For the love of bike!

Raju Korti

Friend-colleague Sharad Rotkar on a Bullet.

I do not recollect how and when my love for bikes turned into an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I suspect the transition had something to do with driving four-wheelers. When I started driving cars some thirty years back, I realised that there was not enough stirring in it to send my adrenaline soaring. I found -- and still feel -- driving four wheelers was no fun, no adventure simply because there was no balancing involved. What's the fun when the car is brought to a halt without those last minutes of anxious wobble? The bike assured a breath-taking and screeching halt almost as effectively as you see in advertisements. Riding a motor-cycle, unlike driving a car, was like wearing a badge of masculinity on the sleeves.  If you wonder what provokes this blog, it is a picture posted by an old friend and Indian Express colleague Sharad Rotkar astride a bike with an expression Arnold Schwarzenegger would have envied. But knowing him, I know it was more of an advertisement for Jawa which we all dreamt of having under our butts. Our limited finances, however, made us do peace with the toy Lunas and mopeds. Riding a Jawa or a Bullet happened occasionally when a friend was magnanimous enough to lend it for a short while.Discussions on the technical advantages and disadvantages of different brands were dissected threadbare with each one of us holding forth on which motor-cycle was the best and why. By and large, we were all hooked onto Bullet and Jawa, which to us, were ultimate symbols of macho. A few of our friends never hid their pride at owning a BSA American which was far beyond our hopelessly limited finances. But dreams don't cost a dime and our imagination never failed us on what it would be like to ride a BSA American or a Harley Davidson.
Our obsession ensured we were exceptionally good drivers which was much before the government decided in its limited wisdom that driving without helmet was unsafe. Whenever friends loaned a Bullet or a Jawa, we would go for long rides out of the city as if we were the real owners. The bike was loaned but our prides were not. They were our very own. We were good even if the machines were uncharitably dubbed as mean. The smell of an engine stirring to life and its strokes was music to our perennially pricked ears. If nothing else, we would park ourselves in front of a bike showroom and soak in those brand new machines wondering when would the good day dawn when we would own one.
While driving, however, our heads would be firm on our shoulders. Rash driving was out of question. Rather we thought there was a greater sense of fulfilment in driving at cruising speeds. Driving was a pleasure we wanted to cherish. Only on one occasion I remember the two of us had gone to a place some 70 kms away to meet a friend. That visit turned out to be more exciting than we had thought. We ran into some bootleggers there who were considerate enough to offer their lethal concoctions to us in rusted pan masala tin boxes. It was only when they started climbing on us in their drunken stupor that we realised it was time to take a quick exit. That was the only time when we drove so fast, we were practically standing on the accelerator. If we didn't met with an accident it was more by fluke than judgement.The one thing we were unanimous about big bikes was there was no need to tonk horn. The mere look and the engine sound was enough to scare people out of the way. The big bikes usually called for wearing shoes because for a vehicle like Jawa the kick-start was hard and tough. The bike was mostly used by hefty "doodhwala bhayyas" carrying large milk cans on either sides. The Bullet was a slightly more polished variety because of its regal appearance and the quality of drive it offered although a kick backlash spelt a potential disaster.
As it happened in other spheres of life, the bike world underwent a cosmetic transformation from early eighties when the 300 cc machines were replaced by the 100 cc and 150 cc varieties like Yamahas and Hondas. For us, hard-boiled for years on heavy machines, these were poor variants -- the same difference between gold and rolled gold. We drove the newer, leaner machines but that sense of satisfaction always eluded. Sadly, the heavier ones were almost edged out of the competition. Jawa stopped production after mid-nineties while Bullet has become a no-no because in terms of fuel it is not as cost effective. In our estimate, however, the gratification took precedence over the cost.
The Bullet also known as Royal Enfield is now only a few owners' pride and many others' envy. I have often seen 100 cc bikers casting jealous glances at an occasional Bullet driver whizzing past them. A Harley Davidson or other such brands can be found with only the rich and enthusiasts like Dhoni and John Abraham to whom money is not an inhibiting factor. Bahut naainsaafi hai.
Today, these motor cycles are pages almost lost in history. After all, we live in times when life itself is a crazy ride and nothing is guaranteed.

Gender-bending James Bond

Raju Korti
There is a great sense of achievement, testosterone and fun being able to live out your masculinity when you play an action role or an action-adventure or a real tough guy. If the latest ferment on the internet and western media is to be believed, the patented machismo of 007 James Bond is seriously threatened by an aggressive brand feminism that one has come to see in the last couple of decades.

A file grab of the trailer on female Bond.

Having read almost all of Ian Fleming in my impressionable school days and left awestruck by Bond's on-screen stunts peppered with technology advances scientists would fantasize, there was this unshakeable but utopian image of his character in my head. From time to time -- or so I felt -- this image took a little beating when the Bond switched his skin from Sir Sean Connery to Roger Moore and Pierce Brosnan to Daniel Craig with assorted hunks like David Nigen, George Lazenby and a Timothy Dalton thrown in. So hooked we were as youngsters on Connery that it took sometime for us to reconcile that anyone else could also be licensed to kill. We had animated discussions on who was the real Bond until a few movies later we began to placate ourselves that Moore wasn't a bad choice either. I recollect as having read that Moore and his son were once sitting in a restaurant when in walked Connery. Seeing him, Moore's son said not-so-charitably "here comes the real Bond". Moore just smiled but there is no means to know whether it was genuine or forced. In all probability Moore Junior was also brought up on From Russia With Love, Goldfinger, Thunderball, On Her Majesty's Secret Service and You Only Live Twice. The Bond image was assiduously built up on a masculinity that no male -- of for that matter female -- could resist. This masculinity now is confronted by a pushy feminism even if that sounds like a feminist remark. However, a female Bond could redefine the James Bond franchise in the best possible way if it hasn't already escaped your attention that the women in Bond movies are no less enterprising, adventurous and have as many tricks up their sleeve.
Bond, Jane Bond, sounds as much interesting if you are prepared to accept Bond's change of gender. From what I have read, it is now a race between Emilia Clarke and Gillian Anderson (with our own Priyanka Chopra no less interested) and Leonardo Di Capri as their Bond boy. There is also a long list of men who are rumoured to be the one who will drink his Martini, shaken not stirred. Speculations are also rife that if cast, Idris Alba would be first Black Bond. So it is not just the gender but also the colour of his skin.
In her pitch, Clarke is convinced about this role reversal as a defining moment. Casting a woman is not merely about change of name and looks. A Jane Bond may not be shown as grappling with gender equality or issues that stand up as metaphors for the obstacles real women fight every day but It would be interesting if she does that in her movies as a sidebar. The battle begins with clinching the role in the first place and convincing that a female Bond could work well when the male protagonist is so firmly entrenched in people's psyche.
Bond films often portray sex as a weapon in and against 007's favour but if it comes to a female Bond, the idea would seem diluted. So her image would have to be suitably de-constructed, a challenge for the likes of Albert Broccolis and Guy Hamiltons. Jane Bond cannot afford to be just a bewitching woman in a male fantasy but a well rounded character who sticks to the core idea of being a secret agent compatible with a women's empowerment story. This is a chance for Bond makers for a gender correction to create a strong female hero. Still, that acceptance could be tough because there is this majority conviction that the swap won't work. The idea of woman taking the position of a man when you know James Bond has been an unwavering and accepted convention. It would be a tough call for Bond makers to reboot a 53-year-old franchise and package it for an audience for whom the very concept can be jarring.
A female Bond may or may not materialise but there is also this radical proposal that it was time the Bond was politicised. So far the Bond's raison d'etre was to safeguard the postwar order in the West. A case is being made out that the new 007 should go political and take on the real-life politicians who want to plunge the world into war and climate chaos -- issues like violent Jihadism, Russian intransigence, Chinese expansionism and refugee crisis. That would alter the Bond that Fleming had conceived in the fifties and make the hero more contemporary although I cannot resist wisecracking that it would be a case of Bond with the worst.
The concept of a female Bond may appears misogynist at the moment but why not experiment with misandry for a change? If James Bond can womanise, Jane Bond can have her share of men too. After all, to err is not always woman.

Bach ke rehna baba, hum patrakar hain!

Raju Korti
Many of my colleagues who have banged their heads in this thankless profession for decades like I have done; are going to pan me for this but truth be told. Unvarnished and unadulterated truth though some of them will sweat themselves dry on the semantics of what is truth. More so when truth gets meshed in a tangle of lies, half lies and half truth.
I went into Journalism to learn the craft of writing and to get as close to the world as possible. Its not for me to sit on judgement on how much of that has been achieved but being ingrained that objective journalism and opinion columns are about as similar as Bible and Playboy magazine, I am condemned to hear a journalist being dubbed as a presstitute in the social media.
When I entered the profession sometime in 1979, it was not as if the profession wasn't without its taints but not as rabid as it is today. There was still a semblance of professional ethic. As rookies we were all led and guided by men of mettle. Seniors would routinely throw shoddily written reports into the dustbin unlike today where even as rewritten press handout get a byline. I still recall the expression of my first news editor when I felt that an interview I had done deserved a byline. He looked at me as if I had committed a sacrilege. "Byline aur isko?" he retorted like the heroine of a Hindi film telling the villain "Shaadi aur tum se?" As it happened with most of us, my first byline came well after three years and that too as if my boss was doing me a great favour. We all thought that getting a byline was as good as conquering Mount Everest. Most of us youngsters at that time didn't realize that this was the foundational regimen to make us do better and better.
I am saying this because most newspapers even then had their own affiliations and leanings. They were and are still owned by businessmen and politicians as mouthpieces. Vested interests were restricted to mostly the owners while the journalists did their bidding not as blatantly as it obtains today. But professional ethics always take a back seat when commercialisation takes over. Today, journalists are no longer pawns in the hands of unscrupulous owners running their media shops, they have become power brokers unto themselves. The advent of TV news channels in the eighties and their proliferation in the nineties changed all that and took away whatever piety was left in it. Faced with stiff competition and a question mark hanging over their survival, the newspapers too started falling into line. One media house criticising another was by and large alien and unethical but it is common these days to see newspapers and channels taking swipes at each other out of professional rivalry.
Until the late eighties, jobs in journalism weren't hard to come by. A nominal interview clinched the aspirant a job and although rewards were a pittance, people stuck around for the satisfaction of it. It was something you went to college for. Many came and polished their skills to become excellent writers. From that point it has come to a stage where the job avenues are many and returns far exceed the professional's calibre. On the other hand, journalism colleges are producing graduates like a factory. Little wonder many end up as "content writers" with neither content nor writing. Not everyone realizes that to write a really good piece of journalism can be intellectually demanding.
As a neophyte I remember having been asked to cover a meet-the-press and I was confused like hell how it differed from a press conference. My seniors told me that you could grill people holding the press conference but at a meet-the-press, you must treat the person as guest and therefore no awkward questions were to be asked. Interestingly, even the journalist unions endorsed this view. Compare this with what you see on the TV channels day in and day out. People, most of the times politicians and bureaucrats, are "invited" to the studios only to be made to look like first class idiots and treated with disdain. Worse still, the invitees take all this in their stride because they still have to depend on the media to get their point across. The TV anchors, often judgemental and opinionated, have a verdict even before the hearing has begun. These are the know alls either goofing up on "facts" or cooking them up to sex up their stories. Media houses are brazenly run like shops with no pretensions of any serious journalism. Journalists have outdone owners in this exercise. Opinions have made short work of information and people are none the wiser as "facts" vary from one media house to another. Attempts to regulate the media have been met with stiff resistance. Sad as it is when the media on its own should be fair and balanced. What do you do when newspaper pages from first to last read like editorial pages? The critical importance of honest journalism -- though agreed that hundred per cent objectivity is humanly impossible -- needs to be dispassionately debated but who will bell the cat(s)?
Its a damned shame that a field as potentially dynamic and vital as Journalism should be overrun with dullards, bums, hacks, hag-ridden with myopia, apathy and complacence and generally stuck in stagnant mediocrity. Journalism as a recipe has now an added ingredient called arrogance. Broadcast licences are given to political philosophies and personal opinions instead of people. It has reached a stage where people -- and in most cases journalists themselves -- think there is no difference between news and entertainment. The more celebrity-driven it is, the better. Lack of information, misinformation, disinformation and a general contempt for truth have killed the very spirit of the profession. In the era of TRPs, ratings don't last, good journalism does. Good journalism was happening even when there was no Twitter. The social media has become a breeding ground for people who masquerade as writers throwing up bile through personal prejudices. There is less truth in journalism than fiction even though it is famously said that journalism is literature in hurry. I have deliberately avoided giving examples because we all know them. The social media is doing that job perfectly.
The tragedy is journalists have not made peace with the fact that the world is inured to the power of journalism which at best only serves to outrage people. Money, eyeballs and software brands don't have much shelf life. Journalism has taken all hues except black and white.
We watch and carry on.

He made airwaves, we floated on them!

Raju Korti
The legendary Richie Benaud once remarked that "the problem with relying on nostalgia for commentary is that people remember only the good things." What Benaud said was a rule with the honourable exception of fellow commentator Tony Cozier.

Cozier with Michael Holding (Courtesy Barbadostoday)

Tony Cozier, who died at 76 yesterday was actually more of a Barbadian than West Indian. I say this because when the West Indians were the most exciting bunch of cricketers in the fifties, sixties and early seventies, being a Barbadian carried more weight than being a West Indian. Cozier's refrain then was a simple but factual comment he would make in all the years of the island's glorious cricketing history: "The West Indies are a tremendously talented side." That was his subtle way of telling that no other cricketing nation could be considered anywhere close to the West Indies. Cozier was more West Indian than the West Indians themselves. For someone who was a charmed witness to the illustrious and resplendent chapters in West Indies cricket for well over 48 years, Cozier carried facts and figures on the tip of his tongue, never faltering even once. He defied the unwritten rule that if you are not controversial, you will never break through the din of the commentary. To his cricketing sense, commentating was more of lucid narration and expression which he did with forensic details.
As a commentator he was in a class of his own if you realise that there were other sublime commentators like Brian Johnston, John Arlott, Christopher Martin Jenkins, Henry Blofeld, Don Moseley, Alan M'cgilvray, Freddie Truman, Trevor Bailey and Ray Illingworth who were the uncrowned kings of commentary box. I am mentioning these names because Cozier himself was part of the terrific BBC Test Match Special team in those days. Commentators in those days were not the kind you see on television now. They had a tougher, non-visual medium like the radio to hold forth their commentary skills. They were so good and vivid that listeners would feel that they were watching the match live. Such was his craft that Cozier could shift gears easily to be as good on the TV if you know that skills required for both fundamentally differ. He could move seamlessly between radio and television boxes lost in himself describing the (then) domination and (later) demise of the West Indian cricket.
Never pompous and expansive in his description unlike many of his contemporaries, Cozier was born with two blessings -- an exceptional voice tailor-made for radio and TV and his innate ability to reel out facts and figures on the spur of the movement. While his colleagues always turned to statisticians for facts and figures, Cozier had them on the tip of his tongue. That gave him a fluency and edge perhaps no other commentator had.
Cozier never played Test cricket in his life but his roots from Barbados was a qualification enough. Add to that his writing skills as a journalist where the words became slave to his matter-of-fact expression. Just how good he was can be gauged from the fact that as a White, he saw the West Indian cricket flourish despite the racial prejudice that prevailed until the early seventies. A lot is being said about the tightrope Caribbean politics that Cozier may have had to negotiate at a time where even the slightest adverse comment about a West Indian cricketer could lead to a frenzied backlash. Cozier's love for the West Indies and its cricket was unquestionable but he had the guts to take on the Quixotic functioning of the West Indian Cricket Board and never crossing the line even once. He was equally fierce with those who were unfair to the West Indian cricketers. A voice with conscience, he had this ability to be outspoken without rubbing people the wrong way and being officialese. That made him a golden mean between the dryness of Australian commentary and self-indulgent English commentary.
Indisposed in the last few months, Cozier had the pleasure of seeing some revival of the West Indian cricket when the country recently won Under-19 World Cup, Women's T20 World Cup and the World T20 finals. He had been forced to give up alcohol after a major surgery but for this hat-trick of victories, he would have surely risked a liberal toast.

Dressed for the kill: Modi, Mubarak and Clinton

Raju Korti

Club of four suits: Carter, Clinton, Obama and Bush (whitehouse.gov)

Having seen Prime Minister Narendra Modi from close enough quarters even before he had made it to national consciousness, it came to me as no surprise at all. For someone who wears his name like a factory label on his sleeve, very few got the fine print when he wore that pompous coat with his name monogrammed all over as pin-stripes.
Modi's sartorial sense was never in question although he mentioned very casually once that whatever he wore, fit him well enough. To me, the key element in this "coat episode" was President Barrack Obama subtly hinting that he would not mind adding a few Modi kurtas to his wardrobe. The long sighs all over the country, however, said it all: How could the prime minister of a country put the state exchequer in the hole for Rs 10 lakh to wear an outrageous and self-glorifying attire. But in India controversies happen out of non-issues as well. The late Egypt President Hosni Mubarak had achieved that feat much before in 2009 when he wore a suit with his name inscribed into the pin-stripes. But the military and political leader could manage only murmurs as against Modi's uproar. In his country, Mubarak was the self-anointed head of state while Modi assumed power through public mandate. Mubarak was an officially acknowledged dictator, Modi the unofficial one.
This is no comparison between Modi and Mubarak. The interesting issue to me here is what makes for an ideal dress sense if you happen to be in public life and more so as a leader of masses. The Washington Post has summed up the predicament of former President Bill Clinton on what to wear when he is no longer the centre of attraction. But Clinton, who came to be almost impeached in 1998, needn't worry too much about it. His sexual escapades with a 21-year-old White House intern and then bluffing his countrymen about it are still good enough to keep him in limelight. The present presidential contender Donald Trump seems to have made an integral part of his campaign to provide refreshers on Clinton's sexual misadventures and taunting wife Hillary. The former First Lady, the true Methodist she is, seems to be taking it in her stride with a poise that has managed to stand by her so far. It is immaterial how much bearing Trump's trumpeting of Clinton's misdemeanants will have on the presidential elections but the former president, is at the moment more bogged down by his predicament on what it means to wear a uniform of power but not possess it.
Although Clinton is preparing for the role of a backstage performer with all the skills acquired from those post-presidential orations, there are many Americans who believe that his dress sense will have an influential role to play when he reels out those applause lines in support of his once wronged wife. A sizeable section of the population keenly watching the presidential election drama unfold, are keen to know whether Clinton wears something American or some fancy European import.
It is generally believed that if Clinton's campaign works for his wife, his clothes will assume a great significance because his clothes would reveal the true him. The contention behind this logic is if he doesn't stick to protocol and tradition, he wouldn't be delivering an address at the swearing-in or a toast at a state dinner. So what Clinton wears will depend much on what his stylists design for him.
Based on a survey of his photographs, the Washington Post found that President Obama used mostly two tuxedos while in office. But that that was a non issue. Clinton has been wearing a mix between the casual and informal while canvassing for his wife, ostensibly to gain public sympathy -- a perceptible effort to atone for a wrong that cost him his office.
The paper's parting shot says it all: "He (Clinton) wears a Hillary-for-president pin during his campaign trail. Sometimes it is a tasteful little H. Sometimes it's a medallion of the size of a saucer. This time, he is not selling America on itself. He is selling the country on his wife."
Now draw parallels with Modi and sketch the picture of your choice.

The comedy of laughter

Raju Korti
In one of my cerebrally expansive moods I had once unwittingly said that laughter is an instant vacation. The only depth, if any, that came from this instant quote was its "instant" value in an era of instant coffee and instant noodles. Condemned to a debilitating condition physically and financially in the last couple of years, I have actually come to realise that there is a longer shelf life to my quote than the "instant" value I had intended to convey.
Having emptied my pockets on medical expenses, the only vacation I can afford is laughter. But nothing can confound a wise man more than laughter from a dunce. I have been watching some of the laughter shows on television channels these days more out of desperation than as a therapy for the depressing and unhealthy times I have been in. Try hard as I might, I just haven't been able to summon my wit and sense of humour to laugh at the cheeky and ribald buffoonery dished out with alarming regularity on these shows.
When you watch the judges' and the audience reaction on laughter shows, you realise how devoid you are of humour. Or your inability to take "jokes" in your stride. Those in the audience laugh their guts out like startles hyenas, patting their tummies and until tears start rolling down their eyes. The second one seems more genuine. The judges laugh like there is no tomorrow with a frantic flurry of actions. The performers come out with a script so pathetic that I suspect many who laugh do so because someone from behind is tickling them under their armpits. It is a show where the audience, both passive and live, give it their best shot trying to outdo each other in laughing.
In one show, I have been seeing the invitees falling off from their chairs laughing and trying to regain their breath. Many of them start guffawing even before the so called joke has begun from an assorted slapstick comedy genres like buffoonery, mimicking, dark humour from stand up comedians. Cricketer-turned laugh-a-holic  Navjyot Singh Sidhu, among the judges at one such show, split himself even when there was no joke. The idea probably was if no one else will, at least Sidhu will laugh. It left people like me seriously wondering whether we have the stomach to know and understand what is comedy. Maybe it was a case of Errors of Comedy. There are exceptions, however.
In one show, I saw a former chief minister sitting through the entire comedy show as if he was watching a funeral. The performers tried their best to force the man to at least smile but he continued to sit poker-faced. Now that was real humour because this man is never known to laugh unless he decides to do it himself. Whoever decided to invite him to the show deserved a big dose of humour himself. It could have been an ideal start for something like AIB Roast.
The loony brigade has made a virtue out of Comedy Nightmares. Why not institute an award for the one who laughs most wildly? He is the one who deserves it most even if that sounds like wicked humour. That brings me to make another profound quote: It is the ability to take a joke, not make one, that proves you have a sense of humour. I am trying hard to develop one.


   
 

Of Anant Ambani, me and weight loss

Raju Korti
If you believe that successful weight loss needs more of programming than will power, here is my repartee. There is a huge emotional quotient attached to it as well.
The immediate provocation for this argument is a talking point story according to which Anant Ambani, the young son of industrialist Mukesh Ambani, shed a whopping 108 kilos in just eighteen months. Anant has been a regular sight during the IPL matches, especially those involving Mumbai Indians. He would be seen occupying a broad sofa all by himself and each time the camera panned on him, I have seen people sigh in disbelief how anyone could bloat to that extent. But fact is stranger than fiction. Ask me whose weight loss has been noticed by just a few compared to the national headlines that Anant made.
Many people believe that Ambani's weight loss story is merely promotional and an example of "money speaks". That may be true given the super-rich glossy status of the family. However, you got to give it to the boy who went through a rigorous diet regimen and a gruelling work-out schedule to shed the accumulated flab. That certainly needs a sustained effort and control when you know the boy lives in the era of junk food and doting parents would do everything to keep him happy.
Excess exercise is known to be counterbalanced by excess hunger, exemplified by what is called as "working up an appetite." Only a very few can resist such hunger pangs but for the vast majority, weight loss through exercise is a flawed option.
Anant lost six kilos per month if my arithmetic serves me right. I roughly lost the same weight in a span of three to four days. And though we are different case studies, we throw up same results.
In Anant's case, all credit to him and his weight loss advisers. I didn't have any. Nature ordained it for me. After the debilitating bypass heart surgery, I had several other complications that necessitated hospitalisation three more times. In the first instance I dropped 18 kilos since I had stopped eating and drinking (water please!) completely and being a diabetic, the only thing I remember during that period is alarmed doctors telling my relatives to stuff me with Fruity and rasagullas as my sugar levels had dipped to a dangerous below 50.
Three days of continuous monitoring showed that I had dropped to 52 kilos from 70 kilos which was a terrible fall and certainly nothing to be admired. So bad it was that I couldn't stand on my feet. Circumstances had cut me to size.
There are two factors that tempted me to make a comparison between Anant and me. The amount of weight loss in both cases was phenomenal and almost in as much time. Although he went through an excruciating schedule and I through the knife, the emotional quotient that I talked about is same. It is peripheral to this comparison that he hit national headlines and became a figure of admiration while your's truly could only garner the sympathy of relatives and friends. These are wages of social dynamics.
I have thrown weight around, now I don't have any. The powerful Ambani son can still do it after shedding those heavy-duty calories. There is just no comparison here.