OPEN Magazine 9 December 2013 by Open Media Network

WINTER TRAVEL SPECIAL: OFF LAND

RS 35 9 December 2013

INSIDE Voyeurism in rape reporting l i f e

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THE PERFECT MYSTERY A case that challenged the Indian criminal justice system

Open Mail | editor@openmedianetwork.in Editor Manu Joseph managing Editor Rajesh Jha Deputy Editor Aresh Shirali Features and Sports Editor Akshay

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Anil Budur Lulla (Bangalore), Shahina KK, Aastha Atray Banan, Mihir Srivastava, Chinki Sinha Special Correspondents Aanchal Bansal, Lhendup Gyatso Bhutia (Mumbai), Gunjeet Sra Assistant Art Director Tarun Sehgal SENIOR DESIGNER Anup Banerjee photo editor Ruhani Kaur assistant Photo editor Ritesh Uttamchandani (Mumbai) Staff Photographers Ashish Sharma, Raul Irani Editorial Researcher Shailendra Tyagi asst Editor (web) Arindam Mukherjee staff writer Devika Bakshi Associate publisher Deepa Gopinath Associate general managers (advertisement) Rajeev Marwaha (North

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Volume 5 Issue 48 For the week 3—9 Dec 2013 Total No. of pages 64 + Covers cover illustration

Pawan Tiwary

9 december 2013

Anisha

I completely agree with your point of view; I do not believe women on menstruation cycles are impure or any other perceptual nonsense (‘Women Don’t Bleed Blue’, 2 December 2013). Behind every superstition is a reason. For example, I believe the reason behind the superstition of not allowing women to enter temples while the ‘tap’ is on, is because back then they obviously didn’t have pads or I believe the reason proper sanitation behind the superstition facilities perhaps. of not allowing women Therefore, in order to to enter temples while avoid staining the the ‘tap’ is on, is because temple floor or getting embarrassed in public, back then they didn’t the social system have sanitary pads decided that women should stay put in their homes and were sometimes even restricted to a room. You don’t realise the importance of anything until you lose it. As a 25 year old girl having trouble with her menses, I know the joy I feel when I am on my cycle. I wait for it. I pray for it.  letter of the week Modi will Fizzle Out

this refers to ‘Modi, Media and Money’ (18 November 2013). The Congress is an election machine, it knows the larger picture. And that is why although party workers may be afraid of Narendra Modi, its senior leaders know what overkill is. The more coverage Modi gets and the more I hear him speak, his empty rhetoric makes Rahul Gandhi seem more intelligent than him. Modi will fizzle out by the time polling starts.  Abhishek Kumar

Branding Sachin

this is a balanced and credible article ‘The Limited Hysteria’, 2 December 2013). I personally couldn’t care less for ‘Brand Tendulkar’ ever since he got ‘co-opted’ by the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI)-corporate nexus in 2000-2004. For the past few years, he’s been a pup in the hands of certain BCCI board members and industrialists. A

author should read up a few perspectives she has missed before her next visit to Thimpu.  Aseem Shukla

It’s Just a Bodily Function

great cricketer, but not the best. Only the ‘Best brand’.  Gaurav Singh

Dark Side of Bhutan

this is incredible! (‘Trouble in Paradise’, 25 November 2013). So in the 1980s there was an uprising of the ‘outsider’? What a stirring testament to ‘firmness and understanding’ that 100,000 ethnic Nepalispeaking Lhotsampas were evicted from Bhutan and forced into refugee camps in Eastern Nepal, now administered by the UN High Commission for Refugees. The Bhutanese government conducted one of the least known atrocities in recent history and the author gives her hosts in Bhutan fatuous homilies like ‘Thimpu will be safe’. Yes, safe if you don’t wear a sari, or don a bindi or celebrate Durga Puja in public. The author should have included the usual inanities like ‘Shangri-La’ and ‘Gross National Happiness’. The

though i’m still not allowed to touch a woman ‘in time’, I, despite being a man, would like to at least touch upon the topic of ‘bleeding’ women (‘Women Don’t Bleed Blue’, 2 December 2013). The superstition that women in menstruation are impure had penetrated conservative minds since ancient times, and its weird rituals have unfortunately passed from generation to generation and are still being followed. It’s a good sign that today’s modern woman has slowly come to understand that there are other important things in life to focus on than give (and allow others to give) undue importance to this just another bodily function. I hope our respected elders would take a leaf out of Ramya Maddali’s article.  Vimal S Thaker

i have read many articles on this issue, but none as detailed as this. I can relate with the anticipation. It was ditto for me, till I turned 13, the social stigma, temples... I like that you have brought up the fact that these customs did have a purpose at some point, but don’t now. As a woman, I thank you for sharing this brilliant piece. I hope such articles will encourage girls and society at large to come out of the closet.  Adya Vac

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The Voice against Sachin’s Bharat Ratna trick

Sachin Tendulkar is the latest celebrity to feel the heat of Sudhir Kumar Ojha’s righteous indignation

T w o court cases are challenging the Central Government’s decision to award a Bharat Ratna to Sachin Tendulkar immediately after his retirement. Sudhir Kumar Ojha, an advocate from Muzaffarpur in Bihar, has called for summons to be issued to Prime Minister Manmohan Singh and Home Minister Sushil Kumar Shinde. The Chief Judicial Magistrate, Muzaffarpur, will hear the case on 10 December. Meanwhile, the Allahabad High Court has reserved judgment on a similar case filed by an IPS officer and a social activist. 9 december 2013

Ojha insists that the highest civilian honour of the land is for a lifetime of service. A candidate must wait until she has either exhausted all possibility of serving the nation, or until there are no chances of controversy sullying her image. To satisfy that condition, Ojha suggests the award be withheld until a candidate assumes a certain age or confirmed incapability to behave questionably. As a sporting icon, Dhyan Chand, the hockey wizard, deserved the award far more, says Ojha; past life, he is safely beyond all controversy. “I admire

Tendulkar’s batting like everyone else, but is there a guarantee that not a single controversy will touch him in the course of his life ahead? ” Ojha asks. Over the past few years, the 45-year-old electrical goods contractor-turned-lawyer has gained a reputation as a litigant against celebrities. He has filed about 490 cases against heavyweights such as Amitabh Bachchan, Hrithik Roshan, Sonia Gandhi and Raj Thackeray. Detractors dismiss him as a publicity seeker, but for Ojha, litigation is a form of public service: “I go to court

whenever I see an insult to our tradition and culture [or some] injustice to people.” “I do not harass celebrities; I have filed several PILs and exposed even more official corruption,” he fumes, but admits that the cases against celebrities have brought him fame and more clients. Ojha took on Raj Thackeray in 2008 when the latter made insulting remarks against Biharis. “Do you know,” he chuckles, “how he pleaded for shifting the case from Bihar, fearing for his life?” n Anirban Bandopadhyay

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ravi s sahani

small world

contents

cover story The perfect mystery

angle

The unexpected wisdom of doing nothing

10 real india

A social network support group

Sea

mountain

river

sky

Surfing swamis

Flight to Everest

Rafting the Brahmaputra

Learning to glide

WINTER TRAVEL SPECIAL:

AAP’s Rickshaw Rollercoaster

It’s not just ‘doctored’ sting operations that have been bothering Arvind Kejriwal’s Aam Aadmi Party. With the Delhi state elections just around the corner, a group of Delhi autowallahs have decided to take on Kejriwal and his party through a protest campaign. Autorickshaws across the city are now carrying banners against him. Their point of contention is that despite using Delhi’s autos to promote the party, with banners displaying the party’s broom symbol posted behind several autos for many months now, the AAP has denied a party ticket to auto driver Bhaag Singh, previously a party nominee for the Kalkaji constituency of South Delhi. While party members claim Singh withdrew his nomination citing personal reasons, Rakesh Aggarwal of Nyaybhoomi— an NGO that works for the welfare of autorickshaw drivers and is at the helm of the protest campaign—alleges that Kejriwal is undemocratic and deliberately denied Bhaag Singh a party ticket. n AANCHAL BANSAL

disaffecti o n

Still on Bad Terms It’s official. Sachin Tendulkar and Vinod Kambli are no longer friends. Kambli had it coming. His drinking problems and erratic behaviour cost him the friendship of not just Tendulkar but everyone in Mumbai cricket. The ultimate snub was when Kambli was not invited for Tendulkar’s post-retirement party in Mumbai. Later, Kambli told The Indian Express, “Your question to me is whether Sachin and I are on talking terms. The answer is ‘no’. We haven’t been talking for the last seven years, but on [special] occasions, we do wish each other via text.” n

SILENCE

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on able Pers Unreasotnhe Week of ■

ALISTA

IRE COO

■

F o r taking offence to David

Warner’s comments on England and batsman Jonathon Trott Australia won the first Test of the Ashes series by a massive 381 runs on the back of some unplayable fast bowling, spearheaded by Mitchell Johnson, who got England batsman Jonathan Trott in both innings. At a press conference thereafter, Aussie batsman David Warner said England had “scary eyes” and the way Trott got out was “poor and weak.” Already dealing with psychological issues, Trott took the drastic step of flying back to England. Warner has since been widely condemned for his comments. England captain Alistaire Cook said, “I think the comments were pretty disrespectful to any professional cricketer.” Warner is a bully whose mouth has frequently got him in trouble. But on this occasion, he was merely being frank. There was no foul language or provocation. n 9 december 2013

b books

The Bookaroo Festival

36 on land

Winter in Kashmir

Ground beneath your feet

OFF LAND

c life and letters

cinema

A city by any other name...

Ranveer Singh: the unlikely star

Anti Climax o v e r l o ad French porn producer Marc Dorcel was so thrilled when France qualified for next year’s football World Cup recently that he offered fans free access to his company’s website. Unfortunately, demand was so heavy that the site crashed less than a minute after France’s crucial 3-0 win over Ukraine. Dorcel promised viewers a rain check once the site was up and running again. n

NOT PEOPLE LIKE US

Farhan flies high

Facing allegations of sexual assault, Tehelka editor Tarun Tejpal first confessed to an ‘unfortunate incident’ and apologised, but later called the episode a ‘consensual encounter’ mi n ci n g w o r ds

‘I apologise unconditionally for the shameful lapse of judgement that led me to attempt a sexual liaison with you... despite your clear reluctance that you did not want such attention from me’ —Tarun Tejpal, in a letter to the victim 19 November 2013

turn

unearthly

‘The truth is it was a fleeting, totally consensual encounter of less than a minute in a lift (of a two-storey building!)’

—Tarun Tejpal,

in a text message to friends, 22 November 2013

around

What’s so Funny? The last time you heard of Shirish Kunder’s humour was when it got him slapped by Shah Rukh Khan. And it turned out to be a good thing because it led to Khan’s rapprochement with Kunder’s wife Farah. Kunder’s one-liners are still going strong on Twitter, though. On the Tehelka sexual assault, Kunder tweeted: ‘Robert De Niro’s statement to Goa Police: “You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me”.’ It was an attempt to play on the fact that the junior journalist who was assaulted had been chaperoning De Niro at a Tehelka event when she was assaulted by Editor Tarun Tejpal. Kunder also had a few tweets about the Chess Championship: ‘It’s very racist of chess to always let white play first. Alternately, black must be allowed to play first’; ‘Chess is probably the only sport where the commentators get more tired than the players’. n

defecti o n

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angle

On the Contrary

The Wisdom of Not Doing On the fifth anniversary of the 26/11 attacks, a few thoughts on the Government’s response M a d h a v a n k u t t y P i l l a i

and, on its anniversary, newspapers and television channels pointed out how little has been done by the Government despite a terrorist attack of such magnitude. Hindustan Times came out with an entire supplement. A full page within it appeared under the headline, ‘Holes in Mumbai’s shield on the coast’. On another page, under ‘Crowded Markets: Still Woefully Unguarded’, the paper offered some prescriptions of what needs to be done. Among these were: ‘Streets should be kept uncluttered’ and ‘Building surroundings should be litter free’. One must of course do all these things, but squashing potential Kasabs through cleanliness has to be unique in the annals of counter-terrorism. A DNA article titled ‘State sits on Pradhan panel suggestions’ pointed out how, besides not finding land to set up five coastal police stations, sub-standard bullet-proof jackets were purchased and the control room has still not been shifted to a fire- and blast-proof structure. A Times of India headline read ‘Only 2 of 7 patrol boats with Navi Mumbai coastal cops operational’. The Indian Express reported that though high-tech luggage scanners were installed at Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, one of the attack sites, a team of reporters sent there found that ‘security personnel at some of the entry points were nowhere to be seen.’ On CNN-IBN, a reporter, undecided on the amount of shock or anger to insert into his voice, asked rather flatly, “Is the country better prepared to prevent another sea-borne fidayeen attack?” There is no reason to doubt the assertion that the Government failed in its long term response to 26/11. The natural corollary is that it should be doing more. But in fact, there is a good case for the exact opposite—that the best thing for the Government to have done is to have done nothing. The argument is at three levels: a) given its level of efficiency, the Government can’t do much even if it wants to; b) whatever it does only serves to make life difficult for the people it is supposed to

8 open

Aijaz Rahi/AP

t is now five years after 26/11,

bystander government Idleness is preferable to action that would only serve to worsen the situation

protect instead of terrorists; and c) the whole objective of an attack is to create an atmosphere of terror and any measure the Government takes only fuels that. An instance of the last is what the US did after 9/11. It threw human rights to the wind, declared unprovoked war on Iraq on a false pretence and became openly racist toward visitors and its own Muslim population. The myth that such measures were warranted because they made the country immune to terror attacks was shot to pieces after the Boston Marathon bombings this April. The US response to 9/11 claimed many times more innocent lives than the original attack. In India, extremism in Punjab led to the Terrorist And Disruptive Activities (Prevention) Act, which threw tens of

‘Streets should be uncluttered’, one paper said, and ‘Building surroundings should be litter free’. They should, of course, but squashing potential Kasabs with cleanliness has to be unique in the annals of counter-terrorism

thousands (if not lakhs) of innocent people in jail with scant due process. Everything the Government does is riddled with incompetence and corruption. Anti-terrorism measures are no exception. Sub-standard bullet vests are as good as no vests if the idea is to stop a bullet. Or take that strange Hindustan Times solution of keeping streets litter-free: Mumbai’s municipality has not been able to do that for decades. Why and how would it make it happen now? The main reason for the Government not to react is because, given its corruption and lack of competence, whatever it does will only punish its own citizens. For instance, this demand to deploy extraordinary resources to police the coastline will become an instrument to harass fishermen. Without precise intelligence, there are just too many fishing trawlers for the coast guards to check. After the serial bomb blasts in Mumbai’s local trains in 2006, the Railways tried to create check points at stations. Long queues and chaos forced them to drop the idea almost immediately. All that remains now are token metal detection scanners. No one has a clue whether they work; no passenger has heard them beep. n 9 december 2013

real

india

A Hurried Man’s Guide to Magnus Carlsen

November saw the curtain coming down on the reign of two of India’s great sportsmen—one through retirement, the other, defeat. While Sachin Tendulkar’s swansong was accompanied by a nationwide outpouring of emotion, the crushing defeat of Viswanathan Anand in the World Chess Championship against Norway’s Magnus Carlsen brought gloom to Indian chess supporters. Dubbed the ‘Mozart of Chess’, Carlsen, 22, became the 16th player to be crowned world champion and earned Rs 9.9 crore in prize money. Norway doesn’t have a significant chess culture. Even Carlsen showed little interest in the game when his father, Henrik, introduced him to it at the age of five. Initially, he played only to outsmart Ellen, the eldest of his three sisters, who went on to represent Norway twice in the European chess championship. But before long, Magnus took to the game Introduced to like bear to honey, bechess at the age of coming, at 13, the second five, at 13, Carlsen youngest Grandmaster became the ever. At 16, he quit his second youngest studies to concentrate Grandmaster ever on the game.

oli scarff/getty images

Carlsen had climbed to the top of the FIDE rankings long before he became the world champion. World No 1 since July 2011, it was only a matter of time before he faced off with Anand in the world championship. The two matched shoulder-to-shoulder before Carlsen

managed a breakthrough in the fifth game. The contest ended with the final score at 6.5-3.5. Anand failed to tame Carlsen even once. Carlsen is known for his middle-game and ability to keep cool under pressure. The great Garry Kasparov said of him, “He gets his positions and never lets go of the bulldog bite.” Carlsen is expected to unwind for the next two months and fulfil sponsor commitments. He will be back in action at the Zurich Challenger in January where he will renew rivalries with a host of contemporaries, including Anand. n

It Happens

Emotional e-Support An online social networking website allows users to share and express sorrow and grief L h e n d u p G B h u t i a

TLC SharingDard founders Sumant Gajbhiye, Gaurav Rajan, Ritika Sharma and Lima James

few months ago, a preg-

nant woman wrote about being diagnosed with breast cancer on an online portal. She wrote in detail about how her husband and in-laws had turned against her, asking her to undergo an abortion. The woman had not spoken of this to anyone before; she was lonely, and maybe even suicidal. Since then, a number of people have left comments on her confession, offering sympathy and support, and advising her on how to pursue her case medically, and how, if she wanted to, she could make a legal case against her husband and in-laws. The woman never replied to those comments, but the founders of the portal claim that in cases like these, just venting frustration and hearing supportive voices can sometimes be of immense help. This interaction took place on SharingDard, a social networking website meant for sharing grief and emotional turmoil founded by four young entrepreneurs who graduated from IIM Lucknow in 2011. According to them, as urban lives become increasingly insular and lonely, with social networking sites and their emphasis on virtual as opposed to real-life relationships often aggravating the issue, they wanted to create an online social platform where people could express their grief and sorrow. “What happens on websites like Facebook and Twitter is you always

want to put your best foot forward. You never really share your real self, your grief and issues. Our idea was to use the anonymity the online world provides so users can anonymously and honestly express whatever is afflicting them and seek support,” says founder Ritika Sharma. Sharma, originally from Chandigarh, moved to Mumbai after she landed her first job at an MNC. However, the difficulties of handling a first job, especially in a corporate set up, and the loneliness that “You never comes with share your real moving to a self, your grief new city made and issues” on her want to start a venture social media, to address these says Sharma issues. The other founders—Sumant Gajbhiye, Lima James and Gaurav Rajan Ghoota—also had similar experiences and they all quit their jobs to focus on the portal. Currently, the website has 62,000 registered users and a new story is shared every 15 minutes or so. Most stories relate to workplace issues, relationships and marriage. In one, a widowed single mother talks of how her second husband turned out to be abusive. In others, homosexuals express the difficulties they face finding acceptance. “There are many lonely or depressed people out there who simply want someone to listen to them,” Sharma says. n 9 december 2013

business

How to Restructure the Banking Sector Of the many responses

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f i n a nce

evoked by the recommendation of a government panel that the Centre dilute its stake in Public Sector Banks (PSBs) to 51 per cent, the most noteworthy is one that espouses a comprehensive review of the Indian banking system. At present, it is a bit too skewed in favour of PSBs, which have three-fourths of the sector’s assets. This dominance of State-owned banks has inherent risks, a glimpse of which may be seen in the rising tide of bad loans that has engulfed India’s PSBs more than private banks. The idea of reducing the State’s stake in PSBs to just-above control level, however, is not to signal a gradual move towards their privatisation, but simply to raise funds to keep them adequately capitalised. Not only are they reeling under unpaid-back loans, they are under pressure to adopt the so-called Basel III framework of rules for their safety cushion, which requires them to have enough money to absorb the sort of big financial shocks the world has in recent years been subject to. To adopt Basel III norms, such a huge quantum of money needs be injected into PSBs over the next five years that it appears to have unnerved the Government. As it happens, the Centre’s limited fiscal space has already been squeezed by the current economic downturn. Nonetheless, Ananda Bhoumik, senior director, India Ratings, says that the task is manageable “if planned [well in advance] to avoid any pile-up towards the end” (fiscal year 2017-18, that is). According to the RBI, of the Rs 5 lakh crore odd of additional capital that Indian public and private sector banks need to comply with the Basel III regime, 35 per cent would need to come from shareholders as equity capital. If the Government would like to retain its current ownership of its 26 banks—at between 55 and 85 per cent—it would need to cough up Rs 90,000 crore. If it opts to reduce its holdings in these, then its burden would be Rs 66,000 crore. Given the Government’s fiscal situation, the panel wants it to pursue the second option. This makes sense, say observers. “While it is important to have government control over PSBs, the degree of such control need not be the same for all time,” says Professor CS Balasubramaniam of Babasaheb Gawde Institute of Management Studies. State control of banks acts as a reassurance to depositors that their money is safe

global scale for a globalised economy State Bank of India has reached out far and wide—but needs heft

and that they would not be cheated since these banks are supposed to exist for a public purpose even in their pursuit of profit. By and large, India’s best-known PSBs are institutions that people trust. And “Fifty-one per cent is good enough for PSBs to retain their government character,” says Nirupama Soundararajan, a capital markets expert at Ficci, “While also lowering the monetary commitment for the State to balance out its fiscal deficit concerns.” However, The Government expecting PSBs to may dilute its become more stake in public efficient as a result sector banks to 51 of stake-dilution per cent, but what would be too the sector needs is simplistic an consolidation assumption. “What could force them to be more competitive,” says Bhoumik, “is greater participation by private and foreign players.” In any case, it would happen gradually, since the current market appetite for PSB shares may not be too strong (and other public sector disinvestments are planned too). “Selling [PSB shares] at the current juncture sounds a bit contradictory,” says Bhoumik, “because what the Government could end up doing is selling some stake in good banks to support their weaker counterparts.” There is also another aspect that poses a challenge: the Government’s medium-

term proposal to consolidate the sector under fewer banks that are big, strong and sensitive to the needs of a fast-changing economy. In Bhoumik’s view, this is “critically required” for the sector. Soundararajan agrees that merging smaller banks with one another or large ones is important: “The Government should encourage consolidation first within the public sector and probably then within the private space too.” It would help them achieve economies of scale, with all its attendant benefits. Says Bhoumik: “One [way to create a platform for consolidation] could be for the Government to retain control over its larger banks, like State Bank of India and Punjab National Bank, and help them grow even bigger to become globally competitive, while it reconsiders the decision to retain [only] 51 per cent in some of the smaller banks.” Whether a few PSBs—such as SBI— should aim for a size that is globally competitive while others remain mid/ small-bracket banks, Soundararajan says, is a call for the Government to take once the process gets underway. Such a grand restructuring exercise of India’s banking sector would, of course, require a broad national consensus. But, surely, the sector needs a new trajectory to keep up with the world. And it is also clear that a domestically-owned banking sector is crucial to any country’s economic autonomy. n SHAILENDRA TYAGI 9 december 2013

murder

The Perfect Mystery A case that challenged India’s system of criminal justice prakash singh/afp

Mihir Srivastava

THE LONG WAY BACK Rajesh and Nupur Talwar on their way back to Dasna Jail after the special CBI court pronounced them ‘guilty’

ow is it that what might have been an open-and-

shut double-murder case became this perfect murder mystery? A review might be instructive. The parents, Nupur and Rajesh Talwar, have been awarded a life-imprisonment term for the murder of their 13-year-old daughter, Aarushi, and domestic help Hemraj by judge Shyam Lal of a Special CBI court that held the trial in Ghaziabad. He termed the sentence ‘just and proper’. Even as the Talwars are sent to Dasna Jail, however, uncertainty still hangs in the air over their guilt beyond rea14 open

sonable doubt. Nobody except the killer/s knew what really happened on the night of 15-16 May 2008. The four—Rajesh, Nupur, Aarushi and Hemraj—were last seen together at 10 pm in the Talwars’ flat, L-32, Jalvayu Vihar, in Noida. Two of them were put violently to death by someone between 12 am and 2 am. Aarushi is believed to have been killed first, Hemraj later, within an hour. They had similar injuries: the head bludgeoned and throat slit with a sharp object. The Talwars claimed to have slept through the mayhem. The flat had no sign of a forced entry. After the murder, the murderer had a drink 9 december 2013

of Scotch from the home’s mini-bar, as the evidence of a blood-stained bottle/glass indicates. These circumstances point to an inside job. But the above does not rule out a fifth person having gained entry. The Talwars claim that they went to sleep at midnight and were woken up only at 6.01 am when their maid Bharti rang the bell. According to Bharti, she found the iron-grill outer door of the flat’s main entrance locked, and she rang the bell four times before Nupur—instead of the usual Hemraj—opened the inner door. Bharti says she was surprised to see Nupur awake, as well as Rajesh, who she caught sight of, since they were late risers. By Bharti’s testimony, they showed no loss of composure at this point; Nupur told her Hemraj may have locked it to go on a milk errand, went back in to retrieve the grilldoor’s keys, which were inside the house (possible since it had a side door), and threw them off the balcony for her to go down two flights of stairs and pick up. When she returned with the keys a few minutes later, she found that the exercise was pointless since the outer door was merely bolted from within (a detail she added later to her testimony). Nupur told her: “Dekho Hemraj kya karke gaya hai” (look what Hemraj has done). Bharti entered Aarushi’s room to find her lying under a sheet in a pool of blood and rushed out to alert neighbours. Investigations revealed that Aarushi’s phone, by which she would usually chat with friends well past midnight, was inactive after 9:10 pm that night (though her friend Anmol had tried to contact her by landline and SMS). Rajesh, in a room adjacent to Aarushi’s, was up at least till 11:57 pm, when he sent his last email before—as he says—he went to bed. Aarushi’s bed was barely 10 feet away from that of the Talwars, separated by a thin wall. The Noida Police reached by 7 am and found that some friends and relatives had already arrived. The police handling of the crime site was so shoddy that crucial evidence was lost. Yet, it’s clear that the girl’s body had been moved and dressed up after she was killed and before the police arrived. She lay on a neat bed with her neck slit and a wet patch on the bedsheet below her pelvic region, though her visibly untied pyjamas were completely dry. The CBI reported a vulval dilation and observed that the drainand-droplet bleeding pattern meant that her neck was slit after her death. She had died of a blow from a blunt object that left a ‘U/V’ shaped scar on the forehead. Her pink pillow, found within the blood pattern area, was clean and appeared to have been placed later. Her room’s door was open. Once the body was sent for its post-mortem enquiry, at 9 am, there is evidence of a telephonic loop of calls between Rajesh’s brother Dinesh Talwar, a family friend Dr Sushil Chaudhary, ex-cop KK Gautam and an unidentified number, in this order, and soon after in the reverse sequence. This was on the evening of 16 May—while the post-mortem report was being prepared. The CBI says that this was done to keep the word ‘rape’ off any record. 9 december 2013

A similar loop occurred twice between 9 and 10 the next morning, just before KK Gautam helped the police recover Hemraj’s body from the Talwars’ terrace. The CBI has no clarity on the purpose of this second loop. Shockingly, it was found that Aarushi’s vaginal swabs, sent for testing to the Centre for DNA Fingerprinting and Diagnostics, Hyderabad, did not match her blood samples. In other words, the swabs were fake. The CBI raided the Noida District Hospital to find that Aarushi’s original medical file, her pathology reports and autopsy findings had all gone missing. The CBI failed to find out how the samples were switched and thus lost vital clues to the case. In its closure report, the CBI states, ‘The vaginal orifice of the deceased was unduly large and mouth of [the] cervix was visible.’ The post-mortem report makes no mention of sexual assault in spite of the police’s first onsite report asking for this to be determined. This aspect of the case appears to have been covered up. What gave the case fresh wind, however, was the recovery of a golf club—missing for a year from Rajesh Talwar’s

What happened on the night of 15-16 May 2008 in that flat in Jalvayu Vihar, Noida, remains a mystery. The motive of the twin murders is also still in the realm of conjecture golf-set—from the loft of Jalvayu Vihar flat during a dustup. Found by Rajesh’s close friend Ajay Chadha, it had no body fluid or bloodstain, but going by its dimensions, it was probably the murder weapon.

he Noida Police arrested Rajesh Talwar soon after the twin murders. But the case was handed over to the CBI on the Talwars’ insistence and its first investigation—June 2008 to April 2009—under Joint Director Arun Kumar resulted in three of their domestic staff being accused, even as the Talwars were let off the hook on the argument that the noise of their AC made it plausible that they slept through it all. But the case against the domestic helps didn’t hold. Asked about the probe’s tardy pace, Arun Kumar had told me: “Certain facts should not be made public in the larger interest of society.” The CBI’s second probe, led by Deputy Director Nilabh Kishore after May 2009, brought the Talwars’ likely guilt back into focus—based on the same evidence—but it filed a report in December 2010 asking for the case to be closed on the grounds of insufficient proof. Too much evidence had been destroyed. The Talwars protested the case’s closure. As a member of their extended family told me, this was because they did not want to live with the stigma of being the prime suspects of their open www.openthemagazine.com 15

daughter’s murder. They wanted justice for Aarushi, as Dinesh Talwar said. Accepting their plea, a special CBI court took on the case for trial, but with a twist: that the Talwars would be the prime accused, with the closure report deemed as the chargesheet. It is this court that has held the couple guilty. The judge has stated that the accused cannot be acquitted on lack of evidence. Yet, what happened that night remains a mystery. The motive of the twin murders is still in the realm of conjecture. As a journalist, I have tracked this case for the past five years. I have never met Aarushi, but I wanted justice for her, as I told the Talwar family. I first met Nupur Talwar in July 2008 with my then colleague Kaveree Bamzai. It was a meeting arranged by a cousin of Rajesh Talwar, and Nupur had agreed to talk to us on condition that we would discuss Aarushi as a talented teenager and not the crime. We met at Nupur’s father Balchandra Chitnis’ house, who lived in the same neighbourhood as the Talwars. We were shown letters and papers that portrayed the couple as good parents, much loved by their daughter. Rajesh Talwar had just been released from Dasna Jail after 50 days in the lock-up. As we were about to leave, Nupur told me, “Don’t forget to mention that we were doting parents.” After the CBI’s closure report a year-and-a-half later, the Talwars picked on gaps in it to argue that the case needed further investigation. Determined to relook at the case as a journalist, I did not contact the CBI, for the agency had already stated all it had to in its report. Instead, I travelled to Lucknow to meet senior police officers who were posted in Ghaziabad at the time of the murder. Three officers gave me a detailed account of the circumstantial evidence that pointed to the role of insiders. I filed a report ‘The Untold Story’ for India Today (issue dated 14 January 2011), on the possible role of insiders. Senior police officers had told me that that the murderer/s had destroyed enough evidence to ensure that their culpability would never be established. That is why they were open to the idea of reopening the case. However, the officers were sure that they would not escape charges of destruction of evidence. And why, the officers argued, would they have done that if they had nothing to hide? After his first arrest, Rajesh Talwar had even been in a confessional mood, claimed a sub-inspector who had escorted him to jail. After the India Today story, Team Talwar sent us a scathing letter of rebuttal with a threat of legal action. The close relative of the Talwars who had arranged my first meeting with them called to swear at me over the phone. Calling me an agent of the CBI, she asked me how much I’d been paid by the agency for the story. I snapped off the call saying the real killers of Aarushi would not escape. She kept calling again and again, but I did not take her calls. When I returned to the office, my editors pulled me up for using foul language with the Talwar family. In re16 open

sponse, I submitted a written explanation of events. All this was brought on by the mere hint that the killers were ‘insiders’. It was only after the court concluded that there was a prima facie case against the parents, and that they should be tried as prime suspects, that I could breathe easy again.

he second time I met the Talwars was in January

2011 on a visit to their new house in Azad Apartments, South Delhi. I had been contacted by someone called Rahul who introduced himself as a friend of the Talwars, offering to set up a meeting with them. He told me the family believed my reports were erroneous, as I was articulating only the CBI’s version and had missed the family’s version. To get a rounded view of the case, I agreed to meet the Talwars. A series of meetings followed with Dinesh Talwar, Rajesh’s elder brother and other members of the extended family. I was open to let new facts revise my grasp of the case. Dinesh wanted to know the source of my information. I only clarified that it was not the CBI, as he might imagine. He didn’t believe me. Instead of answering my question of why the keys to the outer door locked on the outside were inside the house—though Bharti’s testimony on this has changed since—he made a note to consult his lawyer on this matter. He asked me how I had arrived at certain details in my story that were not even part of the CBI closure report. I had this eerie feeling of being grilled by him. The story carried in Open (‘The Survivors’, issue dated 3 November 2012) on the basis of that meeting was on the lives of Aarushi Talwar’s family and friends, of whom I met several. Ajay Chadha was furious with the CBI’s conduct. “How could the agency’s second team discard the conclusion of its first team,” he asked, “without even questioning the three early suspects [of the first team]?” The Talwars’ fear of being sent back to prison was “real and debilitating”, he’d said. I was attacked by Masuma, another family friend, and also the mother of Aarushi’s closest friend, Fiza. She held my reports especially responsible for the plight of the Talwars. With the notable exception of Tehelka and NDTV, she said, the coverage had been one-sided. Open was not allowed to meet either Rajesh or Nupur Talwar till the very end, despite repeated visits to their house. At the short meeting I finally had with Rajesh, he repeated what his brother Dinesh had already said: that they were being fixed by the CBI. He offered no reason why it would do such a thing. I reminded him that the family had asked for the case to be re-examined. Their friends had been courting to media on their behalf, especially before court hearings and so on. The media had been polarised over this case, but there had been no witch-hunt. ‘We regret day and night. But overcoming those regrets is not that easy’: these were the last words Aarushi wrote on her whiteboard. n 9 december 2013

PROPRIETY

The Voyeur in Our Midst …and the case for dignity in reporting on rape chinki sinha

hat she told me she was raped

was enough. (It was Liberia and she had been raped by many men. Her ordeal was manifest in those words.) I could have asked more—the ‘how’ and ‘when’ and ‘what else’ kind of questions. It would have been of a piece with the kind of journalism we practise. And in keeping with the fact that as a reporter, one must be able to tell the whole story, including the most uncomfortable parts. It did cross my mind. But at some point, one must put the pen down. Not everything needs to be recorded. Not what exactly Tarun Tejpal, former editor and founder of Tehelka, did to the young woman journalist in the elevator. It is enough that she said “sexual assault”. Everyone does not need to know the lurid details. But the details are everywhere. In the newspapers, on social media, in everyone’s head. The social media, where a blogger even leaked her photos, is like the street. It is an unregulated space. But traditional media is supposed to have filters. It is disturbing, then, to read on the front page of a national newspaper the salacious details of the encounter in the elevator. As a woman, I find it hard to be in a space where people go on about the assault and the manner of it. I too feel outraged. My first encounter with a rape victim was in an old house in Utica where I first started reporting in the US. She was a Liberian refugee, and spoke to me while she worked in the kitchen, and cried in between. She didn’t want me to see her face while she spoke. She was raped 18 open

many times over in the long-drawn civil war that has torn the country apart. They were brutal, she said. I had wanted to ask more. But that was the only truth she wanted me to have. That we are voyeurs is not easy to admit. Rape stories put us in an uncomfortable space. It is not easy to write about rape. Just as it is not easy to write about death or a funeral. In these situations, it is awkward to ask: ‘How do you feel?’ Yet we do. For the sake of colour in the story. Our questions violate boundaries. Reporting rape stories demands a mea-

Everyone does not need to know all the lurid details. But the details are everywhere. In the newspapers, on social media, in everyone’s head sure of propriety—I repeat, we do not have to report the graphic details of what happened in that hotel elevator. The account of her violation was leaked by fellow journalists, possibly to counter its tagging as ‘untoward’ by the magazine’s managing editor Shoma Chaudhary. The third sentence of the victim’s email to Chaudhary says ‘…the editor in chief of Tehelka, Tarun Tejpal, sexually assaulted me at THiNK on two occasions last week.’ That is enough detail. How we choose to tell the story mat-

ters. The FIR might help us understand the status of the case, but it does not give us the ethical sanction to reproduce the graphic details of the case. Sameera Khan, writer and researcher, and a member of the Network of Women in Media, India (NWMI), recalls the 2009 TISS student rape case where Mumbai Mirror went on to cite the FIR that the victim was menstruating at the time of the incident. “That was horrible. The general public does not need to know all this,” she says. We can’t control the experiences of readers, but we can certainly guide those experiences. “In this case, and other such cases when we report on sexual assault and rape, the media tries to be helpful by supporting the woman survivor, but in reality, by putting out all sorts of intimate details of the crime and her background, it ends up invading her privacy and actually not being sympathetic to the woman at all,” says Khan, who is also the coauthor of Why Loiter? Women and Risk on Mumbai Streets. “We are following the individual and not the larger issue. We hammer away at the same event for days. By day three of reporting such an incident, the narrative falls apart. Then you start going for the victim. We violate all norms of privacy. Not revealing her name is just one part of revealing identity, as per Section 228A. You tell me who her boyfriend is. You tell me who her friends and colleagues are. These are significant identifying details,” says Khan. “The reporting is so irresponsible. One 9 december 2013

IMAGEZOO/GETTY IMAGES

newspaper has carried telling excerpts on the front page. We don’t seem to understand that there is a difference between reporting a sexual crime and other crimes, and it has to do with the woman’s privacy. [If the victim survives the assault and the trauma of the aftermath], she does not want to be identified as the one it all happened to,” she says. I don’t know her. I didn’t ever work for Tehelka. But I googled her the evening I came to know of the incident. I wanted to know who she was, what she looked like. Discussions of what she is like as a person, how she likes to dress, how many affairs she has had were all suddenly fair game. Does all this matter in reporting the story? (We have seen it happen in the past in the Nirbhaya case, where reporters reconstructed her identity by writing about her high heels, her noodle-strap 9 december 2013

tops, and even her coloured hair.) To say the least, it is horrifying to read all those details. In reporting ‘what’ happened, we are constantly letting on a little more of ‘who’ it happened to. We are constantly identifying her. The identity of any rape victim needs to be protected. There is a reason why rape trials are closed to the media in India. Trauma stories like this one involve the reader because we have an agenda— to condemn the act and ask for justice. Identity and attribution, the other details, the language and style, and the structure of the narrative, also exposes our values. It is not objective journalism. It is not about presenting facts that we are able to access. Here, we want the reader to witness, and to agree with the writer that this should not have happened. We are publicly exposing the personal

suffering of survivors, and we must do it with dignity. It makes me cringe each time I read about her. It is like a slide show that plays in my mind. I don’t want to see her in that state even in my mind. I am a woman too. Would I want others to know how I suffered body invasion? Isn’t it enough to know that I did? Journalism is a tough profession. We are witnesses to trauma stories. We push boundaries in trying to get to a story. But we can’t hold social media as our standard. Trauma reporting is not about getting the scoop. Moonis Ijlal, a journalist who produces The Social Network show on NDTV says, “Social media has no filters, no editorial policy. It is like a street. There is a lot of noise. But when traditional media starts to compete with it, it goes all wrong. It can also affect the trial, and attitudes.” What we hold back is also a story. As writers and editors, we are presented with many choices. It is in these choices that the dignity of news reporting lies. A rape is not just another story. We can go back and forth on whether reporting it contributes to the outcry against the crime. But while writing about it, we must remember one thing—we let the reader into the victim’s life, her suffering, her trauma. If we owe the reader/ viewer details of the story, we also owe the victim the first right to refuse her consent to divulge it. Not so long ago, I met a rape victim who married her perpetrator. It had taken me weeks to find this person. We had gone through court judgments, scanned police files. I met her in court. Before that, I had gone ahead and met her mother. Her family was upset. I told the girl about this. She looked me in the face and said it wasn’t right. I should have asked her. I kept calling her to check if she would speak to me. It was a great story. It was what my editors wanted. She was pregnant. I had the lurid details of what had happened to her. But I wanted to ask her to let me in, and through me, the readers. It was her story after all. She said ‘no’. She said she was tired of answering the media, and she didn’t want to go through it all again. She didn’t trust me. In the ‘why’ lies our answer. Let’s restore dignity to news reporting. Let’s not be voyeurs. n open www.openthemagazine.com 19

S E X u a l a ss au lt

SPEAKING UP IS KEY The accompanying illustration tries to map the emotional response to sexual assault. Responses may cover a wide range of emotional symptoms, even ones not mentioned in this illustration, or ones that may not result directly from the attack. One may experience them immediately after the incident, or later in life. Predicting the exact course of people’s feelings and actions is impossible because everyone is different. The ability to relate to a victim’s suffering and self-doubt lies in your capacity for compassion, and is, therefore, rather more an art than a science divya guha

s gossips and busybodies keep

their snouts pointed at Twitter for updates on the Tehelka scandal, it may be timely and meaningful to bring to common attention the struggle it is for victims to cope with the pressures of speaking up about their trauma. To live through such a situation—whether assault, harassment or rape—takes resilience and pig-headedness, and, sadly, not everyone survives. The personal turmoil in victims’ lives does not make the headlines, so escapes notice. That may be because it is a complex web of feelings and emotions that remains invisible and mysterious even to the most caring bystander. Speaking up is an important stage in a victim’s journey from abusive incident(s) to recovery and recompense, and if they are lucky, closure or acceptance. It is difficult because the pressure one feels—which prevents the confessing—is highly socially determined, and as a victim your sense of self and autonomy are already compromised. But telling your story, when you are ready, is a way to take charge of your life again, and hopefully gain some peace, howev20 open

MERIEL JANE WAISSMAN/GETTY IMAGES

er slight. By extension, speaking up becomes key to rescuing your mental and spiritual health. “Speaking up is pivotal to recovery, but the process before and after could be very traumatic and painful. It is a lonely and difficult path, and often the person ends

up feeling guilt, blame, self-deprecation,” says clinical psychologist Urvashi Pawar. Very few people at workplaces will speak up, fearing that a complaint may hinder professional progress. And it is in this way that sexual harassment at work is worse than street-level harassment. It is a little more sinister because it may have a longer lasting impact on one’s life. This visual representation is meant to aid the understanding of those people, mostly journalists, whose newsgathering instincts are more powerful than their compassion. It is not surprising that an online petition signed by 250 users of social media last week implored journalists and editors to protect the victim’s anonymity. It is dismal how the whole episode has been handled, one leaked email/SMS at a time. It is easy to be nicer, and overcome one’s habitual pseudo-sensitivity. Writing about sexual assault with accuracy, empathy and common sense is just about taking the time and having the forethought to be decent; it is not about looking for the victim’s name and permanent address. n 9 DECember 2013

THE INCIDENT

Disgust, disbelief, shock

There is something wrong with >> my character >> my behaviour

GUILT/ SELF-BLAME ( Phase of feeling helpless ) silence, fear, denial, anger

DEPRESSION ( crying spells, anxiety, insomnia, nightmares, suicidal thoughts )

BARGAINING With the objective to feel better; as “I still haven’t spoken up for help, perhaps a higher power will help me feel better”

RATIONALISATION ( The world is a fair place; I could not have been hurt for no reason, so it must be my fault ) You fail to rationalise the trauma away

YOU SPEAK UP PEOPLE DON’T BELIEVE YOU >> “I feel worse for speaking up”

( misery made worse ) >> People express their anger

Graphic by arindam mukherjee

PEOPLE BELIEVE YOU Your family, spouse, children cope with it in their own ways. They may have emotional reactions such as shock, disgust, self-blame (What could have been done differently?)

>> They believe you precipitated the attack >> You think of a new strategy to survive

m e d i tat i o n

Spiritual Surf’s Up A stay at an unusual ashram that promotes surfing Madhavankutty Pillai

hyam, my surfing instructor, was eight when he

first visited the Sri Narasingha Chaitanya Ashram, located 15 km from Mysore where he resided. His uncle was part of the Ashram and he went to see his cousin brothers. There were eight or nine children there and what struck him most was their sheer happiness. “I had never seen anyone as happy in my life. They all lived like a family. I wanted to be part of that,” he says. His parents naturally didn’t agree. Shyam stubbornly insisted until they gave their consent thinking that he would get bored and be back in a month or so. That was 12 years ago. “My father is still waiting,” he says, “But he’s happy where I am right now. I still go and visit my parents.” Shyam is around 20. Before his spiritual initiation as Shyama Kunda Das, his name was Shamanth Kumar. We are at Mulki, 30 km from Mangalore. In 2001, their guru, who is popularly known as the Surfing Swami, had wanted to establish another ashram in this region. He came scouting with his disciples. They took a shortcut and chanced upon this place where the river winds a bend and meets the sea. The ashram looks like any other home—one storeyed, wide along the front and painted blue. Behind, the river abuts, a jetty with concrete steps leading into it. Besides Shyam, the inmates here are Gaura Nataraj, the eldest among them in his early thirties, Druva, who is 20, and Kirtan, 25. The ashram is unlike any other that I have been to. In the front yard, there is a jet ski parked on a platform. On the opposite side is a volleyball court. In the back verandah, surf boards are stacked against a corner wall. There is a tabletennis board nearby. But this is an ashram. A room houses a temple and all four of them wake up early in the morning to do their meditation and rituals there. The food is strictly vegetar-

sole focus “There is no way you can think of anything else while surfing,” Shyam says 22 open

photos ritesh uttamchandani

converts Shyam instructs first-timers at Mulki, where people of all ages turn up to have a go at the waves

ian without onions and garlic, and all of them lead celibate lives doing good karma so that eventually after many births they can meld into Krishna. They don’t dress the part and are mostly in beach shorts and T-shirts. *** The Surfing Swami is Jack Hebner, or as his spiritual epithet goes, Swami BG Narasingha. He was not there when I visited, staying most of the time at his Mysore Ashram. He was a disciple of Swami Prabhupada, the founder of ISKCON. After his guru’s demise, he left the organisation and went on his own spiritual journey, establishing the Mysore Ashram in 1995. He was also a surfer, the first to bring the sport to India. He taught his young disciples the joys of seawave surfing by taking them to assorted beaches in south India. Shyam started surfing as a boy even before he could swim. All four of them are experts. One part of their duty is to host people for what is called a Surf Retreat. Except for a few websites (Surfingindia.net, Indiasurftour.com among them), they don’t really publicise it. “Mostly only those who are interested in surfing find us,” says Gaura, manager of the Ashram. Guests can take a beginner’s lesson in surfing or do other water sports like kayaking along the river. Advanced surfers can rent boards and go on their own. There are also Yoga lessons on offer. The beach is virgin and usually empty. The Ashram folk periodically clean it because trash thrown into the river goes to the sea, which returns it to the beach. For some reason, one of the things that the sea coughs back are shoes. They retrieve thousands of them during their clean-ups. 24 open

There is a charge for the retreat. Two days with boarding, brunch, dinner, surfing lessons and board rent for two of us cost around Rs 10,000. The money goes towards the maintenance of the Ashram and some part to charity. Guests have to wash their own dishes and do their own laundry. Smoking and drinking is not permitted. And they like to know a little bit about you before confirming your booking. *** A man who has no clue about surfing had better be fit. First, you must reach the sea, for which you have to lug a boat and your surfboards to the river jetty abutting the Ashram. The plan is to cross over to the opposite shore. And then we walk again, carrying the boards, which range from 10 to 5 feet in length. The experts use the smaller ones because they can manoeuvre these better. Beginners get bigger ones because it is easier to balance on them. The bigger they are, the heavier they are. I am told to hold mine over my head, but I find myself out of breath soon. And this, before I even start surfing. It is a short walk and the sea opens up before us, blue, wide, glorious and pulsating to the crash of waves. Shyam puts the board down and begins his basic lesson. He tells me to lie down on my stomach over the board, my feet just touching the edge, and then act like I am paddling. I then have to jump on his shout, and to do that, I have to push my hands against the board like a push-up and land sideways in the middle, my knees bent and spaced, both hands spread straight. It doesn’t seem too difficult, and though I drag my feet a little, I do my practice jumps well. 9 december 2013

We go out to the sea and I get a taste of what is to come when a wave splashes against me, taking both board and body along with it. A leash on my leg is tied to the board to keep it from drifting away. After a few more waves pummel me, Shyam tells me not to fight the wave but just press the board and roll over it. It works and I get a little further in. We would be at waist-level water, and that is enough. Surfing is done close to the shore because that’s where the waves gather the greatest pace. Shyam asks me to get on the board. I climb with my stomach down. He has got his hand to the back of the board and turns it so that I face the beach. The idea is for the right wave to carry the board and then for me to jump on it. I wait in that position, until Shyam tells me to start paddling, and then suddenly I find the board being swept along at an unexpected speed. I hear him shout “jump”, I jump, land on the board on both feet as I should, and then fly off the board to fall face down in the water. “You almost got it,” says Shyam later. “You just have to keep low, but you stood up.” The truth is that I didn’t almost get anything because I had no clue what was happening. The procedure is repeated again. The second time round, I get thrown off even before I jump. The leash line entangles my leg and the board’s fin hits me sharply on my knee. It hurts, and, in a moment of insight, I realise that one of the main things to concentrate on is to protect myself from the board. I struggle up and we go again. This time, as soon as I jump and get up, I fly face down to get slapped by the sea and also swallow some salt water. The next time, I again fall, but put my hands over my head underwater, just in case the board hits my head as I emerge. It does not. I see it floating calmly behind me. As we wait for the next wave, Shyam tells me that everyone he has instructed managed to stand and surf the first day. It’s an unblemished record and I think it’s about to be broken. The next wave comes and I am once again watching myself move. I jump and am not falling down. At least not immediately. I hang on for moments, and then, of course, I embrace the ocean again. I look back and he’s clapping with a happy grin. Apparently, I did surf for a few seconds. Extraordinary success takes the edge off my ambition. The rest of my two or three attempts are failures. I leave the water to take a break. I see others who are surfing make it look easy; Shyam even does a headstand on the board. I return for a few more failed jumps, but I am spent. The next day, Open photographer Ritesh Uttamchandani gets his turn and he is jumping with precision and surfing on his first try as if he was born to it. It occurs to me that it is a little like doing acrobatics on a moving cycle. Some people can master it in a day. I am just not one of them. *** In the early days of the Ashram, there must have been 9 december 2013

around ten surfers in India, all of them members of the Mantra Surf Club, which is what they call their surfing. Now there are 150-200 regular surfers in India. Because of the Ashram, many children in the village have also taken up surfing. “We also have some female surfers from the village,” says Gaura. In 2011, they created a Surfing Federation of India (SFI), an umbrella body for all surfing groups in the country. The International Surfing Association, the world body that governs surfing, recognises the SFI, which also hosts national surfing competitions now. Its brand ambassador is the cricketer Jonty Rhodes, who was also there recently. Initially, most of those who came for the surf retreat were foreigners. Now Indians make up a substantial chunk. Like Brij Maurya, a studio owner from Mumbai, whom we met there. He is an adventure sports enthusiast and does wind surfing in Mumbai. He came to Mulki after doing some board surfing for a couple of days in Goa. He is new to it. After the first day that he went to the sea in Mulki, he was nursing a bump on his head and his body was aching all over. By the second day, he was riding easily and did not need an instructor to spot the waves for him. He was already planning to attempt shorter boards. Not everyone gets it as easily. Druva remembers a girl

“You almost got it,” Shyam said, but I didn’t almost get anything; I had no clue what was happening from Mumbai who was there for nine days and barely managed to stand on the board a few times. “It can take time depending on how fit you are,” he says. Mostly, what you need is balance and upper body strength. If you are good at push-ups, it helps. Druva himself is a good surfer and won the under-20 contest in the SFI’s first national competition. There is really no age bar for surfing ability. They have even taught children though it takes some ingenuity. Since kids don’t listen, they have to be cajoled or tricked with offers of chocolate to follow instructions. Shyam remembers teaching a five-year-old who stood up the first day and by day three was riding the waves with ease. Surfing is a form of meditation because it demands complete concentration. “There is no way you can think of anything else while you are surfing,” says Shyam, “The only thing you can think of is to stand up and ride the wave.” But there is still a clear demarcation between surfing and their spiritual goal of going back to godhead through bhakti. “You do the other activities to sustain the Ashram, but that is never the main priority,” he says. n open www.openthemagazine.com 25

xxxxxar

Mount Everest By Air Flying aboard a notorious carrier along the Himalayas, exulting in its grandeur while hanging on to dear life text and photographs by Lhendup G Bhutia

n a cold November morning, a little after 5

am, I find myself sitting in a damp and dingy room, guarded by men in military fatigues. I am at the domestic terminal of Kathmandu’s Tribhuvan International Airport, set to fly as glorious a flight as there ever could be. Yet, in the pre-dawn darkness of the city, there was nothing to suggest it except perhaps the cold mountain air I was breathing. I was to take off from Kathmandu in a small plane, head east, and fly along and 26 open

over the Himalayas, the pièce de résistance being to come face-to-face with Mount Everest itself. At the airport, hands clamped around a steel glass of tea to keep me warm, apprehension on my face revealed by the terminal’s tubelights, I sit alone on a bench considering what I am doing. Nepal is notorious for plane crashes. Every few years, some flight or the other overshoots the runway or flies into a mountain. Experts suggest that this is largely because of lax safety standards, in9 december 2013

experienced pilots and the area’s harsh weather and mountains. And here I was, ready for airborne intimacy with the world’s greatest mountain range. “Don’t worry,” a devious-looking travel agent had assured me between sips of tea and loud chuckles the previous evening, “I give window seat. Even if you go down, you get good view.” I learnt from him that just a year or so ago, a similar flight taking passengers for a Himalayan view had crashed into a mountain on its way back. “We don’t know,” he said of what happened, “Sometimes flights carry more weight and luggage than allowed. Sometimes, hills just appear.” I had brushed aside the travel agent’s words as an attempt to romanticise what was essentially an hour’s flight with a good view. Yet, as I reached the airport at 5 am as mandated for a 6.30 am flight, my mood began to darken. Maybe it was the malfunctioning screening machine, almost empty airport (nobody takes reporting time seriously here), stench of urine from a nearby toilet and monkeys waiting by windows to be fed by tourists. Whatever it was, I suddenly felt certain that I had booked a first-class ticket to a Himalayan tragedy. I felt something cold and heavy in the inner recesses of my stomach making its way up, leaving my organs a quivering mess, to eventually form a lump in my throat. So when a tea vendor turned up with a kettle to ask if I’d like some, all I could squeak was ‘please’. In some time, passengers start turning up to catch assorted flights. There are Europeans, Americans, South East Asians and some Indian families filling up the small terminal with the sound of different languages. Many of them are headed for Lukla, a high-altitude airport that is considered the world’s most dangerous; with its sloped runway said to be just about 20 metres wide and 460 metres long, the slightest miscalculation could mean tumbling off a cliff. From there, some will try to climb Everest. But while small planes bound for Lukla take off one after another, my flight continues to be delayed. There are around 15 of us waiting for the Himalayan tour, including an American couple, a group of European youngsters who seem German, some Englishmen and a lone Japanese tourist. A display screen above a Ramen advertisement keeps us posted on the flight’s status, listing heavy air traffic as the delay’s cause. Later, an airline

official explains that the weather is not conducive for a mountain flight. It turns out that Kathmandu’s air traffic controllers rely on Lukla’s for reports on weather conditions in the higher reaches. We wait at the terminal, and, through a window, watch a dark mountainous morning break into a glorious dawn. Just as I begin to wonder if the flight is cancelled, a woman hurries towards the boarding gate, shouting, “Aau, aau” ( ‘Come, come’ in Nepali). The flight had got an all-clear and the aircraft was ready. Packed like mules in a groaning ramshackle bus, we are taken from the terminal out onto the tarmac. I see several aircraft, but no Yeti Air plane I am waiting to board, until someone yells, “Look. There, there.” We follow the pointed finger’s direction to see, obscured behind some buses, a small white

I suddenly felt certain that I had booked a first-class ticket to a Himalayan tragedy aircraft with a green belly bearing the ‘Yeti Air’ logo. As the buses leave and I catch a clearer view of the Jetstream 41, that cold and heavy something makes its way up again, twisting and twirling my insides. On some flights in Nepal, seat numbers don’t matter. Passengers just run to the aircraft, elbowing and pushing each other to get their seats of choice. However, here, either because of the lone air-hostess’ matron-like demeanour or the passengers’ docility, we take our allotted seats. I get a window seat to the right of the plane and the airhostess comes down the aisle with a huge cotton ball for passengers. I take a clump of it, roll it into earplugs and fasten my seat belt, and then without warning, with a fit and start, the aircraft accelerates down the runway and takes off. *** From my window, I see Kathmandu level out and become a row of neat lines and formations. Hills appear and disappear in the morning sky, as we go around and over

take-off point Small planes wait for passengers at the domestic terminal of Kathmandu’s Tribhuvan International Airport

them, climbing rapidly. The aircraft rattles as it enters one monstrous cloud after another. If someone were to see us from another aircraft, it may look as if we are being eaten and egested by clouds. At around 21,000 feet in the sky, the air-hostess appears once again from the back rows, this time ordering us to “look to the left” for “Gauri Shankar”. All heads turn to the windows on the left of the aircraft. I take a deep breath, and crane myself to look past the American woman sitting on my left. All I see through the window across the aisle is heavy fog.

I see it: the highest place on earth, dark and shadowy on one side and magnificently lit up on the other “No, no,” says the air-hostess as she grips the American woman’s neck and turns it so hard to the left that I fear it might snap. And there we see it—a tall pointed peak, surrounded by clouds and other mountains but visible closer than ever before. As the plane moves closer, an extended stretch of the mountain range comes into view. Almost brooding over spotless white clouds, the Himalayas appear neither of earth nor heaven. 28 open

We fly over icy mountain peaks as if in touching distance. One by one, we are allowed into the cockpit for better viewing. When my turn comes, I find two young pilots, one of whom is taking a photograph of the range with his cellphone. In conversation with the pilots, I want to ask if they shouldn’t be focusing straight ahead instead. When I ask where Mount Everest is, one of the two points it out. And there, just 10 nautical miles away, I see it: a streaming white peak glowing in the first ray of morning light, the highest place on earth, dark and shadowy on one side and magnificently lit up on the other. The plane swerves. Its left wing dips alarmingly, while the right comes up. I hold on to the cockpit door and realise that the pilot is merely turning around. It is time for the right side of the plane to get a view of the Himalayas. I make my way back to my seat and see a gorgeous sight. Below me is the Himalayan range, some mountains lathered in snow, others dry at their base, and right in front of me, all of the Himalaya’s famous peaks over an army of clouds, lining up as if for an early morning drill inspection: the Makalu, Lhotse, Everest, Gyachungkang, Gauri Shanker and Shisha Pangma. A few minutes later, I hear the Japanese man speak to the air-hostess. He feels cheated that the plane didn’t land in the mountains. But I pay little attention. I have other things on my mind. I sit upright and grip the armrests tightly. For the aircraft is suddenly losing altitude and I have realised that the pilots are aiming for the runway. n 9 december 2013

m i l e sto n e

Down the Raging River The first ever descent down the mighty Brahmaputra on a raft Akshay Kumar

come from a family of mountaineers. My father, Colonel Narendra Kumar, led numerous expeditions to scale mountains like Everest, Kanchenjunga, Nanda Devi and the Siachen Glacier. He also served as the principal of High Altitude Warfare School in Kashmir, and unlike most kids who just about learn to kick a ball at the age of three, I was skiing down the slopes of Gulmarg with my instructor scurrying behind to ensure the Colonel’s son didn’t break a leg. In 1985, the biggest tragedy to hit Indian mountaineering changed the course of my life. My uncle Major KI Kumar slipped off a ridge close to the south summit of Mount Everest and fell 2,000 feet to his death. His team members carried on in their attempt to scale the peak. Four of them died after they were snowed in for days at Camp IV. Suddenly, mountaineering didn’t fascinate me any longer, and I decided to stick to the safety of whitewater adventure. Or so I thought. It didn’t take me long to realise that whitewater rafting was no less dangerous. It has its own excitement, however, and pursuing it was a decision I have never regretted. At 15, I was part of an exchange programme that trained the first batch of Indian youngsters for rafting in the US and Canada. When I returned in 1985, there were just about five trained river guides in India. The turbulent Chenab in the Kishtwar area of Jammu was my first river in India—no one had ever attempted it before. We had to abandon the expedition on account of a couple of accidents, but I knew that adventure travel was my calling. While other 17-year-old school friends struggled with career options, mine was written in the sands of time. In 1986, I set up India’s second rafting operation. In the late 80s, while rafting was still just catching on as a sport in India, there was this crazy race for first descents of virgin rivers. Nothing was impossible and everything was attempted, from the Brahmaputra and Teesta in the Northeast, the Chenab and Satluj in the north, and the Narmada in central India. Whitewater junkies—as we like to call ourselves—tried to map any moving waterbody available. I was in the right place at the right time. 30 open

The good old days saw numerous Army expeditions on the Alaknanda. At first, we were happy to just raft down from Srinagar (the one in Garhwal) to Rishikesh. When this got boring, we moved upstream to Rudraprayag and Karanprayag. The next few Army expeditions got quite interesting. We did superfast descents, non-stop descents, swimming descents and catamaran descents, anything to set a new record and beat the last expedition. There wasn’t a river that we didn’t attempt. Our rubber boats and paddles just couldn’t wait to crash headlong into the next virgin river in India. *** It was the Brahmaputra that gave me my most memorable opportunity. In 1990, the Indo Tibetan Border Police asked me to train and lead the first ever white water descent of this mighty river. This is a river that travels more than 2,000 km before entering India. And it enters the country in the most dramatic way ever—by cutting itself a mighty gorge through the Himalayas and dropping into India near Bona in Arunachal Pradesh. A rare trans-border river, it flows through Tibet, India and Bangladesh. It is known as the Tsang Po in Tibet, the Siang after it enters Arunachal and finally the Brahmaputra in Assam before merging with the Gangetic delta and opening into the Bay of Bengal. No one had ever attempted this river before. This was to be the first and the longest descent down the entire section of the Brahmaputra from the Indo-Tibet border at Bona all the way down to Dhubri at the Indo-Bangladesh border, covering a total distance of more than 1,000 km. It is a record that is yet to be equalled. Apart from me, the team had members of the Indo Tibetan Border Police, of the Japanese Alpine Club, and my friend Ajay Maira, a fellow whitewater junkie. We knew what we were up against and prepared for the worst. We trained for a month on the Ganga, swimming down its entire whitewater section. Aware of the steep gorges we would encounter, we trained in rock climbing, rappelling and rescue techniques. On 2 January 1990, the Indian Air Force airlifted us, 9 december 2013

thrill seekers Our boats and paddles couldn’t wait to crash headlong into the next river

with two rafts, all the way to Dibrugarh in Assam and then IAF choppers flew us to the starting point at Bona. As I looked down, my breath stopped for a few seconds—the silver white river, 10,000 feet below us, wound its way through forests and gorges that looked gloriously impenetrable. When we landed in Bona, the entire village had turned up to meet us, dressed in their finery, singing and dancing for us. Arunachal Pradesh had, till then, been a restricted area for foreigners, and the local villagers had walked days just to see what the Japanese looked like. They were a little disappointed to find that they didn’t look all that different from them. They decided then that Ajay and I were the foreigners in their midst! *** Ten days and 300 kilometres breezed past in a rush of adrenaline, fear, awe and excitement. We did lengthy scouts of all the rapids, prepared our line-ups, set up rescues, ran some of the most thrilling whitewater in the world, flipped our rafts and swam some of the rapids. We also realised at places that our rafts would need to be carried around the big Grade 5+ rapids. There was no shame in accepting that nature is supreme, and as a sign of respect, we were ready to portage a couple of rapids and walk out in one piece. The Brahmaputra taught me an important life lesson—fear was a good thing. It taught you to be careful, to be imaginative, to look at the future and weigh all possibilities. It wasn’t just the river that enthralled us. The local tribal villages we stayed in along the way were an experience by themselves. We encountered not only witchcraft, poison-tipped arrows and forest hunts, but also a passion for singing and dancing and hearts of gold that welcomed us with open arms wherever we went. Usually, for an expedition like this, we set up camp by the riverside. But here, we were not allowed to do that; entire villages were evacuated to accommodate us. We were fascinated by the ingenuity of Tribals, whose simplicity of life touched us. The expedition did not end once the water lost its whiteness. At Pasighat, we got into larger motorised boats and carried on for another two weeks down the calmer sections of the Brahmaputra. We floated though the ever-widening river, more than eight kilometres across at some points. As we made our way down to Dhubri on the Bangladesh border, we floated past Guwahati, Kaziranga and Tezpur. We camped on huge deserted islands and raced with fresh water dolphins, which had followed us for more than 100 kilometres. This was an epic journey, and as we came towards the 9 december 2013

CRAIG F. WALKER/GETTY IMAGES

end, we realised that we had made history. No one could deny us the record we’d created, but in the larger scheme of things, that part mattered little. Running the Brahmputra rapids isn’t just about the river alone, it is also about the people you encounter and friendships you build. I have returned three times since then. The call of the river is irresistible and I hope to go back again. The Brahmaputra and Zanskar are two of my favourite rivers, and I have led first descents down many more challenging rivers like the Teesta, Suru, Lidder and Narmada. Virgin descents are now getting harder to find, but I consider these rivers my tutors. They taught me what no school could: the true meaning of purpose, perseverance, power and defeat. n Akshay Kumar is president, Adventure Travel Association of India, and CEO, Mercury Himalayan Explorations open www.openthemagazine.com 31

selvin/getty images

HEAD RUSH Arguably the best way to get it is to get up there

THER M A L

no sensation to compare with this The sublime thrill of paragliding in Bir-Billing anjali doshi

t was the start of a whirlwind romance like no

other. I felt it all—the butterflies of anticipation, the headiness of new discoveries, and the excitement of being, quite literally, swept off my feet. One Tuesday afternoon, during a year-long sabbatical punctuated by many moments of self-doubt and the fear of what lay ahead, I signed up on a whim for a paragliding course. An adventure-sport enthusiast from the time I experienced the thrill of whitewater rafting in Nepal at the age of 10, I have been on a mission of sorts ever since. Deepsea diving, bungee jumping, skydiving, snorkelling and jet skiing have all been checked off the list. Heck, this tryst with adrenaline-pumping feats—‘complete madness’ as some family members prefer to call it—has even included jumping off the tallest building in Auckland, suspended by a cable around my waist. But nothing prepared me for the experience of my first solo paragliding flight from the training hills of Kamshet, around 50 km south of Pune. After a couple of days of ground handling and hops—where you practise taking off for just a few seconds—I was cleared to fly from a height of about 350 feet. The sun was resting on a temple-shaped mountain in the distance, daylight bouncing off the Pavana lake below, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves of the lone tree on the take-off hill, and a rainbow of wings gliding in a cloudless sky. It was a perfect summer day. I took it all in while I spread my wing and ran a quick safety check. Heart pounding as I sprinted to the edge of the hill, moments later I was surveying the skyline, the lake and the zigzag pattern of trees below with a complete sense of freedom and empowerment. The flight ended in two minutes. But the adventure of flying on my own—with instruction, of course—had me hooked. I went back the next weekend, and the one after, and then again till I became a certified paragliding pilot.

9 december 2013

Paragliding courses in India offer you the chance to pursue training in stages—P1, P2, certification and so on—or embark on a comprehensive 10-day course that takes you from a complete novice to a certified pilot in one go. While a tandem flight is exciting and gives you a taste of what it feels like to be up in the air, it doesn’t quite compare to flying independently—the crucial difference between being co-passenger and taking charge. As I surrendered to this process of learning a new sport, I discovered so much about myself. Being ambitious, competitive, self-critical and goal-driven throughout my working life meant I subconsciously adopted a similar approach to paragliding—only to realise that the more you try to control this process, the more you stumble.

Soaring or cross-country flying is all about learning to select the sources of rising air currents There is no room here for harsh judgements and comparing yourself with others; this is not a race, not even with yourself. While the first level teaches you basic manoeuvres for take off, landing and controlling your glider in the air, level two is where you learn how to soar. A glider in flight is constantly descending. To achieve an extended flight, the pilot has to find air currents that rise faster than the sink rate of the glider. Learning to select the sources of rising air currents is a skill that has to be mastered if you want to be in the air for a long time (known as soaring) or fly long distances—cross-country flying. My first soaring flight is a memory that will stay with me forever. I took off from the training hill in Kamshet open www.openthemagazine.com 33

and carefully followed my instructions over the radio. Our plan that day was to attempt ridge soaring—using the wind around a ridge or cliff to gain height—as I was yet to learn the intricacies of thermalling, where your understanding of land features means you pick out pockets of air that help you achieve altitude. I flew 72 minutes that day, drawing figures of eight with my glider over the ridge. The light changed from bright white to warm yellow as the sun slowly dipped in the sky and inched closer to the rim of the lake. I could see my shadow fly as the trees became bright green dots on reddish earth. The birds kept me company discreetly, the wind whispered gently and my engineless wing floated around silently. I had never known such an extended period of being thought-free yet mindful—the sacred silence of what meditation masters call ‘being in the zone’ and what Pink Floyd describes in Learning to Fly as ‘suspended animation, a state of bliss’. There really is no sensation to compare with this. *** A few months later, I travelled to the twin towns of Bir and Billing in Himachal Pradesh (a four-hour drive from Dharamshala). And I was surprised by how little we seem to know about our own country. Bir-Billing features among the list of the world’s top ten paragliding destinations alongside Pokhara (Nepal), Lake Como (Italy) and Interlaken (Switzerland) and attracts paragliding pilots

Perhaps paragliding was my attempt at letting go of the idea that I must always have a plan from all over the world during season (usually September-November). And yet, few people in India have heard of these tiny dots on the Himachal map. While Kamshet—with four-five paragliding schools—is the best place in India to learn the sport, BirBilling is the place to be if you are an advanced pilot; the landscape here is ideal for cross country flying. On a good day, it is possible to fly from Bir-Billing to Dharamshala—81 km away—and return, as you hop from ridge to ridge in the mighty and beauteous Dhauladhar range at a height of 11,500 feet. Experienced pilots bring their own gliders to BirBilling and fly solo, but beginners can take tandem flights, in which a skilled instructor takes you up in a two-seated glider. This allows the beginner to have the experience with minimal risk. It is important to remember that paragliding is not without its dangers, especially if you’re flying independently. 34 open

When I visited Bir-Billing, I was still a novice and not skilled enough to set off on a cross-country excursion. But I had the chance to fly top to bottom. From the training hill of Kamshet at 350 feet to the take-off point in Billing at 8,500 feet, it was a mighty leap. I was nervous yet excited. My flight lasted about 35 minutes. With plenty of guidance from my instructors, I managed to locate thermals; it was like being in an elevator in the sky as I ascended rapidly through columns of air. As the thermal climbs, bigger soaring birds—like the Himalayan golden eagle—indicate the thermal; you simply follow them. It makes for a gorgeous sight—this assembly of brightly coloured gliders all circling a thermal in search of lift. Wild horses, pagodas, tea gardens, snow-capped peaks—my eyes surveyed the landscape and my heart responded with a feeling of overwhelming gratitude. Floating over the Himalayas is a memorable way to experience the beauty of the most awe-inspiring mountain range in the world. But my memories of that day are not as much about the view but how it made me feel: alive, awakened, peaceful, content, happy and thankful. Full of life. And on top of the world. I was here in early October, two weeks before the annual Paragliding International Championship and Himalayan National Paragliding Championship, and I met pilots from as far as England, the Netherlands, Italy, Russia, Japan and Morocco. Flying is different things to different people. For some, it has been a life-changing experience that rescued them from the depths of depression; for others, who consider themselves ‘earth-bound misfits’, it’s a feeling of peace they can never find on land; for yet others, it’s about bonding with friends and discovering new places. For me, it is about finding freedom. Paragliding gave me the opportunity to meet many people and make new friends; to reflect on life and take full responsibility for my actions; to share the deeply spiritual experience of flying with my fellow pilots; and to rediscover my love for the great outdoors. Perhaps, paragliding was my attempt at embracing the fear of the unknown. And letting go of the idea that I must always have a plan. Whatever it was, it felt like coming home. Leonardo da Vinci wrote, ‘Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.’ Many experienced pilots talk about this sense of restlessness they feel when not flying. “I am often caught smiling to myself like a teenager thinking of his first love,” says Vistasp Kharas, a friend and fellow pilot, who makes the two-hour trip from Mumbai to Kamshet every weekend. “And love it is, to soar a few kilometres above the earth knowing that I have the power to harness the least understood of elements and fly with the birds.” n 9 december 2013

chill

40 days text & photographs ashish sharma

he changing play of the seasons enhances

the already indisputable beauty of Kashmir Valley. The 40 day period called Chilai Kalan, beginning next month, is considered the harshest phase of winter. With its onset, the valley is blanketed in snow and mercury plummets below freezing. Locals can be spotted wearing pheransâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;traditional long cloaks covering the whole body, which have survived modern attire. Beneath the pheran, locals use a kangri, an earthen pot held in a wicker frame, filled with hot embers, to keep the chill at bay. Come winter, the food habits of Kashmiris also undergo a change: locals stockpile dried vegetables, dried fish, and pulses to prepare for any food shortages that may result from a weather-related closure of

the Jammu-Srinagar highway, their only road link with the rest of the country. A cup of kehwa, a traditional tea served after lavish wazwan meals consisting of dozens of dishes, is a must in winters. To prepare it, green tea leaves are boiled with saffron strands, cinnamon bark and cardamom pods. With the fall in temperature, harissa becomes the preferred breakfast. A mouthwatering hot paste made of lamb shanks and rice cooked in elaichi, garlic and fennel, harissa is relished with morning tea across Srinagar, as it is said to keep the body warm. Winter also brings a rush of winged visitors to Kashmir every year. According to local officials, around 700,000 migratory birds have already reached the Valleyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wetlands. n

an icy idyll Migratory coots on the Dal lake one early morning; (inset) the ground grown over with frost

before the freeze (Clockwise from above) A vendor sells dried fish, a lifeline for the Valley in winter, when it may be cut off from the rest of the country for weeks; a woman enjoys a cup of kehwa; Bashir Ahmed, 60, prepares and serves harissa at his shop in the Ali Kadal area of Srinagar; Ali Mohammad weaves wicker kangdi holders at his workshop in Trajbal village; children play cricket on a carpet of chinar leaves at Nishat Gardens on the outskirts of Srinagarâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;these dry fallen leaves are collected by locals in autumn and burnt as fuel in winter

escape

the ground beneath YOUR FEET If itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the perfect season for an off-land adventure, this array of on-land options is no less dizzying. Take your pick

Jean-Baptiste Rabouan/india picture

gunjeet sra

Rann of Kutch

The largest salt marsh in the world is a geographical wonder, turning marshy during the monsoon and then back to original white for the winter. A visit can be tricky because there are no hotels or civil amenities near places of interest. Hire a local guide to take you around by taxi. Travel to Ekal ka Rann, 80 km from Bhuj, to get a glimpse of the white desert. You could spend the night at a temple complex. Wake up early in the morning to watch a stupendous sunrise over an unforgettable horizon. In the winter, it is a rare place that you can actually spot pink flamingoesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;though it may take a bit of a wait. Make your way back to spend a night at Chobari Village, interact with the locals, and acquaint yourself with the work of local artisans before you get back to your usual city life.

claude renault/gettyimages

india picture

Araku Valley

In the middle of the Eastern Ghats of Andhra Pradesh, Araku Valley is a biodiversity hotspot. The valley, which is inhabited by various tribes, is famous for its lush gardens, waterfalls and streams. It is a splendid family destination. If you love flaura and fauna, you will enjoy a visit to mulberry silk farms and the botanical gardens. Trek up the hills to see the ancient limestone Borra Caves. A variety of scenic spots offers ample space for family activities to make this a relaxed holiday. While there is a tribal museum in the area, you may prefer to spend time in the company of local Tribals on your own. As many as 19 tribes live in the region, and their dhimsa dance is popular with tourists. Their silverwork too.

Coorg

Known for coffee plantations, this dreamy place is not a town but a district known as Kodagu. Full of teak forests, lush green valleys and majestic mountains, Coorg makes for an idyllic vacation spot. You could go trekking, angling or golfing. The big attractions of the area are the Abbey Falls and Honamaney Kere, a temple dedicated to 42 open

Hanuman, but the charm of Coorg lies in its natural beauty, the thin mist that envelops the place, the rosewood and bamboo trees that tower over you while little waterfalls and brooks gush by. You have your senses suffused by fragrant lemon grass, coffee, cardamom, nutmeg and orange. Trek through acres and acres of organic farms, visit the Talacuvery-Brahmagiri peak, go from Kakkabe to Malma and Thadiyendanmol to catch some surreal

sights. Or just sit back in a luxury resort and unwind.

Puducherry

Once upon a time, it was a French colony. If you travel through the old town, you will be struck by its Rues and Boulevards that are lined with bakeries, and it is for this alone that you should visit this charming place. Stay in the old town and take the heritage walk or rent a bike if you will. Start the walk at the 9 december 2013

nature or heritage (Top) Araku Valley is a bio-diversity hotspot; while Puducherry boasts a French connection

north end of Goubert Avenue, the seafront promenade, and head south past the French consulate and Gandhi statue. Turn right at the town hall on Rue Mahe Labourdonnais and stroll through Dumas, Romain Rolland and Suffren streets. Check out the Puducherry Museum for French era furniture juxtaposed with Pallava and Chola sculptures, old coins, French artefacts and pottery excavated from Arikamedu, an ancient seaport a few kilometres south of Pondicherry that saw trade ships set sail for the Roman Empire back in the 1st century BC. Go on a catamaran fishing trip, spend your evenings at Rocky Beach or just cycle along the sandy beaches that dot the coastline. Take part in the cultural activities hosted by Auroville, the Aurobindo Ashram. Although Puducherry is losing its French feel, it retains every reason for you to drop by.

Jaisalmer

‘The Golden City’ of Jaisalmer is an exotic desert fortress. Located on the outer reaches of the Thar Desert, it offers a 12th century fort experience like none other, with its inner bazaars, havelis and hotels throbbing with life that seems straight out of olden times. Local arts and crafts are a hot draw for tourists, and it’s advisable to haggle until you get your bargain. Jaisalmer also has its Desert National Park that offers sightings of blackbucks, desert foxes and chinkaras amid the landscape’s rolling dunes and crags. Hire an autorickshaw or car to get around, and spend an evening watching the sun go down into the desert at Sunset Point. Sit by the lake and take in the sheer magnificence of the place. A camel safari is a must-do—and you could go on an overnight one as well, with a desert camp to stay in.

Dudhwa National Park

This one is strictly for nature lovers. The park, which opens to tourists mid-winter, covers 490 sq km of land and has a buffer zone of 190 sq km as part of a reserve forest. Close to the Indo-Nepal border, it is one of the few remaining examples of a highly productive Terai ecosystem. Home to some of India’s most endangered species, it has grasslands, marshes and rosewood forests. Rhino and tiger sightings are frequent, and the park is also home to leopards, alligators, fresh water dolphins and over 350 species of birds, apart from a variety of deer—including the extremely rare barking deer. Around half the world’s swamp deer are found in this region and are easily spotted. Take an elephant safari and check into a guest house in the middle of a forest. Visit Nepal for a day if you like to shop, and see the 19th century

muriel de seze/getty images bloomberg/getty images

Surat Bhawan Palace on your way back. Spend some time visiting villages of the local Tharu tribe for a brush with a lifestyle unchanged for centuries.

Agatti, Lakshadweep

Want to be marooned on an island in complete comfort? Try Agatti, the only Lakshadweep island open to tourists. There are only two hotels on the island, so advance booking is necessary. Of the two, Agatti Island Beach Resort boasts of a good beach and lagoon that is relatively shallow and makes for a perfect swim. After you’re done with 44 open

marvelling at Agatti’s pristine beaches, you can spend your days bicycling along the road that runs through the island and discovering picturesque spots for a picnic. Go scuba diving, snorkelling, kayaking, sailing, glass bottom boat rides, water skiing, deep-sea fishing and sea excursions to closeby uninhabited islands like Thinnakara, Parali and Kalpitty. Lakshadweep’s coral reefs are something you should not miss for a completely unforgettable vacation.

Orchha, Madhya Pradesh Orchha is ideal for those who want to

get away from the commercial trap of tourism in India. A sleepy small town, it is surrounded by 16th and 17th century palaces and temples on the banks of the Betwa river and offers a peek into the lost age of maharajas without the grandeur of Rajasthan. It allows you time and space to breathe history and revel in some nostalgia of a time long lost. Visit the exquisite Jehangir Mahal for a grand view of soaring temple spires and cenotaphs. Look at the Bundela paintings and relish the vibrant murals of this age-old town. Take a walk to the The Oonth Khana (‘camel shelter’), where the king’s camels were once housed, and climb onto its roof for an amazing view of history. The ruins behind the fort complex are a must-see. It is easy to find places to stay in the area, the food is delectable, and the bazaars offer a superb shopping experience, since the region is well known for its textiles and weaves.

Copenhagen, Denmark

It’s hard to beat the home of Hans Christian Andersen if you want to experience a fairytale European winter. This old town is big enough to be an exciting metropolis but has a cosy feel to it that makes it safe and easy to get around. It also happens to be the happiest country in the world, according to UN’s 2013 ‘World Happiness 9 december 2013

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happiness purpose (Cockwise from above) For a gothic adventure, try Transylvania; or you might like to try your luck at Asia’s gambling capital, Macau; or experience a fairytale winter in Denmark, the UN’s happiest country in the world

Report. Unlike the hustle-bustle of most commercial cities, the Danish capital offers an entirely relaxed experience. Bicycles are a preferred mode of transport, and the morning air on the streets is filled with the scent of freshly baked bread. Visit the Tivoli amusement park around Christmas. For a great walk, start at Kongens Nytorv and Nyhavn and head up the pedestrian street of Strøget in the direction of Rådhuspladsen. There are cultural spots aplenty along the way. Also drop by Christianshavn for its café-lined canals, Christiania for a hippie detour and Vesterbro for a mixture of ethnic shops and trendy pop culture. No Copenhagen trip is complete without a trip to Hamlet’s castle in Helsingør and the Viking Ship Museum in Roskilde.

Macau, china

It might be Asia’s gambling capital, but there is much more to this small Portuguese colonial-era town than casinos and nightlife. Macau is a place of stark contrasts. While one side of town offers an outlandish display of wealth with its Las Vegas air and fake 9 december 2013

beaches and canals that offer gondola rides at the Venetian, the other side is steeped in history with its small pagoda style houses and architecture. The latter is where most of its charm lies. Walk through the old city for a glimpse of Chinese life as you’ve never seen before. Almost an hour away from Hong Kong by ferry, it makes for a perfect getaway at this time of year.

Transylvania, Romania

Frankly, you can’t visit Dracula’s lair on a sunny day, can you? Try a day with grey skies over a snowladen landscape. Transylvania in winter is perfect for a gothic adventure. Bran Castle, close to the city of Brasov, is advertised as ‘Dracula’s Castle’, though Vlad the Impaler, the man behind the myth, stayed here only a few nights. The Saxon fortress town of Sighisoara is an essential stop on any tour, especially for a hearty vampire experience. Other medieval castles, elegant palaces, Saxon fortress-churches and crumbling ruins in the region add to the appeal. Visit the magnificent Corvin Castle at Hunedoara or Prahova Valley, known

both for its wine and skiing. There are also natural parks to check out. The Retezat National Park has over 300 species of flora and 50 mammal species including brown bears, wolves, lynx, foxes, deer and chamois. For a glimpse of the old world, head for villages such as Biertan and Viscri.

Rio De Janeiro, brazil

Even the most seasoned traveller will find Rio exciting for its golden sandy beaches, lush mountains, eclectic nightlife and, of course, football. The city, which is also called Cidade Maravilhosa (‘The marvelous city’), bustles all through the year, but is enjoyably relaxed in summer—as it is now in the southern hemisphere. December is a month of revelry, which often spills over to the first week of January. The city hosts its famous carnival, one of the most eclectic celebrations in the world—with street parades, balls at night and a spectacular Samba School Competition. Don’t miss the parties and firework displays on popular beaches such as Copacabana and Ipanema. n open www.openthemagazine.com 45

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life & Letters

mindspace

shooting star Ranveer Singh breaks out in style 54

Meerut’s Own Malala

O p e n s pa c e

Farhan Akhtar Kamal Haasan

n p lu

Gori Tere Pyaar Mein Singh Saab the Great

61 Cinema reviews

Google Nexus 5 Linde Werdelin Oktopus Moon Tattoo Sony GTK-N1BT

Tech & style

How Modern Is Cancer? Obesity and Our Sense of Taste The Lasting Impact of CO2

Science

‘Difficult Loves’

a rt s

Ranveer Singh, the Outsider

cinema

The Bookaroo Festival of Children’s Literature

books

My City for a Poem

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life & letters

My City For a Poet Shrikant Verma’s Magadh is brought to new life in Rahul Soni’s translucent translation. Reading it in modern-day ‘Magadh’ is a revelation Sumana Roy

aving lived in a small town for most of my life, one of my sad grudges has been its inability to inspire any literature around its name. Siliguri was just Siliguri, nothing more; the geo-political nickname, ‘Chicken’s Neck’, didn’t help either. Reading Shrikant Verma’s Magadh in Rahul Soni’s brilliant translation, I was reminded of that disappointment again. For though they may be collected under the title ‘Magadh’, Verma’s collection of poems is about Hastinapur and Kashi and Nalanda and Takshashila and Mathura and Pataliputra and Kannauj and Ujjaini and Amravati— and Magadh. In this, it answers once and for all the question: what is a city? No, do not call it a city if it cannot birth a poem. For what is Paris without its Baudelaire, Calcutta without its Sunil Ganguly, London without its Eliot? And so it is with Shrikant Verma’s Dilli—New Delhi, by any other name would be just as Magadh. Sometimes riddle, sometimes aphorism, sometimes confusion, sometimes clarity—written from the place where language laboratory meets roadside dhaba colloquial, Verma’s poems are a sort of sequel to Chanakya’s Arthashastra, and were all written between 1979 and 1984, arguably one of the most turbulent periods in the history of post-Independence India. The city is the state, as it was in the time of Socrates, the political philosopher to whom Magadh implicitly nods. What we call the Emergency, those tortuous months between 1975 and 1977 whose events colour our reading, is here the emergency of the Delhi citystate, its effects largely concentrated within its people. Delhi is India, and by

9 december 2013

extension, the world—a world. Could anyone read these lines and not be reminded of Operation Blue Star, Indira Gandhi’s assassination and the violence unleashed on Sikhs? ‘The people of Magadh are sorting the bones of the dead Which ones are Ashoka’s? And Chandragupta’s? No, no, these can’t be Bimbisara’s they are Ajatashatru’s, the people of Magadh say shedding tears It’s natural those who have seen a man alive only they can see him dead those who haven’t seen him alive how can they see him dead? Just yesterday the people of Magadh saw Ashoka going to Kalinga returning from Kalinga Chandragupta riding his horse to Takshashila Bimbisara in tears Ajatashatru flexing his muscles The people of Magadh had seen and they can’t forget that they had seen those who can no longer

be found’ (‘The People of Magadh’, 1984) Everywhere there are dead bodies, as if it was a poet’s vocation to be a writer of obituaries: ‘Have you seen Kashi? Where corpses come and corpses go by the same road. And what of corpses? Corpses will come, corpses will go – ask then, Whose corpse is this? Rohitashva’s? No, no, All corpses can’t be Rohitashva’ (‘Corpses in Kashi’, 1984) Reading Magadh, one is reminded of Cavafy’s words from The City—‘You’ll find no new places, you won’t find other shores / The city will follow you’— because there really is no escape from ‘the city’. You are a citizen no matter where you live, for you live your life by a city’s ‘customs’: ‘I say again without dharma, there can be nothing – but no one listens to me. It isn’t the custom to listen in Hastinapur– those who hear are either deaf or have been appointed to turn a deaf ear’ (‘The Customs of Hastinapur’, 1984) open www.openthemagazine.com 49

You are a citizen because you elect people who ‘are either deaf/or have been appointed/to turn a deaf ear’. You are a citizen because your ancestors were, since the time of the Mahabharata, since the existence of Hastinapur. There is no other way. Is it not of our legislators that you are reminded when you read these words, when you repeat to yourself the line, ‘It isn’t the custom to listen in Hastinapur’? In his foreword to the collection, Ashok Vajpeyi aptly calls it the ‘poetic of witness and complicity’. The last adjective he uses is ‘bipolar’—‘bipolar power’. It is of this bipolarity that I was continually reminded when certain line structures came my way: ‘All travellers going to Ujjaini: this road does not go to Ujjaini and this same road goes to Ujjaini Till yesterday I’d show the way saying Attention! This road goes to Ujjaini I show the way today as well saying Attention! This road does not go to Ujjaini’ (‘The Road to Ujjaini’, 1984) For humour, one might read this as the uncertain vacillation of political discourse in South Asian societies— where coalitions and rivalries change overnight, where today’s communism is tomorrow’s capitalism—but Verma’s words surely imply more than that. It is socio-political philosophy made available in the rhythm of aphorisms yes, and also the unpredictable life of a traveller in city spaces—Verma’s world is a city, not a ‘global village’—where ‘one-way only’ routes change from time to time, literally and metaphorically. It is in passages like these that Verma’s words take on the character of everyday philosophy. In writing about politics and rajneeti and the continual interface between them in post-Independence India, why did Verma choose the city—an ancient city, a mythical city, a historical city— as his central metaphor? Each page offers a new answer to that question. What I take away from Verma is instinct, raw and rare in a poet; a poet’s instinct mixed with a sociologist’s cunning. For Magadh, the collection, is also 50 open

an archive of madness, the madness of a community that goes by the name ‘politicians’; a madness that originates in narcissism and descends into zindabad and taali. Magadh is a folktale about the cities in Parliament: ‘Voices in Magadh say no rulers remain in Magadh Those that were there thanks to liquor, stupidity and laziness are no longer worthy of being called Magadh’s rulers’ (‘The Third Way’, 1984)

Verma displays both

the poet's instinct and the sociologist's cunning. For Magadh is also

an archive of madness, the madness of a community that goes by the name ‘politicians’; a madness that originates

in narcissism and descends into zindabaad and taali Varma creates new sabhas, new houses in a parliamentary democracy, eventually setting up the bigger question: how does the State actualise our self, the self of a poet and the self of a reader of poetry? Reading this in the ‘new’ India, one is tempted to become a tailor, to alter the words to suit the current state and situation. Is there a force of insurgency in Verma’s Magadh? Who is the insurgent in Magadh? Where is the media in Verma’s Magadh? Where is the peas-

ant? The terrorist? The suicide bomber? The colonised? The poet of Magadh is both slave and owner of Dilli because ‘Kosal is a republic only in the imagination’ and ‘The rajasuya is complete/you have become emperor’. I rarely encounter the name ‘Magadh’ in English India. It creates an immediate shift in register, like entering your father’s ancestral house after emerging from an air-conditioned car. The last two times I encountered the name in English India were in a poem by Karthika Nair and an epigraph in Amitava Kumar’s book on Patna, A Matter of Rats. Rahul Soni’s translation, sharp as freshly-cut paper, reserved in temper like old leaves, does the seemingly impossible: it carries two things intact— a sense of the original Hindi idiom and the claustrophobic political culture of the times. One need only look at the different drafts many of these poems went through that have appeared in literary journals over the last few years, each version bringing in something new—a word changed, a new one added, a line altered. You spot it early in the book, the translator’s love, adding translucence to the text. A word about the book’s bilinguality: On the left page is Verma in Hindi, on the right Soni. It is a novel—and commendable—venture in a country that has an official three-tier language policy and a Sahitya Akademi that purportedly works between literatures in Indian languages, but where publishing is depressingly monolingual. I have heard a few readers complain in a whisper about its lack of an introductory note (or perhaps annotations) about the circumstances—poetical and political—that led to Verma’s writing. While that desire may be justified, it is also true that the lack of ‘background knowledge’ gives the poems an aphoristic quality. When I close my copy of the book, I wonder why there are no trees in Magadh; I see only statues in today’s Magadh and I wonder whether Magadh might have been banned by the new eye of censorship that operates today. ‘The crowd is saying in one voice– We Are happy! Maharaj, tell them the way they tell you– “My people! Stay happy”.’ n 9 december 2013

Books Among the Smallest Storytellers Notes from a weekend spent at the Bookaroo Festival of Children’s Literature—a buoyant breeding ground for young readers neha naqvi

he Bookeroo Festival of Children’s Literature is an unstoppable, joy-inducing labour of love. It leapt out of the collective hearts and minds of M Venkatesh, Swati Roy and Jo Williams in 2008, and became a living, breathing, beautiful thing in a mere matter of months. It has toggled between Srinagar and New Delhi since, and will announce its presence in Pune next. Charming over 15,000 children silly every year, Bookeroo brings together writers, dreamers, storytellers, illustrators and poets from around the world to celebrate children and their love of literature. It is a carnival of co-

lourful workshops, craft making, performance art, storytelling and skillbuilding where authors, publishers and artists engage with a sea of brighteyed, bushy-tailed young people. The message is straightforward: the world is your oyster and imagination will set you free. Over the 23-24 November weekend, Bookeroo fills the Indira Gandhi National Centre for the Arts with its magic. With sessions running in English, Hindi and Tamil, the effort this year is to widen the canvas and be as inclusive as possible. Set outdoors, the festival rolls over the greens and spills into gleaming

white tents. It gathers under kahaani trees and slips into beautifully decorated mounds of mud. The open-air theatre and soundstage are already crackling with activity. Snatches of conversation fly at me as I scramble past the registration booth: “No it’s a chameleon.” “But why isn’t it a frog?” “Because it’s a chameleon.” “Oh.” “Sir, would you like a map? Or a sip of water?” “We are collecting pre-loved books the art class i never had Children at the festival’s ‘Doodle Wall’

sanjeev verma/hindustan times/getty images

to make them available for people who don’t have as many books.” “Mumma? Mumma! Jaldi chalo jaldi chalo jaldi chalo jaldi chalo…” “Juzt jelly?” As I skip past some of the tents, I spot Eureka! Books, the Bookeroo Trust’s festival partners. The beloved bookstore has a tent all to itself, carrying specialty, independent children’s literature. It is busy. Stacks of books with tiny feet beneath them traipse out with a spring in their step. I decide to pop by later and catch a performance or two in the meanwhile. Swarms of beaming student-volunteers are on hand to whisk folks away to events that catch their fancy. I am practically flown to the nearest singa-long where I meet Jeeva Raghunath who is here to entertain the six-yearolds present. (The 35-year-olds accompanying them are far from immune to her foot tapping tunes, rooster impersonations and feisty stage presence.) Jeeva is passionate about telling sto52 open

outlet Inspired by Ulf’s talk, I made my own effort to retain the parts of me that make me whole

ries and wants aspiring artists to know that “there is no right or wrong way to tell a story and that you most definitely do not need to have a purpose to your story”. She wants every young person to understand through experience that stories have souls; that to whittle them down to size and package them just so would take from them the very quality that makes you want to sit up and listen. “Never overthink your stories. Do not dilute them. If you allow yourself to get to the emotional core of your story, everything else will follow. The trick is to let the story go.” Interestingly, Cornelia Funke’s conversations with aspiring 12-year-old writers about breathing books and following the imagination reveal that “paying attention to the little details

is so very important and makes all the difference.” She chews thoughtfully on her words as she describes how fascinating it is to her that stories should travel and should have the ability to influence so many scattered and diverse people in such profoundly different yet similar ways. Her ideas are received with thunderous applause and heartbreaking choruses of “autograph, please?” If I hurry I can catch a segment of Rukhsana Khan’s session on ‘writing in times of trouble’. Her audience is meant to be 14-year-olds thirsting for what feeds into the creative process. I bump into Jo, one of the three spirits behind Bookeroo, as I pass a sea of people all headed for an amphitheatre. I cannot resist chatting with Jo, and she is kind enough to agree to a little sit9 december 2013

down on the grass. “Bookeroo really is about spreading the joy of books,” she tells me, “bringing children and books together, opening windows and doors into other worlds…” Jo feels very strongly that there is a book for every child, “which is why it is so important to have variety and to celebrate that. You have to appreciate that we are all different. Children will discover the sorts of books that speak to them if they are given the freedom to find out for themselves.” That seems to be the running theme, and it makes perfect sense. The love of stories comes easy if there are authentic choices available to children—and enough colours to play with. By the time I get to Rukhsana, she is talking about “feeling the pulse of the hard work [that] is essential to do in order to be who you are as you tell your story.” Her writing often wrestles with the layered complexities of identity and a fragmented sense of self, growing up. She is both affecting and truthful in her descriptions of having been bullied young and the weight of the experience through the years that followed. The 14-year-olds she is speaking with are transfixed in equal parts by her candour and her resilience. The pace at which things move at Bookeroo is dizzying. If I don’t leave now, I will miss Sally Gardner’s ‘What if?’ performance. Sally is the recipient of several awards. Sally is also dyslexic. In her intimate corner of the festival, she describes having been written off as totally un-teachable at school. She was told that her brain was like a sieve and that “everything that went in fell out the other side.” Hurtling back and forth from one school to the next, Sally says she had “more God-awful schools than hot dinners.” Finding herself severely bullied and in a school for the mismanaged, she would think up ways to escape that world, the sheer incessant noise of it. “Dyslexia gave me imagination. I actually do remember falling into a book for the very first time. Suddenly the world would disappear. I polished my stories till they got better and better. Dyslexia was a gift and I found 9 december 2013

that as soon as the agony of school left me, I shot to the top.” Sally went on to learn about art and performance theatre. She credits her ability to tell stories with having saved her and helping her rise above those who dismissed her. Stories are the ability to dream, she says, “which is unmistakably the most important thing a child can have. The imagination is everything. It is so important that we nurture the ‘gold dust’ in our little heads while we still have it. Don’t give it up to televisions and computers.” The audience is rivetted and questions come in big rushes. A lot of the adults present want to know if things have in fact gotten better with time for dyslexic children. “There is still a lot of ignorance , there are still far too many

Jo Williams feels strongly that there is a book for every child. The love of stories comes easy if there are authentic choices available to children—and enough colours to play with clever children going unnoticed. If education stopped being so narrow and we found a way to open it up a crack, make room for different ways of receiving and responding to information, then we could begin talking about changes in attitudes and the bigger things.” “Is there room for quiet stories with children today? Doesn’t everything have to be fast paced and titillating?” asks a voice in the crowd. Sally pauses to reflect. “Fairytales are great ways to build appreciation for things building in gradual ways. But I don’t mean sanitised fairy tales. Fairytales are meant to be the dark woods of the imagination.” I make my way past the ‘Doodle Wall’ where children are spraying an enormous stretch of paper with their very own works of art. I chat briefly with one of the volunteers, a pleasant girl with a steady hand who cannot re-

sist a doodle or two of her own: “My memories of art class are sprinkled with ‘Ma’am, may I use this colour?’ or ‘Sir, I cannot draw this shape’ or ‘Copy the flower pot’ . Never once did someone say to me, ‘Draw whatever you like, anything at all.’ This wall is the art class I never had.” The row of people splashing about beside her appear to nod at me in agreement. I’m eager to experience Ulf Nilsson before I call it a day. The author of over a hundred well-loved children’s books in Sweden, Ulf has a gift for communicating difficult realities in the gentlest possible way. His interactive session for 8-year-olds today explores the theme ‘pet loss’. It does this ever so lovingly without talking down to the audience or being too aware of itself. “The idea is to banish fear. To feel loved and connected and secure in how one feels while learning to accept things that are sometimes sad.” Ulf is drawn to the festival because it encourages children to trust their own creativity. “I want to tell children to find a way to make their own story, write a little book and start early. Sixyear-olds are great; ‘Oh yes I can’ comes so easy to them. I want them to know how valuable their thoughts are, how important it is for them to feel encouraged to express themselves, to want to tell stories. I also want to urge parents to listen to their children carefully, so they can share in moments where they find absolute joy.” The right to retain the parts of ourselves that make us whole makes up a lot of Ulf’s writings. “When you write for children, you have to be able to go down in the mud and play. A mind that is playful is unafraid. It will not filter the little things out. ” Ulf gets a pretend funeral for a stuffed toy moose out of his audience. Children take turns cradling the moose and placing it lovingly in a hole in the tree where it is sung to in an effort to be given the send off it deserves. Some parents in the audience shift in their seats. Others look on in wonderment and gratitude. The children race to hug Ulf. Their applause is implicit. n open www.openthemagazine.com 53

CINEMA The Outsider Hard worker, Govinda fan, Kareena agnostic, non-reader, big dreamer and former chubby kid—Ranveer Singh is an unexpected movie star, and the surprise is entirely pleasant SHRADHA SUKUMARAN

‘D

o you remember Raja Babu?’ It’s not a question you might imagine you’d hear in Ranveer Singh’s bedroom. The actor, however, reminds himself of that corny 1994 David Dhawan movie every single morning. In homage to Govinda’s bedroom in Raja Babu, Singh has arranged his accessories the same way. A collection of hats and baseball caps are perched on wooden pegs on one wall. On one shelf, there are several sunglasses; on another, bottles of cologne. A floorto-ceiling closet is filled with rows of leather shoes and funky sneakers. “Pak chik pak, Raja Babu,” Singh sings softly, wiggling his fingers over his collection, before he picks the pair he wants to wear. Those who know 28-year-old Ranveer Singh describe him as a born performer. Close friend Vikramaditya Motwane, who directed him in this year’s Lootera, says Singh actually arrives at parties with his own boombox, then puts on a dance show for two hours straight. “His energy is infectious,” says director Maneesh Sharma, who began his career by casting Singh in 2010’s Band Baaja Baaraat. “Ranveer can go ballistic. He’s fun.”

t the start of this interview on a somnolent Sunday afternoon in Mumbai, Singh sits with both feet up in his living room, flings his iPhone dramatically on the couch and yells, “Gaaah, don’t you wish you could throw your phone away sometimes?” He is just back from shooting his next release, Gunday, in Oman. At a 54 open

hotel lobby there, Ranveer Singh tells me, a stranger had walked up to him, ruffled the hair on the back of his head and said, with a heavy Arabic accent, “Tattad, tattad”, referring to the now famous ‘dandruff’ dance move from his recent hit Ram-Leela. You catch glimpses of Ram, the character, in Ranveer Singh. He is affable, hyper-energetic and brazen. “Ranveer is the biggest charmer,” says Sharma. Yet, Motwane and Singh’s Ram-Leela co-star (and probable girlfriend) Deepika Padukone avow there is a quiet side to the actor.

At a hotel lobby in Oman, a stranger walked up and ruffled Singh’s hair, saying ‘tattad, tattad’ in a heavy Arabic accent, mimicking the now-famous ‘dandruff’ dance move from Ram-Leela It slips through when he talks of his struggle to break into the industry, his disappointment at being judged and the deep snobbery he faces from stars belonging to film families. At one point, he seems lost for words and pauses, thinking carefully about what to say next. Ranveer Singh doesn’t show this side of himself often. “I live in the moment,” he says, “I see emotional vulnerability as a sign of weakness.” Motwane reveals that he had to compel Singh to tap into this restraint for the part of a secretive conman in Lootera. It was a subdued performance with beautiful flashes of intensity. “He

always seems like this happy-go-lucky guy, yet when I watched Ranveer at home, I realised he has a quiet space. He can watch movies for hours alone.” Ranveer Singh lives with his parents in a large duplex apartment facing Khar Gymkhana club and goodnaturedly pokes fun at his mother’s exquisitely-carved silver antique collection adorning the living room. “Every few days, I see a new piece. I say (mock-angrily), ‘Ma, you bought more silver?’ She’s like, ‘Your wife will thank me someday.’” The actor prefers to stay holed up in his den in the downstairs apartment. There are four La-Z-Boy recliners against one wall, a blank projector on another and a state-of-the-art surround sound system. There are no books or magazines. This is a change. Most actors discuss bestsellers and biographies of Hollywood legends, so I ask Singh if he reads. “Not at all,” he answers, enunciating each word for effect. “The last book I read must have been Noddy.”

anveer singh has always wanted

to be a Hindi film actor, voraciously watching Govinda movies when he was a child. Motwane adds that Singh shares his own talent for remembering the lyrics to the songs of 90s ‘rapper’ Baba Sehgal. “I tell him, ‘Okay, I was 16 when Baba Sehgal was big, but you were a six-yearold kid. Why do you know this? I think sharp cookie “I have a problem with elitism, with people being condescending on the basis of what they’re born into. Nothing grinds my gears more than that” 9 december 2013

garath cattermole/getty images

he just watched a lot of television growing up.” Ranveer Singh didn’t come from a film family. His father, Jugjeet Singh Bhavnani, has businesses in hospitality, garment exports and medicines. Motwane says Singh and he hit it off instantly because they were both Sindhi boys who grew up in Khar. The only tenuous film connection was that Sonam Kapoor is Singh’s second cousin, but that didn’t give him much hope. “I looked around me and all I could see were Abhishek Bachchan, Hrithik Roshan, Tusshar Kapoor, Zayed Khan... Shah Rukh Khan seemed like a freak case 12 years ago and it didn’t seem enough for me to commit to a film career,” says Ranveer Singh. When he was 15, Singh decided he would be a copywriter. That was also around the time he shed his childhood puppy fat, and the star finds it a peculiar irony that he’s viewed as a sex symbol today—especially since his superbuff avatar in Ram-Leela. “I get very explicit messages on Twitter. I love it. I was a chubby kid and craved female attention. I went to America on a vacation and came back from the land of junk food looking thinner, but I still felt like a fat kid in my head.” It was while he was pursuing media studies at Indiana University, Bloomington, in the US that he began taking acting classes. He came back and interned at ad agencies Ogilvy & Mather and JWT, working on brands like Good Knight, Ponds and Mattel, pitching campaigns that would resonate in small towns. Singh struggled for four years to get acting gigs, even as he worked on ad films with Bunty Aur Babli (2005) director Shaad Ali. Singh admits there was prejudice within the industry. He knew he wasn’t considered good-looking, but it made him strive harder. “I have a problem with elitism, with people being condescending on the basis of what they’re born into. Nothing grinds my gears more than that. There is an inner cynicism [I’ve developed] over what I went through.” Maneesh Sharma was auditioning newcomers to star in Band Baaja 56 open

Baaraat in 2010 when he saw Singh’s tape. “It was the scene where Bittoo gatecrashes a wedding and meets Shruti,” remembers Sharma. “He was perfect. There was a lot of hunger in him to make it.” Success came overnight and Ranveer Singh says he couldn’t cope. “It was like Alice In Wonderland. I was in this magical garden, all wide-eyed and saying, ‘Whoa, what is this?’ I didn’t know how to handle being a public personality.” After a bunch of interviews, Singh was labelled cocksure, annoying and attention-seeking. The actor says he’s learnt some tact since, even though he finds it ‘taxing’ to lie. “I hold back if I feel like it will ruffle a few feathers. I don’t want to deal with the consequences.” One of these ‘consequences’ was Kareena Kapoor dropping out of Ram-

After Singh gushed about her, Kareena Kapoor dropped out of Ram-Leela. “My feelings have waned. I’ve grown up. I was effusive in my admiration, and it bit me in the face. People really judge you” Leela. After Singh gushed about her during a garrulous session on the TV chat show Koffee With Karan, Kapoor didn’t want to be his co-star. “Now I don’t feel that rush of excitement [for her]. My feelings have waned. (laughs) I’ve grown up. I was effusive about my admiration, but I didn’t do anything wrong. It came and bit me in the face. People really judge you.”

severe back injury on the sets of Lootera gave Ranveer Singh plenty of time to reflect. Laid up for most of 2012, the actor didn’t have a release in 19 months and he sees it as a slump. This year, the tide has turned. The star says he has more clarity and it comes with popular validation of his work. In a way, Kapoor’s walkout from

Ram-Leela made room for something greater: Ranveer Singh’s combustible chemistry with Padukone. He is tightlipped about dating her, yet it is clear the two had an instant bond, first noticed at the premiere of Shirin Farhad Ki Toh Nikal Padi in August 2012, where the couple only had eyes for each other. In October this year, Ranveer Singh admitted to Bombay Times that he was madly in love. “I was drugged out after an attack of dengue,” he says now, “I was loopy and stupid [during that interview]. I don’t want to put my personal life on display. It takes the focus off my work.” As for his work, the actor is mixing it up. Gunday, the 70s-style action-romance from Yash Raj in which he costars with Arjun Kapoor and Priyanka Chopra, is out next, in 2014. On 29 November, he begins shooting for Shaad Ali’s comedy Kill Dill, which also stars his ‘guru’ Govinda, and soon after that, Zoya Akhtar’s film, in which Priyanka Chopra and he play dysfunctional siblings. Does he know that he’s considered ‘The Contender’ to Ranbir Kapoor? “Ranbir leads the pack of young actors,” he acknowledges. “People do a ‘versus’ between us—Ranbir vs Ranveer—[but] it’s not my doing. My movies are my own and I look at my directors. My wish list is huge.” His ambition doesn’t seem to outmatch him, though. Motwane attests that Ranveer Singh has an outstanding work ethic and that he is driven to succeed because he knows he isn’t blue blood, or an insider. He is slowly getting used to fame, too. It rankles when people take his picture in public, he says, but he enjoys making fans smile, even for a few seconds. He loves getting movie tickets at the last minute on an opening Friday, and is happy he doesn’t have to wait in line to get into a nightclub or get rejected at the door because he isn’t dressed well enough. Five years from now, Singh isn’t sure whether his dreams of writing scripts and composing music will come true, or even if he’ll be married with kids. He does know one thing, however. He knows he will be a movie star. n 9 december 2013

arts Misadventurers in the Museum The women whose imaginations currently fill Delhi’s Kiran Nadar Museum of Art are many things, their work an inventory of artistic possibility TRISHA GUPTA

reflection Amrita Sher-Gil’s self portraits offer a glimpse into the lifelong tussle between her Indian and Western selves

he ongoing show at the Kiran

Nadar Museum of Art, located, interestingly, in a South Delhi mall, is a tripartite mega-exhibition of the work of several accomplished women artists from India. The first

9 december 2013

part, ‘A View to Infinity’, is the largest ever retrospective of the works of Nasreen Mohamedi; the second, ‘The Self in Making’, is devoted to the selfportraits of Amrita Sher-Gil; and the third, ‘Seven Contemporaries’, con-

tains work by seven women artists working today. Collectively named ‘Difficult Loves’ after a collection of short stories by the Italian writer Italo Calvino, the exhibition, in the words of curator Roobina open www.openthemagazine.com 57

Karode, ‘proposes to talk about adventures, misadventures, complex relationships with objects, subjects, desires and life itself, about trials and errors in the individual artistic journeys of these nine participating artists.’ By bringing together this immensely varied work, the KNMA show makes it impossible for anyone to suggest ever again that the category ‘women artists’ is somehow a self-explanatory one.

asreen Mohamedi died of a rare

neurological disorder in 1990 at the age of 53. Over the last decade, she has come to be recognised as one of the most accomplished Indian practitioners of non-figurative art. The KNMA show brings together her delicate drawings, most in ink and graphite, with her black-and-white photographs, which were never exhibited in her lifetime. Though her early work does have a few figurative images—a woman in a sari, two men sitting—an impulse towards minimalism already exists. The two men, for instance, are drawn in fractured outline—the barest essential strokes needed to describe the form of the human body. Pale washes of colour combined with thin lines hint at trees and houses and electricity wires, or a handcart resting under a tree. Another phase of early work uses repeated brushstrokes a la impressionism to create swatches of colour that suggest—rather than try to recreate— sun and sea and sand. But Mohamedi’s minimalist instincts soon led her in the direction of greater abstraction. One of her perennial concerns and interests as an artist seems to have been the patterns inherent in nature. Scattered notes from her diary reveal a mind that was often provoked by the effortless beauty of the natural world to question the very purpose of art. ‘To make an effort to do anything seems so futile. Everything in nature is so perfect,’ she writes, and later: ‘I feel so empty and useless. That light on the beach. Those zigzag designs that waves leave on the sands.’ Happily for us, Mohamedi moved on from these feelings of artistic paralysis to producing art that echoed nature. A

58 open

lot of her work might be thought of as drawing something essential out of the natural and making it visible on paper. Her photographs show how she was drawn to the magic of natural design: the ripples on the surface of the sea and the corresponding ones on sand, the eclipsed moon. Whether in these photographs, or those of manmade creations—the architecture of Fatehpur Sikri, the warp and weft of threads in the weaving of cloth—Mohamedi distils the essence of form. In another meditation in her diaries, Mohamedi writes, ‘nature disposes itself in rhythm, and only in rhythm is one able to escape time.’ There is in this an echo of another voice—avant garde American filmmaker Maya Deren (1917-61). Deren’s rather strange short film Ritual in Transfigured Time (1946) creates the feeling of watching

Mohamedi drew on nature’s repetition of patterns to create an alternative to linear time. ‘Nature disposes itself in rhythm,’ she wrote, ‘and only in rhythm is one able to escape time’ a dream. This effect of dream time is created through repetition. The rhythmic movement of a woman winding wool, repeated over and over again, produces an alternative to the linear progression of time that film usually seeks to recreate, especially through techniques of continuity editing. Mohamedi’s later art seems to make a similar use of repetition to transcend linearity. The line remained crucial throughout her work, but her use of it changed drastically. The line ceased to be a way to create a bounded form, to describe a body or a tree. Repeated over and over again, it became something purer, a thing in and of itself. The meshing of lines, their careful placing over each other or at regular distances, creates a sense of depth. Another aspect of Mohamedi’s rela-

tionship with time emerges from another quote on the wall: ‘Waiting is a part of intense living’. This thought seems of a piece with the recreation of her workplace within the museum: the room is dimly lit, except for a low-hanging lamp that illuminates a low white table upon which is placed a blank sheet of paper, a ruler, and a few seashells. From a small music system in the corner comes the magisterial voice of Bhimsen Joshi, to the accompaniment of which Mohamedi apparently often worked late into the night.

mrita Sher-Gil is among India’s most iconic artists, certainly among the most popularly loved. Her work is starkly opposed to Mohamedi’s in many ways—figurative, rich in colour, keen on symbolism. The most crucial difference seems to be that where Mohamedi turned ever outward, SherGil’s artistic quest, right from her youth, led her inward, shining a light upon her family, her relationships, her connection to India, and, most obviously, herself. Sher-Gil was born in 1913 in Budapest to a Sikh aristocrat called Umrao Singh Shergil and a Hungarian opera singer called Marie Antoinette Gottesmann. She spent a lot of her childhood in Hungary, then some years in Shimla before going to Paris to train as a painter. In 1934, she was overcome by a longing to return to India, and returned to the country, travelling to see historic centres of Indian art like Ajanta and settling in her father’s family home in Saraya, Gorakhpur. Sher-Gil’s art is said to have changed in accordance with this geographical shift, from the more European work she did in her early years, to the portraits of rural Indian women she did after 1934, which have been seen as profoundly influenced by Abanindranath and Rabindranath Tagore. While in Saraya, Sher-Gil wrote to a friend: ‘I can only paint in India. Europe belongs to Picasso, Matisse, Braque... India belongs only to me.’ But did Amrita belong only to India? With its focus on her self-portraits, the show at KNMA offers us a glimpse of the constant, life9 december 2013

en, with a smiling pin-up-style photograph of her in swimming costume.

look out Anita Dube’s Intimations of Mortality evokes the female body while effecting a reversal of the gaze

long tussle in which Sher-Gil’s Western and Indian selves were engaged. In some pencil sketches she did as early as 1927, she appears stocky and dense, her arms and torso chunky. In one of these images, a deliberate curl of hair is placed strategically in the centre of her forehead, calling to mind the Henry Longfellow rhyme: ‘There was a little girl/ Who had a little curl,/ Right in the middle of her forehead./ When she was good,/ She was very good indeed,/ But when she was bad she was horrid.’ Scrawled in dark pencil in the margin of another are the words ‘Prostitutes of the Gods... so-called... Devadasis.’ Placed alongside Sher-Gil’s own images of herself are a series of pictures of her taken between 1927 and 1934 by her father Umrao Singh, himself an immensely talented photographer. In the first, Amrita grins self-consciously out at us, that same curl in the centre of her forehead, deliberately crafted, forced into place. Her attire varies through the series. Dressed in a sari, she sometimes has her head covered or wears a bindi. Elsewhere, she is wearing a long white frock, her hair open. This desire to experiment with her identity, to perform different versions of the self, emerges just as strongly in her more mature work, best rep9 december 2013

resented by two images from Vivan Sundaram’s digital photo-montage series, ‘Re-take of Amrita’, also at KNMA. Sundaram, Sher-Gil’s nephew, has created several composite frames in which different images of the artist are juxtaposed, accentuating her shifting relationship with East and West. In one, a photographic Amrita in a collared polka-dotted dress and what

Bharti Kher’s massive triptych is a characteristic agglomeration of bindis— thousands of them—creating the sense of a topographical map. The black background appears as rivulets in the mouth of some great river looks like a beret—these are the Paris years—sits next to a painted Amrita, in the same pose but now wearing a heavy necklace and a turban on her head, making her look like an ‘Eastern’ figure out of some Delacroix painting. In another, Sundaram overlays SherGil’s Self as Tahitian, in which she posed in the nude in the post-impressionist style of Paul Gauguin’s Tahitian wom-

he work on view under ‘Seven Contemporaries’ seems to revisit some of the concerns of Sher-Gil and Mohamedi. Bharti Kher’s massive triptych is a characteristic agglomeration of bindis—thousands of them stuck onto a black surface in patterns that create the sense of a topographical map. But instead of the dull browns and greens of most maps, here we have a new continent, rich and strange. The brilliant red of bindis evokes blood and sindoor and every aspect of female fertility; the black background appears as rivulets flowing through the mouth of some great river. Sheela Gowda’s three pieces speak to domesticity and the experience of enclosure. In Margins, dismantled door frames stretch out towards the sky rather than bounding space. In Viewfinder, two window frames with meshes and iron grills press down on the possibilities of seeing. In the disturbing Like a Bird, ropes of hair are strung across a small space. Weighted down with metal forms, they bring to mind the arcs traced by a bird trapped inside a room: now frantic, now weary. Anita Dube’s Intimations of Mortality (1997) is apt punctuation to all three shows. A concentration of enamelled ceramic eyes stuck to a corner where two walls meet the ceiling, which Dube describes as ‘a feminist insertion inside the neutral interior space of architecture’, it evokes the female body while also producing a vivid, angry reversal of the gaze. In its exploration of erotic selfhood, it shares something with Sher-Gil, and in its conversation with architectural and natural form—the three planes that meet at the corner of a room, the glossy brittleness of ceramic eyes—it connects with Mohamedi. It is among the most unsettling things you will see at the show and works somehow to bind together the various styles of the women artists on view at the museum. n

‘Difficult Loves’ closes on 30 November open www.openthemagazine.com 59

supertasting The term describes the ability to strongly detect flavours such as bitter and sweet. Supertasters are often averse to green vegetables because their bitter taste gets amplified

How Modern Is Cancer? A new study finds viruses that infect us also afflicted Neanderthals in their time

Obesity and Our Sense of Taste

poddles rock/corbis

science

s it possible that modern dis-

eases such as AIDS and cancer may not be new after all? That they may have originated thousands of years ago from an ancestor we shared with other human sub-species like Neanderthals? This theory has become a possibility after a group of researchers from Oxford University and Plymouth University compared the genetic data of modern day cancer patients with that found in fossils of our genetic ancestors, the Neanderthals and Denisovans. They discovered that the same viruses that infect us today also infected these species more than half a million years ago, thereby suggesting that some viruses that infect us today, like HIV and cancer, have their origins in our ancestors. The researchers examined the genomes of a total of 67 people with cancer, and found they contained six of the sequences unique to ancient humans. This means that the viruses probably infected our ancestors before we split from the lineage that led to Neanderthals and Denisovans roughly 400,000 years ago. The study was published in the 60 open

journal Current Biology. Endogenous retroviruses (ERVs)— which are DNA sequences left by viruses which pass from generation to generation—are supposed to comprise about 8 per cent of human DNA. This 8 per cent is supposed to form at least 90 per cent of all ‘junk’ DNA in the human genome. This DNA is so called because it has no known function and seems useless. However, the researchers caution that it may not entirely be useless. Two so-called junk viruses, under certain circumstances, may be combining with each other to cause diseases like cancer. This may be the case, since past research has shown how cancer is caused among mice with poor immune systems when ERVs are activated by bacteria. The researchers now plan to study and look for direct links between these ancient viruses, which are hardwired into human DNA, and modern diseases such as AIDS and cancer. They will soon be using modern DNA sequencing of 300 cancer patients to see how widespread these viruses are in the modern population. n

According to a study in PLOS ONE, being severely overweight impairs the ability of mice to detect sweets. The new study compared 25 normal mice to 25 of their littermates who were fed a high-fat diet and became obese. Compared with slimmer counterparts, the plump mice had fewer taste cells that responded to sweet stimuli. What’s more, the cells that did respond to sweetness reacted relatively weakly. “If we understand how these taste cells are affected and how we can get these cells back to normal, it could lead to new treatments,” lead scientist Kathryn Medler said. “These cells are out on your tongue and are more accessible than cells in other parts of your body, like your brain.” n

Lasting Impact of Carbon Dioxide

A study in Nature Climate Change says that even if carbon dioxide emissions came to a sudden halt, the carbon dioxide already in Earth’s atmosphere could continue to warm our planet for hundreds of years. The study suggests that it might take a lot less carbon than previously thought to reach the global temperature scientists deem unsafe. The researchers simulated an Earth on which, after 1,800 billion tonnes of carbon entered the atmosphere, all carbon dioxide emissions suddenly stopped. They found that although carbon dioxide steadily dissipates, the oceans that remove heat from the atmosphere gradually take up less. Eventually, the residual heat offsets the cooling that occurred due to dwindling amounts of carbon dioxide. n 9 december 2013

hdr image High-dynamic-range photographs are generally achieved by capturing multiple standard photographs, often using exposure bracketing, and then merging them into an HDR image. HDR images can represent the range of intensity levels found in real scenes with more accuracy

tech&style

Google Nexus 5 This is one of the fastest Android phones available

Linde Werdelin w Oktopus Moon Tattoo

Price on request

gagandeep Singh Sapra Rs 28,999

was not a big fan of the Google

Nexus 4 when it came out, but the new Nexus 5 impressive. Its large 5-inch full HD IPS screen with Gorilla Glass 3 is stunning, it runs the latest version of Android OS 4.4 code named KitKat, and is made by LG for Google. If you are an Android purist or just someone looking for a rock solid phone, the Nexus 5 comes at a great price tag, though you will have to pay an additional Rs 1,000 odd if you are buying it in-store and not online. The phone weighs 130 gm, and fits nicely in your hand despite its large screen. For capturing images, the phone’s 8 megapixel rear camera with optical image stabilisation allows one to take immersive 360° panorama shots, HDR shots and even full high definition videos. And for all those selfie moments, it has a 1.3 megapixel front camera. Its built-in battery lasts up to 17 hours, and it is charged wirelessly. What I don’t like about the phone is its built-in speaker, though there is a 3.5 mm jack for headphones that you can use to enhance audio. Nexus 5 has two microphones, which ensure that ambient noise is 9 december 2013

cancelled while making calls. The Nexus 5 features a powerful Qualcomm Snapdragon 800 2.26GHz processor and an additional Adreno 330 graphic processor. These, coupled with 2 gigabytes of RAM and stock Android provide the phone with all the power you need. You can choose between a 16GB and a 32GB storage variant of the phone. Unlike the Nexus 4, this phone has LTE support. Though this does not matter in India, if you are a globetrotter you can get high speed internet access on your Nexus phone. There is also dual band Wi-Fi, NFC and Bluetooth 4.0 on board. Android 4.4 enables a couple of smart operations and the Nexus 5 takes full advantage of these features: a better Google voice search makes things easier if you like to issue voice commands, and its smarter caller ID looks up business listings and lets you know a caller even if the number is not in your phonebook. Nexus 5 manages to deliver blazing fast performance, and at the current price point, this device is one of the ‘must have’ Android phones in the market. n

Limited to 59 pieces worldwide, its 18K solid rose gold case is intricately engraved with a hand drawn octopus. The timepiece’s moon phase complication is ideal for planning night dives. Materials such as rose gold, ceramic and titanium have been used to guarantee superb anti-corrosiveness. All indices are luminous to enhance readability. It has a power reserve of 42 hours and is water resistant up to 300 metres. n

Sony GTK-N1BT

Rs 16,990

Sony has expanded its line of Bluetooth and NFC speakers with the GTK-N1BT. Though this particular model is not a portable version— it weighs roughly 8.75 kg and is about 2 feet in width. This speaker is rated at 100 watts of output, and has a 60 watt sub-woofer built into it. You can connect your phone or iPod via Bluetooth, and if you have an NFC enabled device, you can just tap it and connect with it. Colourful LEDs built into the unit light up in synchrony with each sound and beat. The speaker can be placed vertically or horizontally. There is also a built-in AM/FM radio and multiple equaliser settings. n Gagandeep Singh Sapra is The Big Geek at System3. He can be reached at gadgets@openmedianetwork.in

open www.openthemagazine.com 61

CINEMA

the deol drumroller Anil Sharma, director of Singh Saab The Great, appears to have a particular affinity for the Deols. He has worked with Dharmendra in five films, Sunny in four, and Bobby in two, even bringing all three together in the family drama Apne

Gori Tere Pyaar Mein An illmatched lead pair and phony environment make this film hard to watch ajit duara

current

o n scr een

Singh Saab The Great Director Anil Sharma cast Sunny Deol,

Amrita Rao

Score ★★★★★

poor, Cast kareena ka an kh an imr malhotra Director punit

he first half of Gori Tere Pyar Mein is an attempt at cross-cultural humour in Bangalore, and the second discusses the problems of a village in Gujarat. Both are fake, but at least in the urban half there are a host of other actors who prevent you from being isolated with two of the most ill-matched actors in the business. Watching Imran Khan and Kareena Kapoor together is rather like doing time in Tihar. There is a disciplined regimen of exercise, labour, social work and recreation, but in the end, you are in jail. Back in Bengaluru, fortunately, you are still a free bird with other actors to complement these two, so the back story—how Diya (Kapoor), a Punjabi girl with a beehive in her bonnet, hooked up with Sriram (Khan), an insipid ‘TamBram’—is not so bad. The movie starts off with an impending arranged marriage between Sriram and Shabbu (Shraddha Kapoor). 62 open

Shabbu tells Sriram that she is in love with a Sardar, asking him to rescue her by calling it off. Sriram, in turn, tells her about this nutty girl called Diya that he loves. So a deal is made and Sriram absconds from the wedding ceremony—by far the most entertaining scene in the entire movie. Disowned by the ‘Tam Bram’ community, Sriram follows Diya to the village where she is working, and after that, we are up against the prison bars. The superficiality of the thinking on social issues seen in Gori Tere Pyaar Mein is unbelievable. In the last decade, Hindi cinema has simply forgotten the village world. Movies are so metropolitan that rural India has become an abstract concept, re-created from the memory of earlier village-set movies. These movies were pretty phoney to begin with, and so the world we get here is totally counterfeit. This makes Gori Tere Pyaar Mein very difficult to watch. n

Actor Sunny Deol is lucky whenever he plays a Sikh, and there is a whole list of super duper hits to prove it—Border, Gadar: Ek Prem Katha and Yamla Pagla Deewana. Perhaps this is because he looks very handsome in a turban and beard, his face made proportionate. In Singh Saab The Great, he is a Sardar only in the second half. So maybe the film will be a hit only after the interval. The film begins with clean shaven Saranjit Singh Talwar (Deol), an honest District Collector who meets the public every week and dispenses justice quickly and evenly. But there is a baddie in the offing called Bhoodev Singh (Prakash Raj). He refuses to pay his taxes and objects to his premises being locked up when he doesn’t. In a deadly confrontation between the two, Saranjit flips his lid, turns violent and is locked up for murder. When he is released from jail, Saranjit is ‘Singh Saab’, a do-gooder who uses his fists to fight corruption. With the frequent references to ‘mango people’, director Anil Sharma is clearly pointing towards Arvind Kejriwal’s Aam Aadmi Party. Curiously, there is even a ‘Gandhian’ twist at the end of this violent revenge drama. On the whole, the film is rough hewn, but holds you. n ad

9 december 2013

Not People Like Us

R aj e e v M asa n d

Looking for a Lucky Break

As if it isn’t bad enough they’re making a sequel to 2007’s goofy blockbuster Welcome, its makers seem determined to add respected ‘actors’ to the new project. While John Abraham replaces Akshay Kumar as the lead in Welcome Back, Nana Patekar, Anil Kapoor and Paresh Rawal all return for a second turn. To fill in the shoes of the late Feroz Khan who starred in the earlier film, producer Firoz Nadiadwala and director Anees Bazmee wanted an actor with some gravitas. Apparently they had their heart set on Amitabh Bachchan, who, after mulling over the offer for a few weeks, declined. Next they went to Kamal Haasan, who in turn was horrified at being approached for the film. The South star was wooed not only by the makers, but also by Nana Patekar who tried to coax him into committing himself to the film—with little success. The makers also reportedly asked Kamal’s daughter Shruti Haasan (who has a role opposite John in the movie) to put in a good word with her dad, but Kamal could not be convinced. The film is currently shooting with the rest of the cast, but the makers are still in search of their ‘big star’ who’ll give their mass-market comedy a touch of upmarket respectability.

Just Too Good to Give Up

Farhan Akhtar is enjoying acting so much he’s unlikely to return to direction anytime soon. At the NFDC’s Film Bazaar in Goa earlier this week, he told me he still thinks of himself primarily as a writer-filmmaker, but the acting roles coming his way are so exciting, he’s happily embracing this career “diversion” for now. The enormous success of Bhaag Milkha Bhaag earlier this year—the first film he acted in outside his own Excel Productions banner—has no doubt inspired confidence in filmmakers who were overwhelmed by the actor’s physical transformation and his unwavering commitment to get under the skin of Milkha Singh. Next he’ll be seen playing Vidya Balan’s husband in the light-hearted comedy Shaadi Ke Side Effects. Yet, it’s the newer projects he’s signed that are particularly interesting. Farhan will play the lead in 9 december 2013

English, August director Dev Benegal’s next, which Excel will also produce. Kareena Kapoor stars opposite Farhan in this Hindi film, which Benegal tells me isn’t so much his foray into mainstream Bollywood as it is Farhan’s entry to Benegal’s school of personal, indie filmmaking. In his sister Zoya Akhtar’s next, Farhan has taken the smaller part of Priyanka Chopra’s romantic interest, clarifying immediately that it’s a supporting role in a film that is essentially about a dysfunctional family of four. There is also a Bejoy Nambiar film, to be produced by Vidhu Vinod Chopra, in which Farhan will star along with Amitabh Bachchan, whom he directed in Lakshya.

The Unimportance of Being Earnest

It appears that some difficult decisions may need to be taken on the casting of an ambitious new film, in light of the recent failure of another big-budget venture. The makers of this new film that’s currently in preproduction reportedly met last weekend to discuss the viability of their intended project given the fact that their leading man now has three reasonably big-budget duds in a row to his name. Their proposed film is designed as a hero-centric vehicle with considerable action scenes and even a superhero bent. The producers met to brainstorm whether they could in fact raise the film’s sizeable budget on the strength of their star, and whether it might be beneficial for the film if they were to rope in a more ‘bankable’ actor instead. Turns out no firm decisions have been taken just yet, but the project is definitely being reconsidered as it currently stands. That’s a shame, particularly for the young actor, who’s been looking forward to shooting the film and has already begun training for the part. Known for his earnest approach and professionalism in an industry dominated by stars who throw their weight around, the actor’s recent spate of flops could be attributed to a bout of bad luck over any lack of commitment on his part. n Rajeev Masand is entertainment editor and film critic at CNN-IBN open www.openthemagazine.com 63

open space

Meerutâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Own Malala

by r au l i r a n i

Razia of Nanglakhumba in Meerut District used to stitch footballs as a child, like many other girls in her village. She is now a youth leader, running a door-to-door campaign to spread awareness of the importance of education and urge parents to send their children to school. In July, on the occasion of Malala Day, Razia was awarded the UN Special Envoy for Global Educationâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Youth Courage Award for Education. She could not attend the award ceremony since she did not have a passport 64 open

9 december 2013