Media Players
Pradeep Gawande
Decades back it was popular to call it press. Gradually, it learnt that it could have more feathers in its plain ‘press’ cap. Determined to shed its plainness it began to travel by express. Gradually it grew plural as ‘media’ with the advent of its electronic avtar. Modified beyond recognition media now is an interesting organ. And there are media players far more interesting. Playing media organ is not everybody’s cup of tea. And fewer can play it the way Adnan, A.R, Bismillah, Ravishanker, Yanni or Zubin play it with their notes.
In the media history (Read, story if you are allergic to) nobody played it the way Ramar Pilley did. All idioms like, making a mountain out of molehill, and making hay while it shines were put to shame. Rain or shine no seasonal sanctions. The media for over a fortnight virtually was on herbal fuel. Ramar played it so micro(soft) fine that the mineral combustibles called petrol ( those days it used to be leaded), diesel and kerosene (the backbone of black-market economy) were gripped by the hydrophobia and felt like sinking deep, roughly speaking, ‘twenty thousand leagues,’ under the brackish sea water. Nightmares of deadly whales made them sleepless. Lexicographers had nearly made their minds to replace the word horsepower with grass power. Vegetarians saw more calories in every morsel they chewed. All green pastures not only looked greener but powerful. Everybody saw a full-length sword of legendary warriors in every blade of grass. Such was the magic of the limelight effect of media.
At times, the child prodigy producers play it to stunning philharmonic pitch. A. R. Antuley as the Maharashtra CM played with the media organ very aptly. He proved to a regular newsmaker with his, ‘Don’t worry, hence happy’, photograph. The Y2K virus struck the (vulnerable) editors sparing the computers.
The players perhaps are Freud and Jung of the editor’s psychology. The poets are just born but the editors are born with the divine dictate, “Thou shall edit and thou shall nothing but edit.” Thus they act. They can hide any window by pressing Alt + F4. With their mighty media machinery, they can steal any show. Or shower verbal petals on it. The choice is fully theirs.
Nobody except media players knows how to click them, when to click right, left or double or to mouse drag. The media players only know how to make it appear that they have bitten the dog. Because they only have deciphered the symbolic significance of the golden rule, ‘dog bites the man is no news.’
Its Laloo Prasad who can still prove that it’s the fodder that ate away the cattle hence it is a cattle scam. Thus he can claim innocent making the media play him and even overplay. His media appeal can beat the girls and guys of tinsel world.
The media has replaced the never erring ancient kings. It errs never. Hence never mistake the media or you will be mistaken. Once mistaken (by the media) always misunderstood by one and all. Media can make it or mar it. The wise know that there is no point in taking punga with it. Take punga and enjoy Tehelka. Jeet ka Mantra hai your media policy.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Published article
My School.
Pradeep Gawande
Possibly every one of you must have attempted this eassy more than once in your school days. For me it was a most favourable option. If I had this option I always neglected the national heroes, the debt ridden Indian farmer and also found the great relief from the taxing intellectual exercise of,- science bane or boon, about which I am not sure even today. I am rather more confused that I was while a student. Hence I always found it much safer to opt for, my school. You may term it as a myopia of a typical Maharashtrian. To put it in better and appropriate idiom, “Marathi Manus.” Isnt the expressin colurful enough ? expression should have its own colour, shouldn’t it ?
To have my school as an option for attempting an essay was nothing less of a heaven upon earth. In those days, it was custom to find out as to what are the essays to be attempted before starting to solve the papers and expressing the reaction favourable or unfavorable till you were warned to keep quite by the peace and law keeping personnel called invigilator. Of course, invigilators are creatures that deserve to be justified by literature. In short, pretty neglected species by the men of letters.
And I was lucky enough to get my school possibly every alternate year. And my joy knew no bounds. To put it in electronic media terms, I mean commercial message terms, I felt like having my ‘own school time’ and I flung into action. It was in third standard that our class teacher first chalkwrote the essay on blackboard and I copied it down. In-built in the essay I found many things. Namely, to read between the lines and within the lines that taught me the way of the world. The teacher’s essay said our school has a garden. As a matter of fact the whole content of the essay was far different, more than twice removed from reality. Our school was not at all like that but our teacher should have felt that it should be like that. Thus we too had readily accepted that contradiction. Students were termed as neat and clean, disciplined, hard working, studious, fond of this and that. We understood the contradiction and digested it. The teacher’s essay in a way imparted us a very rare thing about which the western world in much skeptic. They do not qualify Indians for it, that is the sense of humor. I acquired the skill and day by day and year by year went on making my school a dream school where head is held high and mind is without the fear of homework. My lord let my country school awake into that heaven of freedom.
Those were the days when the unwritten constitution of school ethics did not sanction the use of guides in school or aid for homework. Keeping a guide on your person or taking it to school was a highly punishable offence. Those we were the days of spare the rod and spoil the child ethics and code of conduct. And private tuition was prostitution and lot of other things. In short , teachers, class apart as the most respectabvle sections of the society. A teacher was a character for glorification and what not, for poets and authors. Today, it is upside down. Now a student has become a tuition class goer, teacher tuition taker and school has become the institute for community gathering.
Now I remerber my school in my essays far removed from reality to an unrealistic figment of imagination. And the school, the institute to pass time or time killer institute sandwiched between evening and early morning coaching classes, brilliant tutorials and the students spare much more time and energy for running from pillar to post to match their coaching classes schedule than acquiring knowledge.
My school in my essays haunts me. The entire school code has undergone a sea change.( published The Hitavada, dated April 4, 2001.)
Pradeep Gawande
Possibly every one of you must have attempted this eassy more than once in your school days. For me it was a most favourable option. If I had this option I always neglected the national heroes, the debt ridden Indian farmer and also found the great relief from the taxing intellectual exercise of,- science bane or boon, about which I am not sure even today. I am rather more confused that I was while a student. Hence I always found it much safer to opt for, my school. You may term it as a myopia of a typical Maharashtrian. To put it in better and appropriate idiom, “Marathi Manus.” Isnt the expressin colurful enough ? expression should have its own colour, shouldn’t it ?
To have my school as an option for attempting an essay was nothing less of a heaven upon earth. In those days, it was custom to find out as to what are the essays to be attempted before starting to solve the papers and expressing the reaction favourable or unfavorable till you were warned to keep quite by the peace and law keeping personnel called invigilator. Of course, invigilators are creatures that deserve to be justified by literature. In short, pretty neglected species by the men of letters.
And I was lucky enough to get my school possibly every alternate year. And my joy knew no bounds. To put it in electronic media terms, I mean commercial message terms, I felt like having my ‘own school time’ and I flung into action. It was in third standard that our class teacher first chalkwrote the essay on blackboard and I copied it down. In-built in the essay I found many things. Namely, to read between the lines and within the lines that taught me the way of the world. The teacher’s essay said our school has a garden. As a matter of fact the whole content of the essay was far different, more than twice removed from reality. Our school was not at all like that but our teacher should have felt that it should be like that. Thus we too had readily accepted that contradiction. Students were termed as neat and clean, disciplined, hard working, studious, fond of this and that. We understood the contradiction and digested it. The teacher’s essay in a way imparted us a very rare thing about which the western world in much skeptic. They do not qualify Indians for it, that is the sense of humor. I acquired the skill and day by day and year by year went on making my school a dream school where head is held high and mind is without the fear of homework. My lord let my country school awake into that heaven of freedom.
Those were the days when the unwritten constitution of school ethics did not sanction the use of guides in school or aid for homework. Keeping a guide on your person or taking it to school was a highly punishable offence. Those we were the days of spare the rod and spoil the child ethics and code of conduct. And private tuition was prostitution and lot of other things. In short , teachers, class apart as the most respectabvle sections of the society. A teacher was a character for glorification and what not, for poets and authors. Today, it is upside down. Now a student has become a tuition class goer, teacher tuition taker and school has become the institute for community gathering.
Now I remerber my school in my essays far removed from reality to an unrealistic figment of imagination. And the school, the institute to pass time or time killer institute sandwiched between evening and early morning coaching classes, brilliant tutorials and the students spare much more time and energy for running from pillar to post to match their coaching classes schedule than acquiring knowledge.
My school in my essays haunts me. The entire school code has undergone a sea change.( published The Hitavada, dated April 4, 2001.)
a poem
Seagull, Seagull Give Thy Flight
Pradeep Gawande
Seagull Seagull
Give thy Flight
Give thy instinct burning
Burning bright.
Seagull, Seagull
Give thy colour
Be it sable,
Be it white
Seagull, Seagull
Give thy flight.
Give thy vision,
Thy insight,
There is darkness
We need light.
Seagull, Seagull
Give thy bliss.
Sweet honey in
Deep Deep kiss and
Deep Deep honey,
In sweet sweet kiss.
Lot of honey and
Lot of peace.
Seagull, Seagull
On our minds, please emboss,
Smiling Jesus
On the cross.
Why do it all alone?
Let us be a team.
Seagull, Seagull,
Give thy Dream. (2001)
Pradeep Gawande
Seagull Seagull
Give thy Flight
Give thy instinct burning
Burning bright.
Seagull, Seagull
Give thy colour
Be it sable,
Be it white
Seagull, Seagull
Give thy flight.
Give thy vision,
Thy insight,
There is darkness
We need light.
Seagull, Seagull
Give thy bliss.
Sweet honey in
Deep Deep kiss and
Deep Deep honey,
In sweet sweet kiss.
Lot of honey and
Lot of peace.
Seagull, Seagull
On our minds, please emboss,
Smiling Jesus
On the cross.
Why do it all alone?
Let us be a team.
Seagull, Seagull,
Give thy Dream. (2001)
Published article
God of all things.
By Pradeep Narahar Gawande
My father was rational. Having lost my mother when I was two and half years, religion, ritual and idols of God did not exist in my home. Yet, strangely enough, the fear of God and the sin syndrome I have possessed since early childhood. Being part of socio-political movement, the so called rational friends have always damned my fear of God as a repercussion of agricultural background.
My wife came from terribly traditional and horribly vegetarian Varkari background. I accepted all rituals, primarily on their aesthetic merit and even more for their extremely romantic nature. My son caught fancy of two things, Lord, Ganesha, by the instinct of living by the Jones, and Sants Clause as part of his convent conditioning. I can't say it for certain if both the harbingers of joy and rewards Shree and Santa, were to contest election whom would he vote for. Thus the pretty lord made it into my home. Wife and child, two on one side made a majority and I accepted it as a law. It is some four years now that the pretty Lord is our sitting guest and we are playing hosts.
I pray to your lordship for you are too good; you are too tolerant. You tolerate anything. The Indian scientists were restless. They wanted to strike a lighting on sunny afternoon on the global horizon with their new dimension to surface, tension. They held you hostage and made you lick gallons of filthy milk. But the world was more impressed by your tolerance than Indian technological advancement. You can tolerate the din of the tin drums called dhol thase, the loud speakers where wattage and amplification enjoy the real voice. You can tolerate various moulds and shapes given to you
for the sake of the artistic freedom of expression and for height of imagination, mockery and caricature. You alone can face the orchestras and it's cocktail of pop, rock, jazz and folk music without making wry face or turning up your trunk. You can tolerate the unholy smell of bitter beverages. Noise pollution is not a word to be found in your dictionary.
I propose a vote of thanks on behalf of the whole community of believers for your tolerance. After all 'sahishnuta' is our cultural hallmark. Pretty Lord, your arrival breathes into children pounds of enthusiasm. Their energy levels too are a record high. What calories do you feed them?
In my colony, I encounter the early morning flower gatherers. They are simply robbers, by the dawn you wont find any flowers on the plant. Lord you only are responsible for the syndrome of dance culture in Maharashtra, no one else should claim the credit. Lord Krishna made only the Gopikas to dance with his flute tunes but you are altogether different music director having no gender bias and plus the grammarless notes. Your weakness for the 'hariyali' speaks volumes for your grass root level network. The mandal stages are the forum for anything under the sun that can be termed as performing art.
I can't disappoint my colony mandal youths for their expectations of a three figure sum. I don't give them any lectures. At home rituals, needless to mention are wife and child's labour of love.
Pretty Lord, after ten days you are gone, wife and child are missing you. I miss the sweets and early morning flower gatherers, pretty Lord you are indeed, God of all things.( published in The Hitavada, Nagpur Dt Sept 13, 2001.)
By Pradeep Narahar Gawande
My father was rational. Having lost my mother when I was two and half years, religion, ritual and idols of God did not exist in my home. Yet, strangely enough, the fear of God and the sin syndrome I have possessed since early childhood. Being part of socio-political movement, the so called rational friends have always damned my fear of God as a repercussion of agricultural background.
My wife came from terribly traditional and horribly vegetarian Varkari background. I accepted all rituals, primarily on their aesthetic merit and even more for their extremely romantic nature. My son caught fancy of two things, Lord, Ganesha, by the instinct of living by the Jones, and Sants Clause as part of his convent conditioning. I can't say it for certain if both the harbingers of joy and rewards Shree and Santa, were to contest election whom would he vote for. Thus the pretty lord made it into my home. Wife and child, two on one side made a majority and I accepted it as a law. It is some four years now that the pretty Lord is our sitting guest and we are playing hosts.
I pray to your lordship for you are too good; you are too tolerant. You tolerate anything. The Indian scientists were restless. They wanted to strike a lighting on sunny afternoon on the global horizon with their new dimension to surface, tension. They held you hostage and made you lick gallons of filthy milk. But the world was more impressed by your tolerance than Indian technological advancement. You can tolerate the din of the tin drums called dhol thase, the loud speakers where wattage and amplification enjoy the real voice. You can tolerate various moulds and shapes given to you
for the sake of the artistic freedom of expression and for height of imagination, mockery and caricature. You alone can face the orchestras and it's cocktail of pop, rock, jazz and folk music without making wry face or turning up your trunk. You can tolerate the unholy smell of bitter beverages. Noise pollution is not a word to be found in your dictionary.
I propose a vote of thanks on behalf of the whole community of believers for your tolerance. After all 'sahishnuta' is our cultural hallmark. Pretty Lord, your arrival breathes into children pounds of enthusiasm. Their energy levels too are a record high. What calories do you feed them?
In my colony, I encounter the early morning flower gatherers. They are simply robbers, by the dawn you wont find any flowers on the plant. Lord you only are responsible for the syndrome of dance culture in Maharashtra, no one else should claim the credit. Lord Krishna made only the Gopikas to dance with his flute tunes but you are altogether different music director having no gender bias and plus the grammarless notes. Your weakness for the 'hariyali' speaks volumes for your grass root level network. The mandal stages are the forum for anything under the sun that can be termed as performing art.
I can't disappoint my colony mandal youths for their expectations of a three figure sum. I don't give them any lectures. At home rituals, needless to mention are wife and child's labour of love.
Pretty Lord, after ten days you are gone, wife and child are missing you. I miss the sweets and early morning flower gatherers, pretty Lord you are indeed, God of all things.( published in The Hitavada, Nagpur Dt Sept 13, 2001.)
Saturday, August 4, 2007
An agoraphobic Intellectual
An agoraphobic
Intellectual.
Pradeep Gawande.
An agoraphobic in
From his apartment flat
Analyses the rising prizes,
The dearness index
The sex,
Anything, under the sun
Really its no fun!!
He analyses,
The grammar of gun.
And quotes Goring Herman.
Doesn’t believe in boring anyone.
Keenly interested in life,
And also in wife,
Even a friend is no problem.
Really! Its no fun!!
Reviews books
Enjoying soups
Calls someone a crook.
Get things done by
Only bt y hook.
And from within four walls,
He can keep in touch with
World the whole
For at his disposal
The computer,
Internet,
The music machine,
The telephone, the landline
And the cell one,Really it’s no fun.
Intellectual.
Pradeep Gawande.
An agoraphobic in
From his apartment flat
Analyses the rising prizes,
The dearness index
The sex,
Anything, under the sun
Really its no fun!!
He analyses,
The grammar of gun.
And quotes Goring Herman.
Doesn’t believe in boring anyone.
Keenly interested in life,
And also in wife,
Even a friend is no problem.
Really! Its no fun!!
Reviews books
Enjoying soups
Calls someone a crook.
Get things done by
Only bt y hook.
And from within four walls,
He can keep in touch with
World the whole
For at his disposal
The computer,
Internet,
The music machine,
The telephone, the landline
And the cell one,Really it’s no fun.
India Today
All the same, the other day,
Puffing wills lights and Cut-Navy,
And with their hearts heavy,
They were talking of affairs toady,
(of-course pretty Indian way!)
Over a cup of Nescafe;
And crisp pretzels indeed.
Some found matters sordid,
And others splendid.
Though views prone to difference,
(Truce this nonsense)
All concluded I concurrence,
(Kudos to this nonchalance)
More than twice
“The coffee is nice”.
(The Hitavada, Sunday-Oct 20, 1985.)
Pradeep Gawande
All the same, the other day,
Puffing wills lights and Cut-Navy,
And with their hearts heavy,
They were talking of affairs toady,
(of-course pretty Indian way!)
Over a cup of Nescafe;
And crisp pretzels indeed.
Some found matters sordid,
And others splendid.
Though views prone to difference,
(Truce this nonsense)
All concluded I concurrence,
(Kudos to this nonchalance)
More than twice
“The coffee is nice”.
(The Hitavada, Sunday-Oct 20, 1985.)
Pradeep Gawande
Old man Dhodiba
Had a Farm.
Old man Dhondiba had a Farm
On his farm he had some schemes
The state machinery began to dig.
Dig dug dug, dig dug dug
Dig dug dug, dig dug dug
Thus was the mission complete
Here a pit, there a pit.
Everywhere a pit- pit- pit.
Results of the operation very fit
Poor old Dhondiba lost his wit.
Old man Dhondiba had a Farm
On his farm came some policies.
As a result of the adversities
The cyclone blew away his tile roof.
Thus came following scanty rains
Hurriedly in dust he sowed his grains.
And dreamt him free of debt chains
“Rain, rain went away,
Not to come again another day”
The newspapers thus had their way.
They wrote sermons and began to pray
Accordingly government had its way.
The babus took their own time.
Better late than never followed the helpline.
Here a GI sheet there a GI sheet.
That was all that thought fit.
Every time they pull out of their kit.
That does make their ends meet.
Over again Dhondiba lost his wit.
Over again came the scanty rain.
Here a pitter, there a patter
On the tin roof,
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.
It made a melody for some time.
Dhodiba counted from one to nine
That farming is but a crime.
Dhondiba now had nothing to hide.
Next day he committed suicide.
Give me a break,
On our Farms was Montek
He said, “ It’s not centers’ but states’ mistake
And ordered: Retake, retake, retake!
The state machinery got a good old shake.
Dhondiba’s neighbour too foloowed his fate
And followed pesticides consuming spate.
Here a suicide, there a suicide
Everywhere a suicide suicide.
The media debated: Who is to blame?Here a view, there a counter view
Here a counter view, There a review.
Review, revision, revision and revision.
Leaks the oozing think tank and no vision.
Long they played passing he buck game.
Now they agree it’s a matter of shame.
Relieving the farmers of the blame.
Hence, Montek Praji
Don’t take it easy.
It’s not a time to preen and pose.
Handsome is that handsome dose.
From thy planning withdraw division
To your planning add reason, add vision.
That is the way for correct conclusion.
pradeep gawande.
Had a Farm.
Old man Dhondiba had a Farm
On his farm he had some schemes
The state machinery began to dig.
Dig dug dug, dig dug dug
Dig dug dug, dig dug dug
Thus was the mission complete
Here a pit, there a pit.
Everywhere a pit- pit- pit.
Results of the operation very fit
Poor old Dhondiba lost his wit.
Old man Dhondiba had a Farm
On his farm came some policies.
As a result of the adversities
The cyclone blew away his tile roof.
Thus came following scanty rains
Hurriedly in dust he sowed his grains.
And dreamt him free of debt chains
“Rain, rain went away,
Not to come again another day”
The newspapers thus had their way.
They wrote sermons and began to pray
Accordingly government had its way.
The babus took their own time.
Better late than never followed the helpline.
Here a GI sheet there a GI sheet.
That was all that thought fit.
Every time they pull out of their kit.
That does make their ends meet.
Over again Dhondiba lost his wit.
Over again came the scanty rain.
Here a pitter, there a patter
On the tin roof,
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.
It made a melody for some time.
Dhodiba counted from one to nine
That farming is but a crime.
Dhondiba now had nothing to hide.
Next day he committed suicide.
Give me a break,
On our Farms was Montek
He said, “ It’s not centers’ but states’ mistake
And ordered: Retake, retake, retake!
The state machinery got a good old shake.
Dhondiba’s neighbour too foloowed his fate
And followed pesticides consuming spate.
Here a suicide, there a suicide
Everywhere a suicide suicide.
The media debated: Who is to blame?Here a view, there a counter view
Here a counter view, There a review.
Review, revision, revision and revision.
Leaks the oozing think tank and no vision.
Long they played passing he buck game.
Now they agree it’s a matter of shame.
Relieving the farmers of the blame.
Hence, Montek Praji
Don’t take it easy.
It’s not a time to preen and pose.
Handsome is that handsome dose.
From thy planning withdraw division
To your planning add reason, add vision.
That is the way for correct conclusion.
pradeep gawande.
Let us be a Current
Let’s be a current
I am plain water.
You too are water.
Our plainness is our choice.
Let us not add any colours to
Our water.
You are in a vessel.
I am in glass.
You are a river
I am a pond.
If you add your water to my water,
I will grow –(in leavel, depth
and volume).
If you add more I will flow.
You can take back your water
It’s your choice.
My water will be in yours
So shall yours be in mine.
We can’t separate the oneness.
The addition is a divine design.
The more you add
The more shall I flow.
I want to be a current.
The current is nobody’s water
but everybody’s water.
And from it you can take more
Than you poured.
Addition is simple but
Separation impossible.
I want to be a current.
The truth is, who doesn’t?
I want to flow. Do you not?
Yes you too!
Let’s add water to water
Let us flow. Let’s be a current.
Pradeep Gawande.
Khetibadiwala@gmail.com
I am plain water.
You too are water.
Our plainness is our choice.
Let us not add any colours to
Our water.
You are in a vessel.
I am in glass.
You are a river
I am a pond.
If you add your water to my water,
I will grow –(in leavel, depth
and volume).
If you add more I will flow.
You can take back your water
It’s your choice.
My water will be in yours
So shall yours be in mine.
We can’t separate the oneness.
The addition is a divine design.
The more you add
The more shall I flow.
I want to be a current.
The current is nobody’s water
but everybody’s water.
And from it you can take more
Than you poured.
Addition is simple but
Separation impossible.
I want to be a current.
The truth is, who doesn’t?
I want to flow. Do you not?
Yes you too!
Let’s add water to water
Let us flow. Let’s be a current.
Pradeep Gawande.
Khetibadiwala@gmail.com
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)