What’s (ch)eating Kaavya Viswanathan?

Can you steal by mistake? Or, to sound a touch more prosaic, can you ‘plagiarise unintentionally’?
Good question, but no answer. None knows. None cares to know.
But then, don’t journalists write headlines/copy openers that sound ugh-so-familiarly-clichéd? And don’t they do it every freaking day of their life?
Yes, there are a zillion ways to write a sentence, but why should I try?
None asked the guy who spotted the cheating to read it so carefully, or did someone?
Am I following some other hand tapping some other keyboard unintentionally?
Who knows.. who cares to know..
Read if you want, don't if you want.
Just let the 'cheat' be.

BBC says gays "fear for life" in Iraq; me says show me one who doesn't

Even that grand aunt, BBC, sometimes leaves you in a spot: to laugh or not to laugh, with the rest of the office pounding away madly at their keyboards. Here's the source of amusement: "Gays in Iraq fear for their lives", says the headline... http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/4915172.stm

For a change, I did not immediately fall off the chair (I have that weird habit, not fibbing; and being overweight does not help matters one bit) but wondered what made them commission the story in the first place and, second, what level of inebriation led the sub-editor to write that headline when everyone, barring perhaps Saddam (ironically, the most secured man in the country right now), "fear for their lives" in Iraq. Thanks, of course, to Georgie boy's Texan machismo.

Here, BBC, take this: Get me a man/woman/child/American trooper in Iraq who doesn't fear for her/his life and I'll write Condi Rice a 100-rupees cheque for her next visit to Iraq.

And here's the last line from the piece for that joker in DC: "Saddam was a tyrant, but at least we had more freedom then," said Hussein. "Nowadays, gay men are just killed for no reason."

Hungry kya? Come fast, join me

MK Gandhi’s tried and tested weapon is fast turning into the favoured (flavoured?) weapon of the day for the damned, con-damed and dam-ning ’uns. But has anyone in the pro-dam lobby figured out the logic, if not the reason, behind Modi’s magic figure of 51 hours? It’s a half-decent figure for a batsman, we all know, but why just 51 hours after Medha Patkar came Soz near yet oh-so-far from scoring a point with her 180-plus hours?
But, heard the latest about other good souls planning to go hungry?

Mamata Banerjee: demands all Communists in Bengal be ordered to fast unto death by Election Commission.

All Indian Communists: demands Common Minimum Programme be made a proper noun, and then an active verb, by the Manmohan government.

LK Advani: wants ordinance to make rath yatra mandatory for all BJP leaders before every election.

Sourav Ganguly: wants Supreme Court to ban Dravid, Veeru, Dhoni, Kaif, Yuvi, Raina, Pathan, Uthappa, Powar, Bhajji, Agarkar and all other possible contenders for the opening slot under POTA. Additional demand: Chappell should be made the Aussie coach.

Salman Khan: wants lifelong supply of free vests (strictly jaali-wala baniyaan) for pro-poaching, pro-hit-n-run and pro-Ash-trashing activists. (Breaking news: Threatens to call the bhais if asked to eat poached omelettes ever in his life.)

Chidambaram: wants foreign investment in all sectors, including sensex and post-marital sex.

Amar Singh: wants all/anything/nothing/whichever applicable of the above. (Last heard, sensing hands from 10-Janpath in all the fasting demands, ends his fast-unto-wealth.)

the blasted question: are you ready to be carpet-bombed by sharp-suited TV anchors?

What: Twin bomb blasts at Jama Masjid in Delhi.
Whaaat? (Sound of chairs overturning as TV journalists wake up and trip over each other. Before thinking how, why and wherefores put on their makeup, they rush to the balcony. What?).

n Now, Rakesh (or whatever the poor reporter’s good name is for good or bad), you are at the spot, tell us more.
n Aah, ahem, ouch (Rakesh struggles with the microphone in the balcony), umm, well… Nishi (or whatever the godforsaken anchor’s godforsaken name is), as you can see it’s panic out here (truth be told, you can’t see a thing, with Rakesh’s frown, Nishi’s furrowed brows and the BREAKING NEWS bar taking up the whole screen. Hang on, the TV crew is still on its way to Jama Masjid). People do not seem to know if there’s any more bomb and are scared to figure out whether to turn left, right or go dead straight (da da da, and some more panic-spreading on live TV, as you get graphic details of a frantically overworking imagination of the reporter).

n (Nishi’s frowning mug cuts in) So we do know there have been two blasts, as Rakesh just told us (courtesy PTI, and some poor stringer who covers Jama Masjid). And there’s sheer panic out there. What more can you tell us, Rakesh?
n Nishi, we are trying to get in touch with the police, and they are still not sure if it’s the handiwork of Jaish, Aish, Lashkar, tusker, Hizbul or bloodyfool, . The police have rushed extra forces to the spot, and we are told the chief minister is also on way (as is the TV crew)

n Rakesh, Rakesh… Seems like we have lost our link with Rakesh (liar, liar; the reporter’s in the car, on way to Jama Masjid). Hum aapko ek baar phir se bataa dein, there have been two bomb blasts at Delhi’s historic Jama Masjid, injuring at least three. As our correspondent Rakesh has been telling us from the spot, the first blast took place at around 5 pm when devotees were preparing for asar, or evening prayer, before a second blast rocked the place within 15 minutes (that, by the way is a straight lift from a PTI report straight after the blasts)

n (Rakesh, finally in the “Walled City”, butts in) Nishi, as we can see, it’s sheer panic out here (camera pans). Let me ask an eyewitness (thrusts the mike on a dazed bespectacled man as others try a sneak peek at the cam from behind, through and across his shoulder): how does it feel after the first blast of the year at Jama Masjid...

(NOTE: This was written as the writer awaited news copies from less ‘explosive’ places, and since the copies have arrived, goodbye to telly tamasha. As MTV says, ENJOY)

New breaking news: PM is 'mildly astonished' at actor Rajkumar's death

“Prime Minister Manmohan Singh expressed shock and grief over the passing away of Kannada thespian Rajkumar.”

That comes courtesy PTI, the official PM-spotter. The shocking bit here is the word shock.
What does it mean? “A feeling of mild astonishment or shock caused by something unexpected,” says Oxford. Re-read and note the word MILD.

Just to turn it around, will you be ‘mildly astonished’ at the PM’s death? Reactions will, of course, differ (some may even be overjoyed; it’s a democracy after all), but I would reserve my shocks for milder things like: “I am shocked the way our PM bows down to Bush” (on second thoughts that’s hardly surprising), or “the Left parties expressed shock (which they always do, never mind the issue) at Chidambaram’s open invitation to the private sector at the expense of poor us” (which, again, our FM always does, never mind the occasion).But shock at someone’s death?

Sorry guys, not done. Not by me at least.

Q: how bad are our papers? A: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Reading forwarded mails is quite illuminating (that’s because I read barely one in 20, the rest go straight to the trash box — opened, half-opened, unopened, but hardly ever read). And it sure was with this one (check http://www.dawn.com/weekly/ayaz/20051202.htm) gotten from a friend (a fellow journalist, of course). Ayaz Amir, the Dawn columnist, is always readable. Acerbic, pithy, and stripping his ‘victims’ naked. Completely naked; no wardrobe malfunction here.

“It takes a good two hours in the morning going through a stack of Pakistani newspapers. It takes about half an hour to go through the leading English dailies that you get in Delhi.” It starts off. And trust me, he has you snapped around his finger (the middle one? the poor brain wailed, considering its owner’s living on the payrolls of one of those “English dailies” that Amir is blasting off with full rigor).

And he has you till the last para: “The cautionary tale is for us as we move forward on the road to democracy (a journey which would be made easier infinitely if Pakistan’s ruling general, fourth in a line of patriarchs the country could have done without, is persuaded to shed his fears and his uniform). If we can get democracy without lowering the standard of national discourse or without the pursuit of trivia, that would be a goal worth striving for.”
Heh, eh?

So guess what happens next? Worst journalist opens another mailbox, comes across a suspicious-looking mail with a blank Subject line, from another friend (another frustratingly cynical and cynically frustrated journalist-mate, of course). This one had sent a couple of Guardian front-pages, and dared me to find a single newspaper in India that dares to make such neat, uncomplicated, reader-friendly (and cool, I add) pages that does not ask for hand-eye-brain coordination required only of Tendulkar in the slog overs. I did scratch my head, honestly I did, for about seven minutes, before opening a new file on MS Word (to make all this noise).

Here's one (hit the website — they store the front pages for the last 10 days), and do ask yourself the last time you breathed easy sitting on the pot in the morning. Check how they use the front page as just that: the most important page with 2/3 most important stories of the day (our papers seem to face identity crisis if it’s anything less than five), and the great use of pictures. Most of us would either fall off the chair or faint, or both, if asked to magnify pictures so much as to zoom in on the creases on the forehead; instead, we would go for the whole picture with extra ‘scene scenery’ for added value. But then, that's us. Heh, eh?

Slit in Nigar's skirt shows the butt of a moral story

First was the khaki police, then came the baaki police.

First was the moral brigade, then came the oral brigade

First they said watching the nangus kills your poor soul, now they say banning ’em leaves that soul with a hole.

First they took wardrobe malfunction with a frown, now they say it’s an improper noun.

Only, the poor me is left wondering if slamming the slammer
by showing tits and the butts with/without the jammer
is manufacturing news and clamour in this age of all-pervasive glamour.

me? at crossroads. blame it on all those 'crossover films'

Crossover. A word that leaves me in a daze, maze and haze, courtesy so many Indian crossover films going through and across in reviews/stories of late.

Okay, that’s stretching it a bit too far, but guess who’s crossing my path these days? Since you have rightly guessed it’s the Cyrus that’s not the Broacha, but the Khan that’s Saif and sound, you get no prizes for all that gas-work.

Anyway, back to the art of the matter: Being Cyrus. Crossover. Cult. Nouveau-whatever that dares to take on ‘taboo subjects’, as the wise ones told me in review after review. Don’t ask me why I read them, though all I do as an active follow-up action is wait for the cable-wallah to screen it.

It’s about this guy (incidentally Parsi, but could well have been Darcy, Mercy, or Charsi) who comes to stay with this family (incidentally, Parsi again, though last heard none exactly knows why; including the director, who is, yes, a Parsi). What this guy does is reportedly fall in love with this wife of this Parsi man. Now, I spent a good three minutes trying to figure out exactly what is it that I haven’t heard or seen before racing across the taboo-subject reviews. The affair with an older woman, perhaps?

But then another crossover film had crossed that path, did it not? Dil Chahta Hai (often misspelt as Chata, making me think of rain, muck and yuck), with Kapadia and Khanna. So, on we come to DCH (which again makes me think of pain, work and muck: Double Column Headline, get the drift?). That, by the way, was this film where this guy falls in love with this girl who is engaged to that other guy. They sing songs, as the guys fight with their backs to girl before all hell turns swell. Now, I don’t recall the exact time, but I did spend some trying to figure out exactly what was it that I hadn’t heard or seen before. The anxiety of being sandwiched in love, perhaps?

But then there was, not so long ago, another film called Lagaan (which somehow makes me think of yawn, perhaps because I had slept through the better part of the film after catching it between a double-shift and a night shift. No jokes, for that’s 24-hour straight with colleagues who spent half the time discussing food and the other half trying not to discuss food). Anyway, this was a good crossover film — it was about this guy that wears spotless whites in this drought-hit village (perhaps because he plays cricket with the goras before Kerry Packer introduced white balls and coloured clothes), who falls in love with this gori but is in turn loved by this village chhori. They sing songs before, and in between, playing a tax-evading Test match with the goras, and wins. Now, I did not even wonder about things unheard or unseen, for those days I spelt crossover as cross over.

What the crossover critics forget while making their brains play those cross and naught games on print is takes more, much more, than a few disjointed characters fighting disjointed battles within the comfy confines of their disjointed worlds. Exactly what? Wish I knew, for I am yet to come across one filmed about our part of the world, and in our language — both spoken and unspoken.