She died of tuberculosis at 39, after suffering two failed marriages and a humiliating episode of sudden poverty that reduced her to a beggar for a brief while.
The tragic woman you just read about was named ‘Mercedes Adrienne Manuela Ramona Jellinek’ by her folks. Doesn’t her name ring a bell? Yes, you guessed it right. The most desirable car on the planet owes its name to her.
The story goes that her dad once told Daimler-Benz that if they named their vehicles after his daughter and if he were made the sole distributor for America and parts of Europe, he’d order 36 cars from them. To put the number in perspective, Germany produced just 900 cars in 1901. So 36 must have been a huge order then. Smelling the prospect of riches, Daimler-Benz acceded to Emil Jellinek’s diktats. And that’s how Mercedes, the little girl with a penurious future, became a luxury car.
Bisleri is another sparkling example of an eponymous brand (named after real people). Originally a product of Felice Bisleri & Co, the renowned mineral water was bought over in 1969, by Parle Products. For those who like a bit of back story, Felice Bisleri was a pharmacist cum liqueur maker cum fervent supporter of Garibaldi with a penchant for concocting aperitifs. The next time you glug down some H2o from your PET bottle, don’t forget to remember this Italian.
The formidable Ayurvedic doctor of Jamnagar - Karuna Shankar Bhatt - suffered a similar fate after he passed away in 1897. A thick mist of anonymity has cloaked his accomplishments ever since and the only thing that’s remembered of him today is his nickname ‘Zandu’ (haanji, that balm)!
One more man about whom we know precious little is Mr. Vadilal of Vadilal’s. Google tells us that Vadilal Gandhi was the great grandfather of the current owners of India’s leading ice cream company. It seems his entrepreneurial spirit drove him to set up a soda fountain in 1907. And that scoop of risk-taking paved the path for the lip smacking firm we know. Hopefully someday all of these people will get their fair slice of the limelight again.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Thursday, May 24, 2012
The Mystic Name Gene
If Sachin were Sourav Tendulkar, would he have been a great captain? If Farhan Akhtar were Shoaib Akhthar, would he be more alpha male? If Arundhati Roy had been Barkha Roy, would she have been pro-establishment? These are some fascinatingly pointless questions that keep bubbling in my cranium.
The Shakespearean School of Sceptics would snigger at such imputations by arguing that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Me, being an eternal believer in the possibilities that lurk in the unknown, I am of the view that researching the influence of names on how we think, how we look, and how we act, may reveal a whole new science.
For want of a better term, let’s label this still-to-be-born science as ‘Naming Genetics’ or the field that explores the many dimensions of the Name Gene.
To those who are intrigued by ‘Name Gene’, let’s define it for you. I would call it the ‘set of human traits contained in a name’. So every one of us is a walking, talking flesh and blood version of a unique name gene.
The ‘Sachin’ gene, for example, may be associated with a “weak” voice, soft spoken persona and the tendency to pass on the professional baton to the offspring. Music legend Sachin Dev Burman and the Master Blaster come to mind when one thinks of these traits.
From my observations, I can tell that the ‘Lata’ gene is a sure fire guarantor of musicality and tall stature (in terms of physique/reputation). ‘Meera’ ensures an independent streak and the stamina to outlast trials and tribulations. ‘Vijay’ infuses the resident with restlessness, positivity and introvertness. ‘Anand’ bestows nerdiness, cynicism and a love for sport. And ‘Lalita’ somehow breeds rotundity, cheerfulness, religiousness and responsibility.
Although my untested assertions may seem fairly dubious in nature, the best way to evaluate them is by looking around you and analysing if your acquaintances, friends and relatives sharing similar names, have any common behavioural patterns. My gut feel is you will. Because at the end of the day, we are all just vehicles for name genes to navigate the ocean of evolution.
The Shakespearean School of Sceptics would snigger at such imputations by arguing that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Me, being an eternal believer in the possibilities that lurk in the unknown, I am of the view that researching the influence of names on how we think, how we look, and how we act, may reveal a whole new science.
For want of a better term, let’s label this still-to-be-born science as ‘Naming Genetics’ or the field that explores the many dimensions of the Name Gene.
To those who are intrigued by ‘Name Gene’, let’s define it for you. I would call it the ‘set of human traits contained in a name’. So every one of us is a walking, talking flesh and blood version of a unique name gene.
The ‘Sachin’ gene, for example, may be associated with a “weak” voice, soft spoken persona and the tendency to pass on the professional baton to the offspring. Music legend Sachin Dev Burman and the Master Blaster come to mind when one thinks of these traits.
From my observations, I can tell that the ‘Lata’ gene is a sure fire guarantor of musicality and tall stature (in terms of physique/reputation). ‘Meera’ ensures an independent streak and the stamina to outlast trials and tribulations. ‘Vijay’ infuses the resident with restlessness, positivity and introvertness. ‘Anand’ bestows nerdiness, cynicism and a love for sport. And ‘Lalita’ somehow breeds rotundity, cheerfulness, religiousness and responsibility.
Although my untested assertions may seem fairly dubious in nature, the best way to evaluate them is by looking around you and analysing if your acquaintances, friends and relatives sharing similar names, have any common behavioural patterns. My gut feel is you will. Because at the end of the day, we are all just vehicles for name genes to navigate the ocean of evolution.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
The Pettai Wrap Up.
Chennai is easily the most pet friendly city in the Southern hemisphere. The Madrasis cherish their pets so much that they’ve named at least 22 of their 298 pin code zones after pets. From Alwarpet to Washermanpet, they’ve paid homage to herbivores and carnivores of all classes and creeds. They’ve even gone to the extent of creating a rap song themed around their pets!
Which brings us to the most trivial question of the day: where and how did this obsession begin? Well, ‘pet’ as you all know is the anglicised way of saying ‘pettai’ (the Tamil word for ‘market place’).
When the Brits got their act together in Madras, around 1693, they created the first ‘pet’ by rechristening Tondiarpettai as Tondiarpet – which incidentally is a tribute to the Muslim saint Thondiar aka Kunnangudi Masthan Sahib.
Being a cotton-focused enterprise, the East India Company extended the use of this suffix by carving out Chintadripet (derived from ‘Chinna thari pettai’ or small weaver’s town), a township dedicated to weavers, spinners and washers. Vannarapettai or Washermanpet must have been the logical next step. And then the likes of Sowcarpet (sahukar-pettai or money lender market), Jolarpet (the railway base built by Englishman Jolar) and Kosapet (potter’s market) must have sprouted.
Mimicking the ways of the British, many villages and towns across South India, followed this template. Thus was born Somvarpet (Monday Market) in Coorg, Saidapet (a nod to Sayid Khan, the army commander of the Nawab of Arcot) in Chengalpet, and Begumpet (named after the sixth daughter of the Nizam) in Hyderabad.
As you can see, over a period of time ‘pet’ evolved from being a ‘market’ denominator to becoming the generic descriptor for a township. Robertsonpet and Andersonpet near Kolar Gold Fields (KGF) in Karnataka, capture this trend beautifully.
In Chennai, Chromepet (the home of Chrome Leather Company), Chetpet (the area around Namberumal Chetty’s 99 residences) and Teynampet (the land abounding with coconut trees) are some fine examples of the development.
Unfortunately, the ‘Pet’ toponym never took off in North India. ‘Nagar’, ‘Basti’ and ‘Mandi’ were the equivalents preferred instead. One wonders why the Hindiwalahs were so petrified!
Which brings us to the most trivial question of the day: where and how did this obsession begin? Well, ‘pet’ as you all know is the anglicised way of saying ‘pettai’ (the Tamil word for ‘market place’).
When the Brits got their act together in Madras, around 1693, they created the first ‘pet’ by rechristening Tondiarpettai as Tondiarpet – which incidentally is a tribute to the Muslim saint Thondiar aka Kunnangudi Masthan Sahib.
Being a cotton-focused enterprise, the East India Company extended the use of this suffix by carving out Chintadripet (derived from ‘Chinna thari pettai’ or small weaver’s town), a township dedicated to weavers, spinners and washers. Vannarapettai or Washermanpet must have been the logical next step. And then the likes of Sowcarpet (sahukar-pettai or money lender market), Jolarpet (the railway base built by Englishman Jolar) and Kosapet (potter’s market) must have sprouted.
Mimicking the ways of the British, many villages and towns across South India, followed this template. Thus was born Somvarpet (Monday Market) in Coorg, Saidapet (a nod to Sayid Khan, the army commander of the Nawab of Arcot) in Chengalpet, and Begumpet (named after the sixth daughter of the Nizam) in Hyderabad.
As you can see, over a period of time ‘pet’ evolved from being a ‘market’ denominator to becoming the generic descriptor for a township. Robertsonpet and Andersonpet near Kolar Gold Fields (KGF) in Karnataka, capture this trend beautifully.
In Chennai, Chromepet (the home of Chrome Leather Company), Chetpet (the area around Namberumal Chetty’s 99 residences) and Teynampet (the land abounding with coconut trees) are some fine examples of the development.
Unfortunately, the ‘Pet’ toponym never took off in North India. ‘Nagar’, ‘Basti’ and ‘Mandi’ were the equivalents preferred instead. One wonders why the Hindiwalahs were so petrified!
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Names that didn't make the cut.
Quantum physics tells us that life is a dance of possibilities choreographed by Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle. Till the point of definition, everything is just a haze of waves floating around amorphously in multiple universes following their own logical script. The moment a decision is made, the waves collapse into our three dimensional reality and we get to experience the fruit of the choice we’ve made.
Naming choices follow the same quantum pattern. Yup, every name is the author of its own reality. Had Ian Fleming picked ‘Peregrine Carruthers’ over James Bond, ‘I am Carruthers…Peregrine Caruthers,’ would not have shaken or stirred the box office as the name reeks of a spectacled banker than a likeable spy.
Example-2: When confronted with a gum-drop shaped, candy-coloured translucent desktop computer - the god of design - Steve Jobs, almost opted for ‘MacMan’ as the moniker. Luckily for Apple, they had the sensible Ken Segal who tabled ‘iMac’ for consideration. Thanks to his dogged persistence, we have the iPod, iPhone and iPad today. Else, we’d have been stuck with the very Walkman-like PodMan, PhoneMan and PadMan. With such clunky names, who knows Apple would have turned DudMan!
Starbucks is another great case study to explore the ‘what ifs’ of naming. The founders, it is said, had short listed ‘Pequod’ (the whale ship in the book Moby-Dick) as their first preference. A quip from a co-founder that ‘no one is going to drink a cup of pee-quod!’ kind of harpooned the prospects of poor Pequod. That split second of candidness proved a blessing for the coffee major as the team ended up fishing a more memorable name from Herman Melville’s tome.
The history of brands is littered with many similar instances of sagacious rejection of almost-there names. ‘Blackberry’ would have been called ‘Strawberry’ if not for the intervention of a hard-nosed marketing head, who was seeking, a little alliteration. ‘Jaguar’ could have been ‘SS’, ‘Sunbeam’ or any other animal if not for the wise call of automobile magnate William Lyons. Likewise Google would have been ‘Backrub’ and Twitter would have been ‘Twitch’. Moral of the story: If you choose almost-there, you’ll only be almost-famous.
Naming choices follow the same quantum pattern. Yup, every name is the author of its own reality. Had Ian Fleming picked ‘Peregrine Carruthers’ over James Bond, ‘I am Carruthers…Peregrine Caruthers,’ would not have shaken or stirred the box office as the name reeks of a spectacled banker than a likeable spy.
Example-2: When confronted with a gum-drop shaped, candy-coloured translucent desktop computer - the god of design - Steve Jobs, almost opted for ‘MacMan’ as the moniker. Luckily for Apple, they had the sensible Ken Segal who tabled ‘iMac’ for consideration. Thanks to his dogged persistence, we have the iPod, iPhone and iPad today. Else, we’d have been stuck with the very Walkman-like PodMan, PhoneMan and PadMan. With such clunky names, who knows Apple would have turned DudMan!
Starbucks is another great case study to explore the ‘what ifs’ of naming. The founders, it is said, had short listed ‘Pequod’ (the whale ship in the book Moby-Dick) as their first preference. A quip from a co-founder that ‘no one is going to drink a cup of pee-quod!’ kind of harpooned the prospects of poor Pequod. That split second of candidness proved a blessing for the coffee major as the team ended up fishing a more memorable name from Herman Melville’s tome.
The history of brands is littered with many similar instances of sagacious rejection of almost-there names. ‘Blackberry’ would have been called ‘Strawberry’ if not for the intervention of a hard-nosed marketing head, who was seeking, a little alliteration. ‘Jaguar’ could have been ‘SS’, ‘Sunbeam’ or any other animal if not for the wise call of automobile magnate William Lyons. Likewise Google would have been ‘Backrub’ and Twitter would have been ‘Twitch’. Moral of the story: If you choose almost-there, you’ll only be almost-famous.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
The Trademark of a Celebrity.
These days it’s no longer enough to own a Vertu Diamond phone, a luxury yacht, an IPL team or a holiday home in Jumeirah Palm Island to qualify for celebrityhood. The ‘Big Kahuna’ test is whether you can trademark your name or not.
Shah Rukh Khan learned about this new licence for stardom a little earlier than most of our twinkle types. He filed for an application with the Controller General of Patents and Trademarks on 26th September 2008. Thanks to that masterstroke, the name ‘Shah Rukh Khan’ is a protected property under Class 41.
What that ‘protection’ means is: there can be no other Shah Rukh Khan on TV, Radio, Animation and Entertainment in India till 2018. Incidentally, SRK was not the first celebrity in the sub continent to trademark his name. Oscar winner AR Rahman beat him to it by filing his application on 29th April 2008!
Mallika Sherawat, Sachin Tendulkar, Kajol, Baba Ramdev, Chef Sanjeev Kapoor and cardiologist Naresh Trehan are the only others who’ve exercised the option of converting their name into an intellectual property. Surprisingly the ultra narcissistic Amitabh Bachchan, Aishwarya Rai, Salman Khan, Aamir Khan and Vijay Mallya have refrained from trade marking their names.
While one might be tempted to lampoon the TM trend, let’s be very clear that it has its practical uses. Kajol, for instance, can leverage it in three ways: she could generate revenues by loaning her trademark to a product within the realm of entertainment; she could theoretically nip all potential misuse of her real & virtual identity with defamation suits; and most importantly, she can earn royalties from all future commercial deployment of her name.
Recently, Beyoncé Knowles and Jay-Z pushed the celebrity stakes one notch higher when they approached the USPTO for trade marking ‘Blue Ivory Carter’ - their new born baby’s name! It is to be seen if Abhi & Ash mimic this strategy.
Even if they do, they might hit a roadblock if the name is as commonplace as ‘Abhilasha’. The key is to be distinctive. My take is, ‘Aaradhya Bachchan’ may stand a better chance of making a mark with the patent office.
Shah Rukh Khan learned about this new licence for stardom a little earlier than most of our twinkle types. He filed for an application with the Controller General of Patents and Trademarks on 26th September 2008. Thanks to that masterstroke, the name ‘Shah Rukh Khan’ is a protected property under Class 41.
What that ‘protection’ means is: there can be no other Shah Rukh Khan on TV, Radio, Animation and Entertainment in India till 2018. Incidentally, SRK was not the first celebrity in the sub continent to trademark his name. Oscar winner AR Rahman beat him to it by filing his application on 29th April 2008!
Mallika Sherawat, Sachin Tendulkar, Kajol, Baba Ramdev, Chef Sanjeev Kapoor and cardiologist Naresh Trehan are the only others who’ve exercised the option of converting their name into an intellectual property. Surprisingly the ultra narcissistic Amitabh Bachchan, Aishwarya Rai, Salman Khan, Aamir Khan and Vijay Mallya have refrained from trade marking their names.
While one might be tempted to lampoon the TM trend, let’s be very clear that it has its practical uses. Kajol, for instance, can leverage it in three ways: she could generate revenues by loaning her trademark to a product within the realm of entertainment; she could theoretically nip all potential misuse of her real & virtual identity with defamation suits; and most importantly, she can earn royalties from all future commercial deployment of her name.
Recently, Beyoncé Knowles and Jay-Z pushed the celebrity stakes one notch higher when they approached the USPTO for trade marking ‘Blue Ivory Carter’ - their new born baby’s name! It is to be seen if Abhi & Ash mimic this strategy.
Even if they do, they might hit a roadblock if the name is as commonplace as ‘Abhilasha’. The key is to be distinctive. My take is, ‘Aaradhya Bachchan’ may stand a better chance of making a mark with the patent office.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
The Namewala Algorithm
If a mystic meteor were to crash into our planet and wipe out our collective memory of names, we’ll still have the wherewithal to rename every single person. The species we call ‘Mad Bawas’ deserve all credit for empowering us earthlings with this lifesaving technique which shall henceforth be referred to as the ‘Namewala Algorithm’.
The ‘Namewala Algorithm’ posits that anyone can generate a name for oneself by following the F + P formula. F here stands for any random first name and P is the profession you’re enamoured with or the craft that’s traditionally associated with your family. The beauty of the formulation is that it can create the most logical names custom-made for all earthly and unearthly languages.
So if you happen to be a tailor and Urdu is your mother tongue, you get Darzi as your P-name. Just append a meaningless Arabic sound like ‘Alkaza’ as your F-name and ta-da, you get Alkaza Darzi as your identity! Following this train of thought, if you were English, your name could be Ashley Taylor. If Spanish, make that Alfredo Modisto and if you were Swahili, you could opt for, say Mbsili Mshonaji.
Such an elegant method was invented by the refugee Parsis of the 19th century when they decided to give their faceless selves, a facelift. The first set of pioneers in a fit of nostalgia preferred their P-names to reflect Place of Settlement. Broacha (from Bharuch), Bilimoria (Bilimora), Khambhatta (Cambay) and Jhunjhunwala (Jhunjhunu) are some famous examples.
The latter day Parsis carved out their own distinctive personas by picking aptronyms (aptly suited names) based on professions. Mistry, Zaveri, Ustad, and Shroff were the bold precursors. Tijoriwala, Sopariwala, Daruwala, Lakdawala, Bandookwala, Furniturewala, Screwwala, Treasurywala and Sodabottleopenerwala followed suit with their semi-obvious surnames. Then came the, ultra anglicised Merchants, Bankers, Pilots, Doctors, Engineers and Lawyers. Today we have folks with surnames like ‘Winemaker’, ‘Writer’ and ‘Reporter’.
Given the penchant of Gen Y to be more innovative than the previous generations, I won’t be surprised if we get to see ‘DJ’, ‘Coder’, ‘Actor’, ‘Magician’, ‘Guitarwala’ ‘Tattoowala’ and ‘Bikewala’ soon. Any which way, we’re ready for the festival of the thousand walas!
The ‘Namewala Algorithm’ posits that anyone can generate a name for oneself by following the F + P formula. F here stands for any random first name and P is the profession you’re enamoured with or the craft that’s traditionally associated with your family. The beauty of the formulation is that it can create the most logical names custom-made for all earthly and unearthly languages.
So if you happen to be a tailor and Urdu is your mother tongue, you get Darzi as your P-name. Just append a meaningless Arabic sound like ‘Alkaza’ as your F-name and ta-da, you get Alkaza Darzi as your identity! Following this train of thought, if you were English, your name could be Ashley Taylor. If Spanish, make that Alfredo Modisto and if you were Swahili, you could opt for, say Mbsili Mshonaji.
Such an elegant method was invented by the refugee Parsis of the 19th century when they decided to give their faceless selves, a facelift. The first set of pioneers in a fit of nostalgia preferred their P-names to reflect Place of Settlement. Broacha (from Bharuch), Bilimoria (Bilimora), Khambhatta (Cambay) and Jhunjhunwala (Jhunjhunu) are some famous examples.
The latter day Parsis carved out their own distinctive personas by picking aptronyms (aptly suited names) based on professions. Mistry, Zaveri, Ustad, and Shroff were the bold precursors. Tijoriwala, Sopariwala, Daruwala, Lakdawala, Bandookwala, Furniturewala, Screwwala, Treasurywala and Sodabottleopenerwala followed suit with their semi-obvious surnames. Then came the, ultra anglicised Merchants, Bankers, Pilots, Doctors, Engineers and Lawyers. Today we have folks with surnames like ‘Winemaker’, ‘Writer’ and ‘Reporter’.
Given the penchant of Gen Y to be more innovative than the previous generations, I won’t be surprised if we get to see ‘DJ’, ‘Coder’, ‘Actor’, ‘Magician’, ‘Guitarwala’ ‘Tattoowala’ and ‘Bikewala’ soon. Any which way, we’re ready for the festival of the thousand walas!
Friday, April 13, 2012
Judge a book by its cover.
Having been weaned on a literary diet of 25 text books, 4.5 novels, 3 dictionaries and 1 epic facebook account, I can authoritatively declare that titles are like newspaper headlines. Their tone and tenor reveal the soul of the book
If the title is deliberately soporific like a daily we know, then the book will be pretentiously intellectual. ‘The Wealth of Nations’ by Adam Smith, ‘Development as Freedom’ by Amartya Sen and ‘Class War: The Attack on Working People’ by Noam Chomsky, are telling examples.
Pulpy paperbacks prefer something tabloidy. Think ‘Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter’, ‘The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo’ and ‘Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus’ to appreciate my point better.
And the truly sidey ones use a yellow journalistic sleaziness to tease your senses. I’ve spent a considerable amount of my wasted life in hunting down such kitschy book titles. Here’s the best of the worst:
On top of my list is ‘How to Shit in the Woods: An Environmentally Sound Approach to a Lost Art’ by Kathleen Meyer. Apparently the book is awash with heaps of advice on relieving oneself while camping out. It beats me how anyone can write or read such crap.
Carl Japikse’s breathtaking spiritual parody ‘The Zen of Farting’ ranks a close second. I wonder if anyone will sit next to you if you were carrying this 104-pager on a flight!
‘Pornogami – A Guide to the Ancient Art of Paper-Folding for Adults’ by Master Sugoi is an equally baffling book to chance upon. The kinky pleasure of transforming pieces of paper into objects of erotica is the premise of Pornogami. Don’t ask me who’ll buy it. May be Shiny Ahuja or Dominique Strauss-Kahn?
If you couldn’t handle that one, how about leafing through ‘If You Want Closure in Your Relationship, Start With Your Legs’? Amazon.com tells us that it’s a love-guide for women from a been-there-done-that guy. Can’t imagine who’ll want to order such poppycock.
‘Living with Crazy Buttocks’, ‘The Big Book of Lesbian Horse Stories’ and ‘101 Super Uses for Tampon Applicators’ offer further evidence for my theory that the more pick-me-up the title, the more put-me-down it will be.
If the title is deliberately soporific like a daily we know, then the book will be pretentiously intellectual. ‘The Wealth of Nations’ by Adam Smith, ‘Development as Freedom’ by Amartya Sen and ‘Class War: The Attack on Working People’ by Noam Chomsky, are telling examples.
Pulpy paperbacks prefer something tabloidy. Think ‘Abraham Lincoln Vampire Hunter’, ‘The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo’ and ‘Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus’ to appreciate my point better.
And the truly sidey ones use a yellow journalistic sleaziness to tease your senses. I’ve spent a considerable amount of my wasted life in hunting down such kitschy book titles. Here’s the best of the worst:
On top of my list is ‘How to Shit in the Woods: An Environmentally Sound Approach to a Lost Art’ by Kathleen Meyer. Apparently the book is awash with heaps of advice on relieving oneself while camping out. It beats me how anyone can write or read such crap.
Carl Japikse’s breathtaking spiritual parody ‘The Zen of Farting’ ranks a close second. I wonder if anyone will sit next to you if you were carrying this 104-pager on a flight!
‘Pornogami – A Guide to the Ancient Art of Paper-Folding for Adults’ by Master Sugoi is an equally baffling book to chance upon. The kinky pleasure of transforming pieces of paper into objects of erotica is the premise of Pornogami. Don’t ask me who’ll buy it. May be Shiny Ahuja or Dominique Strauss-Kahn?
If you couldn’t handle that one, how about leafing through ‘If You Want Closure in Your Relationship, Start With Your Legs’? Amazon.com tells us that it’s a love-guide for women from a been-there-done-that guy. Can’t imagine who’ll want to order such poppycock.
‘Living with Crazy Buttocks’, ‘The Big Book of Lesbian Horse Stories’ and ‘101 Super Uses for Tampon Applicators’ offer further evidence for my theory that the more pick-me-up the title, the more put-me-down it will be.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Understanding the Albert Pintos
Quick quiz! What was Bobby’s surname in the Raj Kapoor blockbuster ‘Bobby’? What was Kareena Kapoor’s surname in the recently released rom-com ‘Ek Main Aur Ek Tu’? And final question: Archana Puran Singh played a flirtatious college professor in ‘Kuch Kuch Hota Hai’. What was her moniker in that movie?
If you are as clueless as Manmohan Singh now, let me reveal the solution. The answer to all the three posers is: Braganza!
See, as always Bollywood has turned out to be utterly predictable. If you talk to people from Goa, they will reel out many more instances to showcase the limited imagination of our screenwriters. Here are a few samplers: when in doubt, it’s either Albert or Anthony Gonsalves; if it’s a brother, it has to be Fernando; a sidekick always means Fonseca or Mendonca; and all licentious Goan women get labelled as Julie.
Fortunately, the tapestry of Goan Christian names is far richer than we can imagine. So may be next time when some ‘Anurag Kashyap Type’ sits down to write a screenplay, it might just help to mull over the nomenclatural beauties on offer before freezing on a suitable name.
For instance, if the character is a wily fox, he could be called Lobo (meaning ‘wolf’). A sailor can be a D’Costa (Portugese for ‘from the coast’). A wild guy can be a D’Silva (‘from the forest’). A pastor can be termed a D’Cruz (‘from the cross’). A mine owner can be a Ferreira (‘one from the iron mine’) and a thirsty-for-success bloke could be a Sequeira (‘from arid land’).
In case, the hunt is for a little exotic surname, the choice could be between Simoes (‘son of Simon’), Couto (‘from an enclosed pasture’), Brito (‘from Brittany’), Miranda (‘wondrous or lovely’), Saldanha (‘from Saldana, a town in Spain’), Correa (‘one who trades in leather fastening goods’), Perreira (‘surrounded by Pear trees’), Carvalho (‘Oak tree’) and Moraes (‘living among Mulberry trees’).
When none of the above works, try Dias (‘son of Diego’), Gomes (‘man), or just gulp some Feni and your pride, and settle for the evergreen Gonsalves (one who fights without weapons) or simply Pinto (‘the speckled one’)!
If you are as clueless as Manmohan Singh now, let me reveal the solution. The answer to all the three posers is: Braganza!
See, as always Bollywood has turned out to be utterly predictable. If you talk to people from Goa, they will reel out many more instances to showcase the limited imagination of our screenwriters. Here are a few samplers: when in doubt, it’s either Albert or Anthony Gonsalves; if it’s a brother, it has to be Fernando; a sidekick always means Fonseca or Mendonca; and all licentious Goan women get labelled as Julie.
Fortunately, the tapestry of Goan Christian names is far richer than we can imagine. So may be next time when some ‘Anurag Kashyap Type’ sits down to write a screenplay, it might just help to mull over the nomenclatural beauties on offer before freezing on a suitable name.
For instance, if the character is a wily fox, he could be called Lobo (meaning ‘wolf’). A sailor can be a D’Costa (Portugese for ‘from the coast’). A wild guy can be a D’Silva (‘from the forest’). A pastor can be termed a D’Cruz (‘from the cross’). A mine owner can be a Ferreira (‘one from the iron mine’) and a thirsty-for-success bloke could be a Sequeira (‘from arid land’).
In case, the hunt is for a little exotic surname, the choice could be between Simoes (‘son of Simon’), Couto (‘from an enclosed pasture’), Brito (‘from Brittany’), Miranda (‘wondrous or lovely’), Saldanha (‘from Saldana, a town in Spain’), Correa (‘one who trades in leather fastening goods’), Perreira (‘surrounded by Pear trees’), Carvalho (‘Oak tree’) and Moraes (‘living among Mulberry trees’).
When none of the above works, try Dias (‘son of Diego’), Gomes (‘man), or just gulp some Feni and your pride, and settle for the evergreen Gonsalves (one who fights without weapons) or simply Pinto (‘the speckled one’)!
Thursday, March 29, 2012
A test tube full of fun.
Chemists are a radical lot. Whatever they do causes a reaction. If they bond well, there’s equilibrium. If they develop a complex, there’s entropy all around. If they turn radio active, something explosive happens. And if they decide to stay inert, the thermodynamics of life faces a litmus test. To stereotype them as colourless white-coats is as uni-dimensional as remembering Dravid for his ‘dour defence’ or Sonia for her ‘sphinx-like silence’.
The fact is, most of us aren’t even aware of the kind of fun they have while whipping up their alcohols and aldehydes. Thankfully we have Paul W. May, the Professor of Physical Chemistry at University of Bristol. He’s been generous enough to give us an inkling of the chemist’s wit by penning ‘Molecules with silly or unusual names’.
From the book, I’ve culled out some rip-roariously amusing names that feel like they were coined in a room filled with laughing gas.
Moronic Acid is going to be my Exhibit No.1. Extracted from Mulberry trees (biologically called the Morus family), Moronic Acid is not used to dissolve the Big Mooses of the world. On the contrary, the triterpenoid organic acid is often deployed by archaeologists to wash away the dirt from ancient wooden relics.
Then there’s Arsole, the most ingeniously named compound in the chemistry of mankind. Arsole or the Arsenic equivalent of Pyrrole is predictably known to be mildly aromatic. It seems the curious tag tickled quite a few scientists into queuing up to research the aroma of the Arsole!
Another bold nomenclature is Bastardane. When confronted with a look that felt very different from the papa molecule, it seems someone with a tongue firmly in cheek took the liberty of opting for this drop of blasphemy.
‘DEAD’ (the acronym for the explosive Di-Ethyl-Azo-Dicarboxylate) is a stark example of the black humour of the lords of the lab. The hideously memorable ‘SNOT’ (Tritiated Tin Hydroxide) is an equally clever derivation, made up from the chemical formula SnOT. And if that didn’t regale you enough, consider DAMN, the acronym for the fairly toxic Di-Amino-Maleo-Nitrile. Ain’t that befittingly caustic?
The fact is, most of us aren’t even aware of the kind of fun they have while whipping up their alcohols and aldehydes. Thankfully we have Paul W. May, the Professor of Physical Chemistry at University of Bristol. He’s been generous enough to give us an inkling of the chemist’s wit by penning ‘Molecules with silly or unusual names’.
From the book, I’ve culled out some rip-roariously amusing names that feel like they were coined in a room filled with laughing gas.
Moronic Acid is going to be my Exhibit No.1. Extracted from Mulberry trees (biologically called the Morus family), Moronic Acid is not used to dissolve the Big Mooses of the world. On the contrary, the triterpenoid organic acid is often deployed by archaeologists to wash away the dirt from ancient wooden relics.
Then there’s Arsole, the most ingeniously named compound in the chemistry of mankind. Arsole or the Arsenic equivalent of Pyrrole is predictably known to be mildly aromatic. It seems the curious tag tickled quite a few scientists into queuing up to research the aroma of the Arsole!
Another bold nomenclature is Bastardane. When confronted with a look that felt very different from the papa molecule, it seems someone with a tongue firmly in cheek took the liberty of opting for this drop of blasphemy.
‘DEAD’ (the acronym for the explosive Di-Ethyl-Azo-Dicarboxylate) is a stark example of the black humour of the lords of the lab. The hideously memorable ‘SNOT’ (Tritiated Tin Hydroxide) is an equally clever derivation, made up from the chemical formula SnOT. And if that didn’t regale you enough, consider DAMN, the acronym for the fairly toxic Di-Amino-Maleo-Nitrile. Ain’t that befittingly caustic?
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Revenge of the Mummy
Let’s drop all pretence and admit it once for all that babies are rarely ever the ‘little bundles of joy’ they are made out to be. They are in fact, the fountainhead of all future troubles in store for naïve, unsuspecting parents.
If you put any mom through a polygraph test, the real repressed truth will tumble out. The so-called ‘cuddly angels’ are nothing but milk-guzzling, energy-draining, time-sucking ingrates who don’t give a diddly squat about you or your wasted life. All they want is: attention, attention and more attention.
To mothers and fathers who were willingly suckered into this thankless deal, I have a devious revenge plan. How about hitting the baby where it hurts by giving the child a ‘stick out like a sore thumb’ name that will cause embarrassment forever? How about giving your dolly a suitably ridiculous brand name that aptly sums up the personality of the infant?
For example, if junior is the type who wets his bed, how about calling him Harpic? That should raise a stink in the classroom when the teacher reads out his name during the roll call!
If you found that way too offensive, we could always soften things up by making it fairly cutesy. By cutesy, I mean, the baby that bawls like a rowdy for even itsy-bitsy things can be named – Yahoo! The one that cries fairly musically could be called Bose.
Hutch should be the mamma’s boy who tags along wherever she goes. Apollo (an allusion to the hospital) should be a perfect fit for the perpetually sick kid. Fevikwik could be the one who gladly chipkofyies to relatives who shower attention. And Johnnie Walker can be the restless devil who keeps on walking.
Lest you take my suggestions lightly, lemme warn you that this naming trend is already catching on in the West. Over 600 babies in Europe have been given the ‘Ikea’ moniker in the last 16 years. Just recently, a woman who loved weed and soft drinks named her girl as ‘Marijuana Pepsi Jackson’. So the revenge scenario I projected may very well happen soon. And I am not kidding.
If you put any mom through a polygraph test, the real repressed truth will tumble out. The so-called ‘cuddly angels’ are nothing but milk-guzzling, energy-draining, time-sucking ingrates who don’t give a diddly squat about you or your wasted life. All they want is: attention, attention and more attention.
To mothers and fathers who were willingly suckered into this thankless deal, I have a devious revenge plan. How about hitting the baby where it hurts by giving the child a ‘stick out like a sore thumb’ name that will cause embarrassment forever? How about giving your dolly a suitably ridiculous brand name that aptly sums up the personality of the infant?
For example, if junior is the type who wets his bed, how about calling him Harpic? That should raise a stink in the classroom when the teacher reads out his name during the roll call!
If you found that way too offensive, we could always soften things up by making it fairly cutesy. By cutesy, I mean, the baby that bawls like a rowdy for even itsy-bitsy things can be named – Yahoo! The one that cries fairly musically could be called Bose.
Hutch should be the mamma’s boy who tags along wherever she goes. Apollo (an allusion to the hospital) should be a perfect fit for the perpetually sick kid. Fevikwik could be the one who gladly chipkofyies to relatives who shower attention. And Johnnie Walker can be the restless devil who keeps on walking.
Lest you take my suggestions lightly, lemme warn you that this naming trend is already catching on in the West. Over 600 babies in Europe have been given the ‘Ikea’ moniker in the last 16 years. Just recently, a woman who loved weed and soft drinks named her girl as ‘Marijuana Pepsi Jackson’. So the revenge scenario I projected may very well happen soon. And I am not kidding.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
The OMG of KLPD
There’s a bunch of folks who make me go LOL every time they send me template FYI (For Your Information) mails with the same old PFA (Please Find Attached) subject line peppered with the usual SSDD (Same Shit Different Draft), culminating with an ASAP call for action and ending with a cunningly planted PS thrown in to couch their real intentions in a sly BTW manner. I feel like giving them a KITA (Kick In The Anterior) for forgetting the KISS (Keep It Simple Stupid) principle that they so diligently learnt in their MBA (Mentally Below Average) school.
If you’re wondering why I am going on and on with initialisms, you must have figured that I am no fan of ABCs (Abbreviation Belching Cretins). The mindless minimalism of the ABCs is the reason why we see alphabet soups floating all around us. Tamil Nadu is full of these monogrammatic monstrosities.
Lording over us is ADMK (Amma Devotees Munnetra Kazhagam). Berating every move of the ruling party is DMK (Dynastic Munnetra Kazhagam). Watching from the sidelines is the DMDK (Definitely Muddled Depleted Kazhagam) and desperately seeking some attention is the PMK (Perpetually Mercenary Kazhagam).
Egging them on in the darkness fuelled by TNEB (Think Never Ending Blackouts) is the abbreviation-loving Tamilian who listens to ARR, cheers for CSK, bats for MSD, claps for MGR, banks with IOB, studies in MCC, works for TCS or IBM and wishes he were an NRI.
Seeing our fascination for incongruous letter clusters, even movie makers have started peddling their films with ungainly acronyms. You had SMS (Siva Manasula Sakti), VTV (Vinnai Thandi Varuvaya) and ATM (Azhagiya Tamizh Magan).
Actually our North Indian brethren share the same weakness at least when it comes to films. First there was DDLJ, then HAHK, followed by KKHH and finally K3G. Now things have reached vulgar proportions. A new Vivek Oberoi flick is all set to be launched as KLPD (Kismat Love Paisa Dilli). Ostensibly targeted at the ‘Bhaag DK Bose’ generation, KLPD is a campus expression that is not exactly worth discussing over family dinner. I think it’s an utterly tasteless title that deserves nothing less than a WTF from the censor board.
If you’re wondering why I am going on and on with initialisms, you must have figured that I am no fan of ABCs (Abbreviation Belching Cretins). The mindless minimalism of the ABCs is the reason why we see alphabet soups floating all around us. Tamil Nadu is full of these monogrammatic monstrosities.
Lording over us is ADMK (Amma Devotees Munnetra Kazhagam). Berating every move of the ruling party is DMK (Dynastic Munnetra Kazhagam). Watching from the sidelines is the DMDK (Definitely Muddled Depleted Kazhagam) and desperately seeking some attention is the PMK (Perpetually Mercenary Kazhagam).
Egging them on in the darkness fuelled by TNEB (Think Never Ending Blackouts) is the abbreviation-loving Tamilian who listens to ARR, cheers for CSK, bats for MSD, claps for MGR, banks with IOB, studies in MCC, works for TCS or IBM and wishes he were an NRI.
Seeing our fascination for incongruous letter clusters, even movie makers have started peddling their films with ungainly acronyms. You had SMS (Siva Manasula Sakti), VTV (Vinnai Thandi Varuvaya) and ATM (Azhagiya Tamizh Magan).
Actually our North Indian brethren share the same weakness at least when it comes to films. First there was DDLJ, then HAHK, followed by KKHH and finally K3G. Now things have reached vulgar proportions. A new Vivek Oberoi flick is all set to be launched as KLPD (Kismat Love Paisa Dilli). Ostensibly targeted at the ‘Bhaag DK Bose’ generation, KLPD is a campus expression that is not exactly worth discussing over family dinner. I think it’s an utterly tasteless title that deserves nothing less than a WTF from the censor board.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
A Whiff of Exotica
An average woman can identify 10,000 distinct odours. While an average man can just about manage 5000 aromas. That explains why the female species can sniff out your stinky socks from a mile. That also sheds new light on why ‘guys like us’ can’t even tell the difference between perfumes, colognes and deodorants.
For the olfactorily-challenged: Cologne has just 3 to 6% solution of fragrance oil in 70% grade alcohol; Deodorant has 6 to 15% fragrance in 80% grade alcohol; and Perfume has 15 to 25% in 100% ethyl alcohol. In pure aura terms, the difference is the same as the one between Any Aishwarya, Aishwarya Rajnikant and Aishwarya Rai.
Now that we’ve got that monkey off our back, let’s understand why women fall hook, line and sinker for parfums (that’s how the French spell it).
Perfumistas opine that the prime motive could be to ensnare a man by triggering pheromones that stimulate a sensual feeling inside her mate. I’d like to think that’s utter poppycock. The driving force at work here is the masochistic urge of the woman to make the man pay the price for putting up with his insufferable company.
Yes sir, the perfume is her payback for overcoming the stench of your presence. You better wake up to this unsavoury reality the next time you gift her that unpronounceable scented oil in that obscenely expensive bottle.
To help you cut your losses, I am gonna give you a little tip. The more grandiosely exotic the name of the parfum, the more it’s gonna hurt your wallet. As in, if it’s Zeste Mandarine Pampelmousse (French for ‘Spirit of Orange & Graperfruit’), Drakkar Noir (Black Dragonship) or Kokorico (Cock-a-doodle-do), it’s always going to cost you more than our humble Spinz.
Another trick is to request the pretty salesgirl for a demystification of the perfume name. If she says ‘Un Jardin Sur Le Nil’ translates to ’A garden on the Nile’ it just means that your chick will end up smelling like an Egyptian mango. Shelling out a ransom for an aam flavour? Now if that’s not paying through your nose, I don’t what else is!
For the olfactorily-challenged: Cologne has just 3 to 6% solution of fragrance oil in 70% grade alcohol; Deodorant has 6 to 15% fragrance in 80% grade alcohol; and Perfume has 15 to 25% in 100% ethyl alcohol. In pure aura terms, the difference is the same as the one between Any Aishwarya, Aishwarya Rajnikant and Aishwarya Rai.
Now that we’ve got that monkey off our back, let’s understand why women fall hook, line and sinker for parfums (that’s how the French spell it).
Perfumistas opine that the prime motive could be to ensnare a man by triggering pheromones that stimulate a sensual feeling inside her mate. I’d like to think that’s utter poppycock. The driving force at work here is the masochistic urge of the woman to make the man pay the price for putting up with his insufferable company.
Yes sir, the perfume is her payback for overcoming the stench of your presence. You better wake up to this unsavoury reality the next time you gift her that unpronounceable scented oil in that obscenely expensive bottle.
To help you cut your losses, I am gonna give you a little tip. The more grandiosely exotic the name of the parfum, the more it’s gonna hurt your wallet. As in, if it’s Zeste Mandarine Pampelmousse (French for ‘Spirit of Orange & Graperfruit’), Drakkar Noir (Black Dragonship) or Kokorico (Cock-a-doodle-do), it’s always going to cost you more than our humble Spinz.
Another trick is to request the pretty salesgirl for a demystification of the perfume name. If she says ‘Un Jardin Sur Le Nil’ translates to ’A garden on the Nile’ it just means that your chick will end up smelling like an Egyptian mango. Shelling out a ransom for an aam flavour? Now if that’s not paying through your nose, I don’t what else is!
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Where Ivan ain't Ivan
Chennai can be a terribly boring place for humour buffs who know just konjum konjum Tamil. In such times of severe laughter deprivation, it might help to scan the movie section of your favourite national newspaper.
Just stare at any of the Kollywood ads that modestly proclaim their ‘terra hit 3rd day collection’. And focus on the Transcribed-in-English film title. Try and read it aloud, if possible. Chances are, all the localites around you will be in splits and that would make you smile.
‘But why should a Tamil Movie Title, written in English, raise a chuckle?’ you may ask. Well, the answer for that question lies in the Tamilian’s whimsical penchant for using spellings that follow no earthly logic.
Allow me to amplify with a few examples. Let’s just say, you happen to see the ubiquitous ‘7-am Arivu’ ad. How would you pronounce it? Seven-A-M-Air-Ree-Woo, right? You can’t be blamed if you assumed, it was a movie about early morning flatulence! Makes you wonder why Murugadoss didn’t opt for ‘Yezhaam Areevu’ instead of that misleading alphanumeric.
I’ll give you one more gem. ‘Potti’ is supposed to be the native word for ‘Box’. While ‘Poatti’ is supposed to mean ‘Competition’. But everybody who’s anybody insists on using ‘Potti’ for ‘Competition’. So you have a Jayaram-starrer called ‘Sabash Sariyana Potti’. A good acquaintance of mine read it as ‘Sabash Sariyana Potty’. Someone should box the ears of the filmmaker for this unintended toilet humour.
Actor Parthiban’s ‘Ivan’ is another hopeless case. When the posters made their appearance, many made the mistake of surmising it to be an adaptation of ‘Ivan Hoe’. It turned out to be the Tamil word ‘Ivan’ (meaning: him).
These goof ups happen as a lot of folks here mix up their ‘da’ with dha’ with ‘tha’. Not surprisingly, they write Kanda when they want to say Kandha, Anantha when they mean ‘Ananda’ and Mariyathai when they imply ‘Mariyadhai’. Given this chaos, I won’t be surprised if some people were to decode Mani Ratnam’s Kadal (sea) as Kadhal (love). If that happens, may be it’s time our directors signed up for a class in phonetics.
Just stare at any of the Kollywood ads that modestly proclaim their ‘terra hit 3rd day collection’. And focus on the Transcribed-in-English film title. Try and read it aloud, if possible. Chances are, all the localites around you will be in splits and that would make you smile.
‘But why should a Tamil Movie Title, written in English, raise a chuckle?’ you may ask. Well, the answer for that question lies in the Tamilian’s whimsical penchant for using spellings that follow no earthly logic.
Allow me to amplify with a few examples. Let’s just say, you happen to see the ubiquitous ‘7-am Arivu’ ad. How would you pronounce it? Seven-A-M-Air-Ree-Woo, right? You can’t be blamed if you assumed, it was a movie about early morning flatulence! Makes you wonder why Murugadoss didn’t opt for ‘Yezhaam Areevu’ instead of that misleading alphanumeric.
I’ll give you one more gem. ‘Potti’ is supposed to be the native word for ‘Box’. While ‘Poatti’ is supposed to mean ‘Competition’. But everybody who’s anybody insists on using ‘Potti’ for ‘Competition’. So you have a Jayaram-starrer called ‘Sabash Sariyana Potti’. A good acquaintance of mine read it as ‘Sabash Sariyana Potty’. Someone should box the ears of the filmmaker for this unintended toilet humour.
Actor Parthiban’s ‘Ivan’ is another hopeless case. When the posters made their appearance, many made the mistake of surmising it to be an adaptation of ‘Ivan Hoe’. It turned out to be the Tamil word ‘Ivan’ (meaning: him).
These goof ups happen as a lot of folks here mix up their ‘da’ with dha’ with ‘tha’. Not surprisingly, they write Kanda when they want to say Kandha, Anantha when they mean ‘Ananda’ and Mariyathai when they imply ‘Mariyadhai’. Given this chaos, I won’t be surprised if some people were to decode Mani Ratnam’s Kadal (sea) as Kadhal (love). If that happens, may be it’s time our directors signed up for a class in phonetics.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
The Peter Paradox
What will be your reaction if you stumble upon a man from Mannargudi who walks and talks like he was born and brought up in Manhattan? You’ll snigger at him, right? And if that farcical facade got on your nerves, you might just mutter: Enna da, eppidi Peter udraan (Tamil slang for – oh maan, what a pseud)!
Curiously, we don’t apply this derisive ‘Peter’ label to home-grown brands that appropriate very international-sounding names. We don’t mock at a Maharashtra-born ‘London Pilsner’ beer or a Ludhiana-made ‘Monte Carlo’ turtleneck. On the contrary, we seem perfectly fine if a local brand creates an aura of being European (Case in point: Fiama di Wills).
Strangely though, we do look down upon native brands that have a very native name. Somehow in our heads we grade a ‘Meenkashi’ as ‘downmarket’ while we’re happy to classify ‘Fish Eye’ as ‘uppity’. What our conditioned mind forgets is, ‘Fish Eye’ is but the English version of ‘Meenakshi’!
Funny, isn’t it? On the one hand, we make fun of people who are very put on. On the other hand, we are totally at ease with brown skin brands that pretend to be white skin. I’ve never quite fathomed this great Indian paradox.
Luckily, there are still a few brave hearts who are not at all ashamed to court consumers with Bharatiya names. Tanishq (Hindustani for Body Love) is a fabulous example. The company had a choice of riding on the super successful ‘Titan’. They could even have milked the mother cow ‘Tata’. But instead they boldly bet on Tanishq - without ever losing sleep over picking an ‘uncool’ brown skin name. The gamble was well worth the trick as the jewellery brand rakes in over 7000 crores of moolah, today.
The crunchy Hindi moniker Kurkure is another blockbuster brand that’s unabashedly desi. Come to think of it, Aashirvad Aata, Radio Mirchi, Vatika, Meera, Santoor, Aaj Tak, Rasna, Vimal, Mufti, Shaadi.com and Amrutanjan have all been equally successful. Given this overwhelming evidence, you’d be surprised to know that only 3 in 10 brands launched in India opt for an Indian name. Makes you wonder if we are all just wannabe goras.
Curiously, we don’t apply this derisive ‘Peter’ label to home-grown brands that appropriate very international-sounding names. We don’t mock at a Maharashtra-born ‘London Pilsner’ beer or a Ludhiana-made ‘Monte Carlo’ turtleneck. On the contrary, we seem perfectly fine if a local brand creates an aura of being European (Case in point: Fiama di Wills).
Strangely though, we do look down upon native brands that have a very native name. Somehow in our heads we grade a ‘Meenkashi’ as ‘downmarket’ while we’re happy to classify ‘Fish Eye’ as ‘uppity’. What our conditioned mind forgets is, ‘Fish Eye’ is but the English version of ‘Meenakshi’!
Funny, isn’t it? On the one hand, we make fun of people who are very put on. On the other hand, we are totally at ease with brown skin brands that pretend to be white skin. I’ve never quite fathomed this great Indian paradox.
Luckily, there are still a few brave hearts who are not at all ashamed to court consumers with Bharatiya names. Tanishq (Hindustani for Body Love) is a fabulous example. The company had a choice of riding on the super successful ‘Titan’. They could even have milked the mother cow ‘Tata’. But instead they boldly bet on Tanishq - without ever losing sleep over picking an ‘uncool’ brown skin name. The gamble was well worth the trick as the jewellery brand rakes in over 7000 crores of moolah, today.
The crunchy Hindi moniker Kurkure is another blockbuster brand that’s unabashedly desi. Come to think of it, Aashirvad Aata, Radio Mirchi, Vatika, Meera, Santoor, Aaj Tak, Rasna, Vimal, Mufti, Shaadi.com and Amrutanjan have all been equally successful. Given this overwhelming evidence, you’d be surprised to know that only 3 in 10 brands launched in India opt for an Indian name. Makes you wonder if we are all just wannabe goras.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
The Circuit of Sidekicks
Life as a sidekick can be seriously depressing. You have to walk and talk like a retard to make the hero look smarter. You have to wear uncool clothing to make the star look hipper. You have to be the joke to generate the laughs. What’s worse, you don’t even get to serenade bimbos. A smack here. A whack there. A punch here. A punchline there. That’s all you get. And just when you’re warming up to be the scene stealer, you’re rudely cut out of the frame to make way for a corny climax.
So, that my friend, has been the zakhmi kahaani of sidekicks in Indian flicks. You get a miserly 15 minutes of screen time to make a deep impression. Given the blink-and-miss nature of the appearances, film makers today, are working harder to make these minor characters far more unforgettable.
Opting for wacky sidekick names is a great safety net to ensure memorability. Astute auteurs like Raju Hirani are increasingly turning to quirky names for injecting some added mirth into their sub-plots. The eminently likeable 'Circuit' in the Munnabhai series gave him a wee bit of leeway for the now-famous ‘Short-Circuit’ gag. He repeated that trick by inventing the ‘Virus’ and ‘Millimetre’ characters in ‘3 Idiots’.
Mr. Hirani needs to doff his hat to Shekar Kapoor’s ‘Mr. India’ for hitting upon the winning formula. For those of you who remember the charming Sri Devi-Anil Kapoor blockbuster, actor Satish Kaushik played the role of ‘Calendar’ in that film.
Shekar’s innovation was mimicked big time in the nineties by the David Dhawan generation. You had Johnny Lever playing ‘Hitchcock’ in ‘Aao Wish Karein’, ‘Taxi’ in ‘Farz’, ‘Screwdriver’ in Ghaath, ‘Okay’ in ‘Deewane’ and ‘Maggi’ in ‘Tera Jadoo Chal Gaya’.
You might have forgotten the horrendous ‘International Khiladi’ but you’ll never forget the fact that Johnny Lever played Twinkle Khanna’s photographer sidekick in the movie. And he was aptly called: ‘Focus’.
Comedian Santhanam is attempting to apply this template to Tamil Cinema. His ‘Kaatuppoochi’ in ‘Siruthai’, ‘Delhi’ in ‘Vandhaan Vendraan’ and ‘Speedu’ in Velayudham are steps in that direction. It remains to be seen if this name humour thingy will continue to tickle the funny bone.
So, that my friend, has been the zakhmi kahaani of sidekicks in Indian flicks. You get a miserly 15 minutes of screen time to make a deep impression. Given the blink-and-miss nature of the appearances, film makers today, are working harder to make these minor characters far more unforgettable.
Opting for wacky sidekick names is a great safety net to ensure memorability. Astute auteurs like Raju Hirani are increasingly turning to quirky names for injecting some added mirth into their sub-plots. The eminently likeable 'Circuit' in the Munnabhai series gave him a wee bit of leeway for the now-famous ‘Short-Circuit’ gag. He repeated that trick by inventing the ‘Virus’ and ‘Millimetre’ characters in ‘3 Idiots’.
Mr. Hirani needs to doff his hat to Shekar Kapoor’s ‘Mr. India’ for hitting upon the winning formula. For those of you who remember the charming Sri Devi-Anil Kapoor blockbuster, actor Satish Kaushik played the role of ‘Calendar’ in that film.
Shekar’s innovation was mimicked big time in the nineties by the David Dhawan generation. You had Johnny Lever playing ‘Hitchcock’ in ‘Aao Wish Karein’, ‘Taxi’ in ‘Farz’, ‘Screwdriver’ in Ghaath, ‘Okay’ in ‘Deewane’ and ‘Maggi’ in ‘Tera Jadoo Chal Gaya’.
You might have forgotten the horrendous ‘International Khiladi’ but you’ll never forget the fact that Johnny Lever played Twinkle Khanna’s photographer sidekick in the movie. And he was aptly called: ‘Focus’.
Comedian Santhanam is attempting to apply this template to Tamil Cinema. His ‘Kaatuppoochi’ in ‘Siruthai’, ‘Delhi’ in ‘Vandhaan Vendraan’ and ‘Speedu’ in Velayudham are steps in that direction. It remains to be seen if this name humour thingy will continue to tickle the funny bone.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Life after name & fame.
Dravid’s career has hit a wall. Laxman has become Very Very Superfluous. Tendulkar’s retirement is just one century away. Zaheer has run out of steam. Gauti’s situation is fairly gambhir. Viru’s future seems very edgy. And Dhoni looks like he may need to hang up his gloves soon.
So what do all these legends do once they’re forced to call it a day? Surely they can’t turn television anchors, as Shastri, Gavaskar, Ganguly, Manjrekar, Sivaramakrishnan and Aakash Chopra have squatted upon every inch of real estate available in the already over-crowded commentary box.
The only way out is to start something new. Given how Tendulkar’s and Saurav’s have failed to tickle the palate of foodies, restaurants may not be the best bet. In such quandrous moments, it might be a good idea to study what celebs in other countries are doing in the sunset boulevard of their lives.
MC Hammer, the ‘U can’t touch this’ rapper, has just put his money behind Wiredoo, a deep search engine that’s expected to rock Google and Bing. Raquel Welch, the sex symbol of the swinging sixties, has stumbled upon a goldmine with HairUWear - the world leader in wigs. Shane Warne, Sachin’s dear pal and Liz Hurley’s leg spinner, is all set to launch a high-end nightclub named Club23 in Melbourne.
Meanwhile, Paul Newman, the blue-eyed heartthrob of yore, has milked his equity by putting his name and face on Newman’s Own, an organic food company with the unique proposition of donating all profits for charity. The idea has obviously worked as the company has generated more than $300 million for social causes since 1982!
Another sizzling opportunity is to create a fashion label like Gwen Stefani. The American songster rode on her hit album ‘Love Angel Music Baby’ to create L.A.M.B – the clothing brand. Zaheer Khan is attempting something similar by backing Shersingh.com – an online apparel store.
Jonty Rhodes, the jumping jack of cricket and the brain behind ‘Evolution’ dope-free nutritional supplements, offers the offbeat path of making money while still sticking to sports. Wonder what will appeal to our senior citizens. Gotta watch this match!
So what do all these legends do once they’re forced to call it a day? Surely they can’t turn television anchors, as Shastri, Gavaskar, Ganguly, Manjrekar, Sivaramakrishnan and Aakash Chopra have squatted upon every inch of real estate available in the already over-crowded commentary box.
The only way out is to start something new. Given how Tendulkar’s and Saurav’s have failed to tickle the palate of foodies, restaurants may not be the best bet. In such quandrous moments, it might be a good idea to study what celebs in other countries are doing in the sunset boulevard of their lives.
MC Hammer, the ‘U can’t touch this’ rapper, has just put his money behind Wiredoo, a deep search engine that’s expected to rock Google and Bing. Raquel Welch, the sex symbol of the swinging sixties, has stumbled upon a goldmine with HairUWear - the world leader in wigs. Shane Warne, Sachin’s dear pal and Liz Hurley’s leg spinner, is all set to launch a high-end nightclub named Club23 in Melbourne.
Meanwhile, Paul Newman, the blue-eyed heartthrob of yore, has milked his equity by putting his name and face on Newman’s Own, an organic food company with the unique proposition of donating all profits for charity. The idea has obviously worked as the company has generated more than $300 million for social causes since 1982!
Another sizzling opportunity is to create a fashion label like Gwen Stefani. The American songster rode on her hit album ‘Love Angel Music Baby’ to create L.A.M.B – the clothing brand. Zaheer Khan is attempting something similar by backing Shersingh.com – an online apparel store.
Jonty Rhodes, the jumping jack of cricket and the brain behind ‘Evolution’ dope-free nutritional supplements, offers the offbeat path of making money while still sticking to sports. Wonder what will appeal to our senior citizens. Gotta watch this match!
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Names that spell magic.
Magic has lost all its magic. These days, it feels more like a sleekly packaged act of illusion engineering. The eye-popping, jaw-dropping, awe-inducing wonderment that used to accompany the abracadabra has mysteriously vanished into thin air. All one gets to hear now is the incredulous catcalls of killjoys screaming: “Haven’t we seen this on YouTube before?”
Things were much better in the pre-internet era. The worldwide brotherhood of magicians went to great lengths to create an aura of mystique around their tricks. No one ever wrote ‘sleight-of-hand’ manuals or shot ‘Magic for Beginners’ videos explaining the elaborate deceptions. Part of the charm flowed from the larger-than-life persona projected in the public eye. It also helped to have strange names that lit the fire of intrigue in the mind of the beholder.
The 17th century ‘Conjurer of Kings’, Jacob Meyer, assumed the name ‘Philadelphia’ when he chose to tease emperors by producing ghosts out of smoke, flower showers from the sky and appearing in four places at the same moment.
Long before the invention of the fictional Harry Potter, there was a black magician named ‘Potter’ (Richard Potter). He was famed for dancing on fire, walking on eggs without breaking them, and climbing up a yarn and vanishing into the clouds.
In the late 19th century, Erich Weisz who dreamt of making it big, decided to call himself as ‘Houdini’ as a nod to the French magician Robert-Houdin. The name change worked as Erich ended up becoming the world’s greatest escape artist.
Likewise, Samri S. Baldwin, the American legendary for occultist psychic acts, used to bill himself as ‘The White Mahatma’ to add that Indian zing to his performances. David Bamberg opted for ‘Fu Manchu’ to give himself an exotic Chinese makeover while doing shows in Argentina.
Even the man who made Statue of Liberty disappear renamed himself as David Copperfield (after Charles Dickens’ character) to stand out from his peers. If he had chosen David Seth Kotkin instead, who knows, he might have had to settle for the invisibility of anonymity! BOTTOMLINE: If you want to become a magician, pull out a new name rabbit out of your hat.
Things were much better in the pre-internet era. The worldwide brotherhood of magicians went to great lengths to create an aura of mystique around their tricks. No one ever wrote ‘sleight-of-hand’ manuals or shot ‘Magic for Beginners’ videos explaining the elaborate deceptions. Part of the charm flowed from the larger-than-life persona projected in the public eye. It also helped to have strange names that lit the fire of intrigue in the mind of the beholder.
The 17th century ‘Conjurer of Kings’, Jacob Meyer, assumed the name ‘Philadelphia’ when he chose to tease emperors by producing ghosts out of smoke, flower showers from the sky and appearing in four places at the same moment.
Long before the invention of the fictional Harry Potter, there was a black magician named ‘Potter’ (Richard Potter). He was famed for dancing on fire, walking on eggs without breaking them, and climbing up a yarn and vanishing into the clouds.
In the late 19th century, Erich Weisz who dreamt of making it big, decided to call himself as ‘Houdini’ as a nod to the French magician Robert-Houdin. The name change worked as Erich ended up becoming the world’s greatest escape artist.
Likewise, Samri S. Baldwin, the American legendary for occultist psychic acts, used to bill himself as ‘The White Mahatma’ to add that Indian zing to his performances. David Bamberg opted for ‘Fu Manchu’ to give himself an exotic Chinese makeover while doing shows in Argentina.
Even the man who made Statue of Liberty disappear renamed himself as David Copperfield (after Charles Dickens’ character) to stand out from his peers. If he had chosen David Seth Kotkin instead, who knows, he might have had to settle for the invisibility of anonymity! BOTTOMLINE: If you want to become a magician, pull out a new name rabbit out of your hat.
Friday, January 20, 2012
DeNiros. DeCaprios. Decoded.
The Italians are a large hearted race. They gave us the ice cream cone, eye glasses, Eau de Cologne, typewriter, piano, espresso machine, thermometer, the Mona Lisa, the Vespa scooter, the Ferrari car, the Armani suit, 600 types of pasta, 500 scrumptious pizzas, 400 varieties of cheese, 350 concoctions of wine and above all, the ever luscious Monica Bellucci.
May I take the liberty of adding one more unsung item to this compellingly impressive repertoire – the finest sounding surnames in the world!
Yup, let’s have the grace to admit it: There is no match to the lilt of a Lamborghini, the polish of a Prada and the gentility of a Gucci. It is a fact that a Bulgari sounds infinitely more sophisticated than a Balaraju and a Vivaldi is far more pleasant to the ear, than a Vivekananda. Some attribute it to the phonoaesthetic nature of the language. I haven’t yet figured out why.
All I know is Italian surnames aren’t as beautiful or profound when one gets around to studying their literal meaning. For example, Botticelli means ‘Little barrel’ and it was initially used as a sniggery nickname to describe rotund folks. Somehow, over the years, it has emerged as a renowned cognomen with a mellifluous ring.
Ferrari, for all its uber-rich cues, is a derivative of ‘one who works with Ferrum (iron)’. Or simply put: a highfalutin euphemism for a blacksmith! Zappa, for all its coolness, is Italian for ‘hoe’ (an agricultural tool). The Cavalli in Roberto Cavalli comes from the word ‘cavallero’ which decodes to ‘horseman’. And the very uppity Cerutti alludes to just about anyone with curly hair.
I am damn sure, the companies that launched these brands were perfectly aware of the semantic ordinariness of their monikers. They still went ahead because of the euphonic possibilities.
I would do the same as all that matters is how the name feels when you utter it. DiCaprio has a royal vibe to it. If I told you, it just translates to ‘goat’ you’d probably junk it. Ditto with De Niro (black haired), Fellini (fur maker) and Coppola (flat cap). Don’t you agree, signor?
May I take the liberty of adding one more unsung item to this compellingly impressive repertoire – the finest sounding surnames in the world!
Yup, let’s have the grace to admit it: There is no match to the lilt of a Lamborghini, the polish of a Prada and the gentility of a Gucci. It is a fact that a Bulgari sounds infinitely more sophisticated than a Balaraju and a Vivaldi is far more pleasant to the ear, than a Vivekananda. Some attribute it to the phonoaesthetic nature of the language. I haven’t yet figured out why.
All I know is Italian surnames aren’t as beautiful or profound when one gets around to studying their literal meaning. For example, Botticelli means ‘Little barrel’ and it was initially used as a sniggery nickname to describe rotund folks. Somehow, over the years, it has emerged as a renowned cognomen with a mellifluous ring.
Ferrari, for all its uber-rich cues, is a derivative of ‘one who works with Ferrum (iron)’. Or simply put: a highfalutin euphemism for a blacksmith! Zappa, for all its coolness, is Italian for ‘hoe’ (an agricultural tool). The Cavalli in Roberto Cavalli comes from the word ‘cavallero’ which decodes to ‘horseman’. And the very uppity Cerutti alludes to just about anyone with curly hair.
I am damn sure, the companies that launched these brands were perfectly aware of the semantic ordinariness of their monikers. They still went ahead because of the euphonic possibilities.
I would do the same as all that matters is how the name feels when you utter it. DiCaprio has a royal vibe to it. If I told you, it just translates to ‘goat’ you’d probably junk it. Ditto with De Niro (black haired), Fellini (fur maker) and Coppola (flat cap). Don’t you agree, signor?
Thursday, January 12, 2012
The Butchers in Baggy Green
Bleeding Down Under is an experience, not particularly unique to women. Legions of overseas cricketers who’ve crossed swords with the mighty Australians in the striped battlefields of The Gabba or WACA will vouch for this embarrassing haemorrhage.
Dhoni’s Boys have suffered the same bloody indignity in Melbourne and Sydney. Perhaps the time has come for BCCI to add tampons to the cricketing gear of our hallowed stars. Else, Perth might provoke more mirth about the Agneepath-turned-Ughneepath series.
To be fair, a meaty portion of the credit for the all-round-mauling should go to Cricket Australia for assembling a squad of surgical butchers who relentlessly sliced, diced and cleaved through the veins, nerves and arteries of the hapless Indian XI.
You’d be fascinated to know that the knockout performance of the proud baggy greeners was foretold by their names. The fearless David Warner was destined to be on the front foot as his name meant ‘beloved warrior’. His partner Edward Cowan (meaning: wealth protecting commoner) makes the perfect foil as he was prognosticated to be defensive in nature. Ricky Ponting (Strong power bridger) was prophesied to be the ever dependable link between generations. The selfless sagacity of Michael Clarke (Learned like god) can be attributed to the wisdom embedded in his moniker.
Mike Hussey (Master of the house) stamps his authority on most matches because he was baptised so. Brad Haddin (Broad blossoming hill) hasn’t yet bloomed into a Gilchrist due to the ‘work-in-progress’ aspect of his surname. The heartlessness of Peter Siddle (Stony wide gap) in squeaking through the bat and pad was forecast when his dad decided to christen him.
Likewise, Ben bailed out the Aussies as Hilfenhaus translates to ‘Helping House’ in German. Fast bowling spearhead James Pattinson (Noble supplanter) who replaced injured pace sensation Pat Cummins in the New Zealand tour, didn’t let down his captain as the script was written when he was named!
Don’t you find the performance-lies-in-the-name theory intriguing? The acid test for it could rest with Ryan Harris (little home ruler). If his etymological roots are anything to go by, I am afraid we can kiss the series, a gory goodbye.
Dhoni’s Boys have suffered the same bloody indignity in Melbourne and Sydney. Perhaps the time has come for BCCI to add tampons to the cricketing gear of our hallowed stars. Else, Perth might provoke more mirth about the Agneepath-turned-Ughneepath series.
To be fair, a meaty portion of the credit for the all-round-mauling should go to Cricket Australia for assembling a squad of surgical butchers who relentlessly sliced, diced and cleaved through the veins, nerves and arteries of the hapless Indian XI.
You’d be fascinated to know that the knockout performance of the proud baggy greeners was foretold by their names. The fearless David Warner was destined to be on the front foot as his name meant ‘beloved warrior’. His partner Edward Cowan (meaning: wealth protecting commoner) makes the perfect foil as he was prognosticated to be defensive in nature. Ricky Ponting (Strong power bridger) was prophesied to be the ever dependable link between generations. The selfless sagacity of Michael Clarke (Learned like god) can be attributed to the wisdom embedded in his moniker.
Mike Hussey (Master of the house) stamps his authority on most matches because he was baptised so. Brad Haddin (Broad blossoming hill) hasn’t yet bloomed into a Gilchrist due to the ‘work-in-progress’ aspect of his surname. The heartlessness of Peter Siddle (Stony wide gap) in squeaking through the bat and pad was forecast when his dad decided to christen him.
Likewise, Ben bailed out the Aussies as Hilfenhaus translates to ‘Helping House’ in German. Fast bowling spearhead James Pattinson (Noble supplanter) who replaced injured pace sensation Pat Cummins in the New Zealand tour, didn’t let down his captain as the script was written when he was named!
Don’t you find the performance-lies-in-the-name theory intriguing? The acid test for it could rest with Ryan Harris (little home ruler). If his etymological roots are anything to go by, I am afraid we can kiss the series, a gory goodbye.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Reviving a Badey Saab
My tiny brain has extra large spam folders for irrelevant stuff. 99% of what I see makes it to this exalted space. News items related to dieting, fitness, investment, dogs and cars are given ‘Accelerated Access’ to choice sub-folders in my mental trash can. I rarely pause to think about any of these subjects.
But on Christmas Eve, I guess the spirit of generosity suffused my innards. So for the first time ever, instead of automatically ‘Marking to Spam’, I actually spent time on an article about a vaguely familiar automobile brand. The trigger for it was the stark headline: ‘End of the road for Saab’.
Now for those who know their hatchbacks, Saab is no small fry. It’s as iconic as our Ambassador. It was the first ever four-wheeler to make safety belts a standard feature. Having sold over 3 million cars, the 64-year-old Swedish brand enjoys the reputation of being unassuming, smart, efficient, consistent, dependable and affordable.
‘So why are experts writing its obituary?’ was the question playing on my mind. A cursory glance of the sales figures revealed the sob story. In 2010, the company managed to sell just 30,000 cars. That’s one tenth of what Hyundai sells in India!
Does that mean the scrapheap is the final destination for Saab? I am of the view that if Mahindra or any Indian Group were to make a bid for it, they can turn things around. The reason for my optimism lies in one simple fact: Saab is an Urdu word with terrific connotations in South Asia.
It’s a term of endearment that crops up often in conversations. Bhai Saab, Major Saab, Laat Saab and Memsaab are commonly used appellations. To millions of Hindustanis, the expression ‘Saala main toh Saab ban gaya’ means reaching a stratospheric social status - almost on par with a knighthood.
Therefore, milking the linguistic potential of Saab is clearly the roadmap forward for the struggling brand. Imagine the sensation the car will create if we launch customizable models for celebrities that lets a Mister Bachchan announce his name as Bachchan Saab and a certain Sachin flaunt his awesomeness with Tendulkar Saab. We could even have surname models like 'Khan Saab', 'Chopra Saab', 'Kapoor Saab' and 'Ganguly Saab'. The possibilities are endless. With some deft ethnic marketing, me thinks SAAB could just race away with some much needed market share in hamra Bharat. Wonder if anyone can hear me honking.
But on Christmas Eve, I guess the spirit of generosity suffused my innards. So for the first time ever, instead of automatically ‘Marking to Spam’, I actually spent time on an article about a vaguely familiar automobile brand. The trigger for it was the stark headline: ‘End of the road for Saab’.
Now for those who know their hatchbacks, Saab is no small fry. It’s as iconic as our Ambassador. It was the first ever four-wheeler to make safety belts a standard feature. Having sold over 3 million cars, the 64-year-old Swedish brand enjoys the reputation of being unassuming, smart, efficient, consistent, dependable and affordable.
‘So why are experts writing its obituary?’ was the question playing on my mind. A cursory glance of the sales figures revealed the sob story. In 2010, the company managed to sell just 30,000 cars. That’s one tenth of what Hyundai sells in India!
Does that mean the scrapheap is the final destination for Saab? I am of the view that if Mahindra or any Indian Group were to make a bid for it, they can turn things around. The reason for my optimism lies in one simple fact: Saab is an Urdu word with terrific connotations in South Asia.
It’s a term of endearment that crops up often in conversations. Bhai Saab, Major Saab, Laat Saab and Memsaab are commonly used appellations. To millions of Hindustanis, the expression ‘Saala main toh Saab ban gaya’ means reaching a stratospheric social status - almost on par with a knighthood.
Therefore, milking the linguistic potential of Saab is clearly the roadmap forward for the struggling brand. Imagine the sensation the car will create if we launch customizable models for celebrities that lets a Mister Bachchan announce his name as Bachchan Saab and a certain Sachin flaunt his awesomeness with Tendulkar Saab. We could even have surname models like 'Khan Saab', 'Chopra Saab', 'Kapoor Saab' and 'Ganguly Saab'. The possibilities are endless. With some deft ethnic marketing, me thinks SAAB could just race away with some much needed market share in hamra Bharat. Wonder if anyone can hear me honking.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Top 11 of Twenty Eleven
Rag picking is the second noblest activity after enema administration. It’s an immaculately sattvic way to end a debauched year.
Or so I consoled myself when I set out to rummage through the good, bad, and downright ugly names, littered all over the web. My aim was to fish out a fistful of pearls from a sea of rubbish. I am glad to report that I’ve unearthed some gems. Allow me the pleasure of sharing the booty with you.
Best Band Name: In a landscape filled with wannabe names that assault your senses (Samples: Supersonic Piss, Vomit Erection, Lecherous Gaze and Cocaine Moustache), only one band struck a chord. That’s the Canada-based metal quintet, ‘A Sight for Sewn Eyes’. Given their marked preference for live gigs, the name is an intriguingly apt and evocative choice.
Best Album Name: My vote goes to Coldplay’s ‘Mylo Xyloto’ for its quirky musicality. Best Named Song:Before you go WTF, lemme assure you it’s not Dhanush’s WTK. That privilege shall be accorded to Irshad Kamil for creating the anthemic awesomeness - ‘Sadda Haq’.
Best Book Title: There were two serious contenders – Haruki Murakami’s 1Q84 (Kyu is Japanese for 9) and ‘Horoscopes for the Dead’ by Billy Collins. 1Q94 is fascinating and threatens to stick in your mind. But it doesn’t pique you as much as the multi layered Horoscopes. To me, that was the clincher.
Best Named English movie: The nominees were: ‘From Prada to Nada’, ‘Gnomeo & Juliet’, ‘Judy Moody & the Not Bummer Summer’ and ‘A Good Old Fashioned Orgy’. I couldn’t resist the story telling charm of the orgasmic one. Best Named Hindi film: It was a three-way tie between ‘The Dirty Picture’, ‘No One Killed Jessica’ and ‘Ra.One’. But I’ll stick my neck out for Jessica. Best Named Tamil flick: ‘Mankatha’ dhaan!
Best Celebrity Baby Name: A little birdie tells me it’s Ethan Hawke’s ‘Indiana’. Best Named App: iThink iLuv iPad’s ‘SIRI’. Best Named Software: Android’s lickable, likable, lovable ‘Ice Cream Sandwich’. And finally, the Best Named Party: Well, Silvio Berlusconi’s ‘Bunga Bunga’ has to take the cake for its sheer kinkiness!
Or so I consoled myself when I set out to rummage through the good, bad, and downright ugly names, littered all over the web. My aim was to fish out a fistful of pearls from a sea of rubbish. I am glad to report that I’ve unearthed some gems. Allow me the pleasure of sharing the booty with you.
Best Band Name: In a landscape filled with wannabe names that assault your senses (Samples: Supersonic Piss, Vomit Erection, Lecherous Gaze and Cocaine Moustache), only one band struck a chord. That’s the Canada-based metal quintet, ‘A Sight for Sewn Eyes’. Given their marked preference for live gigs, the name is an intriguingly apt and evocative choice.
Best Album Name: My vote goes to Coldplay’s ‘Mylo Xyloto’ for its quirky musicality. Best Named Song:Before you go WTF, lemme assure you it’s not Dhanush’s WTK. That privilege shall be accorded to Irshad Kamil for creating the anthemic awesomeness - ‘Sadda Haq’.
Best Book Title: There were two serious contenders – Haruki Murakami’s 1Q84 (Kyu is Japanese for 9) and ‘Horoscopes for the Dead’ by Billy Collins. 1Q94 is fascinating and threatens to stick in your mind. But it doesn’t pique you as much as the multi layered Horoscopes. To me, that was the clincher.
Best Named English movie: The nominees were: ‘From Prada to Nada’, ‘Gnomeo & Juliet’, ‘Judy Moody & the Not Bummer Summer’ and ‘A Good Old Fashioned Orgy’. I couldn’t resist the story telling charm of the orgasmic one. Best Named Hindi film: It was a three-way tie between ‘The Dirty Picture’, ‘No One Killed Jessica’ and ‘Ra.One’. But I’ll stick my neck out for Jessica. Best Named Tamil flick: ‘Mankatha’ dhaan!
Best Celebrity Baby Name: A little birdie tells me it’s Ethan Hawke’s ‘Indiana’. Best Named App: iThink iLuv iPad’s ‘SIRI’. Best Named Software: Android’s lickable, likable, lovable ‘Ice Cream Sandwich’. And finally, the Best Named Party: Well, Silvio Berlusconi’s ‘Bunga Bunga’ has to take the cake for its sheer kinkiness!
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Solpa Yeddy, Solpa Gowda.
Sometime in the late seventies, when Indira Gandhi had pressed the ‘Emergency’ button, she air dashed to Chennai with our acting president Basappa Danappa Jatti. A mischievous Tamil tabloid put out an almost blasphemous headline to commemorate the event: Indira Gandhi Jatti Udan Vandaar! All of Madras was in splits as jatti meant underwear in the local lingo. And the line could be interpreted as ‘Indira Arrives In Her Undies!’
Some might find this distasteful. But I found it amusing. In a funny sort of way, the anecdote piqued my curiosity to learn more about Kannadiga names. So when I got down to researching the subject, I discovered that large sections of Karnataka use the PFN template for naming their children - P standing for Personal Name, F for Father’s and N for Native place. By this logic Jatti must be an ancestral town and not some local inner wear, made in Tirupur.
I also noticed that in a few cases the PFN formula might get flipped and become NFP. Bookanakere Siddalingappa Yeddyurappa is an exemplification of this format. As in, Bookanakare is the native place, Siddalingappa - his dad’s, and Yeddyurappa is his given name, which in turn, is a nod to a temple deity in Yadiyur, a town in Tumkur. Somanahalli Malliah Krishna (SM Krishna) is yet another NFP beneficiary.
But ‘What about Gowda?’ you may ask. Well, like many surnames in this part of the country, it has a fairly rural ancestry. Gowda is said to have been derived from the archaic Dravidian word Kavundan (meaning: village head). Incidentally, the Tamil Gounder has the same root.
If we turn our gaze to some other popular surnames, lots of insights can be gleaned. Hegde (head of fort), Baliga (soldier with spear), Shenoy (captain), Nayak (commander) and Havaldar (Sergeant) owe their origins to medieval military terms. While Kamath (works on soil), Bhatt (priest), Shroff (money changer), Javali (clothes dealer), and Shetty (Chettiar or Seth) typify the occupation of the tribes. And the very Coorgi Ponappa (gold), Cariappa (black), Nanjappa (wetland), Nagappa (snake) and Chinnappa (small) feel fairly descriptive in nature. Wonder, how they got their Nameappa!
Some might find this distasteful. But I found it amusing. In a funny sort of way, the anecdote piqued my curiosity to learn more about Kannadiga names. So when I got down to researching the subject, I discovered that large sections of Karnataka use the PFN template for naming their children - P standing for Personal Name, F for Father’s and N for Native place. By this logic Jatti must be an ancestral town and not some local inner wear, made in Tirupur.
I also noticed that in a few cases the PFN formula might get flipped and become NFP. Bookanakere Siddalingappa Yeddyurappa is an exemplification of this format. As in, Bookanakare is the native place, Siddalingappa - his dad’s, and Yeddyurappa is his given name, which in turn, is a nod to a temple deity in Yadiyur, a town in Tumkur. Somanahalli Malliah Krishna (SM Krishna) is yet another NFP beneficiary.
But ‘What about Gowda?’ you may ask. Well, like many surnames in this part of the country, it has a fairly rural ancestry. Gowda is said to have been derived from the archaic Dravidian word Kavundan (meaning: village head). Incidentally, the Tamil Gounder has the same root.
If we turn our gaze to some other popular surnames, lots of insights can be gleaned. Hegde (head of fort), Baliga (soldier with spear), Shenoy (captain), Nayak (commander) and Havaldar (Sergeant) owe their origins to medieval military terms. While Kamath (works on soil), Bhatt (priest), Shroff (money changer), Javali (clothes dealer), and Shetty (Chettiar or Seth) typify the occupation of the tribes. And the very Coorgi Ponappa (gold), Cariappa (black), Nanjappa (wetland), Nagappa (snake) and Chinnappa (small) feel fairly descriptive in nature. Wonder, how they got their Nameappa!
Thursday, December 15, 2011
The Small Town Psyche
Wear your Kafka cap for a fleeting second. Metamorphosize into that little ant crawling up that speck of saccharine on that teensy piece of cake lying carelessly on the floor, just behind that forgotten dustbin, positioned near that dark brown door next to your kitchen sink. And ask yourself one question: would anyone, I mean ANYONE, even care about your existence?
Well, that’s the story of the small town in this cold, callous world. Most of them are condemned to lead a lifetime of anonymity in distant nooks and crannies untouched by the whimsical rays of limelight. Quite naturally, small towners, as a species, somehow always have this inner mojo to ‘get noticed’. The accent, the kooky dress sense, distinctive guffaws and an appetite for setting inane records are offshoots of this desire for undue attention.
Thankfully, several itsy-bitsy settlements in America have figured out an effortless way of getting the recognition they crave for – just choose an unusual name!
Here are some stellar examples: Ding Dong, a community in Bell County, Texas, got its 5 minutes of fame when Ripley’s Believe it or Not featured the township for its oddly amusing name. Boring in Oregon was originally named after William H. Boring, an early resident. But when the city signs started appearing on the highway as ‘Boring Oregon City’ it evoked a national chuckle. There’s been no turning back, ever since.
The level of interest garnered by weirdly named towns has inspired many more to join the bandwagon. So for every Why in Arizona, there’s a Whynot in North Carolina. For every Hooker in Arkansas, there’s a Dickey, waiting somewhere in Maine. And for every Gravity in Iowa, there’s a certain Uncertain lurking in the horizon, in Texas!
Although city slickers might feel a tinge of cringe while picking such names, small towners don’t seem to share this sense of shame. Otherwise why on earth would two precincts (one in Wisconsin and the other in Illinois) proudly call themselves Embarrass? May be there’s a lesson here for our Jhumritalayas. May be it’s time for villages to rechristen themselves as Narak, Badnaam or something edgier?
Well, that’s the story of the small town in this cold, callous world. Most of them are condemned to lead a lifetime of anonymity in distant nooks and crannies untouched by the whimsical rays of limelight. Quite naturally, small towners, as a species, somehow always have this inner mojo to ‘get noticed’. The accent, the kooky dress sense, distinctive guffaws and an appetite for setting inane records are offshoots of this desire for undue attention.
Thankfully, several itsy-bitsy settlements in America have figured out an effortless way of getting the recognition they crave for – just choose an unusual name!
Here are some stellar examples: Ding Dong, a community in Bell County, Texas, got its 5 minutes of fame when Ripley’s Believe it or Not featured the township for its oddly amusing name. Boring in Oregon was originally named after William H. Boring, an early resident. But when the city signs started appearing on the highway as ‘Boring Oregon City’ it evoked a national chuckle. There’s been no turning back, ever since.
The level of interest garnered by weirdly named towns has inspired many more to join the bandwagon. So for every Why in Arizona, there’s a Whynot in North Carolina. For every Hooker in Arkansas, there’s a Dickey, waiting somewhere in Maine. And for every Gravity in Iowa, there’s a certain Uncertain lurking in the horizon, in Texas!
Although city slickers might feel a tinge of cringe while picking such names, small towners don’t seem to share this sense of shame. Otherwise why on earth would two precincts (one in Wisconsin and the other in Illinois) proudly call themselves Embarrass? May be there’s a lesson here for our Jhumritalayas. May be it’s time for villages to rechristen themselves as Narak, Badnaam or something edgier?
Thursday, December 8, 2011
How Iyerland Became Ireland.
Never underestimate the Tamilian. He may constitute just 1% of the world population but his influence is all pervasive. That may seem like the typical chest-puffing ‘Tamizhan da!’ bluster from a T-Rajendhar cult movie but the fact remains that the kaapi-drinking, quarter-cutting, thayir saadam man has done a lot more for the spread of the human race than he’s given credit for.
Ireland, for instance, owes its Celtic culture to the Druids or Dravids who carried the R1b gene (a sibling of the dominant R1a gene that permeates Tam Brams, Kallars and Mudaliars) from South Asia to the Irish highlands via Central Asia. There’s enough linguistic evidence to back this claim. Here’s proof:
Kerry is a surname that means dark. Doesn’t it sound like the Tamil word ‘kari’ (black)? Kevin (beautiful) is a twin of Cavin (the Cavin in Cavin Kare) – which, by the way, is sentamizh for grace and beauty. Ian or Eoin (god) seems like a close cousin of our very own Ayan (god). Abban is synonymous with Appan (father). And Patrick (noble) has this ring of being learned enough to read a ‘pattrikkai’!
It’s not just the names. Even the words seem to have the same roots. Mala in both languages mean ‘hill’. Faiche (stretch of grass) resembles pachai. Mac (son) is derived from Makan. ‘Oi’ will pass off as an expression of endearment in Dublin as well as Dindigul.
What’s eerily similar is the Irish naming custom: the first son is always named after the father’s father; the second son after mother’s father; and the daughters are named after the mothers. Tam Brams follow an identical tradition! If you thought the parallels stops there, then just go and google about the many stone henges and cairn circles that have been discovered in Tiruvannamalai & Tiruttani.
Given all of these coincidences, you’d think our archaeologists are busy burrowing deep into the earth to ferret out more evidence in support of this theory. Sadly, they aren’t. May be someone needs to goad them to probe further. Else, the Murugans of Tiruvellikeni will never get to find their historical connect with the Morgans of Kilkenny.
Ireland, for instance, owes its Celtic culture to the Druids or Dravids who carried the R1b gene (a sibling of the dominant R1a gene that permeates Tam Brams, Kallars and Mudaliars) from South Asia to the Irish highlands via Central Asia. There’s enough linguistic evidence to back this claim. Here’s proof:
Kerry is a surname that means dark. Doesn’t it sound like the Tamil word ‘kari’ (black)? Kevin (beautiful) is a twin of Cavin (the Cavin in Cavin Kare) – which, by the way, is sentamizh for grace and beauty. Ian or Eoin (god) seems like a close cousin of our very own Ayan (god). Abban is synonymous with Appan (father). And Patrick (noble) has this ring of being learned enough to read a ‘pattrikkai’!
It’s not just the names. Even the words seem to have the same roots. Mala in both languages mean ‘hill’. Faiche (stretch of grass) resembles pachai. Mac (son) is derived from Makan. ‘Oi’ will pass off as an expression of endearment in Dublin as well as Dindigul.
What’s eerily similar is the Irish naming custom: the first son is always named after the father’s father; the second son after mother’s father; and the daughters are named after the mothers. Tam Brams follow an identical tradition! If you thought the parallels stops there, then just go and google about the many stone henges and cairn circles that have been discovered in Tiruvannamalai & Tiruttani.
Given all of these coincidences, you’d think our archaeologists are busy burrowing deep into the earth to ferret out more evidence in support of this theory. Sadly, they aren’t. May be someone needs to goad them to probe further. Else, the Murugans of Tiruvellikeni will never get to find their historical connect with the Morgans of Kilkenny.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
The Beti B Naming Contest
They say over 30,000 girl babies are born, every day, in India. If you do the math you’ll discover that nearly 480,000 girls have been hand-delivered by the Stork Exchange ever since that epochal moment, when you first heard about the birth of Beti B, and this very second when you’re reading my mundane words. That’s about 4 times the lexicon size of Hindi! So we’re in a sticky situation here - of having more babies than names.
Given this name famine, parents are under immense pressure to come up with something unique and creative. Perhaps this was the trigger for Abhishek Bachchan’s now-famous tweet requesting his fans to post their suggestions for the new born.
The ad man inside me feels, that Junior Bachchan, missed a trick by not announcing a ‘Naam Aapka, Beti Mera’ contest. He could have easily tied up with Idea for this and done a 360 degree advertising campaign to generate names via SMS. All the submitted names could have been uploaded onto BachchanKiBachchi.com and several media partners could have been roped in to prune down this massive database into a manageable Top 10 through a viewer poll. And then the final announcement could have been made on ‘Ash you like it’ - an hour-long reality show televised nationally. Alas, what an opportunity lost!
Anyways, coming back to Beti B. A little birdie tells us that the Rais and the Bachchans prefer a name starting with ‘A’. That rules out Kolaveri - a killer choice by any standards!
Let’s look at some other possibilities: Abhiwarya is an enticing option considering it fuses the best of dad and mom. Anamika (nameless one) might make a lot of sense as Jaya Bahaduri once essayed the eponymous role in a Bollywood movie starring the unforgettable Sanjeev Kumar. Amita (limitless) is interesting as Amita Bachchan sounds every inch like Big B. Ashi (miracle) will make a great fit as that was Aishwarya’s name in Aur Pyaar Ho Gaya. Aaina, Avatara, Antaratica or anything else might sound equally good. But the key question is: will the Guru say, ‘Lock kiya jaai’?
Given this name famine, parents are under immense pressure to come up with something unique and creative. Perhaps this was the trigger for Abhishek Bachchan’s now-famous tweet requesting his fans to post their suggestions for the new born.
The ad man inside me feels, that Junior Bachchan, missed a trick by not announcing a ‘Naam Aapka, Beti Mera’ contest. He could have easily tied up with Idea for this and done a 360 degree advertising campaign to generate names via SMS. All the submitted names could have been uploaded onto BachchanKiBachchi.com and several media partners could have been roped in to prune down this massive database into a manageable Top 10 through a viewer poll. And then the final announcement could have been made on ‘Ash you like it’ - an hour-long reality show televised nationally. Alas, what an opportunity lost!
Anyways, coming back to Beti B. A little birdie tells us that the Rais and the Bachchans prefer a name starting with ‘A’. That rules out Kolaveri - a killer choice by any standards!
Let’s look at some other possibilities: Abhiwarya is an enticing option considering it fuses the best of dad and mom. Anamika (nameless one) might make a lot of sense as Jaya Bahaduri once essayed the eponymous role in a Bollywood movie starring the unforgettable Sanjeev Kumar. Amita (limitless) is interesting as Amita Bachchan sounds every inch like Big B. Ashi (miracle) will make a great fit as that was Aishwarya’s name in Aur Pyaar Ho Gaya. Aaina, Avatara, Antaratica or anything else might sound equally good. But the key question is: will the Guru say, ‘Lock kiya jaai’?
Thursday, November 24, 2011
The Maya of New States
There are three things one can never be sure of in life: the moment of birth, the moment of death and the number of states in India. The first two events can be forecast with some certainty using arcane powers of the occult but the third one is guaranteed to flummox even seasoned seers. Such is the unpredictability that shrouds the cartography of Indian polity.
During the independence era, we had 562 princely states and 17 provinces. That ace weaver Sardar Vallabhai Patel somehow managed to stitch together a tapestry of unity with the twin threads of nationalism and federalism. But then, our territorial gluttony kicked in sometime in 1956 and thus was born our never-ending appetite to divide and mutate into a mélange of linguistic units. The result: every decade we end up either demanding or creating new states citing some excuse or the other.
In the beginning, the demands seemed to make sense. But now, it feels as if no one really gives a fig about financial viability any more. It’s become one heck of a free-for- all. Almost like a wedding buffet. Everyone with an appetite has queued up for the goodies. That includes Queen Mayawati who’s brazenly proposed to carve up Uttar Pradesh into Ma, Ya, Wa & Ti (my code names for Awadh, Bundelkhand, Purvanchal and Paschim Pradesh) on an elephantine whim.
My fear is this politically inspired move might just inspire a million more groups to make a case for creation of edgy new principalities based on the flimsiest of ideologies. For example, what is going to be our justification for rejecting the creation of Tendulkar Pradesh? Or for that matter Bachchan Bhoomi, Rajni Nadu, Chiru Desam, and Salmankhanistan.
The way things are going, we as a nation, might soon end up with more states than the USA. The only way to arrest this farcical development is to announce certain basic parameters for state formation. What is required is an elucidation of minimum economy size, geographical area, natural resources and population to qualify for statehood. Otherwise every Pondy Bazaar will aspire to be a Pondicherry!
During the independence era, we had 562 princely states and 17 provinces. That ace weaver Sardar Vallabhai Patel somehow managed to stitch together a tapestry of unity with the twin threads of nationalism and federalism. But then, our territorial gluttony kicked in sometime in 1956 and thus was born our never-ending appetite to divide and mutate into a mélange of linguistic units. The result: every decade we end up either demanding or creating new states citing some excuse or the other.
In the beginning, the demands seemed to make sense. But now, it feels as if no one really gives a fig about financial viability any more. It’s become one heck of a free-for- all. Almost like a wedding buffet. Everyone with an appetite has queued up for the goodies. That includes Queen Mayawati who’s brazenly proposed to carve up Uttar Pradesh into Ma, Ya, Wa & Ti (my code names for Awadh, Bundelkhand, Purvanchal and Paschim Pradesh) on an elephantine whim.
My fear is this politically inspired move might just inspire a million more groups to make a case for creation of edgy new principalities based on the flimsiest of ideologies. For example, what is going to be our justification for rejecting the creation of Tendulkar Pradesh? Or for that matter Bachchan Bhoomi, Rajni Nadu, Chiru Desam, and Salmankhanistan.
The way things are going, we as a nation, might soon end up with more states than the USA. The only way to arrest this farcical development is to announce certain basic parameters for state formation. What is required is an elucidation of minimum economy size, geographical area, natural resources and population to qualify for statehood. Otherwise every Pondy Bazaar will aspire to be a Pondicherry!
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Iski Lee, Uski Lee & Sabki Lee
One of the greatest contributions of Shah Rukh Khan, to this joke-starved world, has been his extravagant 150-crore initiative to revive interest in that old campus art form called ‘Bruce Lee’ jokes. Couched as a science fiction superhero movie - SRK’s Ra.One - is well and truly an elaborate 154-minute surrogate commercial to peddle the infectious cheesiness of the Iski Lee, Uski Lee & Sabki Lee sub genre of Made-in-India puns.
For the dim-bulbs who still don’t know what I am alluding to, the Bruce Lee Joke (BLJ) is the rite of passage for any Groucho who wants to be a Marx. It’s the adolescent brand of DIY drollery that’s about creating a Chinese character by playing on the word LEE. To put it in a Tamil context, it’s about inventing the mother of all mokkais.
A BLJ is very much like a sneeze. It just happens effortlessly. And when it happens, at least one person in the room will be able to see the humour in the hatchoo. The beauty of it is, anyone can join the fun. The template BLJ is always about coming up with punny names by posing bizarre questions.
Questions like ‘If Bruce Lee were to reincarnate as a naive Indian woman, what would you call her?’ The answer to that would be Bholee Bhalee. That didn’t amuse you, eh? Okay, here’s one more. What would be the name of Bruce Lee’s married Indian sister? Sumanga Lee. His epileptic Tamil uncle? Kaka Va Lee. And his kanjoos brother? Miser Lee!
The trick is to play it like ping pong. First you serve a dolly such as ‘What is Bruce Lee’s favourite delivery? Goog Lee.’ The moment someone hears this, they’ll think, ‘Ah, I can do better!’ And an old PJ will tumble out. That’s a signal for you to try an original Chinese chop. You should reply: “What car does he drive? Bent Lee!” Before your opponent can collect himself, you must go for the kill with “His favourite Bollywood movie? Dellee Bellee!” Deed done, battle won, you must khiskofy via the patlee galee and shout: 'Teri Lay Lee’!
For the dim-bulbs who still don’t know what I am alluding to, the Bruce Lee Joke (BLJ) is the rite of passage for any Groucho who wants to be a Marx. It’s the adolescent brand of DIY drollery that’s about creating a Chinese character by playing on the word LEE. To put it in a Tamil context, it’s about inventing the mother of all mokkais.
A BLJ is very much like a sneeze. It just happens effortlessly. And when it happens, at least one person in the room will be able to see the humour in the hatchoo. The beauty of it is, anyone can join the fun. The template BLJ is always about coming up with punny names by posing bizarre questions.
Questions like ‘If Bruce Lee were to reincarnate as a naive Indian woman, what would you call her?’ The answer to that would be Bholee Bhalee. That didn’t amuse you, eh? Okay, here’s one more. What would be the name of Bruce Lee’s married Indian sister? Sumanga Lee. His epileptic Tamil uncle? Kaka Va Lee. And his kanjoos brother? Miser Lee!
The trick is to play it like ping pong. First you serve a dolly such as ‘What is Bruce Lee’s favourite delivery? Goog Lee.’ The moment someone hears this, they’ll think, ‘Ah, I can do better!’ And an old PJ will tumble out. That’s a signal for you to try an original Chinese chop. You should reply: “What car does he drive? Bent Lee!” Before your opponent can collect himself, you must go for the kill with “His favourite Bollywood movie? Dellee Bellee!” Deed done, battle won, you must khiskofy via the patlee galee and shout: 'Teri Lay Lee’!
Thursday, November 10, 2011
The Prosaic Names of Poets
Parents are rarely prescient. They don’t possess that mystic ability of Paul the Octopus to foretell the future. So they end up giving us strange hand-me-down names that have no connection to who we are or what we’re gonna do when we grow up.
Brit couple Alice & John Lockwood Kipling fared no better in this name game. They fell in love in 1863 at Rudyard Lake in Staffordshire, England. To immortalize their courtship, they named their love child - Rudyard Kipling - which literally means ‘Red Yard used for preserving Salmon’. Had they known that their imaginative boy would go on to win the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1907, they would have certainly bestowed him with something more profound.
Kipling is not the only great bard with a misfit name. Many of his illustrious predecessors, peers and successors were subjected to similar doses of embarrassment by their doting dads and moms. Geoffrey Chaucer may sound sophisticated today. But back then, in the times of The Canterbury Tales, it had a very pedestrian etymology. Derived from ‘peaceful maker of leggings’, Chaucer represented anything but sublime.
Keats was worse. It connoted ‘herdsman or worker at the sheds’. Examining its meaning in isolation no one would even visualise him as the wordsmith who wrote ‘a thing of beauty is a joy forever’. Ditto with Lord Byron (Lord of cattle sheds), Percy Shelley (Hunter on the banks of a river), Sylvia Plath (Forrest maid) and Walt Whitman (Commander of White Men).
Some Indian poets have been a bit luckier. Kabir was blessed with the Persian word for ‘The Great’. Javed Akhtar was named after the ‘Eternal Star’. But people like Sahir Ludhianvi (Charmer from Ludhiana), Kannadasan (Devotee of Krishna) and Gulzar (Flower garden) weren’t as fortunate.
Sahir was the pseudonym adopted by Abdul Hayi (The Alive Servant). And every Bollywood buff knows that Gulzar was born as Sampooran Singh (100% Lion). The only poet who got a name he deserved was probably Gibran Kahlil Gibran. Khalil is Arabic for ‘friend’ and Gibran means ‘most able one’. The rhythmic tautology of Gibran just underscores his talent – how lyrical!
Brit couple Alice & John Lockwood Kipling fared no better in this name game. They fell in love in 1863 at Rudyard Lake in Staffordshire, England. To immortalize their courtship, they named their love child - Rudyard Kipling - which literally means ‘Red Yard used for preserving Salmon’. Had they known that their imaginative boy would go on to win the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1907, they would have certainly bestowed him with something more profound.
Kipling is not the only great bard with a misfit name. Many of his illustrious predecessors, peers and successors were subjected to similar doses of embarrassment by their doting dads and moms. Geoffrey Chaucer may sound sophisticated today. But back then, in the times of The Canterbury Tales, it had a very pedestrian etymology. Derived from ‘peaceful maker of leggings’, Chaucer represented anything but sublime.
Keats was worse. It connoted ‘herdsman or worker at the sheds’. Examining its meaning in isolation no one would even visualise him as the wordsmith who wrote ‘a thing of beauty is a joy forever’. Ditto with Lord Byron (Lord of cattle sheds), Percy Shelley (Hunter on the banks of a river), Sylvia Plath (Forrest maid) and Walt Whitman (Commander of White Men).
Some Indian poets have been a bit luckier. Kabir was blessed with the Persian word for ‘The Great’. Javed Akhtar was named after the ‘Eternal Star’. But people like Sahir Ludhianvi (Charmer from Ludhiana), Kannadasan (Devotee of Krishna) and Gulzar (Flower garden) weren’t as fortunate.
Sahir was the pseudonym adopted by Abdul Hayi (The Alive Servant). And every Bollywood buff knows that Gulzar was born as Sampooran Singh (100% Lion). The only poet who got a name he deserved was probably Gibran Kahlil Gibran. Khalil is Arabic for ‘friend’ and Gibran means ‘most able one’. The rhythmic tautology of Gibran just underscores his talent – how lyrical!
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Four Rahuls & The Wall
The mind-numbingly predictable nature of our daily grind often throws up one disturbing question: Are we all just remixes of the same song? I mean, although our lives appear to march to different beats, our core theme seems to be resoundingly similar, right?
With this as the basic premise, let’s explore the destinies of five very different people connected by the umbilical cord of the same first name. Let’s put their personas under the microscope and see if we can identify the signature tune that binds them.
The given name I am gonna pick for our seriously trivial exercise is Rahul - which also happens to be SRK’s name in 7 blockbusters including the humongous popular Dil Toh Pagal Hai, Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, and Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham.
Now Rahul means ‘conqueror of all miseries’ in Sanskrit. So by definition all Rahuls should have a life-curve full of crests and troughs. Rahul Dravid’s career path is a living testimony to this fact.
In 1999 World Cup, Dravid was the Top Scorer. In 2007 however, he had the most awful run as the captain of the team that exited the world cup prematurely. In 2011, when everyone wrote him off, The Wall stood tall, and ended up scoring 69 runs from 79 balls in his final ODI match!
‘Against all odds’ seems to be the recurring number in any Rahul’s biography. Take Rahul Sharma, the leg spinner who battled facial paralysis and a dodgy vision to make it to the Indian Squad. Or Rahul Mahajan, the son of the slain leader Pramod Mahajan, who slumped to a personal low with the Cocaine Overdose episode and then bounced back as a Reality Show Star in Bigg Boss 2.
Rahul Bose’s story has seen as many twists and turns. He began with a bang with English August. Followed it up with a string of flops. And remerged as the superstar of art house cinema. Rahul Gandhi’s destiny has strangely witnessed a similar pattern of ups and downs. The thing to see is if the princeling lives up to his name and hits a crescendo soon.
With this as the basic premise, let’s explore the destinies of five very different people connected by the umbilical cord of the same first name. Let’s put their personas under the microscope and see if we can identify the signature tune that binds them.
The given name I am gonna pick for our seriously trivial exercise is Rahul - which also happens to be SRK’s name in 7 blockbusters including the humongous popular Dil Toh Pagal Hai, Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, and Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham.
Now Rahul means ‘conqueror of all miseries’ in Sanskrit. So by definition all Rahuls should have a life-curve full of crests and troughs. Rahul Dravid’s career path is a living testimony to this fact.
In 1999 World Cup, Dravid was the Top Scorer. In 2007 however, he had the most awful run as the captain of the team that exited the world cup prematurely. In 2011, when everyone wrote him off, The Wall stood tall, and ended up scoring 69 runs from 79 balls in his final ODI match!
‘Against all odds’ seems to be the recurring number in any Rahul’s biography. Take Rahul Sharma, the leg spinner who battled facial paralysis and a dodgy vision to make it to the Indian Squad. Or Rahul Mahajan, the son of the slain leader Pramod Mahajan, who slumped to a personal low with the Cocaine Overdose episode and then bounced back as a Reality Show Star in Bigg Boss 2.
Rahul Bose’s story has seen as many twists and turns. He began with a bang with English August. Followed it up with a string of flops. And remerged as the superstar of art house cinema. Rahul Gandhi’s destiny has strangely witnessed a similar pattern of ups and downs. The thing to see is if the princeling lives up to his name and hits a crescendo soon.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
How Names Affect Behaviour.
Let’s play a wicked game. I have put you in a small room without an internet connection or mobile phone. You have to pick 1 candidate for an elite job without conducting an interview. You won’t be given any résumés. No clue about age, sex, work experience or how that person looks. All you’ll get is a few names. You’ll have less than 10 seconds to make your choice. READY?
The names are: Kanda, Mookiah, Sapna, Russell and Banumathi. Chant these faceless names in your head. And now take your pick. Before you arrive at a decision point, remember it’s for a top job in a 5-star hotel. OK, have you made your choice?
Alright, let me leap to my first guess. Mookiah didn’t make the cut, right? I knew it, you racist pig! You didn’t find his name hep enough, na? Poor Banumathi would have suffered the same fate. I bet your fat rear that your choice would have been either Sapna or Russell. Kanda wouldn’t have even figured in your radar!
See how my Sigmund Fraud act worked? I could sniff your answer from a mile. A big reason for this predictability is our baggage. The truth is: we are as biased as a Neo Nazi.
We made some primal assumptions in our heads based on our limited experience and exposure to people. We prejudged Banumathi to be the behenji types. We consigned Mookiah to a 2-star job. Kanda unfortunately sounded a little too local for a 5-star hotel. Russell had this white-skin aura going for him. And Sapna somehow conjured up images of a hot bimbo who’d be at ease pampering the glitterati.
That’s how our mind operates. We revel in passing judgments without any concrete basis. We assume all Ramanujams to be nerds! We can never picture a Katrina as a house maid, a Sundaralingam as a stand up comedian, and a Gandimathi as a super model. If the name is Bond, we parrot James Bond. If it’s Smitha, we imagine Silk Smitha. May be that’s why Shah Rukh quipped, “My name is Khan. And I am not a terrorist.”
The names are: Kanda, Mookiah, Sapna, Russell and Banumathi. Chant these faceless names in your head. And now take your pick. Before you arrive at a decision point, remember it’s for a top job in a 5-star hotel. OK, have you made your choice?
Alright, let me leap to my first guess. Mookiah didn’t make the cut, right? I knew it, you racist pig! You didn’t find his name hep enough, na? Poor Banumathi would have suffered the same fate. I bet your fat rear that your choice would have been either Sapna or Russell. Kanda wouldn’t have even figured in your radar!
See how my Sigmund Fraud act worked? I could sniff your answer from a mile. A big reason for this predictability is our baggage. The truth is: we are as biased as a Neo Nazi.
We made some primal assumptions in our heads based on our limited experience and exposure to people. We prejudged Banumathi to be the behenji types. We consigned Mookiah to a 2-star job. Kanda unfortunately sounded a little too local for a 5-star hotel. Russell had this white-skin aura going for him. And Sapna somehow conjured up images of a hot bimbo who’d be at ease pampering the glitterati.
That’s how our mind operates. We revel in passing judgments without any concrete basis. We assume all Ramanujams to be nerds! We can never picture a Katrina as a house maid, a Sundaralingam as a stand up comedian, and a Gandimathi as a super model. If the name is Bond, we parrot James Bond. If it’s Smitha, we imagine Silk Smitha. May be that’s why Shah Rukh quipped, “My name is Khan. And I am not a terrorist.”
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