Author Archives: manish

I coulda been a contendah

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I offer you a roundup of the ovation vocation. Zadie Smith’s On Beauty made the Booker shortlist; she’s a Booker virgin (thanks, Neha). It’s out next Tuesday, but you might find it shelved stealthily in the fiction section as early as Saturday.

Zadie Smith’s On Beauty, an homage to EM Forster’s Howards End, has received mixed reviews from critics. [Link]
Rushdie’s Shalimar the Clown succumbed to snark and failed to make the short cut. After winning the Booker of Bookers, it’s ok to let someone else have a shot:
Zadie Smith, On Beauty*
Julian Barnes, Arthur and George*
Kazuo Ishiguro, Never Let Me Go
Sebastian Barry, A Long Long Way
John Banville, The Sea
Ali Smith, The Accidental [Link]
The George in Julian Barnes’ title was a Parsi (via Punjabi Boy):
It is a story about Sherlock Holmes’s creator, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle… The George in the title is George Edalji, a Birmingham solicitor and the son of a country vicar from Bombay who was a converted Parsee… in 1903, Edalji was convicted of maiming horses in his father’s parish of Great Wyrley in Staffordshire. The ‘Great Wyrley Outrages’, as they were known, became a cause célèbre when Doyle took up the cudgels in order to correct what he regarded as legal injustice and racism. Doyle became to Edalji what Emile Zola was to Dreyfus. [Link]

M.I.A. lost the Mercury Music Prize to Antony and the Johnsons (thanks, PB). Gayest thing ever recorded? Nuh-uh. It’s gotta be ‘Carolyn’s Fingers’ by the Cocteau Twins. Gayest thing ever recorded? ‘Carolyn’s Fingers’ by the Cocteau TwinsAnything by an artist who’s actually gay is too obvious (sorry, ‘YMCA’).

“It’s like a contest between an orange and a space ship and a potted plant and a spoon.” … His voice has been likened to Nina Simone and gay magazine Attitude described his album as “the gayest thing ever recorded”… [Link]

The drama of defining second gen continues apace. Come on, yaar, it’s a simple vada pav test. If he doesn’t know marmite, fish and chips, bangers and mash, he’s not a true deshi:

Although he holds a British passport… Hegarty, 34, has spent most of his life in America after his parents relocated to California when he was 12. Earlier this month, Kaiser Chiefs accused Hegarty of sneaking on to the shortlist through a “technicality”. “He’s an American, really,” said Nick Hodgson of Kaiser Chiefs, who hail from the rather less exotic Leeds. “It’s a good album, but it’s daft he’s got in on a technicality.” [Link]

Previous posts: one, two, three, four, five, six

* Sepia-fied

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‘Don’t Stand So Close to Me’

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Here’s yet another story, this time in the NYT, about Malayalees tutoring American juvenile delinquents using porncams instant messaging and headphones. Where’s the fire button in this game? It ain’t real until desi teachers can simulate stabbing you in the head with a pencil. It’s not the Montessori method, it’s the belan method:

Greeshma Salin swiveled her chair to face the computer, slipped on her headset and said in faintly accented English, “Hello, Daniela.” Seconds later she heard the response, “Hello, Greeshma.” … Ms. Salin, 22, was in Cochin, a city in coastal southern India, and her student, Daniela Marinaro, 13, was at her home in Malibu, Calif…

They must go through two weeks of technical, accent and cultural training that includes familiarization with the differences between British English, widely used in India, and American English… “They learn to use ‘eraser’ instead of its Indian equivalent, ‘rubber,’ and understand that ‘I need a pit stop’ could mean ‘I need to go to the loo…’ ”

… she was “floored at first when 10-year old American students addressed me as Leela. All my teaching life in India, my students addressed me as Ma’am,” she said.

Fussy Americans, we shall school your haraam zaday spawn in ye olde English:

Dr. Marinaro said that he had misgivings when he first considered enrolling his daughters for English tutoring. “I thought, how could somebody from India teach them English?”

There’s something very reverse colonialist about this. Now instead of wealthy families importing teachers to provide a proper English education, we have… wealthy families importing teachers to provide a proper education in English. I can just hear the anti-Macaulay bruting about over Skype: ‘Your native culture is worthless! Jonathan Safran Foer, I spit on him! You sawdust-for-brains natives– read Rushdie, Roy, Khushwant Singh if you want to be proper Indian gentlemen.’

This part is actually true — we probably get more 1st gen – 2nd gen interaction on this blog than face-to-face, because it’s in text and only the essence remains:

Eliminating factors such as skin color, appearance, gender and accent made the Internet “more egalitarian than most classrooms,” he said.

Previous post here.

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‘Curry’ in no hurry

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Vikram Chatwal’s One Dollar Curry finally posts a trailer and makes its lumpy appearance in London Sep. 23rd, a full year after its Paris debut (via AiM). Nip-slip dictates that we pixelate, you pervs.

Chowhounds take note — the concoction this character vends is true Punjabi-style curry. The plot is a Paris-based, cooking-centric takeoff on The Guru, the trailer features ‘Kamasutra’ body oil nestled in a leopard-print bikini, the site uses a cloying, annoying faux-Indic font, and Chatwal seems to have both a cross and ‘waheguru‘ tattooed to his right arm.

Despite these less-than-stellar atmospherics, the soundtrack is catchy, and the movie doesn’t seem as bad as it so richly deserves to be given the hackneyed plot and inexperienced cast. It’s got an adorable, Ganesh-painted three-wheeler, the incantation of a six-degrees family tree is dead on, and Gabriella Wright is surely one of the cutest English-Irish-Portuguese-Mauritians out there.

Watch the trailer or listen to the soundtrack. Here’s the official site. Previous post here.

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Kakutani complains of crufty ‘Clown’

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The acid-tongued, Yale-educated purveyor of limn places Shalimar the Clown above Rushdie’s ineffectual Fury but below his earlier works (thanks, Rani):

Although the novel is considerably more substantial than his perfunctory 2001 book, “Fury,” it lacks the fecund narrative magic, ebullient language and intimate historical emotion found in “Midnight’s Children” and “The Moor’s Last Sigh.” [Link]

She doesn’t buy the fundamental, near-magical-realism conceit of the protagonist, and without that buy-in the rest of the novel is colored:

Worse, “Shalimar the Clown” is hobbled by Mr. Rushdie’s determination to graft huge political and cultural issues onto a flimsy soap opera plot… But his clumsy suggestion that the title character becomes involved with a group of terrorists inspired by Al Qaeda because he has been jilted by his wife feels farcical in the extreme – unbelievable in terms of the actual story…

The main problem with this novel, however, is its title character, Shalimar… who emerges as a thoroughly implausible, cartoonish figure: an ardent lover turned murderous avenger, a clownish performer transformed into a cold-eyed terrorist. Whereas the other characters’ motives are complex and conflicted, Shalimar is depicted in diagrammatic, black-and-white terms. Indeed, he often seems like a reincarnation of the cardboardy Solanka from “Fury”… These are the sort of words spoken by mustache-twirling, snake-eyed villains in old cartoons…

Rushdie is ‘all about the extended, witty aside, the original, snarky insight,’ which she doesn’t seem to dig:

But others are thoroughly gratuitous asides, included, it seems, simply for the sake of emptying out the author’s archive of recorded and imagined images, and they weigh down the story, diminishing its focus and its momentum.

I’m left wondering whether this review is more a criticism of the genre and Rushdie’s fundamental style than the individual tome. We’ll know soon — the book is officially out tomorrow, though you may have nabbed a copy this weekend.

Previous posts: one, two, three, four, five, six

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The price of drama

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Hello, this is M.I.A.

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‘Could you please come get me?’ M.I.A. says she used to work in a telemarketing call center selling software over the phone (thanks, Punjabi Boy). Could you get any more desi?

… she was working in a call centre selling computer software to people in Ohio. She’d once worked the same job in LA.

The strain of being so mainstream drove her into Compton

… having fallen in love with hip-hop, she was going to move to South Central LA and become a gangsta’s bitch. It was a move both rebellious and reactionary. ‘I’m glad I went that far into it. I was the best hoochie on the West Coast at the time. I had the best clothes ‘cos I was coming from England and really good at shoplifting. I had Versace on before Lil’ Kim started rapping about it ‘cos the only place I could steal at was Harvey Nicks, where it was sooo easy. So I studied, like, the whole thing out in Compton: how the best you could do is be there for your man, be really good at sex, throw barbecues in the park, have babies and keep that unit together with the money that you get.’

Sadly, her black audiences aren’t getting her — she’s not quite Maya Vanilli, but gangsta isn’t totally prêt-à-porter:

This audience don’t understand why she’s covered head to toe in a baggy Sri Lankan print blouse and billowy trousers with its flashes of green in the print, which turn out, on closer inspection, to be the Incredible Hulk’s fist.

But she does have compelling memories of poverty in Sri Lanka:

… malnutrition had left Maya without most of her teeth. One of her last childhood memories of Sri Lanka is having her gums cut open with rice grain. ‘They don’t even do it fast, it took 45 minutes. But I wanted teeth so bad … you don’t understand.’ She came to Britain waiting for them to grow in and would hold her lips over her gums, staring long hours at herself in the mirror.

I suppose ‘terrorist’ isn’t usually mentioned in the biodata:

… her mother met her father through an arranged marriage, having been told he was an engineer. ‘Ever since she was a baby she was raised to be the housewife that all Sri Lankan women are meant to be. She couldn’t play out the fantasy ‘cos she didn’t have a husband. Him going away was worse for her. All the women were like, “He didn’t even die? He just left you with two children, what’s wrong with you? Fuck him starting a revolution, he isn’t at home!”‘

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How do you solve a problem like Maria?

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In a battle of 18-year-old millionaires, Sania Mirza lost to Maria Sharapova 6-2, 6-1, in what seemed like the world’s shortest match at just 59 minutes. Ouch. She couldn’t get her first serve in and relied on a soft second serve. Sharapova slashed that serve down the line for winners over and over, like a boxer who’s found an opponent’s weakness and just keeps riding it.

Mirza committed twice as many unforced errors as Sharapova. She didn’t do enough cross-court shots, sticking with lots of straight, fastball returns; Sharapova moved her all over the court. On the plus side, Mirza hit harder than Sharapova, who let lots of fast returns by her, even those within forehand range.

The uncle-commentator tried to put a positive spin on Sania’s showing after the match; meanwhile, I rocked back and forth: ‘ouch, Elliot…’ CBS showed a dorky fan sign straight out of Bride and Prejudice: ‘Sania: our precious Indian jewel.’ And man, the Sharapova squeal is annoying.

>> Watch the match
(196 MB DivX; you need a BitTorrent downloader: Windows, Mac)

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Mirza vs. Sharapova, 3:15 pm

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The Sania Mirza – Maria Sharapova match will be broadcast on CBS today after 3:15 pm (U.S. Eastern). Mirza’s last matchup of this caliber was against Serena Williams at the Australian Open. With Sharapova the #1 U.S. Open seed and #2 worldwide, Mirza is a classic underdog:

Sharapova didn’t seem too concerned about the occasion. She’s never seen Mirza play and doesn’t know anything about her. Though her father, Yuri, and hitting partner, Michael Joyce, have done some scouting, Sharapova said she’s unlikely to heed their advice. [Link]

Sharapova said she doesn’t know much about her opponent’s feisty personality or her game. (Note to Maria: Keep it away from Sania’s forehand.) Sharapova also can hit a pretty good forehand. When she strikes the ball with her racket, she puts an exclamation point on her velocity by making a screeching noise that resonates throughout Arthur Ashe Stadium. [Link]

The broadcasters have even gotten the memo on how to say Mirza’s name, though I heard ‘Mrrr-zuh’ a few times on Friday. The U.S. Open’s resident Eeyore mopes:

This first-time match up between two personality-laden and fiery youngsters could be a prelude to many great matches to come. Mirza owns one of the biggest forehands on the women’s tour… But Sania had bigger holes than Maria does: a mediocre first serve, questionable conditioning and movement and a general lack of decision-making. Sharapova has a much better serve, a more solid backhand and more experience in big matches.

The only way that Sania can win this match is if Maria has a very down day on her serve, because Mirza returns with incredible ferocity. Essentially, if Mirza zones early and often, she has a minor chance at an upset, but Sharapova will make mincemeat of Sania’s serves, own her from the backhand side and not give her a chance to breathe. [Link]
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Mirza advances to sweet 16

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As of 1 pm ET, this is the lead story on the U.S. Open’s home page (thanks, Sania spazz):

7-6, 6-4: she rides lions, not wings. It’s the furthest Mirza has come in any major tournament to date. Congrats! She’ll face her most difficult test yet in the next round, Maria Sharapova. I nominate myself for the après tennis

The Beeb has the play-by-play. For snarky commentary, we turn to the ToI:

Eighteen companies offered her sponsorship deals worth one million pounds in the span of a week, when she was still ranked No 134… As one leading sports journalist pointed: “Sania Mirza’s serve won’t win any awards for design, and her toss is so high you can have a cigarette waiting for it to come down. She is a few biryanis heavier that an elite athlete can afford to be, and her acceleration on court is more Ford than Ferrari… But no big deal; this you can teach an 18-year-old. What you can’t is chutzpah, and toughness, and Sania Mirza has both.” [Link]

One expert’s prophetic guess:

Mirza goes for forehand winners like an alley cat to a wounded mouse… It’s all power, all the time… Both serve well, but Mirza still needs to improve her conditioning… just the chance of getting a shot at Maria Sharapova in the next round is enough to fire up these two to go to the wall in an attempt to win this contest and get to play on a show court against the blonde princess. Mirza wants it more… [Link]

Previous posts: one, two, three, four, five

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How not to win a war

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The Indian military’s alleged human rights abuses, shielded by a heavy-handed anti-separatist law, are provoking resentment in Manipur:

… there is the seething grievance against the Indian troops and paramilitary forces that saturate the state, and particularly against the sweeping powers they are granted by the Armed Forces Special Powers Act, which allows them to search, detain and interrogate anyone suspected of guerrilla activity…

Manipur erupted in anger against the law after the killing of Thanjam Manorama in July 2004. Ms. Manorama, 32, was taken from her home in the dark of night, shot dead and left in a field. Semen stains were found on her underwear, according to reports in the Indian news media. The military said she was a militant and challenged a state government inquiry into her killing, citing the Special Powers Act. An army spokesman said in a recent interview that there was no conclusive evidence of rape.

The attack against Ms. Manorama set Manipur boiling. In one of the starkest acts of protest the country has ever seen, nearly a dozen elderly women stripped themselves naked, stood in front of the military base in Imphal and held up a haunting imperative on a homemade white banner: “Indian Army Rape Us…” [Link]

The alleged murder-rape reminds me of a similar U.S. army case in Okinawa. In classic repressive style, foreign journies are banned:

Foreign journalists must have permits to even set foot in the state, and those are only rarely issued. India’s home minister, Shivraj Patil, in an interview earlier this year offered this justification for the virtual prohibition against foreign journalists: “Because you are so interested…” [Link]

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