Cricket who? Hockey rules

When had you last seen an Indian cricketer running towards the spectators’ stand, asking the crowds for an Indian flag for his victory huddle? Or, when had you last seen the “men in blue” passionately sing the national anthem before a decisive match? Don’t know about the cricketers, for I have never been to a one day international match. But, having attended five matches at the Asia Cup hockey tournament, I have realised how different it feels to watch a game of hockey and those who play it.

In the spectators’ stand, there is no end to adjectives lauding the “men-running-on-horse-power”. Coach Joaquim Carvalho’s men have no accessories to flaunt, no neat burly watches on their wrists: they are rough and determined, like the rugged characters in D H Lawrence’s novels. No qualms about the sweat, and sweat the hockeywallas shed willingly and happily. They really looked like they were playing for the country. And, people cheering from this corner of the stadium — meant for the “aam aadmi” — made sure they did. In the final match against Korea, the spectators had spared no tactic in their festive cheering, little surprise, that the players had looked here, every time they had wanted to breathe in some energy during this initially tiring tussle.

The ball crossing hurdles, kissing the board with thuds regularly —some even saw the spirit of Pargat Singh, a legendary player of yesteryears, trapped inside Sardara. The people had called Tirkeys, the lions of the east; the Singhs — Singhs, Sardara as Sardar, Shivendra as Shiva. Small victory, or big battles ahead — no one really cared. The players responded to the crowd during the game — they acknowledged they belonged to us and we belonged to them. Baljit, the goalee, smiled back each time a special cheer from the stands inspired him.

Rajpal raised his hand, shrieking after his role in every goal, as if assuring he had taken the crowd’s advice on the Korean manning him. Dilip Tirkey, puffing between the victory lap and random sound bites to TV anchors walked down to the mesh, throwing up his hand in “thanks”. Tushar Khandkar returned after the long photo session, assuring us that his teammates would get the trophy this side, which his teammates later did. The cheerer leaders included an army of forty-something professionals, college goers, a minority of women, and a brigade of oldies — all equally fascinated and committed. The teams’ tempers rising on the field and the Koreans walking out in protest, beating-the-turf-pushing-Prabhjot-storming-to-the-Ref: all this fired up the stands. Dialogues from Rajni hits and warnings in chaste Tamil and Hindi were thrown in.

The group of people with the chef-like head gear — the most animated lot — responded to our cheerleader, sincerely. “Cricket who? Hockey rules”. “Cricket go to hell”. “Dravid, Tendulkar, Saurav, are you watching this?”. “Forget Lords. The Lords are here.” The posters and banners have never had such direct stinkers.

On TV, these people might have looked like wobblers, loving hockey. But they know the rules of hockey like the back of their hand. They flirt with cricket but their true love is the other 11.

For some, hockey is life. Like our cheer leader, a Sardarji almost 80, who calls himself Rashtra Kavi Inderpal. People know him as the man “who comes for all national and international hockey tournaments.” We peeped into the autograph books he had signed for people. Some even pleaded with him to put down his address there. “Patel Nagar, Gha. You complete it yourself. I am busy cheering. It’s Ghaziabad in UP,” says our man with a celeb’s shrug. Well, “Rashtra Kavi Inderpal” is the-man-with-the-gong you had seen on your television. People took good care of their guest from UP. Some even got him gifts on the day of the final match — gifts he would be hesitant to accept till people would shove them into his jhola.

Some guarded his space while he went on rounds to the other wing of spectators, ordering them to be louder, coordinating with the tambourines. The frail man’s gong would get consistent whenever the Indians tried a penalty corner — like an extra prayer for them to convert the unconvertible. Joining him were boys from a sports college in southern Tamil Nadu — masters at the rhythmic rattle with empty plastic bottles. Matches have been played, won, lost in the past and people have cheered for the players.

But if the Beatles ever wanted to make a stadium-rock video of their song, All the Lovely People, they could have done it in Chennai this time.

image copyright: the new indian express (till i upload my own)

copyright: the new indian express

the path less travelled

Any famous Hindustani musician performing at an overnight concert will be more than happy to travel from raag Kedar to raag Bhatiyaar. But request the same maestro to face a detailed question-answer session on music — and you will see the hesitation setting in. His reaction, as Prabha Atre, the renowned Kirana gharana (tradition) vocalist puts it in her book Along the Path of Music will be, “We can’t answer all that… See what you can get from the music that we present.” It’s the truth. Our musicians do not like talking about their music.

But there are a few exceptions, like Atre, herself — a performer and academician rolled into one. Over the years, discussing music has come as naturally to Atre as singing the khayal (a form of Hindustani music) and sargam (arrangement of swaras) — an aspect of music she has always strongly supported. Her contemporaries believe that Indian classical music isn’t really meant for the “masses”, yet, Atre has always wanted to communicate with the “lay listener”. In the year 2000, she had published her first book, Enlightening the Listener, which deals with the technical aspects of contemporary Hindustani music. In this book, the maestro had taken up the task of explaining the basics of Hindustani music (saptak, taan, talas, sargam etc) and the Hindustani concert format. She had also delved into the factors that make Hindustani and Carnatic music differ from each other in form and presentation.

In 2005, Atre had published her second book, Along the Path Of Music — an autobiographical account, certainly closer to her heart than her previous work. It’s like a piece of nostalgia out of Atre’s long relationship with music and stalwarts; a rare account, where the musician talks about the material cherished, performed, studied under the watchful eyes of gurus (she had three, well almost) and the audience.

Atre’s second work involves serious personal views and experiences which come from her interactions with her guru Shri Sureshbabu Mane, Mane’s sister and Atre’s second guru — the legendry Hirabai Badodekar; her inspiration for Punjabi thumri and khayal singing, Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan. Also, Pandit Bhim Sen Joshi whom she has (interestingly) described as the artiste “blessed by both” Saraswati and Laxmi — the goddesses for wisdom and prosperity in Hindu mythology. Then, there are strains of appreciation for Ustad Amir Khan, the nodal artiste of Kirana tradition, who did the unthinkable by giving the gharana a three dimensional canvas by involving the lower octave notes. Khan with his “introspective” and “aristocratic” gayaki (style and method of singing), reveals Atre, was “like a guru” who had indirectly guided her in making her music bold.

In Along the Path Of Music, she tries to find out what makes “Indian musicians” so reticent about their own art. She provides the answers. Stating candidly — that musicians of yesteryears lacked formal education — one of the many reasons why we don’t have enough writing on music from the geniuses. Atre, who turned 75 last week, has always made a very sincere effort to express her views in a simple yet methodical manner. Along the Path of Music is no exception. In her writing, as in her concerts, there are streaks of independence, which shouldn’t be mistaken as something rebellious. The septuagenarian artiste is carefully defensive about the experiments and epithets Kirana gharana has been criticised for — including Ustad Amir Khan’s daring treatment of tala and his “sargam singing in between alaaps and taans”. Her sweet bias for using sargams, which you come across often in her second book (she took this up as a subject for her doctorate), sounds quite like the love pangs the Benaras gharana maestros feel for their vocal ostentations. It’s thought provoking and artistically rich.

Stalwarts like her have a treasure to share when they remember their own gurus. In this book, she narrates how much she (like many students of music) had felt satiated with raag Yaman — the first melody she had learned from Sureshbabu Mane, and wanted to move over to other ragas. Her description of how her guru had strategically dealt with her idea reads as innocent and beautiful as this melody. Apart from such autobiographical elements Atre has also taken up certain issues that concern our artistes. Like the fate of folk and tribal music in our country; the need to educate the audience worldwide about our ascending and descending scales, talas, ragas etc. Also, the role of education in music. She attributes this concern to her academic background. It makes her look at music “with open eyes”, she says. Atre suggests “formulation of a national policy for Indian classical music.”

Some of the anecdotes in her book help the connoisseurs get to know a few lesser known traits of our musicians. For instance, Atre had sung Ustad Bade Ghulam Ali Khan’s famous daadra when Sureshbabu Mane had wanted to listen to her to decide whether she could be her student. And that, there was no certainty whether Ustad Amir Khan would finish his concert with a Bhairavi! Only if more stalwarts would be as generous as Atre, our music could get an extended audience.

copyright: the new indian express

The Korean beating retreat

The Koreans sink to the ground. The Singhs and the Tirkeys hug each other. The victory roars at the packed stadium merge in a de-stressing knoll.


What had got people to Mayor Radhakrishnan Stadium, on a Monday? The success of a film based on Indian hockey; the presence of a glamorous Sunil Shetty; the fact that team India’s performance at Asia Cup will give them a ticket to the Beijing Olympics; or the clash against the unsparing Koreans?

Well, a curry of reasons — like a long lost love for the so-called national game, fascination for the Tirkeys and the Singhs, among others. The stadium saw people waking up from a slumber — that of Pakistan trampling Singapore 8-0 at the Asia Hockey Cup tournament earlier that evening — to a bunch of Korean players warming up on the turf under floodlights.

I notice a Korean family walk past the spectators’ stands. A couple with a child; the man holding their flag, his partner carrying a drowsy four-year-old. Suddenly, a Korean player shouts something on the field. To this, the little girl raises her head, forgetting her nap, clapping and chuckling till she disappears into a minority. She had to cheer for ‘‘her own”. Very much like the others at the stadium; a small Sikh gathering had joined the Chennaiites in cheering ‘‘their own” – the sole sardarji and a ‘‘somewhat- Tamil” chap in the Singapore team – in Punjabi and Tamil, giving suggestions – flung across, hockey style, to the losing team during the Singapore-Pak match.

Prabhjot Singh had hardly eked out a few scoops steering, stealing and snorting when the stadium heard its first organised ensemble of cymbals and drums. No, that can’t be the Indians, I guiltily grumble. We realise it’s a group of Korean people coordinating the flag-waving and the rhythms. They were the only source that provided inspiration to the Koreans that evening.The Koreans sink to the ground. The Singhs and the Tirkeys hug each other. The victory roars at the packed stadium merge in a destressing knoll. But who’s that? An 80-something man, from the spectators’ stand, is running around with a gong. An army of tirangawallas are trailing him.

Forget the drums. This is not bad for a good restart.

copyright: The New Indian Express

The tears, sweat and the hardships

memories of another day (Insight, September 2)

On an afternoon in 1996, we had two guests at my home in Dehradun. Both old enough to be my grandfather and both Olympians from the Indian hockey squads of late 1950s and 1960s — people revered by my dad’s generation. Over coffee, they were exchanging regrets, yet another time: the-goal-that-could-have-been-saved, the follies on the field and what-ifs. Before you realised they had got into an argument, and it took a couple of jokes from the host to get the two men to laugh. But it was very clear that advancing age hadn’t diminished their passion for the game or the bitter-sweet memories that they carry along all their lives like trophies.

I couldn’t help remembering that afternoon while watching Shimit Amin’s Chak De India. The regret and the redemption, where Kabir Khan, the coach (played by Shah Rukh Khan), maintains that he will not really like to part with the shame the un-saved stroke had brought him seven years ago. Not everyone can be forgiven for a mistake (Ek galtee subko maaf nahi hoti), he says, before turning to his team of ragtag 16. Real life veterans keep regrets for decades. And they seek to make up for them years later by contributing to the game. Chak De India has been inspired by such an incident in Indian men’s hockey. So, unlike others who squirmed in their seats watching Chak De’s Kabir Khan take a plunge into regret and gloom for seven years, I sat patiently.

And honestly, Amin’s audience would have squirmed more had his film shown a dejected team packing bags after the 7-nil defeat in the opener in Australia, or other honest changes that the script had required. Yet, people pretend to reject the unrealistic, like Kabir Khan’s 11 making to the victory stand, stiffly, thanklessly. Amin had shared his ideas with a few hockey pundits, and that’s one reason why he has been able to portray the scenes with ease. On a field, much like it has been shown in the film, people feel more than happy to see a robust sardarni spill the aggression, or a Haryanvi with a heart of gold fight out a selfish game, or a manicured Manipuri scowl her way to become an immaculate penalty specialist.

That childlike joy over unwrapping swanky kits, the social, regional differences in the dorm and their influence on the game, that snubbing from the seniors, that dwarfed-down feeling among players over their rivals’ fitness regime in the international circuit – all this is familiar to anyone who has rubbed the blade on the turf (literally in hockey terms ) for India.

Chak De might have pricked many people directly involved with Indian women’s hockey. But it brings out a bunch of pleasant truths as well. For instance, a dialogue where Kabir Khan is told by his subordinate after one of training sessions at the national camp that the situation is “in hands” (considering the brigade of un-coordinated Medusas he is training). He says, choosing not to smile, that the situation will soon go “out of hands” — referring to the soaring progress. This sentence, according to me, is the “the moment” of the film.

It takes me a step backward from coach Kabir Khan’s luxury of being a national coach to a picture in my family album, which is larger than the rest: a content-looking coach flanked by a dozen sturdy teenagers; 10 of them having represented Haryana and Uttar Pradesh at the national level camps in their new tri-colour-on-white kit, no less glamorous than the Chak De team. The situation must have been truly “out of hands” then, with only a few years of hard work gone into shaping the carefully selected trainees for a noble cause — the National Sports Talent Contest (NSTC) in Patiala in 1988. Women from very simple backgrounds; two daughters of a farmer, who now are role models in Haryana; another, the eldest among a trail of fairly gifted siblings from the interiors of UP, a beautiful athlete who had impressed all in Germany; then a fragile veggie who had later swept it to the goal post on a diet of “fascinating” baby corns at a championship in Thailand; next, a daughter of a hockey coach among others.

For me, they were no less than stars. I saw them sweat it out for themselves, for the state and later Team India with the limited facilities that the government scheme could afford for them. In a way, they represent the sweet 16 in Chak De, but definitely more heroic, more dignified. Their grumble over that extra round would melt down Sirji (the suffix for additional respect to the coach), followed by a helpless request mixed with the huffs. Puffs, there weren’t any, no matter what the level of success or the number of national camps they had attended. A crunch in funds, even for leveling of the grass during the rainy season had never really mattered. The coach and the team would laugh their way to the end of the field, sprinting with the grass cutting machine, checking their stamina. The joke associated with this peculiar exercise — it would help them at the treadmill fitness test in Delhi! The evenings would end in a collective “Break-off-Jai-Hind” followed by treats of bun-butter or sugarcane-juice, or both, depending on the margin of goals.

Cramps, crepe bandages, that permanent likeable whiff of the muscle relaxant in their dorm, posters of Gabriela Sabatini, the all pervasive Pat-bandana-Cash and Imran Khan — this was their world between two strenuous practice sessions. In between they would find time to reluctantly flip through “guide” notes, or snore, or pack for a tournament. “If only had A pursued the game, she could have made it to the national team even today,” the coach says ruing the corked up career of one them, “B was doing beautifully, but for her bad academic record, she had to walk out of the scheme, nalaayak (useless) couldn’t manage to pass in English, but I am happy she eventually found a way out,” he says chuckling, nostalgically. It was this backyard of talent that contributed to the scoreboards at international fields and I grew up watching the women become tall. Lack of funds and a new bunch of policies, deflated it all, many of them made exits, for reasons, personal and professional in the late 1990s.

Chak De reminds me of this tiff between lack of funds and the stubbornness of the players and coaches to keep up the show at the state level, from where these players move to the national front. At the district level, there has been a constant bank of talent — girls from not-well-to-do background, making a coach watery eyed with appreciation over their dodges and dribbles. But then, not many students are as fortunate as Chitrashi Rawat, a real life player who plays the verbose Haryanvi in Chak De and belongs to Dehradun (she represents Uttaranchal). Unlike her, many aspiring players in this town cannot really manage going to a decent school or even afford a pair of canvas shoes for the field. You will be more than optimistic to expect proficiency from such students in more than one game for the lack of resources and fitness reasons.

But then, there are certain university-level trends that make you happy. Like at the Meher Chand Mahajan (MCM) DAV College, Chandigarh, where Tania Abrol, who plays the offending short-fuse Balbir Kaur in Chak De, is graduating, players are expected to pick up a couple of other games seriously to save their ranks in the college and Panjab University. During my days at the same college, I bumped into a hockey player, once, part of the NSTC, passionately spending a couple of hours at other games. Same goes for Abrol, a national level judo pro, she has picked up hockey for the first time at her college, tries shot-put, softball and basketball along side. So, unlike in the film where Abrol gazes at members of a foreign contingent indulging in other games, at college she is comfortable with a few already.

Chak De has subtly hinted at the lack of “sporting culture” among our players. It deals with a national team, yet it raises questions that address the total scenario of Indian women’s hockey. Blame Amin for making a show of our lack of resources in the national game the look in Kabir Khan’s eyes when the opponent coach laps up strategies from fresh Xerox copies being ferried across from somewhere in the stadium). After all, people haven’t even spared Satyajit Ray the criticism for making a show of our poverty in the 1960s.

But Amin has been able to stir up emotions in habitually optimistic people related to this dejected game, who are hoping that the film will help Indians turn to Indian women’s hockey again. The turn out at Chak De India isn’t failing them.

copyright: The New Indian Express

Ustad Bismillah Khan and the fruit cake

Of Fruit Cake and Kajri (2005, 48 hours)

If all grandads were to become like him, only Jesus could save my contemporaries. It is, still like it was in the past - takes courage to sit next to Shehnai God Ustad Bismillah Khan. Forget the musical aspect, he, belonging to the sharpest creed of grandads, catches you on what you thought he never heard. Worse still, he can sense conspiracies in your mind - quicker than your mom.
Khansahib, at any point of time, irrespective of how fit or unfit he is, has the energy to drop arsenals, of surprise, anger or disgust, just on anybody who wishes to talk about his music. And be prepared to sing - Kaafi, Basant, Yaman, Khamaj. It depends on the maestro's choice what he wants to grill you with. At least, that's what happened with me, about three years ago. Before I could ask the first question, I was grilled for more than an hour on what I understood of music.

On how I think Basant would sound if sung in July, of telling him how a particular composition in Hameer could not replace Krishna with Ram. A blasphemy, I had committed by bothering him around the namaaz time (the second round). I could hear, from inside the room, "Abhi bahar ruko. Namaz padhenge phir tumhari khabar lenge." And he did what he said. My first answer came, fortunately, after listening to answers, his versions on what he had asked me.

Visit two. Elections were close, so people from Mayawati's clan wanted to be "close" to the then sick maestro, with money and concern. They were vying to make way into the narrow Ustad Bismillah Khan Lane, just next to the narrower ones at Kabir Chaura, Benaras. The street where Pt Kishan Maharaj shares space with the now forgotten abodes of Pt Rajan and Sajan Mishra, legend Sitara Devi and others. And spending about three hours in this living room, where the Padma Awards hang dwarfed next to the Bharat Ratna, I heard "blessings" from the room up the winding staircase. Khansahib could not speak even then.

Third visit, greenroom, at a recent concert. Now, he is chuckling. Chuckling hard. The mischievous glint, secure in his eyes. Most cheerful, sitting on a sofa. Volunteers from Spicmacay, showering affection from all corners. His sons, busy tuning their respective share of instruments inherited rightfully from their father. Javed, his secretary, takes care that Ustadsahib obliges wives of a few babus in the greenroom with endless pictures. No, not any more, our man is fed up.

And you know a smile like his, would tire the sunken cheeks. I grab space on his left, on the floor. Ustadsahib shakes his head, later a finger, right in front of my nose. "Yeh ladki bahut ustad (here a different connotation, used mostly by and for UPwallahs) lagti hai." Javed drops in to do his job. Tries to remind Ustadsahib of how I was a guest when he was unwell. No, Khansahib would not pretend. He says, "Inke nana se bhi bade hain. My memory is fading. Don't remember when she came home but I made her sing once." Directions for this time. "Don't take out your kagaz kalam. I don't like people who note down things." We knew this would come up. That's why entered the greenroom empty handed.

A plate of cakes passes in front of him, making way to his sons. He directs the volunteer. "Keep it here. Next to me. Their teeth are intact. Give them something else. I am just left with two, cake is perfect for me."

A piece for me. Another one for a student from down South, who does not understand what Khansahib lectures on kajri. Language constraints. But listens when Ustadsahib throws the staple string of taans. One after the other. "Jam ke khaya karo. Look at me. Have to force myself against my age to get ragas out of my shehnai." He adds, "My late uncle, Ali Bux, who played at the Vishwanath Temple, rewarded me with sweets after riyaz. I would save a few pieces for bad times, specially when mamu refused to reward me, owing to my carelessness with the instrument."

He remembers how his uncle got a miniature shehnai made for him. With holes specially placed to fit his fingers' span. "I loved him and he loved me," he tells us, with tears in his eyes. Another piece of cake goes into his mouth and one is directed to us. I refuse. He stores that one in his hand.

Sings a taan in kaafi. And what art! Percussion mingled with non-percussion, in just one throat.

Telling volumes on how Ustad Bismillah Khan would not need a tabla if given a choice. He asks me. "Sur ke pakke ho ki nahi? I was taught to even abuse in sur, thanks to my mama. If you are not strong in sur you are a fool." I nod a yes. "Dekhenge. I will sing a taan, you carry on with sa. Just hum." I obey. We finish. He laughs. His youngest son, whom Khansahib calls Nannhe Khan, smiles. I ask Ustadsahib, looking towards Nannhe, "He is the dearest one?" "Sabse pyaara. He keeps me going when I am unwell and low."

Father-son chemistry begins and ends at music. The concert extends, this time a bandish in Khamaj, Nannhe gives the theka on tabla. Both meet at the samm. Another roaring laughter. Tuning gets more intense. Ustadsahib is forced to end the conversation. Takes out his shehnai from the laced jhola. "Lahaul vila kuwat, I am getting late for tuning. You chat a lot," says he, tapping on my head. Only if this phase continues for a decade or more, one would be forced to believe that God likes music.

copyright: The Pioneer

Right wing clipped

SECOND OPINION 2005
Right wing clipped


Time and again, the political scene at Delhi University has been ridiculed for its tradition of "pretty face" politics. Famous (or infamous) for overtly glamourous campaign rallies, candidates - especially from the Congress-backed National Students Union of India - have often been targets of sarcasm by JNU. However, a more interesting chapter has opened after NSUI's recent win in the DUSU elections.

Third in a row, this victory brings a special flavour with it. Aside from posing for the ceremonious NSUI yearly photo, Congress MP Rahul Gandhi has jumped into the DU scene to rectify his "shy baba" image. What could be better for the new Gandhi on the block than mingling with decked-out NSUI candidates? This just proves the point: the Congress's PR is better than the BJP's, which has failed to wake the ABVP from its slumber.

Clearly, none among the BJP's senior rung had time to think about its gen next leaders during the Chennai session. It is too much to expect from the party's top leaders, who have been busy defusing 'human bombs' - that is to say, leaders who have damaged their own party with their explosive statements. Thanks to their perpetual turmoil within, the BJP has lost its hold on the twenty somethings - a generation, which never saw or heard Deen Dayal Upadhyay or Veer Savarkar, and who do not know what the BJP actually stands for.

Moreover, the party has neither the funds nor the time to concentrate on the political and ideological growth of its university affiliates. On the other hand, the outcome of direct communication that other parties like the Congress and the Left Front have established with the youth, proves how important it is to keep students close to a party's ideology. Thus, the Congress's NSUI, the CPI(M)'s Students Federation of India and the now toddler on Delhi University's political scene, Om Prakash Chautala's Indian National Students' Organisation, have all benefited their parent organisations by supporting larger objectives - the Lok Sabha and Assembly elections.

Professor Yashwantrao Kelkar's child, the ABVP, however, is the most neglected in the Capital when it comes to leader-student interaction or interaction with the parent party. Its leaders and volunteers in JNU and DU are in the throes of extreme ideological confusion. For example, they do not even know whether they should derive their philosophy from the BJP or the RSS. This reflects in their posters and speeches and, except for the Jinnah controversy, they seldom venture into debates. They would not even brave a discussion on Ram Mandir or Veer Savarkar, let alone issues like West Asia, World Bank, farmer-deaths, or the Kashmir issue - topics that their rivals have mastered.

Evidently, the most indisciplined student wing at JNU campus, the ABVP activists, frequently invite criticism for their tomfoolery like organising hostile demonstrations against SAR Geelani's visit to the JNU campus and coming "drunk" for election campaigning.
It is fair to say that Mr Murli Manohar Joshi, Mr Arun Jaitley and Mr Vijay Goel are few BJP members who began their political careers with the ABVP. Yet, what is their present contribution to student politics? They could probably take lessons from Ms Sonia Gandhi or now, even Rahul Gandhi on how to build a party from the grassroots.

Otherwise, it is likely that the next generation will find the ABVP, or even its parent party, consigned to history books edited by leaders from the Congress or the Left.

COPYRIGHT: THE PIONEER

The Company of Bad Men

Traveling sex offenders (TSOs) are very much on the prowl at Indian tourist destinations. On May 9, Richard Borodig, a British national was arrested from the Anjuna Beach, Goa. The paedophile-suspect is out on bail. Recently, the Tamil Nadu Police nabbed Alan Jay Horowitz, a US national listed among the 100 most wanted men in New York, in Mahabalipuram. Horowitz, a traveling sex offender and child psychologist was spotted in Bangalore before he came down to Mahabalipuram.

With Horowitz’s arrest, the issue of unregistered “children’s homes”is increasingly causing concern. This is what the Goa based NGOs have been trying to tell the media and people over the years; that tourism related paedophilia is not Goa’s problem alone, as is commonly believed. According to Nishtha Desai of Child Rights in Goa, an NGO based in Panjim, sexual abuses on children by tourists happen at other Indian tourist destinations as well, but the cases are never highlighted. “Kerala, Rajasthan, Delhi, Agra and Mumbai, it’s happening all over India,” she says.
“I fear it’s going to get worse in India, as the trouble deflects from other countries owing to international pressure,” says, Thierry Darnaudet, President, Action Pour Les Enfants (APLE), an NGO working against TSOs in Cambodia and India.
Vidya Reddy of Tulir, a Chennai based Centre for the Prevention and Healing of Child Sexual Abuse, agrees. She says, “With Sri Lanka, Thailand and Philippines strengthening their response toTSOs, an increasing trend of travel to India among this category of individuals has been reported by alarmed law enforcement in the source countries. Perhaps, they realise that child sex tourism is not considered a significant issue at the moment in our country; with our laws and their implementation fairly lax. There is no dearth of vulnerable children in our country who can be exploited.”

TSOs follow certain patterns in their movement. According to Thierry, “There are TSOs who come to Puri every year and travel to Darjeeling.” He adds, “They return to Puri and leave for Chennai from where they travel to Mahabalipuram, Kovalam (in Kerala) and Goa.” They believe in lying low if they fear a watchful eye and operate at some other tourist destination. They befriend their prey and pose as philanthropists.

In India, NGOs helping the police fight the menace have faced problems owing to lack of “proper” evidence and witnesses turning hostile. According to Desai, the ten year old girl who was seen being let out from the front door of Borodig’s house when the police came cracking down, says that the man “molested” her. One of the few cases where a child has talked about her offender, “however her statements have not been recorded under Section 164 Cr PC before the magistrate”. “The suspect-paedophiles, when out on bail usually operate through other people. We have to keep an eye on them,” adds Desai.

“Spend a night on the town with kids from Britain and Bombay in Baga”. This is no invitation to a children’s party at a seaside locality in Goa. Unfortunately, unnoticed so far by child rights activists in the country, this line in a chapter on North Goa in Lonely Planet, a travel guide shows how openly (or subtly) the state is being projected as a child sex tourism destination — an “image” the Goan government and NGOs are trying so hard to eliminate.
According to sources in the Central Bureau of Investigation(CBI), “children’s homes” in Goa “are a classic case” of how funding the ‘have-nots’ is a cover up for suspected-paedophile activities. CBI, which is handling the Goa sex scandal involving children’s homes “is aware of the happenings in Mahabalipuram.”

Incidentally, it was in December 2006 that people at an NGO noticed that there was information on “children’s homes” in Mahabalipuram in Lonely Planet on Tamil Nadu. NGOs collectively wrote to Lonely Planet in February this year. “Lonely Planet wrote back saying that they will look into it,” says a volunteer at an NGO. A few months ago, Mahabalipuram saw the shutting down of unregistered “children’s homes”.
According to A Amalraj, Superintendent of Police, Kancheepuram, there are no specific cases of child abuse by TSOs reported in Mahabalipuram. He says,“We hardly receive any specific complaints of this nature in the area. We need to receive complaints to take action.”

TSOs and child sex abuse: Different Issues
When the Nithari case came into light, attention and arguments shifted from sexual abuse against children by traveling paedophiles to that happening at the domestic front. “Cases of child sex abuse (CSA) within the community are far more prevalent than cases of tourism related sexual abuse,” says Nishtha Desai. However, can we afford to ignore tourism related CSA? “It is important to address the problem and to prevent the institutionalisation of tourism related CSA,” adds Desai. Thierry believes that paedophilia is one end of CSA, where the person “once a paedophile will always remain a paedophile, hence is far more harmful than a child sex abuser.” He warns, “TSOs usually keep a back up of child pornography on their computers, so that once they return to their home country they can look at images. Plus, they will always look for children they can abuse at their home country. They have a number of victims, cutting across geographical boundaries.”

Our laws are full of loopholes. For instance, who will trace the several “missing” pedophiles in India? Why cannot the pedophiles be arrested when they are “lying low” waiting to strike in some other part of the country? Why is there a delay in prosecution? Why isn’t corruption among “lower ranks” of police at tourist destinations checked when the higher ranks and general public are aware of what is going on? What about keeping check on those Indian paedophiles who were convicted for child sex abuse in the US and deported to India, under Operation Predator, a crackdown by the US department of homeland security and immigration and customs enforcement ICE? They roam free. Sources from the CBI say, “ Indian investigating agencies and the police have little to do with the issue of deported criminals. The country’s legal system has to deal with the problem.” According to Chennai based advocate Geeta Ramaseshan, “There are issues of jurisdiction involved here. There has to be some act of crime in the country if a person has to be prosecuted.”

Also, the legal system, according to Ramaseshan does not use the word “paedophile” at all. “The law still has to a define a huge area in this respect. There are a few bills pending on the same issue. A lot of understanding of the existing laws is needed to bring the changes. I think, more important than the issue of bails are matters like evidence, the defining of the offence against children. Then, sensitisation of the judiciary is required. Remember, punishment for crime is a defensive mechanism. More important is to prevent it.” She points out.

An expert, on the condition of anonymity, has a few suggestions to make. He says, “To improve the situation in our country, we should first locate the missing paedophile-suspects. Next, we should be strict with laws and their implementation on paedophiles; like the kind of laws we have for people involved with narcotics. Paedophiles should be arrested, prosecuted and convicted in time and should be banned from entering India after they serve their sentence here. They should just not be given time to lie low. Also, there’s need for more advanced forensic labs in tourism destination states to handle such investigations.”
A volunteer from an NGO based in Tamil Nadu rues the fact that the issue of TSOs is of low priority in the list of crimes for the government and the police force. The Home Ministry should take some steps in this direction,” says she.

We are watching
Goa authorities have displayed warnings to suspected-paedophiles at various beaches. But due to the scanty presence of tourism police on Goa beaches, “unhealthy” interaction between tourists and children on the beaches goes unchecked.
At the Vagator beach, one of the few lesser crowded beaches in North Goa, “Sharon Stone” settles down on sand with a bowl full of strawberries. “You can call me Sharon Stone. My real name is difficult for foreigners like you to learn,” says she. “Anjelina”, “Kate”, “Julia” (usually from states like Rajasthan, Gujarat and Karnataka) when they get back to selling sarongs, knick-knacks, souvenirs — throw names of hotels, middlemen, and sometimes phone numbers. No cop in sight, the only way to cut short the nuisance on beaches is to approach the restaurant owners (who provide the sun beds); do warn tourists and vendors against “any objectionable act”. From Vagator to Palolem, from Calangute to Colva, the trick really works. This way, visitors and local people can really help curb the problem at such open spaces. However, there’s another trend which Goans seem to ignore ; of single parents landing with their kids at shacks and beach side hotels. These tourists hire a local lad for “baby sitting” during the day; during the evenings, the local lad doubles up for the other job.

At Puri, another tourist destination which came in light for TSOs last year, Thierry says, “things usually pick up during the season time (November to January).” “I have got information on a few foreigners who take interest in clicking pictures of naked children on the beach. I just want to tell the TSOs that we are watching them.” he adds. Thierry believes that by being alert and watchful, you can really mount pressure on the paedophiles to move out of the locality.

TSOs-hotel-travel industry: The Nexus
NGOs and child protection organizations over the world are aware of the nexus between TSOs, hotels and the transport industry. Taking clues from the trends, ECPAT (End Child Prostitution, Child Pornography and Trafficking of Children for Sexual Purposes), a network of organizations working worldwide to eliminate sexual exploitation of children has suggested a “code of conduct” for the hotel and travel industry. The code is currently implemented by 17 countries including Sri Lanka, Thailand and India. ECPAT runs programmes like, in-flight videos to warn travelers against child sex abuse. Air France, Corsair, Nouvelles Frontieres, Lufthansa and Austrian Air are already using it. “ECPAT USA has designed and distributed an educational brochure to inform Americans about the extra-territorial provisions of US law against child sex tourism,” says their fact sheet. In India, ECPAT’s ‘Please Disturb, an Inter-sectoral response to Traveling Sex Offenders’, was presented by Tulir in Chennai last year, to build awareness among the tourism and travel sector here. “We expect a lot from the hotel and travel industry in this regard. Their inputs can really help us crack down on such cases,” adds Amal Raj.

The vastness of our country and the sluggish judicial system shouldn’t really discourage any hope for improvement. So, the next time you see a suspicious element on the prowl at one of the tourist destinations, help authorities “mount pressure” on him. TSOs will then think twice before “deflecting” to India.

Around 70 per cent children don’t report abuse

More than 1 million children are exploited in the global commercial sex trade each year

An estimated 30 percent of the sex workers in Phnom Penh are under the age of 18

Out of the 9800 child sex offenders arrested in US under Operation Predator, 85 per cent are foreigners (including Indians)

Roughly around 10,000 paedophiles come to Goa each year and 1000 children are at risk in a single area in Goa

Number of children involved in the sex industry in India in 1994 according to ECPAT : 400,000

copyright: The New Indian Express

Ragas, anyone?

He would walk four miles to the community centre. On the way back, he would be rescued occasionally by a passing bullock cart. But Lalgudi Jayaraman didn't mind the trouble as long as he could catch his favourite maestros on the All India Radio (AIR). The big black radio set was, according to him, kind of a teacher for aspiring musicians in his village, Lalgudi (in Tamil Nadu). Far away, in Lahore, Ustad Bade Ghulam juggled with performances to be aired at AIR's popular segment called Live From Lahore during the late 1930s. “It was,” according to santoor maestro Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma, “a matter of pride to perform at Live from Lahore.” He says, “AIR helped people know that ragas could be played on santoor apart from the sufi compositions.”

In the 1930s, there were other maestros, who disliked the idea of recording for private labels. Says santoor maestro Pandit Bhajan Sopori, “These maestros preferred to record for AIR rather than making musical treasure sell on the roadside through records.” Things are sadly different now. L K Pandit, one of the few senior maestros from the Gwalior Gharana, awaits patiently for his next recording at AIR Delhi. “I have seen an era when musicians would get between 12 to 14 recordings in a year. Now, I hardly get four.” Then, there are musicians down South, who “refuse to comment” on AIR. Vidwan T K Govind Rao, who served at AIR Chennai and AIR Delhi as the chief producer till 1991, feels the broadcaster is “supposed to be the custodian of music.” But the mandarins of AIR think differently. “What the artistes have said about AIR is completely baseless,” says Karuna Srivastava, deputy director general, music and archives, AIR, “we have to be choosy, we have to see the competence level of artistes before inviting them for performances. AIR is not a disk producing factory.”

Even the top grade maestros are expected to prove themselves all over again.

This is the age of a “mad” market flooding with, Kamasutra melodies (based on the Hindustani tradition), shelf space crunch and concert DVDs. It is the age of the next generation artistes, who don’t mind going by the producer’s choice at recording studios — unlike the days when Ustad Bismillah Khan would choose a melody at the HMV studios according to his mood and the producer would gleefully agree to it. Unfortunately, alongside this decline in recordings at the AIR studios has been a tremendous drop in recording and archiving work at HMV (now known as SaReGaMa) which had served as a custodian of Indian music, aggressively, for about five decades. Also, according to a representative from HMV, the company is using only “four per cent of its archives at present.”

Gone are the days when companies like HMV, could afford paying artistes the recording fee in lump sum. However, it was in the 1970s, says Sopori, that the music scenario changed completely. “A number of mediocre artistes, who did not have access to banners like HMV, got their work recorded at private studios elsewhere. They would hand over these records to music companies and sub-standard work floated in the market. That’s when music started going down the drain. Artistes lobbied for circulation and royalties.” The trend of embarrassing royalties (like the royalty of Rs 2.35 that Pandit Rajan and Sajan Mishra had received from HMV SaReGaMa last month) makes artistes lose hope further. However, according to Sopori, “few exceptions like the T-Series, knew how to respect artistes. Late Gulshan Kumar, the owner of T Series did not expect artistes to keep track of their royalties and paid the total amount.”

Today, “concept music” helps companies push sales. Old recordings lying with music companies are re-used in themes or “concepts” (like, rare varnams, romantic ragas, night ragas etc), owing to “low demand of Indian classical music.” Artistes feel, they are “not only being cheated, but are being deprived of the deserved royalty this way.” Most of them are not even aware of such “recycled albums”. “What do you expect us to do? Companies don’t even inform us on the re-use. Why do they avoid recording new tracks?,” asks a renowned vocalist. Well, it’s not the musicians alone who are feeling cheated. The All India Radio has been cheated, says Srivastava — by WorldSpace, the radio station. According to Srivastava, Worldspace has been running tracks from records released by the All India Radio, including some remarkable collections of Carnatic music. “They have bought these albums from retail outlets in Chennai and Bangalore and have been playing these on Shruti, their Carnatic music channel, without informing us.”

Music companies have been claiming “low demand” for classical music over the years.
But that hasn’t really stopped artistes from “experimenting, researching and documenting”. So, to continue with independent projects, artistes have come up with their own record labels. Renowned violinist Dr L Subramaniam's Viji Records, named after his late wife, vocalist Vijayashree Subramaniam, inspired others. A couple of years ago Pt Bhajan Sopori launched SaMaPa; the label has managed to preserve the fading folk forms of Kashmiri and Dogri music. We have already recorded five albums with another company,” says Sopori. Then there is Carnatica’s Sound of Silence, a recording studio in Chennai, where N Shashikiran, strives to give musicians the “right Carnatic setting”, including the latest software for a “natural non-studio like output” and a room where musicians can relax with massages in between strenuously long recording sessions!

But is the demand for Indian classical music really low? Well, not really if you go by the popularity of WorldSpace, the 24 hour radio station which has robbed AIR of many loyal listeners. Pandit Ulhas Kashalkar, from Kolkata’s Sangeet Research Academy, tunes into Gandharv and Shruti, the channels for Hindustani and Carnatic music on WorldSpace. “What more can you ask for? It’s 24 hours of ragas,” he chuckles. Interestingly, the radio station gets a good share of tracks from “archives of private collectors.” According to Geeta Sahai, programme director, Gandharv, Worldspace is planning to play rare ragas from both traditions, including special projects like “women Dhrupad artistes and fading gharanas”. Ironically, music companies are trying to look the other way. “We are not aggressively recording the traditional Hindustani and Carnatic concert format anymore. They don’t sell. The Carnatic-Hindustani jugalbandis have no buyers. Only world music has a future,” says a Delhi based senior representative of a leading music company.

The fact is, AIR and the music companies are losing out to iPods and 24-hour radio stations.

copyright: The New Indian Express

sound of change

During the late 1930s, Krishna Rao Shankar Pandit, the royal musician from the Gwalior state, was going through a sweaty and ‘‘harsh’’ recording session, his first, on an iron disk at one rich Seth Lakshmi Chand’s room in Karachi. Pandit, according to his son, maestro LK Pandit, earned a ‘‘decent sum’’ out of this recording.

Almost 60 years have passed since Pandit Krishna Rao Shankar Pandit moved to Mumbai’s HMV studios during the late 1940s. Since then, there have been vast changes in the Indian classical music scene. The All India Radio, once considered a custodian of Hindustani and Carnatic music, has reduced its recordings to one-fourth. And HMV is no longer showering invitations to artistes. There are, however, some surprises. For instance, this month, Benaras gharana’s maestros, Pandit Rajan and Sajan Mishra received — ‘‘two cheques of Rs 2.35 each as royalty’’ from HMV. ‘‘We are planning to preserve the two cheques, so that the coming generations of musicians know how they are going to be treated,’’ says a miffed Pandit Rajan Mishra.

In the age of world music, e-gurukuls, ‘‘tailor made’’ kutcheris, musical downloads, star performers, and capsule concerts, opportunities for artistes are fading fast. However, it’s the concert format that has seen a sea change, both in trends and presentation. From mandapam to microphones It was at the Nootukkaal Mandapam (hall of hundred pillars) that Vidwan Lalgudi Jayaraman heard the best of legends perform. ‘‘With no mattresses and ACs, concerts weren’t as comfortable for musicians and artistes as they are today. Yet, there was this sense of composure you seldom see these days,’’ observes Jayaraman. Till the late 1940s there were no microphones. Says tabla legend Pandit Kishan Maharaj of Benaras, ‘‘You got to know the worth of the artiste, his voice quality and skills sans the microphone. There were many artistes who became popular only after the microphones were introduced.’’

Jayaraman says he was ‘‘baffled’’ initially when he used the microphone for the first time at the Woriyur Ambal Temple in the 1950s! According to Carnatic vidwan T K Govinda Rao, shruti levels were altered with the inclusion of microphones. ‘‘Great musicians like my guru, Musiri Subramania Iyer, maintained a high pitch. Though I follow the same style, I had to change my shruti levels for using a microphone,’’ says Govinda Rao. From 1 hour thumris to shortcuts Unlike now, with the 10 pm deadline and the two-hour time limit at concerts, senior artistes in the 1930s had the luxury to perform for five hours.

In Benaras, where the baton was passed from the courtesans (the Baais), to male stalwarts, concerts happened ‘‘in the background of temples’’ to be relished by ‘‘the masses rather than the maharajas.’’ According to Kishan Maharaj, ‘‘a thumri was sung for an hour. The accompanist on the tabla had enough time to wander from his theka into the complexities of dadra, jhaptaal and teentaal (types of rhythm cycles in Hindustani tradition).’’ But gradually, the lack of time and other constraints crept onto the concert scene. Even down south. According to Govinda Rao, ‘‘only senior vidwans were allowed to perform for four to five hours. The time limit gradually reduced to two to three hours in the 1960s.’’ Khayal singing (a form in Hindustani tradition in slow rhythm) — vilambhit khayal (slow), drut khayal (fast) and taraana (a blend of lyrics and percussion syllables) — saw many changes happening in form and presentation. Gradually, the vilambhit khayal, with shrinking improvisations, became shorter. Giving little attention to the gharana boundaries, listeners started expecting thumris, jhoolas (traditional delicacies celebrating the rainy season) and bhajans to follow khayal singing; like they would expect a dessert from Benaras after the main course.

The music scene down South saw a shift from elaborate evenings. Kutcheris not only made room for the pious grammar of Carnatic music, but also soaked in the kritis and varnams of great composers. ‘‘The Ragam Tanam Pallavi with tani would stretch to about two hours, and all great masters would give equal importance to sahitya and grammar,’’ reflects Govinda Rao. Gradually, with the willingness to explore rhythmic improvisations came the opportunity for many percussion instruments to perform alongside mainstream musicians. ‘‘Besides the mridangam, artistes started using the ghatam, kanjira, morsing, koanakol etc,’’ he adds. The time crunch saw many aspects in Hindustani and Carnatic music being squeezed or vanishing from the scene. Its direct impact on the Carnatic tradition according to this expert, is the ‘‘vanishing of the elaborate pallavis.’’

The ‘‘loss’’ — probably greater in volume — has been felt over the years in Hindustani music as well. The alap (swara improvisations bound or unbound in rhythm), jod alap (bound in rhythm) and swar vistaar (improvising within the khayal) in vilambhit khayals have shrunk over the years, even at the famous music conferences at the Tansen and Harvallabh festivals. Power packed performances being in vogue, generous rendition of thumris and tappas is rare. “At least two generations haven’t heard taranas in vilambhit. The trend of singing ashtapadis too is fading fast,’’ rues L K Pandit. Earlier, only the pure, basic ragas were chosen for performances, now mishra ragas (a blend of ragas), initiated by the Jaipur gharana have gained popularity, which according to maestro Pandit Ulhas Kashalkar at Kolkata’s Sangeet Research Academy is because listeners want to hear ‘‘new melodies.’’

From the times when, according to L K Pandit, listeners, ‘‘kept a control on musicians’’ to ‘‘the times,’’ as Jayaraman describes it, ‘‘where listeners press the need for superficiality’’, gimmicks (of the musical kind) have kept the masses enchanted. ‘‘Carnatic music has got the gimmicks from artistes who have been singing for films,’’ quips Govind Rao. The next generation artistes, complain maestros, are lapping up all these ‘‘shortcuts.’’ This month, Kashalkar, while examining young musicians, came across ‘‘ostentations in grammar’’ being tried by one of them. ‘‘Where have you picked this up from?’’ Kashalkar had enquired. ‘‘From one of the websites, guruji,’’ came the quick reply. ‘‘These are worrying changes. I am afraid, it will have a bad effect on the concert scene in the Hindustani tradition,’’ claims Kashalkar.

Well, the microphone will pick up these luxurious shortcuts and gimmicks. And listeners with a ear for good music will always be able to judge the difference.

copyright: the new indian express

midnight's child: what's so special about being born on August 15

August 15th is my own birthday... I take this coincidence, not as a fortuitous accident, but as the sanction and seal of the Divine Force.” As Sri Aurobindo spoke these lines on All India Radio on August 15, 1947, “many women,” remembers my grandmother, “hoping to be mothers in the years to follow, had made a wish to give birth to children on August 15.”

Such was the exuberance — real and some pretended — over this long awaited day. Sigh, out of granny’s six, none happened to be Freedom’s child. Well, decades later, she found herself preparing for the August arrival — me. The infamous solar eclipse of April 1980 made the expectant mother’s journey eventful and they kept the Ramayana and other aids handy. Like Rushdie’s Amina Sinai, my mother juggled with pleasant dreams and superstition, yet consistently hopeful to see her “angel” on our Independence Day. I popped out, six hours past the midnight. Thereafter, began my tryst with eventful birthdays — ghee soaked laddoos wrapped in cynical critiques, the nation’s regretful look-backs and patriotic films on Doordarshan.

“Born on Independence Day. What’s so special?” Some grumpy people question the privilege. Notes scribbled on my simple birthday gifts, like the pale front page of the Hindustan Times, dated August 15, 1947, and Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children among others, say, the ‘accidental’ association, is special. My birthday has been forever marked by people’s reaction over what they have read in the Independence Day-special editions. It has had its share of grunts, comments, smiles, tears and cheers over the PMs’ lengthy, meticulously-constructed speeches. Over all, the day feels like one of those moments in Steinbeck’s works — happy, yet having a political baggage. It also inspires people to comment on your personal virtues, read vices. Like, my ex-boss over a roshogulla had said, “Freedom’s child uh? So, that’s where your ‘independent’ streaks come from.”

Coming back to birthdays, as a kid, I would wake up to the sound of bells from the special mass at the school church. Schools in Dehradun (in Uttarakhand) require attendance on the big day. The mike testing would stretch from Ustad Bismillah Khan’s mangaldhwani to Mohammad Rafi’s reminisces of the wars. The flag hoisting at school had always reminded me of the one I had attended on my fifth birthday, a holiday — at the swanky club of the Modis (rubber factory) in Meerut. Unlike the previous year, on DD, it wasn’t “Indira granny”, addressing the nation from the Red Fort that year. One sardarji, my dad’s friend had come to wish me, but I chose not smile at him. On my ninth, the nuns had asked us to “pray for people in Kashmir and the Punjab.”

On the tenth, there was “some trouble with college boys” who didn’t want what the PM had wanted. The eleventh was different. No one would really show interest in the new, hurriedly-appointed PM’s speech — but in audio cassettes of Sadhavi Ma Ritambhara. In the lanes at my hometown, people hadn’t really bothered to whitewash the soot left by Mulayam ‘secular’ Singh’s inflammatory speech at the Ramlila grounds the previous year. Also, Nadeem uncle had stopped visiting us. At 12, a phrase, “pregnant with corruption,” in one of the dull patriotic songs describing the nation made me feel giddy and curious. “That’s some pregnancy!” I would wonder, looking for clues on reproductive health in the moral science book.

Five years later: Rahman had replaced Rafi for the hour-long mike testing. Some signs of change. The reluctant rusty school gate would open to people-in-saffron in the middle of the prayer service — some 700 distracted heads, including the principal’s, would turn right. The men-in-saffron, on having been assured that the “Sisters” conducted things well, would rush out. At 19, in college, I had been missing the chana-halwa treat from mom. “On a Sunday, you want to listen to more-pauses-and-less-of-speech from your rightwing Prime Minister?” my friends had asked, stuffing me with my first birthday cake. Those wreaths and jongas from Kargil crawling into my village during June — could I have missed the 1999 speech?

August 15, 2004. Daring bomb scares and all, Delhiites rush out for the hero — Spider Man II! “It hasn’t really felt like my birthday in the National Capital,” I rue, over the next three birthdays. Year 2007. Ustad Bismillah Khan, who had escorted Pandit Nehru to the ramparts of the Red Fort 60 years ago, is no more and his shehnai is gasping for survival. Red Fort has earned UNESCO’s World Heritage status during the 150th year of the 1857 mutiny and needs a tribute. And Delhiites will probably forget about both while whistling over Shah Rukh Khan’s hockey act in his new film. As for me, I am in the land of the Boss, big birthday bashes and beach rallies.

Wonder what an August 15th born should expect in a city with all the above three.

copyright: The New Indian Express

meltdown on film

Last month, Al Gore walked away with an Oscar for An Inconvenient Truth. In the global warming documentary film that has caught the attention of the world, Gore urges his viewers to bring down energy consumption.

Incidentally, this is the very same message that Indian documentary filmmakers have tried to convey over the years. Sadly, these films attract only a niche audience. ‘‘People in India, unlike the West, don’t understand the seriousness of the issue,’’ says three-time Green Oscar winner Mike Pandey. ‘‘They think global warming is a fantasy. Indians are using fossil fuel like never before. We have constructed oven-like buildings and spend enormous energy cooling them.’’ Pandey’s award winning film Global Warming went largely unnoticed when it was released here three years ago. Like any environmentalist, our documentary filmmakers are “concerned” about issues like global warming. But the lacklustre reactions of research agencies (who ‘‘support” the cause but don’t really come forward to fund documentaries), zero interest from broadcasters who, according to one filmmaker, prefer ‘‘sexy environmental stories’’, together with viewer apathy, are the reasons why the few impressive documentary films on climate change vanish after a few screenings at festivals.

Take the Public Service Broadcast Trust’s (PSBT) Open Frame, for instance, the annual documentary film festival held in Delhi. Or the roving environmental and wildlife film festival CMS Vatavaran, where open discussions are held after every screening. Barely a couple of films are chosen by the public broadcaster Doordarshan after they are screened at these two festivals, which is why most of the documentaries don’t ever reach the masses. ‘‘Public interest stories and documentaries are the last thing broadcasters want to show,’’ quips Pandey. ‘‘People like me are lucky to have found space on DD. Value-based programmes are nudged out so easily by broadcasters these days.” Ironically, even at festivals, global warming and climate change have lost the stage to other “juicy” issues. “We receive a large number of films on e-waste hazards, pollution and wildlife. However, this year we are expecting the number of films on climate change to go up,’’ says Mou Biswas from CMS Vatavaran. ‘‘Vatavaran 2007 is a global warming special and we are even hoping to rope in Al Gore.’’

In spite of the seeming indifference in the country to these issues, documentary filmmakers in the Indian subcontinent, who spend most of their time tracing a tiger or wooing the whale-shark, have chosen not to ignore the ‘‘scary’’ implications and impacts of climate change. A few years ago, when Mike Pandey returned to his favourite spot in Austria to capture a snowcap for one of his films, he was shocked to see it had melted. He says, ‘‘I had seen the ice cap the previous year. I had to go deeper into the area to get my shots. It’s common in Austria to see ice caps vanishing. You see blossoms and splendid crops in many areas.’’ After Earth Matters, which is being shown on Doordarshan, Pandey is coming up with a series of six films on global warming, which will talk about ‘‘using alternative energy for the future.’’ Whenever out for shoots at Lakshwadeep, Kochi and Gujarat, Pandey has been noticing ‘‘visible changes’’ in ‘‘ocean ferocity’’ and where the sea neighbours the land. ‘‘The water has come in a bit more into the land over the years,’’ he observes. ‘‘You don’t have to be a scientist to notice these changes; you can see it all happening now. Unfortunately, people living along the Indian coastline will be the first ones to face any kind of major impact,’’ he adds.

Another documentary film, The Wailing Glaciers, has enough material to worry you for a lifetime. The 20-minute film by Manmohan Singh, a Chandigarh-based journalist, narrates how the glaciers in the western Himalyan region, including the Beas-Kund glacier, which is melting at an alarming rate (20 to 50 meters according to a previous study) have bared crevices over the years. Singh, who had gone trekking in the area ‘‘several times’’, could not resist recording this deterioration. ‘‘I usually visit the Himalayas in October. It’s snowing at the glaciers at that time, but the snow melts really quickly; leaving behind ugly crevices and moraines. The glaciers look really eerie with these crevices. Compared to the pictures I clicked of these glaciers a few years ago, the recent ones look ugly and worrying.’’ Singh’s next project is on the formation of glacier lakes in the region. ‘‘This phenomenon is equally worrying. While the existing lakes are drying up in the lower Himalayan region, like the Prashar Lake, which has now been reduced to a pond, the glacier lakes pose bigger threats. They break and cause floods when they melt.’’ Naturalist, wildlife photographer and filmmaker Suresh Elamon who frequents the Periyar Tiger Reserve and areas of the Western Ghats noticed that a few varieties of orchids have stopped flowering of late. ‘‘The rain pattern in Kerala has changed during the last couple of seasons. Flowering patterns have changed accordingly. As far as the Silent Valley is concerned, one needs to really study the changes over a period of time before drawing conclusions,’’ he cautions. Interestingly,

Indian filmmakers avoid blaming the world’s superpowers or the Indian government when it comes to addressing problems related to climate change. They would rather like their films to explain how the world could use the resources in order to deflect the challenges posed by the rising heat. Like Ramesh Menon, a journalist from Delhi who tried doing something similar in Global Warning, a 20-minute film which focuses on Kolkata, costal areas in Orissa and the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. ‘‘People in Orissa told me they have noticed the sea level rise to an alarming extent in the past few years. There is also a constant fear among people in Bangladesh about the rising sea levels,’’ says Menon. Then there is Meltdown in Nepal, a 13-minute documentary in English by Naresh Newar, a senior journalist from Nepal. Made in 2004, shot entirely in Solukhumbu district – the country’s biggest tourist attraction. ‘‘To decision makers, the problem seems too far away,’’ states the film, candidly.

Naresh Bedi, another Green Oscar winner and veteran wildlife filmmaker from Delhi, has always been more occupied with the cat family for his projects. The threat to about 400 tigers in Sunderban, owing to the rising sea waters, is what he wants to reflect upon next. So what’s stopping him? ‘‘Lack of funds. The cost of filming is too high. Around Rs 40, 000 to 50, 000 per day. I cannot afford it. Where are the people who will fund it?’’ Like Bedi, Nutan Manmohan, who managed to screen a hard-hitting film in Vatavaran 2005 on e-waste hazards, has to ‘‘wait’’ till she gets an agency to fund a film on global warming. ‘‘Apart from the cost of filming, a lot of research goes into this subject. Agencies like TERI (Tata Energy Research Institute) should come forward to help us,’’ she says.

Some choose to disagree. Like this filmmaker who doesn’t want to be named, who says that agencies like TERI fund films, but for their own commercial gains. ‘‘And the sad part,’’ he says, ‘‘is that they buy films from people like us on really low costs and screen them later and make money from that.’’ Veterans like Mike Pandey believe in ‘‘common sense’’ when approaching a subject. ‘‘Such ventures are difficult to fund. But that’s part of the game. As a filmmaker, your job is to get the message across to people. My film on disappearing vultures caught the government’s attention. It had an impact on policy makers. And that’s where you need to hit first.’’

Coming back to An Inconvenient Truth, Anitha S, an environmentalist from Thiruvananthapuram says she is doubtful the film will be understood by people in India. Anitha watched clips from An Inconvenient Truth at a private screening in Lakshadweep, last weekend. It was ‘‘a recording of manicured reactions to the film at screenings held across the world.’’ People in India don’t really understand the subject, she says, adding, ‘‘They think global warming is all about rising sea levels. But it’s much more than that.’’

Well, who can explain this better than our homegrown documentary filmmakers?

copyright: The New Indian Express