Sing. Smile. Dance. Blog.

There was a young teacher who got married and left for the US of A. Then there was the young teachers old teacher who left to go live with her son in Anand. There was the teacher with the irritating grandson who went to visit her other grandsons and never came back – they were presumably easier to live with. There was the teacher who sounded like a toad with a cold on the phone and beautifully powerful when she sang, she shifted to Hyderabad, presumably to be with someone near, dear and not irritating. Not to be outdone, we left the next teacher, we didn’t go anywhere, we just stopped going there one day (I’m still hazy as to whether we told her we were dropping out).
AS a result of such intensive and extensive classic carnatic music training, today when I sing (Rasputin by Boney M being my favoured song) I bring tears to the eyes of my friends.
In his autobiography “Moab is My Washpot” Stephen Fry, the Gay-ly Profane P.G. Wodehouse, rants, in capital letters spelling out F-bombs about his inability to connect with his peers because of certain musical shortcomings. I empathise. When you can’t dance without tripping, sing along to the latest singalong song without people leaving the room, you’ve lost out on a very important and primal form of socialization, of connecting at a level beyond words, you my dear friend are out of sync with the rhythm of life. To make matters worse as Fry points out, its’ not like we’re tone deaf, If Fry and I were tone deaf we wouldn’t know what we were missing. But for someone who traces her cultural awakening to watching “A Hard Days’ Night” and falling head over heels (literally, when I tried to dance to them) in love with the Beatles, its just plain old cruel. With apologies to Brendan Behan, It’s like being the eunuch in a harem, you know how its done, you hear it being done every day, you just can’t do it yourself, it’s like being a critic (gasp)! Shudder.
This weekend I danced, I shut my eyes, stopped caring about my hair getting messy, what other people might think, other peoples feet and danced. WooHoo! Jodhpur Riff, I went to listen to Dharohar, a project/collaboration between Rajasthani Folk Artists and Jason Sigh a Beatboxer, it was absolutely fantastic, you just had to get up and dance to them, I started out with foot tapping, swaying, and bobbing my head trying to look dignified, until I finally gave in and started jumping around like crazy. Then there was Swarathma, an urban-folk-rock band from Bangalore who have issues with this classification according to their facebook page, but since I don’t know anything about their music except that it kept me dancing and I have been listening to it all Sunday and all through the writing of this post I will submit to the superior wisdom of the writer of the RIFF Pamphlet, use the classification and declare myself a fan of urban-folk-rock-bands. I went to listen to Antonio Rey one of the world’s top three Spanish guitarists, and watched Farruco a third generation flamenco dancer seduce the crowd. I didn’t dance, but I definitely drooled. And for the finale there was Sivamani, the most recognizable name in the line up, I danced again, but mainly I watched and admired the potted out hippies grooving to his beats, until that is, Dharohar came up to Jam with him, and kicked his ass. Ramu does dance. To Dharohar, with enthusiasm. With a smile.

The Trickster, the Bastard and the Holy Crow

In the beginning, all the stories belonged to Tiger, and they were nasty, brutish and short. Then along came Anansi, and he won the stories from Tiger, he tricked tiger and took them, all of them. The stories now belong to Anansi and the world is a better place. Thanks to Anansi, brute strength and eating up your opponent is no longer the point, instead it’s about wile, about brains about taking, or rather about finding the easy way out. It marks the point in time where strength of the mind defeated strength of the body. It’s the start of creation, invention and innovation it’s the point where Human beings evolved.
Anansi is a trickster god, a culture hero from Africa. He is there all over the world, in all the stories we read, Brer rabbit, Tenali Raman, Baby Krishna, Coyote from American-Indian Mythology, even the book you just finished and put down is an Anansi Story. I don’t believe in god, but I do believe in Anansi. I believe in he who thinks, who has a sense of humour, who’s annoying and charming in parts and thanks to whom even the weakest, tiniest, most insignificant creature can be the (s)hero(e) of a story.

I believe in the Bastard, the bastard is the god (or demon depending on which theory you follow – quintarian, quadrene) of balance and all those who are shunned and neglected, not understood by society- homosexuals, women, orphans, along with the incestuous, criminals and paedophiles. I believe that everyone deserves a fair trial, a right to be heard and a punishment which is proportionate to the crime. That emotions and lynchings are no substitute for reason and the law. That morality changes, what was a sin yesterday might become perfectly acceptable, or a fundamental right today, what was acceptable and justified yesterday, can be immoral and outrageous today. The bastard reminds us to avoid being judgmental, to remember that standards change, that no matter how heinous the others crime is we don’t have the prerogative to give up on our humanity.
I also crush on Nawat, the crow who became a human. He’s the intelligent, slightly perplexed by human beings, utterly charming and adorable love interest of one of Tamora Pierces kickass Sheroes (that’s “female protagonists” as opposed to “heroine love interests” for those of you who don’t know). I also like crows, the birds, they’re intelligent, they’re beautiful, their voice is as harsh as mine (those of you who have never heard me sing Rasputin, can thank the trickster and bastard for your good fortune), they’re associated with the trickster and the bastard who represent my beliefs and values, they’re not pigeons.
To learn more about Soumya “Ramu” Ramasubramaniams religious, spiritual beliefs and principles please refer to Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman, Tricksters Choice and Tricksters Queen by Tamora Pierce and Curse of Chalion by Louis Mcmaster Bujold.

(yet) Another brilliant Idea for bringing peace to the weary soul

Its one in the morning and there a party going on just outside my hostel (its freshers!). I am bored. I don’t dance, don’t drink, don’t dope and don’t date, the only d I am given over to is sadly enough depression. Did I mention I’m bored and depressed?

There was another girl over there, she didn’t date, drink or dope either, but she was having the time of her life dancing. She didn’t have technique, but she had grace, she didn’t know the steps but you could tell she was having a ball. She was the belle of the Ball. Every Guy (sober enough to notice her) would talk to her, twirl her around and wait eagerly for a smile from her. She was 4. How she got onto the dance floor, I don’t know, but I’m glad she did. I love little Kids. I love little kids left alone to do their own thing, When they’re just learning to walk confidently, When they’re discovering music and dance, when they’re inquisitive, when they stumble, when they smile, when they laugh, when they gurgle, when they make the most adorable faces all scrunched up in curiosity intent at enjoying and absorbing everything about this wonderful world they’re in. Not so fond of them when they’ve learnt to talk properly, if they begin to cry, begin to stink, or have to be baby sat for a long time. But watching an 18 month old tot trip over itself while waddling towards....... well nowhere in particular, remains unparalleled as a source of joy and happiness.

OK.... so maybe I didn’t have all that bad a time at freshers, maybe this actually comes second to the party where I sat in the Lobby reading Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell and eating chocolate Ice-cream. (X: did I see you in the lobby reading a book last night? R: Yes that was me I like boo..... X: oh thank god I thought I’d had too much to drink and was hallucinating)

Which is why I propose (for those of us afflicted with depression and other such DSM VII categorized illnesses)..... drum roll please....... (badam bam boosh!) the Toddler Zoo!

It would be a large room with glass walls and padded flooring in which a whole lot of toddlers will be let loose. The room will contain a bare minimum of toys which will be of a terribly basic nature, so that the spectators don’t feel jealous of all the fun and gee-whizz-bang toys the little kiddies are allowed to have and which are now forever denied to them on account of their age (and also because little kids just seem to do so much more, when they have less). You can stand and watch them amble around, trip and laugh, dance and hop from a safe stink free distance (until you get bored, in which case you are free to leave). Should a toddler begin to cry he/she will be removed from the enclosure and delivered to its mama (or papa) and another happy tot will be brought in as a replacement.

Pure Bliss! It could replace Yoga and meditation or Koi fish and Japanese Rock Gardens (with sand raking) as the latest and the most effective method for calming the mind and bringing peace to the soul, cults could spring up around its therapeutic value and the phony field of psychiatry could finally be annihilated from the face of this earth........... Anyone interested out there?

Anyway much as you can learn from little kids and derive enjoyment at the same time I doubt that it’ll replace books (they’re still my favourite).

Confessions of a mathematical society president

My parents didn’t take us, when we were Kids to see many movies and the few that we did get to see in the theatre were always kiddy movies (like keeping your cell phones off, not taking hyper kids to the movies is a courtesy my parents very firmly believe in). So the three of us were pleasantly surprised, when my Parents returned from a shopping trip one evening from which the three of us had been excluded (Ok…… in hindsight it looks they didn’t believe in taking us kids out, Period.) with tickets to the Night show of a movie called star wars.
They tried explaining the premise to me “stars and lasers and wars…. Lots of fun!” and I remember trying to picture the movie in my head as we went to the theatre “twinkling stars in a night sky, occasionally a laser beam would emerge from one star and go hit another star which would disappear ……. Lots of fun!” (I really hadn’t seen many movies then). It was my first night show, my first grown-up movie, my first movie with action and violence and a real true Villain, who actually managed to be villainous and not comic relief. That night I fell in love with Movies for the second time (the first time was when I saw Singin’ in the Rain on TV).
And there was so much more to come, finding out that Darth Vader didn’t die in the first movie, that Darth Vader was Luke’s father, that Han Solo Didn’t die in the second movie, that Leia was Luke’s twin sister and that the prequels I waited for, for so long and so eagerly, sucked. But once a star wars fan, always a star wars fan. And Star wars geek I remain to this day, I was after all the girl who had a crush on Lando Calrissian (not Luke the guy who was supposed to be the hero, not Han who stole the show and became the actual Hero). Lando? Who you ask? Precisely I reply. To those of you who are equally clueless about Luke and Han…. I don’t know what to say.
In my grandparents house down south there are many important traditions which must be honoured or else consequences faced. Absence from the sacred early morning pooja for instance will invite the wrath of all your dead ancestors upon you, to make noise, or disturb the peace during the even more scared post-lunch siesta will earn you the wrath of all your living ancestors. On one particularly long sojourn down south my mother began to tell her three hyperactive daughters (perhaps that’s the reason we never got taken out anywhere) the story of the Lord of the Rings, a new episode every afternoon in order to keep us amused and quiet so that the rest of the household could sleep. To cut a long story short, I eventually got around to reading that even longer story, a several hundred times. I have read the companion book Silmarillion thrice and made notes and family trees to keep things in track. I can tell you both the names of Aragorn’s Sword, what Minas Morgul was originally called before the evil lord Sauron took over it, I can recite some of the poems in the Books and most of the dialogue from the movies. To amuse myself in situations of boredom, I make lists of the cast members of the LOTR Movies. I can name 30 of the top of my head! How many can you name?
This summer my sister introduced me to Anime. I fell for it hook line and sinker, I sat up all night and watched 25 episodes of an anime called “Darker than Black”. I marvelled at it, I woke my sister up at 2 in the morning to discuss the significance of the last episode, cried like a baby after one particularly touching episode and when it ended I lost no time trying to find out what was the next anime I should move onto.
And it was as I sat at 5 in the morning, my head spinning with BK Nimarishi, mediums, and the very, very cute protagonist (I totally have a thing for chinky eyes!) that it hit me, the only thing holding me back from total geekdom was the fact that I was not (also) a Trekkie.
That was then. I just saw Star Trek the movie last night. I liked it. (John Cho is the cutest! His eyes……….).
Its official! I am the female Raj Kuthrapalli. Minus the IQ and mathematical aptitude (I became president of the mathematical society on sheer geekiness). And with a longer and even more unpronounceable name. After a night of serious introspection and much contemplation I’ve come to realize that the only thing keeping me from dressing up like my favourite characters and attending movie premieres or conventions is the fact that we don’t have movie premieres and conventions in India. Anyway I’ve almost made peace with myself (writing being very therapeutic) all I want right now is a pair of prosthetic pointy ears for it to be complete.

Books Versus Movies (No Contest)

I can’t sleep. So while I wait for the latest episode of “How I met Your Mother” to download, allow me to practice my Acceptance Speech for winning best adapted screenplay (preferably a Tamora Pierce Novel adaption) at the Oscars, on you.

“Well…… this is unexpected (audience laughs because I had all five nominations). I’d like to thank the two most beautiful women in the world (camera pans to my two beautiful sisters……. Audience gasps) for never letting me doubt my own beauty (audience snickers as Joke falls flat), my friends for encouraging me to follow my dreams and being true to myself (audience goes awwwwww……..) and lastly my parents for making me who I am.
Thank You for making me the Girl who thought books meant novels and only novels. That a book was not a book, unless it had a story, non-fiction and textbooks being in a category unto themselves. The Girl who did a double take because the text books outnumbered the fiction books in her senior school library. The girl who never understood the families who proudly displayed their entire book collection consisting of a row of untouched Encyclopaedias in their Drawing Rooms.
And Thank You most of all from teaching me to learn from stories. . Thank You for treating a good story with the respect it deserves no matter what the medium. For treating movies and books the same (Movie Making Audience Cheers), the stories they tell and the lessons you can learn from them being the important thing (Clapping Starts). For treating serious and frivolous alike – for you can always find something to be learnt.

I learnt everything from my Values to my Geography from Movies and Books. These Stories have served as the starting points of Deep Introspection into weighty issues like "Is True Love never Having to say Sorry?" and have jumpstarted Extensive Research on Trivial Bits of History such as "Schindlers List" which might have otherwise gone unnoticed.

This is the reason I do what I do (adapt screenplays) I’d like to thank the Academy for recognizing my genius at it. ( Orchestra starts playing, is drowned out by the Standing Ovation, somewhere in the audience George Clooney starts to fall in love with me)”

Thank you for your patience, I am off to learn How Ted Mosby met his Children's Mother.

Twilight Review

Wanted: Male, aged 109 years, with looks of a twenty year old Greek god, raincoat model, for a clumsy, plain girl not good enough for his godlikeness.
Apparently that’s the personal millions of women and teenage girls all over the world want an answer to. How else do you explain the success of twilight? The writing sucks, the characters are characterless and the story is trite.
I daydream a lot, about the books I want to write, about the movies I want to make, and the things I want to do (awww.........hell even about the blog I want to keep). I wanted to write this book, it was buffy inspired and it was going to be brilliant. An ordinary girl falls in love with a vampire, a vampire who while also attracted to her must fight his temptation to suck the blood and life out of her. The girl was going to be kickass, the vampire suave yet tormented, sexual tension would abound, there would be witty repartee. It would not end in the conventionally happy way, the girl would eventually realize that vampires and vampirism (which are obviously subtexts for some deeper gender issues) aren’t for her, but she’d emerge a better, more confident and stronger (emotionally and physically!) person from her experience. I was going to write that book, it was going to be a best seller. My heroine was going to be the heroine to match. Millions of girls all over the globe inspired by said heroine would dump their idiotic boyfriends even before they reached the last page and millions (minus a few) of the dumped boyfriends would wonder what the entire fuss was about, a few sensitive boyfriends would get it and change themselves accordingly, the world would become, all in all, a better place.
Then Twilight happened, apparently Stephanie Meyer a mormon housewife, mother of two in America also had the same dream, and instead of daydreaming about it and writing her booker acceptance speech (they do let you give a speech right?) like I did, actually wrote the damn story and then a sequel and then another one and then another one. So there they were, four gorgeous black books with mysterious symbolic imagery and seductive titles like Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse and Breaking Dawn, what could I do? I bought them, all four in one go. Went home curled up in a sofa glad to have an excuse to not put the more feasible of my daydreams into action (if I went ahead now, Stephanie Meyer could sue me) and started to read, tried to read and then ultimately after several pages of descriptions of Edward “looking more like a greek god than anyone should possibly be”, and finally “so beautiful that he looked like a raincoat model standing in the porch in the rain in a raincoat” I gave up, of yeah I was about thirty pages in. Thirty pages of how beautiful Edward is, of how plain Bella is, of how clumsy Bella is and how graceful Edward is, of how dull Bella is and how interesting Edward is. I gave up! The dumb ass heroine was one of those perfectly irritating girls who say they’re skinny and whine about their pallid skin (translation: I am slender and have great porcelain skin, all the “nerdy” boys keep trying to talk to me, and I’m too nice to put them down! Boo hoo poor me). Do Bella and Edward find true love? Yes they do, does Edward display signs of an obsessive abusive possessive husband? Yes he does, are the books a success? Yes they are, and now millions and millions of girls all over the world have dumped their un-godlike boyfriends who are incapable of modelling raincoats. They sit around being perfectly dull just like Bella, waiting for a Vampire who looks like a greek god to come and bite them and control their lives completely! Millions (minus a few) of the dumped boyfriends wonder what the fuss is all about while a few who catch on go from being nice normal blokes to utter jerks a la Edward and his masterful ways . I weep. And wish that I hadn’t been so lazy. If only I had written my version first! Lesson Learnt: fuck up your Ideas before someone does it for you.