That was my grandfather. Why, he IS my grandfather. And then came my father and thence me. RSS Sr told me once a story, of a Brahmin on his way to another village. The other village is farther than he thought it was, and around noon, he is desperately hungry and thirsty. He comes across a house in the middle of that nowhere, and the man of the house asks him in, and offers him food. The Brahmin eats with haste, without hesitation. The gent then offers him water (the Brahmin is now satiated). Says: “Paapi (sinner), you want a pure Brahmin like me to drink your unholy water?”
I had a huge disagreement with RSS Sr (henceforth, grandpa). I said: “If a man is hungry and thirsty – alphabetically, hunger (aakali) comes before thirst (dappika). But isn’t it more logical for the Brahmin to have a little water, to have taken rest for a bit; maybe converse with the house-holder on matters spiritual and sacred? Having eaten off the house-holder’s kindness, why not drink a little more of his hospitality?”
Grandpa tried to argue it out on the grounds that hunger is a greater evil than thirst. I am still in two minds on that issue.
==
My uncle tells me that RSS Sr took sanyas, practically, when my father – his eldest or oldest son – refused to learn Smarta; my father, apparently wanted to go for English education, which – as it turns out – is smarter. And so RSS Sr went into what I like to call vaanaprastha (life in the wilderness; “life in bewilderment?”). Poor sap did not know what hit him between the eyes: shit hit him!
And so the breed got smarter and smarter. I can drool in coils and drawl faintings. Ha ha.
==
Ah, there is still the main point of this blog, which makes it a truly weblog. I was talking to my uncle this very p.m., who told me about RSS Sr listening to VividhBharati. There were a barrelful of commercial advertisements, said uncle. And he said: “Grandpa asked: ‘Will all these ads make people want more?”
Huh? Or duh?
==
Boys and girls, I am Rajanala Sankara sastry (that is already a mouthful, so I prefer to not use the Jr tag at the end of my name; suffice it to put sastry with initial lower-cased s.)
==
I have similar questions as did Rajanala Sankara Sastry Sr. About the world as it exists, about the way things are shaping up. Or down…
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Reposting: Wardrobe Failure In The Empire Of Prada
Oh well, in the previous post, I said: beautiful women and girls have a greater appeal than boys and women; I meant - 'boys and men'. Oh well, in this day and age - does it matter, I mean the gender? Old women of both sexes, said Uma. oui ma!
==
here is the revised retold Grimm's tale of wardrobe malfunction in the empire of Prada:
==
Many years ago there lived an Empress who was so fond of new clothes that she spent all her money on them in order to be beautifully dressed. She did not care about the arts or the theatre; she only liked to go out walking to show off her new clothes. As it is often said of an Empress, “She is in the boudoir,” they always said here, 'The Empress is in the wardrobe.' All this, by the way, happened in the great Empire of Prada.
One day two excellent weavers arrived from the land of China; they said that they knew how to manufacture the most beautiful cloth imaginable. Not only were the texture and pattern uncommonly beautiful, but the clothes which were made of the stuff possessed this wonderful property that they were invisible to anyone who was out of sync with contemporary fashion. I mean, folk who don’t subscibe to the Vogue…
The Empress thought: I could distinguish the fashionable and trendy from the stolid and dull, if I wore those clothes! And she gave both the weavers much money, so that they might begin their work.
The weavers placed two weaving-looms, and began to do their work; they also obtained the finest silk and the best gold, and worked at the looms till late into the night. And beyond: they slept in the midnight rooms. Infyrior companies call them ‘dorms’ (as in “bunker beds in which DORks sleep @ Midnights.”) After a while, the Empress thought: 'I will send my old and honoured girlfriend to the weavers. She can judge best what the cloth is like, for she knows fashion and sub-edits Vogue.'
The Empress’ girlfriend went to see what was cooking (or being woven) and thought: 'Dear me! I can see nothing!' But she did not say so. As a matter of fact, the weavers put nothing on the looms. [It is said that they could fit the “whole nine yard” in a match box, but that is another tale – another day.]
'Dear, dear!' thought the Vogue’s sub-editor: ‘Can I be so unfashionable? I have never thought that, and nobody must know it! Can I be not fit for my job? No, I must certainly not say that I cannot see the cloth!'’
'Have you nothing to say about it?' asked one of the men who was weaving.
'Oh, it is lovely, most lovely!' answered the chick who appeared on Vogue in her youth and sub-edited it later in life [and wrote Sultry Deys]. 'What texture! What colours! [So earthy… and so forth.] Yes, I will tell the Empress that it pleases me very much.'
'Now we are delighted at that,' said both the weavers, and thereupon they named the colours and explained the make of the texture.
The weavers now wanted more money, more silk, and more gold to use in their weaving. Sure enough, they got all that...
The Empress soon sent a worthy gay designer [let us call him Rohit Balls] to see how the weaving was getting on, and whether the cloth would soon be finished. It was the same with him as with the girlfriend [let us call her Ms Dey]; he looked and looked, but because there was nothing on the empty loom he could see nothing.
'Is it not a beautiful piece of cloth?' asked the two weavers, and they pointed to and described the splendid material which was not there.
Under peer pressure, the high priest of fashion and gaiety praised the cloth which he did not see, and expressed to them his delight at the beautiful colors and the splendid texture. He said the texture was full-bodied.
Now we have something ‘earthy’ [according to the girlfriend] and ‘full-bodied’ [according to the gay high priest of fashion]! Full-bodied, indeed, as you will see soon.
Soon, everybody in the town was talking of the magnificent cloth. Now the Empress went to see for herself while it was still on the loom. The weavers were now weaving with all their might, but without fibre or thread on the loom. The Vogue sub-editor and the gay designer started praising the colour and texture of the cloth; and started pretty much a chorus: earthy, full-bodied, subtle, sublime, sunburnt, sunbathed, pastel, plastered, and blah…
'What!' thought the Empress: 'I can see nothing! This is indeed horrible! Am I not trendy? [And quickly figured out that the two fashionistas could see something that she could not.] And said: “Oh, it is very beautiful.” And then she nodded pleasantly, and examined the empty loom, for she would not say that she could see nothing.
The following day, the Empress plans a procession in which she would display the new acquisition to her wardrobe: the weavers were up and were working by the light of over sixteen candles. The people could see that they were very busy making the Empress’ new clothes ready.
The weavers (who were also tailors – I mean, fashion designers, actually) cut the cloth with huge scissors in the air, sewed with needles without thread, and then said at last:
“Now the clothes are finished!”
Everyone said: “Handspun clothes are so comfortable that one would imagine one had nothing on at all; but that is the beauty of it!”
“Will it please your Highness graciously to take off your clothes,” said the weavers, “then we will put on the new clothes, here before the mirror.”
And so they dressed the Empress in empty clothes.
'Yes,' said all the courtiers, but they could see nothing, for there was nothing to see, by way of a dress. Let us not talk about what they could see.
You know the old yarn, right: The Empress went along in the procession under the splendid canopy, and all the people in the streets and at the windows said, “How matchless are the Empress’ new clothes! How beautifully the dress hangs!”
A thirteen year old girl in the crowd chimed in: “Mom, I want those fine clothes, can I please?” And the whole teen crowd in the city wails: “Mom/dad/honey/dear, I want those clothes and appear on the cover of Vogue. Please…”
[With apologies to the Grimm brothers, to excellent weavers of East Bengal and China, and teenagers who don’t know the difference between the Naked and the Dead. Check out: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Naked_and_the_Dead_(film)]
==
here is the revised retold Grimm's tale of wardrobe malfunction in the empire of Prada:
==
Many years ago there lived an Empress who was so fond of new clothes that she spent all her money on them in order to be beautifully dressed. She did not care about the arts or the theatre; she only liked to go out walking to show off her new clothes. As it is often said of an Empress, “She is in the boudoir,” they always said here, 'The Empress is in the wardrobe.' All this, by the way, happened in the great Empire of Prada.
One day two excellent weavers arrived from the land of China; they said that they knew how to manufacture the most beautiful cloth imaginable. Not only were the texture and pattern uncommonly beautiful, but the clothes which were made of the stuff possessed this wonderful property that they were invisible to anyone who was out of sync with contemporary fashion. I mean, folk who don’t subscibe to the Vogue…
The Empress thought: I could distinguish the fashionable and trendy from the stolid and dull, if I wore those clothes! And she gave both the weavers much money, so that they might begin their work.
The weavers placed two weaving-looms, and began to do their work; they also obtained the finest silk and the best gold, and worked at the looms till late into the night. And beyond: they slept in the midnight rooms. Infyrior companies call them ‘dorms’ (as in “bunker beds in which DORks sleep @ Midnights.”) After a while, the Empress thought: 'I will send my old and honoured girlfriend to the weavers. She can judge best what the cloth is like, for she knows fashion and sub-edits Vogue.'
The Empress’ girlfriend went to see what was cooking (or being woven) and thought: 'Dear me! I can see nothing!' But she did not say so. As a matter of fact, the weavers put nothing on the looms. [It is said that they could fit the “whole nine yard” in a match box, but that is another tale – another day.]
'Dear, dear!' thought the Vogue’s sub-editor: ‘Can I be so unfashionable? I have never thought that, and nobody must know it! Can I be not fit for my job? No, I must certainly not say that I cannot see the cloth!'’
'Have you nothing to say about it?' asked one of the men who was weaving.
'Oh, it is lovely, most lovely!' answered the chick who appeared on Vogue in her youth and sub-edited it later in life [and wrote Sultry Deys]. 'What texture! What colours! [So earthy… and so forth.] Yes, I will tell the Empress that it pleases me very much.'
'Now we are delighted at that,' said both the weavers, and thereupon they named the colours and explained the make of the texture.
The weavers now wanted more money, more silk, and more gold to use in their weaving. Sure enough, they got all that...
The Empress soon sent a worthy gay designer [let us call him Rohit Balls] to see how the weaving was getting on, and whether the cloth would soon be finished. It was the same with him as with the girlfriend [let us call her Ms Dey]; he looked and looked, but because there was nothing on the empty loom he could see nothing.
'Is it not a beautiful piece of cloth?' asked the two weavers, and they pointed to and described the splendid material which was not there.
Under peer pressure, the high priest of fashion and gaiety praised the cloth which he did not see, and expressed to them his delight at the beautiful colors and the splendid texture. He said the texture was full-bodied.
Now we have something ‘earthy’ [according to the girlfriend] and ‘full-bodied’ [according to the gay high priest of fashion]! Full-bodied, indeed, as you will see soon.
Soon, everybody in the town was talking of the magnificent cloth. Now the Empress went to see for herself while it was still on the loom. The weavers were now weaving with all their might, but without fibre or thread on the loom. The Vogue sub-editor and the gay designer started praising the colour and texture of the cloth; and started pretty much a chorus: earthy, full-bodied, subtle, sublime, sunburnt, sunbathed, pastel, plastered, and blah…
'What!' thought the Empress: 'I can see nothing! This is indeed horrible! Am I not trendy? [And quickly figured out that the two fashionistas could see something that she could not.] And said: “Oh, it is very beautiful.” And then she nodded pleasantly, and examined the empty loom, for she would not say that she could see nothing.
The following day, the Empress plans a procession in which she would display the new acquisition to her wardrobe: the weavers were up and were working by the light of over sixteen candles. The people could see that they were very busy making the Empress’ new clothes ready.
The weavers (who were also tailors – I mean, fashion designers, actually) cut the cloth with huge scissors in the air, sewed with needles without thread, and then said at last:
“Now the clothes are finished!”
Everyone said: “Handspun clothes are so comfortable that one would imagine one had nothing on at all; but that is the beauty of it!”
“Will it please your Highness graciously to take off your clothes,” said the weavers, “then we will put on the new clothes, here before the mirror.”
And so they dressed the Empress in empty clothes.
'Yes,' said all the courtiers, but they could see nothing, for there was nothing to see, by way of a dress. Let us not talk about what they could see.
You know the old yarn, right: The Empress went along in the procession under the splendid canopy, and all the people in the streets and at the windows said, “How matchless are the Empress’ new clothes! How beautifully the dress hangs!”
A thirteen year old girl in the crowd chimed in: “Mom, I want those fine clothes, can I please?” And the whole teen crowd in the city wails: “Mom/dad/honey/dear, I want those clothes and appear on the cover of Vogue. Please…”
[With apologies to the Grimm brothers, to excellent weavers of East Bengal and China, and teenagers who don’t know the difference between the Naked and the Dead. Check out: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Naked_and_the_Dead_(film)]
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Indra Nuyi Said Nothing New: Read Robert Frost First
“What is work, what is play; what is life, what is career: it is all one and the same,” or something to that effect, I was told, said Indra Nuyi of Pepsico. I go with that view: in today’s world, as in Robert Frost’s, the big thing is to enjoy your work, play at work, live at work, and work at home. Sounds all confusing?
OK, let us start disambiguating this with the lines from the big daddy of American poetry, Robert Frost:
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes make one in sight.
Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done.
==
Avocation, according to www.m-w.com is:
a subordinate occupation pursued in addition to one's vocation especially for enjoyment : hobby [it is a diversion, a distraction, according to Webster’s; but be that as it may…]
Let us say my avocation is blogging, which gives me enjoyment, and it is my hobby. And if, for some reason, I get paid for it – wow, is there anything better than that in life?
Vocation, according to that veritable source of definitions, once again, is:
the work in which a person is employed [namely, the work for which a person gets paid].
Is that now somewhat clear: you do things you love to do, and you get paid for it. But how on earth is that possible? Any work you do and get paid for becomes abhorrent, for the very reason that you get paid for it, no? You would rather sit at something fishy and drink beer (for which you have to pay). You would rather play skittles all your life, right?
==
But then, look at Sachin Tendulkar…
Sachin loves cricket: whether you accept the fact that he is the god of cricket or not, you cannot deny that he loves what he does: playing cricket. That is his vocation and avocation; that is his distraction, digression, hobby, and career.
Can all of us play cricket as well as He does? Isn’t that a tall order? [The Sachin is not very tall…]
My point is not that we should all get into cricket and enjoy it and become cricketing gods: that is Sachin’s job (or life or career). But if you work at it (the only worthwhile work you should be at), all of us can find deep within us a line of activity which syncs up our soul’s desire and bodily abilities.
For my part….
I found that I like editing and writing; I don’t get paid for the writing I ‘indulge’ in; sometimes I get brickbats for what I write. However, my writing ‘feeds into’ my editing skills, for which I get paid.
I think I have found the right work-life integration (not balance).
I write this particular blog for the benefit of my horrible boss. If she were not such a beautiful woman, I would have thrown him in to the lake near my office.
==
Let us face it: in India, girls and women who manage to get past the sex-determination tests do have an advantage over boys and women. Look at the crowded male compartments and the spaced out ladies compartments in the local trains in Hyderabad. The ladies compartment is much better than the first-class compartment.
==
Glass ceiling and all that; oh well, I got to review Camille Paglia’s Sex, Art and American Culture another day and talk about feminism and Sushi Tharoor. Suffice it to say for now, More Power To Women!
OK, let us start disambiguating this with the lines from the big daddy of American poetry, Robert Frost:
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes make one in sight.
Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done.
==
Avocation, according to www.m-w.com is:
a subordinate occupation pursued in addition to one's vocation especially for enjoyment : hobby [it is a diversion, a distraction, according to Webster’s; but be that as it may…]
Let us say my avocation is blogging, which gives me enjoyment, and it is my hobby. And if, for some reason, I get paid for it – wow, is there anything better than that in life?
Vocation, according to that veritable source of definitions, once again, is:
the work in which a person is employed [namely, the work for which a person gets paid].
Is that now somewhat clear: you do things you love to do, and you get paid for it. But how on earth is that possible? Any work you do and get paid for becomes abhorrent, for the very reason that you get paid for it, no? You would rather sit at something fishy and drink beer (for which you have to pay). You would rather play skittles all your life, right?
==
But then, look at Sachin Tendulkar…
Sachin loves cricket: whether you accept the fact that he is the god of cricket or not, you cannot deny that he loves what he does: playing cricket. That is his vocation and avocation; that is his distraction, digression, hobby, and career.
Can all of us play cricket as well as He does? Isn’t that a tall order? [The Sachin is not very tall…]
My point is not that we should all get into cricket and enjoy it and become cricketing gods: that is Sachin’s job (or life or career). But if you work at it (the only worthwhile work you should be at), all of us can find deep within us a line of activity which syncs up our soul’s desire and bodily abilities.
For my part….
I found that I like editing and writing; I don’t get paid for the writing I ‘indulge’ in; sometimes I get brickbats for what I write. However, my writing ‘feeds into’ my editing skills, for which I get paid.
I think I have found the right work-life integration (not balance).
I write this particular blog for the benefit of my horrible boss. If she were not such a beautiful woman, I would have thrown him in to the lake near my office.
==
Let us face it: in India, girls and women who manage to get past the sex-determination tests do have an advantage over boys and women. Look at the crowded male compartments and the spaced out ladies compartments in the local trains in Hyderabad. The ladies compartment is much better than the first-class compartment.
==
Glass ceiling and all that; oh well, I got to review Camille Paglia’s Sex, Art and American Culture another day and talk about feminism and Sushi Tharoor. Suffice it to say for now, More Power To Women!
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Mr Perfect: A Clean, Family Entertainer*****
I give this five-star rating for the following reasons:
- Kajal Agarwal’s outstanding performance – when she smiles, she is irresistible; when she cries, being a man, I cried like a baby, with tears rolling down my cheeks!
- Prabhas’ cool outlook and clothes (though he wears a Donna Karan sweatshirt once; wonder if that was intended to appeal to a queer audience!)
- Tapsi in full costume, except in one ‘item’ number: my god, she is cute!
- A fresh look at love, romance, and marriage (and the Hindu undivided fambly), never before seen in Telugu films – or even bollywood flicks. Karan Joker be damned!
- Kajal Agarwal (forget about her performance). Period!
Well, there is a sixth reason, which is this song (forgive my feeble attempt at translating it):
It is chilly, and my mind turns toward you
It’s brilling and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe...
Raindrops are falling on my head and my mind is hopping hither thither
And my youth suffocates me...
Small, small hopes are pinching me and pushing off
And small little thoughts pierce my head and kill me, almost...
I feel as if you are with me; as if you are my shadow
As if you are looking at me all the time...
In my dreams you are inside my head whispering sweet nothings
I dream that you are my breath and cause of my breathlessness...
We started off with little fights and bonded over bigger ones
We think different and our styles differ so much...
And yet, and yet, as we go along, we get along so much...
What is it with me and with you? Why, oh why is it such?
==
At this point, in this superbly choreographed number:
“Come on and get into the rain,” says Kajal
And Prabhas mouths a silent “No way”.
And promptly, meekly gets into the rain
Where else do you see this in Telugu films?
==
[The answer is simple: It is a typical K Vishwanath film. I wonder if K Dasarath is somehow related to the great man. But definitely, K V was not just an actor in the movie. He surely had a bigger role to play in the making of it. Consider the ]
I feel as if I am slipping into a valley, as if I am floating into the sky
As if the stars are approaching me, I feel as if something is going on inside of me...
Without hesitation I could show my anger at you in front of all
But now, all alone with you, why am I feeling melee-mouthed to tell you of my love for you?
As if I am moving away from me, when I remember your mischief
And when I want to get back to myself, I feel your steps reaching toward me
==
Folks, get ready for the show of your season. Bombabes, watch out! Kajal Agarwal is gonna hit hard where it hurts – your callsheets and pay checks.
==
Good show, Mr K Dasarath; well done again Dil Raju garu. Keep it up Mrs Anita (and Venkateswara creations)! Let us have some more of these wonderful family entertainers. We are thirsty!
- Kajal Agarwal’s outstanding performance – when she smiles, she is irresistible; when she cries, being a man, I cried like a baby, with tears rolling down my cheeks!
- Prabhas’ cool outlook and clothes (though he wears a Donna Karan sweatshirt once; wonder if that was intended to appeal to a queer audience!)
- Tapsi in full costume, except in one ‘item’ number: my god, she is cute!
- A fresh look at love, romance, and marriage (and the Hindu undivided fambly), never before seen in Telugu films – or even bollywood flicks. Karan Joker be damned!
- Kajal Agarwal (forget about her performance). Period!
Well, there is a sixth reason, which is this song (forgive my feeble attempt at translating it):
It is chilly, and my mind turns toward you
It’s brilling and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe...
Raindrops are falling on my head and my mind is hopping hither thither
And my youth suffocates me...
Small, small hopes are pinching me and pushing off
And small little thoughts pierce my head and kill me, almost...
I feel as if you are with me; as if you are my shadow
As if you are looking at me all the time...
In my dreams you are inside my head whispering sweet nothings
I dream that you are my breath and cause of my breathlessness...
We started off with little fights and bonded over bigger ones
We think different and our styles differ so much...
And yet, and yet, as we go along, we get along so much...
What is it with me and with you? Why, oh why is it such?
==
At this point, in this superbly choreographed number:
“Come on and get into the rain,” says Kajal
And Prabhas mouths a silent “No way”.
And promptly, meekly gets into the rain
Where else do you see this in Telugu films?
==
[The answer is simple: It is a typical K Vishwanath film. I wonder if K Dasarath is somehow related to the great man. But definitely, K V was not just an actor in the movie. He surely had a bigger role to play in the making of it. Consider the ]
I feel as if I am slipping into a valley, as if I am floating into the sky
As if the stars are approaching me, I feel as if something is going on inside of me...
Without hesitation I could show my anger at you in front of all
But now, all alone with you, why am I feeling melee-mouthed to tell you of my love for you?
As if I am moving away from me, when I remember your mischief
And when I want to get back to myself, I feel your steps reaching toward me
==
Folks, get ready for the show of your season. Bombabes, watch out! Kajal Agarwal is gonna hit hard where it hurts – your callsheets and pay checks.
==
Good show, Mr K Dasarath; well done again Dil Raju garu. Keep it up Mrs Anita (and Venkateswara creations)! Let us have some more of these wonderful family entertainers. We are thirsty!
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