a generation of idiots

i'm convinced. we really are a generation of idiots.

blame it on tv. how else can i account for the fact that, not so long ago, a couple of million women, and men, wet their pillows in gay abandon simply because an actor from a popular soap opera kicked the bucket? did you know that there's actually a discussion group for fans of the bold and the beautiful?

what draws crowds endlessly to soap operas, i ask myself, every time someone switches channels to cry over douglas marrying gary, or sunita leaving vikram for gaurav's brother manik?

considering soaps evolved from american radio dramas of the 30s, you'd think there was nothing much left for any of them to say by now. just try telling that to a couch potato though.

leaving aside soap operas, what about the rest? like star trek, for one: gene roddenberry's 30-year-old phenomenon. one of the reasons for this success could be that, irrespective of how futuristic the sets are, everything else about the show is safely contemporary. the message that comes across loud and clear is this -- there may be lots of unknown terrors out there, but none that a bunch of american men can't control. hidden under this subtle goal are subliminal messages encompassing homophobia, sexism and racism.

does anyone really care? i doubt it. they're all too busy watching captain kirk live long and prosper.

star wars and jurassic park work on the same principle of fear, with a few minor arguments against biotechnology and genetic engineering thrown in. all of which is conveniently ignored in a mad rush for free t-shirts.

there's more. take friends, a.k.a. three guys, three women, and a lot of jokes. if none of the six are what we call 'normal,' do we identify with them simply because they remind us of our own repressed abnormalities? no comment.

the x-files? yes, its success would put most hollywood blockbusters to shame. no, it's not as innocuous as you think. two f.b.i. special agents investigating unexplained cases with a pretty good rate of success. the guy is, surprisingly, intuitive; the woman -- surprise, surprise -- logical. so, what we get is a man who appeals to women (thanks to his ability to be irrational), and a woman the men adore (thanks to her ability to adopt 'male' attitudes of scepticism and rationality).

and you thought these were simple tales about the paranormal? what have you been smoking?

also ignored here are the barely disguised sexual undertones between the two main characters. more points to ponder: why is scully most vulnerable to infiltration by alien beings? could it be because of our archetypal fear of a monstrous feminine sexuality? marina warner, help us all.

and speaking of sexuality, it's impossible to avoid buffy the vampire slayer, that show about a nice, simple world where everything's clearly demarcated into good and evil. saving us all from wickedness is a slim, single woman -- the slayer -- with a lot of martial arts, and an annoying smile to boot.

by the way, do i even bother mentioning baywatch at this point?

another single woman taking on the men is that 'warrior princess,' xena. she doesn't wear much, which is good; smiles a lot, which is better; and fumes in a manner more seductive than threatening, which is best. for the men, that is.

i suppose it doesn't really make much of a difference. psychology be damned. the ratings will remain, new shows will arrive, newer stars will be born, and boxes of popcorn will continue to be consumed. me, i'll grow up to become a cantankerous old man raving on street corners.

i'm off now. what're you going to do? go home and watch tv?

the men were waiting

freud would have had a field day.

that was my first thought when i walked into pooja, situated somewhere along the dusty western express highway.

it was 2345 hours, and all was calm outside, the silence broken only by trucks roaring past without headlights. a turbaned guard saluted me -- as was customary, i'm told -- before pushing back the huge, ornate door to the 'restaurant and bar' within.

there was nothing at first. then a sudden rush of music enveloped me completely. i stepped into the gloom, eyes adjusting simultaneously to patches of inky black and shimmering yellow. for the aural senses, it was a huge dose of bollywood, from start to finish. loud, fast, and raucous, all i could feel were beats; the accompanying vocal exercises all but drowned.

the room was fairly huge, stretching into specially designed nooks and corners in all directions. it was dark everywhere, except for the centre, where a brightly illuminated dais demanded attention.

on the fringes of that platform, i looked up for my first encounter with the famous nautch girls of bombay. there were around 10 of them, or maybe 15, or 20. all in a tight knot of whirling skirts and tapping feet. hips were swung somewhere, arms beckoned, and fingers acted out a variety of poses in the air.

all around me, the men sat and stared. if there ever was a tribute to testosterone, this room had to be it.

next to me sat a smallish man, feet neatly tucked under his chair, hands cradling a frosted glass. he looked around the room nervously, not at anyone in particular. when his eyes got to the girls, he smiled to himself, and held up a finger. moments later, a waiter appeared quietly by his side, bringing with him a small bundle of ten-rupee notes.

others elsewhere continued to watch, hands fondling similar bundles. some held out notes discreetly, nodding towards a chosen girl who walked demurely to take the offering. others fanned themselves with money, trying to get a woman to talk to them. still others handed bundles to stewards who, in turn, showered the notes over a dancer in a manner akin to shuffling a deck of cards.

my neighbour waved his own note, and a girl walked over. "and your name is?" he asked, smiling.
"renoo," she replied, and moved away quickly, note in hand.

was this it, then? was this all that remained of those traditional court dancers from the 1800s? were the women before me the same as the nartakis, kanchanis, apsaras, ganikas, devadasis and tawaifs from varying periods of our history and mythology?

according to informed sources, the answer to these questions is a stifled 'yes.' dancing girls, initially, belonged to a class of professional entertainers who were accomplished singers and dancers. they flourished even after the british arrived, which is when the word nautch was coined -- an anglicised form of the hindi-urdu word for dance: nach.

there is a darker side to it all, echoes of which can be seen in the devdasi system. a sanskrit term denoting the female servant of a deity, devdasis are, according to tradition, women married to a god, and thus blessed at all times. in reality, they are offered, repeatedly, to male members of the community. when not offered to a man, they simply dance at public functions, to entertain.

remnants of these traditions were, then, what i was confronted with, as the dancers swirled gracefully to tunes that were anything but religious in content. small groups of men smirked at each other, their eyes taking in all.

how and why did it all work, i wondered? it had to be the sense of power these bars loaned to customers, albeit temporarily. mock obeisance to all requests that evoked in clients a feeling of strength, virility, power. power that could make other men rush to do your every bidding, and women dance to your tune, literally.

what it all boiled down to was a titillation of all senses. from the saluting doorman to grovelling waiters, to the lingering pleasure of touching a girl's fingers: the ostensible ability of a man to attract the attention of anyone he chose, as opposed to contradictory reality outside. if that wasn't escapist, what was?

renoo continued to dance, looking at every man as if it were him alone she moved for. her attentions weren't wasted, as clients responded in kind, tenner following tenner. most patrons were regulars who had their favourite girls, visiting daily to do nothing but gift them a thousand rupees and leave.

why did the women do it? why and how did they come to terns with this subtle, metaphorical stripping, night after monotonous night?

it could be the money. according to the revenue department, the amount spent on these dancers in over 650 bars in greater bombay, thane and raigad districts, is tremendous. on a good night, the best dancers can earn over rs 20,000, leading to a monthly turnover of hundreds of thousands.

meanwhile, back at pooja, life went on. renoo came back, picked another proffered note, and ran off. there was money to be made. the men were waiting…

soul brother

“anything i've fantasised about, i've done." considering ray charles said that way back in 1989 -- in an interview for the los angeles times -- he was one lucky man. considering aretha franklin called him "the voice of a lifetime", he must have deserved it.

on june 10, 2004, at 11.35am in beverly hills, charles -- legend, pioneer, 13 time grammy award winner, and much-respected genius of soul -- died of liver disease. it was, by all accounts, the culmination of one heck of a life.

the man had, in 73 years, and over a career spanning six decades, pretty much reworked the rules for jazz, gospel, blues and pop. he had taken two wildly diverse streams of music -- the free-spirited, hedonistic energy of rock 'n' roll and the slowly burning ache of gospel and soul -- to create something that had never existed before he decided to sit before a grand piano.

it is a mix that was sometimes obviously at war within him, shaking his body as he performed, in ways that will always be a little hard to forget. his lower half would be relatively calm, tapping out notes, keeping time. his upper body told another story, shoulders stiffly in position, torso swaying this way and that. the voice was deep and warm and rough; the lyrics, peppered with grunts and moans. and that smile -- bright, wide, white. someone once said that watching him perform was like being witness to an "invisible tug of war between a devil and an angel". it was a fairly accurate description.

“i was born with music inside me,” he wrote in his 1978 autobiography brother ray. “it was a force already with me when i arrived on the scene.”

born ray charles robinson (he dropped his last name out of respect for legendary boxer sugar ray robinson) in georgia, charles began dabbling in music at three, later citing his influences as chopin, duke ellington, art tatum, and count basie. at seven, he lost his sight to glaucoma and was sent from his impoverished family to a school for the deaf and blind. while there, he learnt to repair radios, took up formal piano lessons, began writing music in braille, and moved on to the clarinet, alto saxophone, trumpet, and organ. by the time he turned 15, his parents were dead, he had graduated, and music was the only option. so he began playing gigs in black dance halls, soaking in all kinds of genres before eventually moving to seattle.

for a 16 year-old, seattle must have been as big as the world. he fit right in though, settling into the style of the smooth crooners of the day. there were two things he did there that would change his life forever. one: he formed a band called the mcson trio. two: he got addicted to heroin. the band broke up quickly enough, but gave him the push he needed to develop his own style.

as for the addiction, it lasted 17 years.

between 1948 and 1958, he did all the things most legendary musicians are said to have done: played all kinds of concerts, experimented with all kinds of music, hung out with all kinds of people, and wrote all kinds of songs. then, in 1959, came what'd i say, with its simple riff and a whole lot of moaning. some radio stations banned it at once, but charles got his first big hit. from there, the only route was up.

"i can take an audience and get 'em into a frenzy so they'll almost riot," he once told the associated press, "and yet i can sit there so you can almost hear a pin drop." at his death, charles boasted more awards and citations than most performers his age. on july 20, 2003, he celebrated his 10,000th concert.

not a bad life by any standards.

jerry wexler, legendary producer, once said charles was one of the first with the "blasphemous idea of taking gospel songs and putting the devil's words to them". thousands of musicians, legendary and amateur, believe that while it could have been the devil's words, that kind of music could only have come from a musician touched by god.

here's to you, ray. it was nice having you around.