सहारा लेते हैं
झूटी सर्द से घरों को ठंडा करते हैं
फिर भी दिल जलते हैं
रेत का क्या पता, कुछ ठोस नहीं होता
बंजर ज़मीन पर बंजर सुनसान इमारतें
इमारतें हैं घर नहीं हैं
मेरी खिड़की से दिखती ज़िंदगी
बिकती बनती बिगड़ती पा इन्दगी
शीशे से सब कितना दूर सा लगता है
या दिखता है अपनी ज़िंदगी का अक्स
ये चुब्ती है वो नर्म कितनी थी
ये रेत है और वो मिटटी थी
Friday, February 8, 2008
Friday, November 16, 2007
Gogurgaon.com
As you drive into Gurgaon, concrete fists start appearing in a straight line. Its as if you are seeing a 3d X-ray of a patients spine. Or a communist rally against the mass industrialization of the city.
Dust clouds are everywhere, the familiar whirring of jackhammers and pneumatic drills have replaced the chirping of birds or the barking of dogs.
I am in Gurgaon to attend a convention for our company. I see BPO bound Qualis' driving data crunching dilettante's to their destiny. Packed like peas they share sandwiches, smokes and yes even shawls. It is a strange camaraderie borne out of despair.
Gurgaon is the mecca of materialistic bliss, the page 3 celeb of India's achievement story. Here apartment complexes rub shoulders with malls and multiplexes, brushing away the small hutments that appear like a rash in between.
I see a few rickshaws( adult tricycle's used for transport if I can call them) in the midst of a sea of cars, buses, autos, cabs. They take my mind to a story I read a while back. Some months ago a gang of Gurgaon killers, whose parents had sold their tracts of farmland and drunk away the money. These young men were uneducated, unemployed and the stillness of their life in the midst of the bustling pace of Gurgaon had jolted them to action. They found a pastime that gave them potency and power. They drove cabs and murdered unsuspecting passengers. The first for 40 rupees!! 17 murders later they languish in jail. Perhaps content in the certainty of an end to their story. They will either hang or get life imprisonment. Their families since the discovery of their deeds have disowned them, but destiny had disowned them long before.
My friends in Bombay often nervously joke of how beggars have graduated from requests to threats, from gestures to noisy assaults on your window, from cupped hands to ring clad fingers clenched into fists rapping an incessant beat till you relent. The conversation ends with similar thoughts: will they soon just block your way to demand their keep. How long before the marginalized stand at the gates of mecca?
Soon the metro will run smoothly over the elevated MRT tracks, erasing the erratic bumps on the road. The dust clouds will settle and many more will flock to the land of opportunity.
As I gaze out of my car I see a rickshaw that leisurely makes its way to a nearby market. I am sure they too will disappear of the roads soon, bowing to the demands of a nation racing against time to save the rest of the world some time. Below the rickshaw is an advertisement dulled and scratched: Moving houses contact "gogurgaon.com "
Dust clouds are everywhere, the familiar whirring of jackhammers and pneumatic drills have replaced the chirping of birds or the barking of dogs.
I am in Gurgaon to attend a convention for our company. I see BPO bound Qualis' driving data crunching dilettante's to their destiny. Packed like peas they share sandwiches, smokes and yes even shawls. It is a strange camaraderie borne out of despair.
Gurgaon is the mecca of materialistic bliss, the page 3 celeb of India's achievement story. Here apartment complexes rub shoulders with malls and multiplexes, brushing away the small hutments that appear like a rash in between.
I see a few rickshaws( adult tricycle's used for transport if I can call them) in the midst of a sea of cars, buses, autos, cabs. They take my mind to a story I read a while back. Some months ago a gang of Gurgaon killers, whose parents had sold their tracts of farmland and drunk away the money. These young men were uneducated, unemployed and the stillness of their life in the midst of the bustling pace of Gurgaon had jolted them to action. They found a pastime that gave them potency and power. They drove cabs and murdered unsuspecting passengers. The first for 40 rupees!! 17 murders later they languish in jail. Perhaps content in the certainty of an end to their story. They will either hang or get life imprisonment. Their families since the discovery of their deeds have disowned them, but destiny had disowned them long before.
My friends in Bombay often nervously joke of how beggars have graduated from requests to threats, from gestures to noisy assaults on your window, from cupped hands to ring clad fingers clenched into fists rapping an incessant beat till you relent. The conversation ends with similar thoughts: will they soon just block your way to demand their keep. How long before the marginalized stand at the gates of mecca?
Soon the metro will run smoothly over the elevated MRT tracks, erasing the erratic bumps on the road. The dust clouds will settle and many more will flock to the land of opportunity.
As I gaze out of my car I see a rickshaw that leisurely makes its way to a nearby market. I am sure they too will disappear of the roads soon, bowing to the demands of a nation racing against time to save the rest of the world some time. Below the rickshaw is an advertisement dulled and scratched: Moving houses contact "gogurgaon.com "
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Chak De Disc 2
My dear friend in Australia, Mitu was kind enough to send me a DVD of Chak De through its director Shimit Amin. I met Shimit (a woody allenesque man). Got him to autograph a copy!
I was so excited to watch it that I bought an HDMI cable and linked the projector. My 5 year old son who has seen the movie twice jumped with joy at every goal India scored. We hugged like it was all happening infront of our eyes. I need to thank Shimit for the many hugs and innocent kisses I got because I could tell who would score next in the film!!
I then saw DISC 2 the extra's. DO NOT MISS THESE!! There are gems in the deleted scenes and many stories that never unfolded on the real screen. Like the taming of the dreaded 3 senior players, which makes the dahi chawal reference so much more significant! The Antakshari session, the Aliya Bose playing truant piece, Nethra meeting her dad the groundsman! But most of all what touched me was the Gul Iqbal story.
The famous parent tag which she has to get rid of!! With the Germany-India semi final. A thriller that ends with a penalty shot in the last 2 minutes of the game.
I messaged Shimit saying he needs to amke a directors cut, what he wanted. I don't know if he ever will. Please see the second disc. The interviews are fun but I can tell you the real thrill is in reliving the whole process of the two years it took to make the movie, the casting the rehearsals etc. WOW what inspiration.
Everyone has a movie inside. I have many stories but still wait for my movie to shake me up!! For my muse to whisper the narrative one night to me. To awaken charged with the unshakeable belief that I must do it NOW!!
All this business of the discs set me thinking. About our lives and Disc 1 that plays out each day for all to see, neatly edited. While Disc 2 stays hidden somewhere. With all our extra's. The fight you had at home in the morning, the barb someone made to you about success, the poem you learnt in class 1, the dirty song you used to sing in college, the one hidden road you know to nowhere in particular, the job you almost took, the rbonze medal you won.
Keep an eye on your own disc 2, share it with people sometime. They will know you better!
I was so excited to watch it that I bought an HDMI cable and linked the projector. My 5 year old son who has seen the movie twice jumped with joy at every goal India scored. We hugged like it was all happening infront of our eyes. I need to thank Shimit for the many hugs and innocent kisses I got because I could tell who would score next in the film!!
I then saw DISC 2 the extra's. DO NOT MISS THESE!! There are gems in the deleted scenes and many stories that never unfolded on the real screen. Like the taming of the dreaded 3 senior players, which makes the dahi chawal reference so much more significant! The Antakshari session, the Aliya Bose playing truant piece, Nethra meeting her dad the groundsman! But most of all what touched me was the Gul Iqbal story.
The famous parent tag which she has to get rid of!! With the Germany-India semi final. A thriller that ends with a penalty shot in the last 2 minutes of the game.
I messaged Shimit saying he needs to amke a directors cut, what he wanted. I don't know if he ever will. Please see the second disc. The interviews are fun but I can tell you the real thrill is in reliving the whole process of the two years it took to make the movie, the casting the rehearsals etc. WOW what inspiration.
Everyone has a movie inside. I have many stories but still wait for my movie to shake me up!! For my muse to whisper the narrative one night to me. To awaken charged with the unshakeable belief that I must do it NOW!!
All this business of the discs set me thinking. About our lives and Disc 1 that plays out each day for all to see, neatly edited. While Disc 2 stays hidden somewhere. With all our extra's. The fight you had at home in the morning, the barb someone made to you about success, the poem you learnt in class 1, the dirty song you used to sing in college, the one hidden road you know to nowhere in particular, the job you almost took, the rbonze medal you won.
Keep an eye on your own disc 2, share it with people sometime. They will know you better!
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Spinning around
The class is filled with a variety of people. Some body shapes distinctly have never been to a gym before. A few look toned and gladiatorial. They could walk out of the spinning class and straight to a Miss India contest.
In the midst of this I stand a new initiate. The music blares I am on a stationary cycle. As the beats thump thump a steady rhythm I look around and see sweaty bodies dripping the sins of yesterday's chocolate mouse, or the ghee dolloped biryani.
After 45 minutes I am light headed; possibly I would have been in Bandra by now if I had cycled. But here I am attempting a new world record in spin cycling, my wife who has just had a baby 3 months ago, smiles at me in encouragement. Through the sweaty haze I look around. The man next to me seems so desperate for company that he makes every attempt to talk, to me, the petite girl across from him , another person who has missed a class before, perhaps this is as much a social outing for him as an exercise regimen.
A housewife who has suddenly woken up to her reality pedals across furiously. Furious at herself for just letting it all go, furious at her husband for not having enough time, furious at life having given her the short shrift.
A super well built amazonian who is scared she is becoming too muscular, a merchandiser counting shipments and orders along with calories.
In the light headedness I see a vision, of life in Mumbai. Everyone furiously pedaling, their wares and goods. Sweating profusely yet maintaining the perfect look. And in the end still at the same place where they started.
My vision clouds further, I am in a park in Lucknow, grass unmowed for kilometres, my father taking an unhurried walk. People exchanging greetings, sharing newspapers, some leisurely doing yoga. Mostly the people are old, time is for them a throwaway commodity, a few young girls accompany their parents, their frenetic pace is in keeping with our time, a few college graduates with degrees and no jobs hang around playing romeo to these mobile Juliet's.
1,2,1,2,1,2,1,2 the trainer exhorts.
That's what we are, singles and couples, singles and couples...
1,2,1,2,1,2,1,2 he barks
Divorce rates are up, uncoupled singles are copulating with new partners!!
And suddenly the class is up!
I would have been in Mahabaleshwar by now!! With a cool breeze in my hair. I could have stopped on the roadside and had a hot cup of sweetened tea. An odd shaped stone would have bounced across the road. Some cows would have brushed against my cycle.
The air conditioned sweat drips down my brow. A hand towel shakes me back to reality. And as I leave class I cannot help but gaze at the slim mobile phone in the hand of the obese man running on the treadmill as he negotiates his stocks and shares through the dizzying sensex.
In the midst of this I stand a new initiate. The music blares I am on a stationary cycle. As the beats thump thump a steady rhythm I look around and see sweaty bodies dripping the sins of yesterday's chocolate mouse, or the ghee dolloped biryani.
After 45 minutes I am light headed; possibly I would have been in Bandra by now if I had cycled. But here I am attempting a new world record in spin cycling, my wife who has just had a baby 3 months ago, smiles at me in encouragement. Through the sweaty haze I look around. The man next to me seems so desperate for company that he makes every attempt to talk, to me, the petite girl across from him , another person who has missed a class before, perhaps this is as much a social outing for him as an exercise regimen.
A housewife who has suddenly woken up to her reality pedals across furiously. Furious at herself for just letting it all go, furious at her husband for not having enough time, furious at life having given her the short shrift.
A super well built amazonian who is scared she is becoming too muscular, a merchandiser counting shipments and orders along with calories.
In the light headedness I see a vision, of life in Mumbai. Everyone furiously pedaling, their wares and goods. Sweating profusely yet maintaining the perfect look. And in the end still at the same place where they started.
My vision clouds further, I am in a park in Lucknow, grass unmowed for kilometres, my father taking an unhurried walk. People exchanging greetings, sharing newspapers, some leisurely doing yoga. Mostly the people are old, time is for them a throwaway commodity, a few young girls accompany their parents, their frenetic pace is in keeping with our time, a few college graduates with degrees and no jobs hang around playing romeo to these mobile Juliet's.
1,2,1,2,1,2,1,2 the trainer exhorts.
That's what we are, singles and couples, singles and couples...
1,2,1,2,1,2,1,2 he barks
Divorce rates are up, uncoupled singles are copulating with new partners!!
And suddenly the class is up!
I would have been in Mahabaleshwar by now!! With a cool breeze in my hair. I could have stopped on the roadside and had a hot cup of sweetened tea. An odd shaped stone would have bounced across the road. Some cows would have brushed against my cycle.
The air conditioned sweat drips down my brow. A hand towel shakes me back to reality. And as I leave class I cannot help but gaze at the slim mobile phone in the hand of the obese man running on the treadmill as he negotiates his stocks and shares through the dizzying sensex.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Mobile Mantra
Its 10 past 10, you remember the meeting was at a quarter to and then panic strikes: What will one say!! Imagine coming face to face with the grumbling MD, this was an important one. And out you whip your mobile messiah, lies that lie close at hand. Stuck in traffic, was unable to get through, bad signal area!! Absolution and that too anonymously. Mobiles have not only given us instant communication but instant communion and confessional as well.
What if mobiles could talk to each other. Share the true thoughts of their owners. The millions who have no fingerprints left and no conscience.
SMS: Grt party last night (Mobile: Yup he smsd 30 ppl about the bad food!)
SMS: Sorry not too well going to bed early (The wife’s just offered him sex after a decade !)
SMS: Stuck in traffic (Still at home)
SMS: Lets catch up soon!! (don’t want to see you in a hurry)
SMS: Can we delay by 15 minutes (The presentation is still not ready)
SMS: What are u up to ?? (I’m bored with my lunch date/my work/ my life)
Could we do all this face to face, or have mobiles helped in removing our conscience as well. How many times has truthfulness, been replaced by 160 characters of pulp fiction. I once had a colleague who even found a novel way of sending sympathetic messages of self pity to dear friends that unfortunately made there way to me her bosses phone! If her phone had a conscience it would have died on her. I have classified my mobile friends into categories.
Forwarding friends: The ones who have the maximum spare time on there hands! Either they are out of work or out of whack or disguised employees of mobile companies!!
Spelling bees: D 1 who kild d dctnry
Hindi homelands: Zinke msg bhasha ki instant khicdi karte hoon aur grammar ka bhi!
Below jobs: The blackberry keyboard texters under the rim of meeting tables!
Perpetual procrastinators: I’ll get back to u!
There are many more but let this not dissuade my friends from sending me congratulatory messages on this column!
Beep beep : Oops that’s my mobile! Kindly pay ur bill by today or phone will be disconnected
Got to go!!
What if mobiles could talk to each other. Share the true thoughts of their owners. The millions who have no fingerprints left and no conscience.
SMS: Grt party last night (Mobile: Yup he smsd 30 ppl about the bad food!)
SMS: Sorry not too well going to bed early (The wife’s just offered him sex after a decade !)
SMS: Stuck in traffic (Still at home)
SMS: Lets catch up soon!! (don’t want to see you in a hurry)
SMS: Can we delay by 15 minutes (The presentation is still not ready)
SMS: What are u up to ?? (I’m bored with my lunch date/my work/ my life)
Could we do all this face to face, or have mobiles helped in removing our conscience as well. How many times has truthfulness, been replaced by 160 characters of pulp fiction. I once had a colleague who even found a novel way of sending sympathetic messages of self pity to dear friends that unfortunately made there way to me her bosses phone! If her phone had a conscience it would have died on her. I have classified my mobile friends into categories.
Forwarding friends: The ones who have the maximum spare time on there hands! Either they are out of work or out of whack or disguised employees of mobile companies!!
Spelling bees: D 1 who kild d dctnry
Hindi homelands: Zinke msg bhasha ki instant khicdi karte hoon aur grammar ka bhi!
Below jobs: The blackberry keyboard texters under the rim of meeting tables!
Perpetual procrastinators: I’ll get back to u!
There are many more but let this not dissuade my friends from sending me congratulatory messages on this column!
Beep beep : Oops that’s my mobile! Kindly pay ur bill by today or phone will be disconnected
Got to go!!
Lingweenie
I have discovered a series of articles I had written for The Week magazine, these were about 2 years ago. But it seems the intention though honourable from both ends never got us to a concrete end. So here they are posted and preserved. May the be of some purpose to someone this week or the next or whenever...
LINGWEENIE
Children are angels till they find words!! My son has crossed that laxman rekha, he is all of 3 and a half years old and as such it is time to pattern the syllables escaping his lips, Its time to look for a school. The search begins and the fear hangs over our head like the sword of Damocles. My wife has been fretting and fuming for a few centuries saying we need to see the schools, I’m a little amazed as I existed in a time when there were no options you either went to the Girls school or Boys school and the maximum choice was Hindi Medium or English and Government or Private.
As such I surveyed a certain number of schools and was amazed to see the various options available: Australian curriculum, IB, Marathi, Hindi, English medium, schools that take children from particular communities, others that encourage pin code segregation. Imagine a child talking to another: I’m Mumbai 53 U are ? Mumbai 61! Oh sorry my mummy and daddy only allow me to speak to 55 and 54. There birthday parties are nearer to our home!
Schools with playgrounds, schools that our multi storeyed, schools that ensure international placements to universities, schools that have uniforms, schools that interview children who are 3 , schools that interview parents till 3 (pm) and schools that expect parents to attend schools as well.
Having assumed some semblance of a scholarly concerned father I attend an orientation by one school. The teacher starts in earnest, “ Werlcome tyu the bestest school in town! For the sake of not torturing your ears I will keep it short. The teacher had an accent picked up between the French and American embassy and I have it on good authority that her visas to both were rejected. But 10 points for imagination! She even found r’s to roll in words that don’t contain the alphabet.
I also noticed a unique fact, the school took great pains to say that they do not discriminate between boys and girls and your child will always be looked after. He will grow up to be strong of will, he will discover new things, he will play and learn…Some prejudices are better removed from the mind rather than paid poor lip service to.
I hastened to her after the session: Madam when will you put up the interview list
Dunno as yet will get back to you asap!!
MY mind processes the don’t know and says so should I call back
Yep If u wanna!!
I imagined my son walking in and say: Gu morn da! He would have willingly participated in the murder of the language as I knew it. But look and listen, the words have changed. A wedggie is not a short form for a plant eater but a crease riding your butt leading to strictly non vegetarian thoughts. Ginormous is not a double patiala peg of gin but something bigger than gigantic and enormous. Chillax, is not the ax murderer who got locked out on Christmas day but hanging out with friends. These words are real and they exist and each generation adds its favourites to the chain of spoken word, but the murder of the existing words is a crime we commit daily. Primary school teachers who are irrigating the fertile soil of imagination have a responsibility to them as well, to speak the language as it was meant to be, to strain the influence of the affected affluence of sources and let the synthesis of cultures do its best to grind a few syllables together and create a new word when the child has a mind of his or her own.
My son goes to a simple school now and each day I spend some time trying to inculcate in him a love for the language I have learnt to express and absorb with.
Call me old fashioned but I am not a lingweenie and look that up in an online dictionary before you cast aspersions on my sexual prowess in any way!!
LINGWEENIE
Children are angels till they find words!! My son has crossed that laxman rekha, he is all of 3 and a half years old and as such it is time to pattern the syllables escaping his lips, Its time to look for a school. The search begins and the fear hangs over our head like the sword of Damocles. My wife has been fretting and fuming for a few centuries saying we need to see the schools, I’m a little amazed as I existed in a time when there were no options you either went to the Girls school or Boys school and the maximum choice was Hindi Medium or English and Government or Private.
As such I surveyed a certain number of schools and was amazed to see the various options available: Australian curriculum, IB, Marathi, Hindi, English medium, schools that take children from particular communities, others that encourage pin code segregation. Imagine a child talking to another: I’m Mumbai 53 U are ? Mumbai 61! Oh sorry my mummy and daddy only allow me to speak to 55 and 54. There birthday parties are nearer to our home!
Schools with playgrounds, schools that our multi storeyed, schools that ensure international placements to universities, schools that have uniforms, schools that interview children who are 3 , schools that interview parents till 3 (pm) and schools that expect parents to attend schools as well.
Having assumed some semblance of a scholarly concerned father I attend an orientation by one school. The teacher starts in earnest, “ Werlcome tyu the bestest school in town! For the sake of not torturing your ears I will keep it short. The teacher had an accent picked up between the French and American embassy and I have it on good authority that her visas to both were rejected. But 10 points for imagination! She even found r’s to roll in words that don’t contain the alphabet.
I also noticed a unique fact, the school took great pains to say that they do not discriminate between boys and girls and your child will always be looked after. He will grow up to be strong of will, he will discover new things, he will play and learn…Some prejudices are better removed from the mind rather than paid poor lip service to.
I hastened to her after the session: Madam when will you put up the interview list
Dunno as yet will get back to you asap!!
MY mind processes the don’t know and says so should I call back
Yep If u wanna!!
I imagined my son walking in and say: Gu morn da! He would have willingly participated in the murder of the language as I knew it. But look and listen, the words have changed. A wedggie is not a short form for a plant eater but a crease riding your butt leading to strictly non vegetarian thoughts. Ginormous is not a double patiala peg of gin but something bigger than gigantic and enormous. Chillax, is not the ax murderer who got locked out on Christmas day but hanging out with friends. These words are real and they exist and each generation adds its favourites to the chain of spoken word, but the murder of the existing words is a crime we commit daily. Primary school teachers who are irrigating the fertile soil of imagination have a responsibility to them as well, to speak the language as it was meant to be, to strain the influence of the affected affluence of sources and let the synthesis of cultures do its best to grind a few syllables together and create a new word when the child has a mind of his or her own.
My son goes to a simple school now and each day I spend some time trying to inculcate in him a love for the language I have learnt to express and absorb with.
Call me old fashioned but I am not a lingweenie and look that up in an online dictionary before you cast aspersions on my sexual prowess in any way!!
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Going for a song!!
Saturday nights are battles for the remote. I was at my father in laws house and he had invited some friends over. We were moving from Idol to Sa Re Ga Ma Pa. At Idol I noticed Emon being eliminated. Prashant and Amit Paul remained composed and so did the young Emon. People muttered under their breath about biased voting and not fair. We also switched to Voice of India where apparently a Saradr singer is making waves in his community. But somewhere beneath the surface can we not see what is going on.
Regional states which have been marginalized of an identity are finding a new way to express themselves. The sms vote at 3 to 6 Rupees makes for great empowerment. Shillong, Darjeeling are becoming a reality, a living breathing entity beyond the customary bamboo dance shot in national integration videos. So as judges grind their teeth and fans react to their idols exit, the faces in Shillong and Darjeeling will be glowing tonight. I remember when we were shooting Public Demand and would travel to Ambala, Shimla, Ajmer the response would be much better than jaded Mumbai and Delhi. The urge to be on camera, to share the spotlight, to be noticed was so much more. And so the magnified resposne via sms!!
When Debojit won Sa re ga ma pa year before it was the same thing. The only fallout was that everyone from Assam still expects him to perform for free their as they CREATED him.
I recently heard that Hindi literacy numbers have improved due to a small innovation in Chitrahaar; it runs with subtitles like a karaoke song. Of course the added benefit is that some parts of India can appreciate the wonder of new age lyricists and can invent their own langaguge: Zubi Zubi, Ding Dong, Pant bhi sexy, Dhamaal, etc.
If Prashant teh sepoy wins the further marginalized will express their voice, I fear they may not have enough mobiles between them. Amit Paul will bring Shillong into the mainstream!! While perhaps better singers fall at the altar of mobile manipulation. 50 lakh smses for Prashant. Lets do a back of envelope calculation!! 50,00,000 X 3= 1.5 crores. Split this into 10% for the rights holder, 30% for channel, the rest split between servcie provider and technology provider.
And if this is per episode!! lets make the regions war for more as everybody hears the cash register ring!! Right now talent is going for a song, or an sms!!
Regional states which have been marginalized of an identity are finding a new way to express themselves. The sms vote at 3 to 6 Rupees makes for great empowerment. Shillong, Darjeeling are becoming a reality, a living breathing entity beyond the customary bamboo dance shot in national integration videos. So as judges grind their teeth and fans react to their idols exit, the faces in Shillong and Darjeeling will be glowing tonight. I remember when we were shooting Public Demand and would travel to Ambala, Shimla, Ajmer the response would be much better than jaded Mumbai and Delhi. The urge to be on camera, to share the spotlight, to be noticed was so much more. And so the magnified resposne via sms!!
When Debojit won Sa re ga ma pa year before it was the same thing. The only fallout was that everyone from Assam still expects him to perform for free their as they CREATED him.
I recently heard that Hindi literacy numbers have improved due to a small innovation in Chitrahaar; it runs with subtitles like a karaoke song. Of course the added benefit is that some parts of India can appreciate the wonder of new age lyricists and can invent their own langaguge: Zubi Zubi, Ding Dong, Pant bhi sexy, Dhamaal, etc.
If Prashant teh sepoy wins the further marginalized will express their voice, I fear they may not have enough mobiles between them. Amit Paul will bring Shillong into the mainstream!! While perhaps better singers fall at the altar of mobile manipulation. 50 lakh smses for Prashant. Lets do a back of envelope calculation!! 50,00,000 X 3= 1.5 crores. Split this into 10% for the rights holder, 30% for channel, the rest split between servcie provider and technology provider.
And if this is per episode!! lets make the regions war for more as everybody hears the cash register ring!! Right now talent is going for a song, or an sms!!
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