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Ninasam

Went for a Kannada play recently by arguably the best company in Karnataka (Ninasam). Very interesting and very dark comedy. Incidentally my first attempt at photographing theatre theatre.

THE REST OF THE NINASAM PHOTOS

Not So Mammuli

I was in Mammulpet recently, where the wholesalers of the world (or atleast Bangalore) unite. Here you can get anything for the lowest price, pencil to pant, saree to statuette. Only for most of these things you need to be prepared to take back a whole bunch. These guys laugh out loud when you say you want 2-3. 100 stickers of Jesus and Mother Mary? Step right in sir.


But where there's money to be made, you'll find people aren't real sticklers for the rules. In some shops the wholesale ideal was sacrificed for a more plain and practical sale. We edged our way through the milling crowds that had everyone from low income mothers dragging their kids behind them to Page 3 types, trying hoity toitily to keep their high heels out of the muck. A real juxtaposition.


It didn't help that was with three girls united in a single minded need to shop for cheap clothes and that I was the only one who knew enough Kannada to keep asking for directions. And we went main road to street, street to lane, lane to bylane, bylane to gully, gully to building, up a dingy staircase and finally into a shop filled to the brim with clothes, people and salesmen all mingling together in a musty humid mess. Ventilation was something these people were talking about with fondness, like those old buildings that get replaced overnight by some concrete monstrosity.


But I'm a survivor and lived to tell this grubby sweaty tale. (note to self - NEVER AGAIN).

Marry Me Beyonce :)

50 seconds. That's what we were given. We balked. We fretted, fumed and kicked some non-existent pebbles. We groaned and moaned, begged and pleaded. Through all this we were shown the hand. The proverbial faces weren't listening. Beyonce's management said 50 seconds and 50 seconds are all we'll get. Ad nauseam.

So like a line of grumbling sheep we were marched into the photo pit. Where we waited. And waited. And waited. And waited....and waited. Finally, after all the instruments, stage settings, lights, sound, curtains, cameras, bouncers were in place, a PR person rushed through the line of lens, whispering in their ears, until she was rasping into mine (it wasn't much like a whisper after all).

"They've given you two songs," she hissed, making a thumbs up sign and flashing me that winning smile. I could hear the tension wearing down. The taut tight noose was now a comfortable lasso. Two songs to photograph Beyonce. That's like an eternity compared to 50 seconds. So we all stood and waited.

Until someone else came a-whispering. Only this time, to our dismay we had to move OUT of the photo pit. "To where??" many puzzled faces enquired. To the sound booth, in the back of the first section of the audience, with a good 20 rows of people between us and the stage. Ah. Nice. Thank you so much.

All this is well and good when you, like the Reuters guys have a monstrous telephoto that looks like some weapon Arnie would be packing. Otherwise you stand shoulder to shoulder with our nation's fine press and wonder how the hell you're going to get a clear shot of Beyonce.

So I broke free. Ran into the audience, squeezing, excusing myself and tramping on few toes (sorry :S) until I was 4-5 rows away from the stage. That's when the Beyonce burst happened with Crazy In Love. I was lost, oblivious to anything other than my camera. A little shift to the left and one to the right. Two songs went by in a burst of skin, colour, notes and lights.

I don't really listen to Beyonce's music but I have to admit that the show was SPOT ON. Her singing was powerful, seductive and soulful all at once. The production was huge, astronomical. And there were all those beautiful people - the dancers and the all-woman band of incredible musicians. I didn't stay for long but what I saw blew my socks off.

And there was Beyonce. Mere words won't suffice to describe a Goddess. Phew. Sigh. Gasp. Gurgle. Swoon. There was a guy in the front row, who had on a cheesy, hastily painted sweatshirt that said, "Beyonce Marry Me." I scoffed then, erroneously. Sigh.

CLICK HERE FOR MORE BEYONCE

Bogie Man

Shot from the train en route from Bangalore to Goa.

Happy Children's Day

Waking up to wild yelps from the school opposite my place, I'm instantly reminded that its Children's Day. Everywhere in India, kids will be pampered and entertained, fed and cuddled and if they're really lucky, even have a holiday.


Well, not everywhere. On the outskirts of Bangalore, in a campus misleadingly titled, "The Indira Gandhi International School". If they're lucky, maybe someone would've dropped in with some sweets.


Otherwise, it'll be a day like any other. All the kids here are orphans or abandoned, mostly comprising of Sri Lankan refugees rendered homeless by the tsunami or constant fighting between the LTTE and the Sri Lankan army. "The government refuses to acknowledge that these refugees could become Indian citizens and thus be able to earn a living. And there are people who have come here over 2 decades ago and still struggle with the meagre government handouts," says Renu Mukunda, who heads the administration of the IGIA, hardly an easy job. She also works with many other NGOs.


The buildings are decrepit, you have to struggle to find any paint left. The classrooms, bubbling with youthful exuberance are dingy at best. The children, age 4 upwards all contribute to the upkeep, wash their own clothes and help the younger ones through their baths and grooming. This when they aren't playing football or cricket, barefoot, with reckless abandon. In fact, the large brown playing field is the only place when they look like any other children, lost in their games. The dormitories are stuffed to the brim and yet more children keep arriving from the refugee camps. The only thing that separates the splinters of their bunk beds from skin are thin mats, mattresses are an expense they can ill afford. To make things worse a big corporate has donated a bulk of wood to the school and insist that they utilise it within 6 months. So a small battalion of carpenters work incessantly carving out tables, chairs, bunk beds and shelves all of which will lie out in the open as there are no buildings to house them. No one thought of donating money or manpower to build more dorms.



Other than a few in-house teachers and a matron, who came here as a refugee 15 years earlier, Renu tries desperately to source teachers. When I visited there were two gentlemen, working at huge corporations, who spent time on weekends and holidays to teach the older kids physics and maths. Apparently there are others like them who would rather nurse a budding intellect than a hangover. There are also doctors and medical students who come in and do free check ups and consultations, constantly striving to counteract the scabies epidemic that rears its ugly head every time a new batch arrives from the even more dismal conditions at the refugee camps.


The most endearing of these volunteers would have to be bearded Babu and his band of barbers. On the terrace of one of the buildings they had set up shop, scissors shimmering as they went clip, clip, clip through a variety of mops, long and short, curly and straight. All this for free. Babu explains, "I'm a barber by profession but I like to think of myself as a social worker." And so, he spends his holidays going from institute to NGO, armed with scissors and smiles. He wants to give "of himself" he says.


If you've ever felt the same way you can contribute to the IGIA, as a volunteer teacher, doctor, counsellor, administrator, advisor or anything else you can think of. I'm sure they desperately need financial assistance as well, so if you or your company would like to help out, don't think twice.


Here are their contact details:

IGIA
Jakkur Santhe Beedhi
Jakkur village,
Yelahanka,
Bangalore - 5600064
Ph: 080-28563430

The Tavern

Photo by Duende

Good times at the local watering hole. Hic!

Daft Phunk

Firstly, thank God for Fergie. The show would've been unbearable if we didn't have her to gawk at.


I honestly don't understand how a band/group/posse/whatever can sell millions of records, make five fabulously produced albums in the studio, perform countless times and yet sound like long nails itching a blackboard, when they played live in Bangalore. The sound was an amplified swamp. Everything was mashed together like the regurgitated mess birds spew up for their hatchlings on Discovery.


Wait, it gets better. The backing band. They'd be tight, I thought. They'd have to be with the grooves they play on the BEP songs. No one told them though. They strutted their terrible tones, their slipping grooves and trumpet and sax solos that made us fantasize about the mute button on the gigantic sound console.


Then the vocals. Ah, the mixed up, out of time, off key vocals. Fergie hit a few notes but mostly she panted through her songs (no, the heavy breathing was definitely not a turn on). Will.i.am had flashes of brilliance in his supa fast raps but once you've seen Freestylin' from the likes of Mos Def, Tupac or Supernatural, all this practiced stuff seems a tad flat. As for Apl and Taboo, I have no clue what they're doing in the BEP. They barely sing or rap and mostly make the kind of guttural noises that a rude chimpanzee might have been trained to do.



Now there might have been a problem with the sound that precipitated that series of unfortunate musical notes but I don't buy that a multi-million dollar performing circus doesn't ensure perfect sound before hitting the first chords for a paying audience (luckily I didn't have to). I mean they performed (the non-musical bits) like pros and I'm sure most of the crowd lapped it up, ears firmly turned deaf. Bravo Black Eyed Peas. Clap, clap.


Did I remember to thank God for Fergie? Oh, yeah I did.
Good night.

MORE BEP HERE

"Be very afraid"

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