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.

Burnt alive in funeral rights

Raju Korti

Pic only for representation

An idle mind provokes more thinking, howsoever inconsequential it may be. In my present frail health, all I can do is to harness it to more constructive purpose.
The one thing that always gets to me is the emotion and melodrama after a murder or a suicide in serials and films. It appears that a funeral shot is mandatory in such episodes. The formula always works because nothing tugs at your heart-strings more than a funeral where mourners weep inconsolably while someone among the family of the bereaved lights the pyre. While you do make a concession for such emotional scenes as part of the "entertainment", it is amazing to see the quantity of wood burnt to show these fake funerals.
As a kid watching movies, it never occurred to my juvenile mind to think about such things. While watching a funeral shot all I could muster was few genuine drops of tears. Nothing affects as much as death does. Decades later, I still get misty-eyed watching those emotion-filled scenes but there is enough sense left now to question the necessity of wasting precious resource as wood on such scenes at a time when the environment is headed for an inevitable, impending disaster.
Crime serials in particular on television and movies in general have to have such a scene though each one of us concedes in our rational mood that they are corny and the effect is intended to last only until the time you watch them.
Forest covers are dwindling faster than people are planting trees. Oxygen will be available only in cylinders some day and the room temperature in a decade from now on will shoot through its rooftop. People who worry about environmental degradation are in terrible minority and their voices of sanity are either lost or go unheeded. Forget animals, even human race will become extinct one day if you make a small allowance for the extremity I am painting.
I am inclined to believe that given the badge of intellect they wear on their sleeves, our film-makers and serial-makers would do well to show funeral scenes symbolically rather than burning logs of wood every time to give the impression of being realistic. But discretion often gets shrouded in noisy debates and there will always be lobbies to and for. Ask know-alls of the likes of Arnab Goswamis and Rajdeep Sardesais. They have the potential to hold incendiary debates which are meritoriously inconclusive. Should there be a debate on this, a mild-mannered Sunder Lal Bahuguna would probably be run down by the shouting brigade from the showbiz.
I am looking to that day when some journalist will do an investigative story on this pepped up with facts and figures. My gut feeling is it will be a revelation.
Despite all this harangue, I am keen to witness a funeral scene being shot. I am sure the man who is shown as dead, must be watching his own funeral from the sidelines and laughing his guts out even as tonnes of wood burns.

Sadhana...ke dil abhi bhara nahi..

Raju Korti

Having watched most of her movies, I always believed that there was something surreal about Sadhana's million dollar smile and her eloquent eyes. Her eyes, coy and demure, especially spoke volumes that made the director's job ridiculously easy. But when I saw her in flesh and blood for the first time on the sets of Intequam in 1971, I had to retrace my steps in history to know that this was the Sadhana people swooned over all the sixties. Actually around time that she wasn't a patch on the Sadhana people had idolized in the past and there were many who had started writing her off.
Sadhana, who had had her education in Jai Hind College never went by popular equations or perceptions. She continued as long as she herself realized that people didn't wish to see her on the screen any more given the beatific image she had created in public mind. This trait of hers was in enough evidence even when it came to marrying, when she chose director RK Nayyar  over a highly popular Rajendra Kumar. Nayyar was just making a name in the quick sands of film industry and Rajendra Kumar had made a very popular pair with her in Mere Mehboob (1963), Aarzoo (1965) and Aap Aaye Bahar Aayee (1971).
Sadhana did not wait and hope to be discovered rather she made herself so she couldn't be denied. Within a span of four years she was in the top bracket though there were formidable actresses like Waheeda Rehman, Saira Banu, Nanda and Asha Parekh who had created their own niche. Sadhana's USP was her eyes that did all the acting. She also owned a an angelic smile that made her a breed apart. Little wonder she was acting with top heroes of the times including Dev Anand and Rajendra Kumar.
Just what kind of impact Sadhana made on her audience is evident in popular perception on a handsome Dev Anand serenading with the last word in romanticism "Abhi na jao chhodkar,,," (Rafi-Asha) could not have been as compelling if any other actress was alongside. Hum Dono had not only Dev Anand focusing the camera on himself, it had another share of pie for Nanda whose role was equally challenging. Yet, Sadhana made an impression with just smiles and tears.
She fortified her position with Mere Mehboob which brought her in the top league. Remember a sleepy-eyed Husna whom Rajendra Kumar wakes up through the enchanting notes of Piano and the eternally young voice of Rafi with "Ae husn zara jaag tuzhe ishq jagaaye..". Not without reason, the general belief is Sadhana looked her beautiful best in Mere Mehboob.
While the first half of her life got her name, fame and money, the latter half wasn't so rewarding. Age doesn't spare anyone. In case of Sadhana, it just gave her that little extra time because anything otherwise would have been blatantly unjust to a performer who swept an audience away by just fluttering her eyelids or with that devastating, cherubic smile.
By Intequam, she was downhill and the writing was almost on the wall. Even in Aap Aaye Bahar Aayee , she looked slightly obese and a little over made up and the  make up was failing. To add to her troubles, the marriage with Nayyar was threatening to fall apart. Not mixing her personal life with professional life, she bravely carried on until she made peace with the fact that her reign was over.
At her Santacruz residence, she started living the life of a recluse. Like many other actresses and actors who do not want to be seen by people except in their avtaars as popular peak, she just shut the doors on the society, rarely meeting people, unlike her contemporary Waheeda Rehman who ventures out for social work in her late seventies. I still want to be remembered as an actress who sang "Main to tum sang nain milaa ke haar gayee sajna.." in Manmauji (with Kishore Kumar). To be fair to her, shejust went through the same motions that most film stars not wanting to face people past their prime. As an actress she had her fantasies but she also knew she was a fantasy herself.
As she makes her exit from a profession without any guarantees, she almost seems to say: "I always am in a role, lovely – for you, for them – even for myself. Yeah... Even when I’m alone, I am still in a role – and I myself am the most exacting audience I have ever had.”  But all that her fans can say is "Adhoori aas chhodke, adhoori pyaas chhodke jo tum joagi to kis tarah nabahogi..."

  

Some thoughts on writing a book

Raju Korti
As a tenderfoot writer, I have been advised by many in the past on how to write. The best one that I have learnt is to ignore them and start writing. That little piece of realization helped me glide through my first book which is set to see the light of the day soon. I was also told the hardest part of the exercise was putting one word after another but in another brilliant stroke of enlightenment I found a book writes itself. You are just the hand that puts everything on paper.
As a youngster I often dreamt and yearned to write a book but never followed the passion with the perseverance it called for. I had any number of subjects to choose from. The only hitch was how to lend substantivity and depth to the pledge that I had taken with a commitment that I never failed to flaunt at my friends. They never took me seriously and thought I was speaking through my hat which was justified given my habitual laidback attitude. So it was nothing short of a battle won when I steeled myself to write one although I was overtaken with a series of self-doubts. To make matters worse I chose to write the biography of a man considered a legend in his lifetime.
I was warned by naysayers and cynics. If they felt I was incompetent to handle a personality as titanic as the late Mohammed Rafi given his four-decade career, they weren't off mark. But in the end, like all well meaning friends they kept egging me. I soon found out that writing a book is at once tough and easy. Tough because you need to be assiduous in putting together what are accepted as genuine facts and minute details with no margin for error. Easy because you can visualize it in black and white once they are at your disposal.
There are many biographies on Rafi, all eminently forgettable. That was a rallying point. It propelled me to write faster and piece together a book in three months -- something my friends well conversant with my procrastination were hugely surprised with. More than them I surprised myself. Finding a good publisher to me was more of a fluke than judgment. Talk of dame luck! Since the last month, I am trying to grapple with the idea of having turned an author. So are my friends.
The royalty cheque paid to me by the publisher was more than a lottery to my gloating mind. It spurred my pen with a compelling sense of urgency. The making of the book went through its usual list of travails but finally it was a story of all-is-well-that-ends-well.
More than the sense of achievement what it has done to my limited writing abilities is to plan more books. Why not ride on your luck when kismet is more than willing to take you the distance? So there I am planning two more projects one of which is ready to take off in a few days from now. I hope the same sense of urgency will manifest when I pen down those.
In the early stages of my career, some of my colleagues, better writers than me, never made secret of their ambition to write a book. It is just that my frittering has turned out to be better than theirs. To all those who want to write a book, I have an unsolicited piece of advice.
People are afraid to write books because they fear people will read them and find them worthless. Write as if nobody is going to read and throw your work into the public dustbin. Somebody may find it and consider it a treasure.