The armchair is easily the most under-appreciated place in the world. If you ask me, I’d rate it on par with Archimedes’ bathtub, Krishna’s chariot, Newton’s Apple Tree and Siddhartha’s Bodhi.
It’s got that mystical, magical power to transform any occupant into an almost-credible theorist for a brief eternity of one minute. You hit upon the fanciest of ideas sitting there and the universe conspires to supply you with all the factoids to back your notions.
I discovered the power of the armchair recently when I was researching river names. I started with Thames in London. Many respectable and dubious sources have come to agree that the murky Thames could have flowed from the Proto-Celtic word Temeslos (meaning dark water). Now Temeslos seems like a step-brother of Latin Tamases and Sanskrit Tamas. That set me thinking. Are the Celts of Indian origin?
Take the word Druid (Celtic equivalent of the Brahmin class). It seems like a derivation from Deru (Sanskrit for tree) and Vid (knowledge). Thankfully renowned Celtic scholar Peter Berresford-Ellis shares the same view.
His extensive investigation of the similarities between the Ancient Indian and Irish tongues, points towards the possibility of a shared ancestry. For example, Budh is planet Mercury in both the lingos. The sun diety is Sulios which sounds very similar to Surya. Setu is the Sanskrit word for bridge/highway/path while Set is old Irish for road. Bhojan and fochan mean food. And Angar is Welsh for fire - doesn’t that ignite a very Hindi word in your mind?
See how our fluvial pursuits helped us meander into a large reservoir of evidence in support of our Everyone-Was-An-Indian-Once theory. That’s the beauty of the Armchair. It lets you leap into unexplored domains with just a springboard called hunch.
Let me give you one more nugget that should stir your imagination wild. Are you aware that, unknown to us, a 480-km river named Komati gushes through South Africa, Swaziland and Mozambique? What’s interesting is Komati translates to ‘cow’ in the Swazi language. Doesn’t that sound like the Sanskrit Gomati? Isn’t that a strong data point to prove that my armchair theory holds water?
Friday, September 9, 2011
Thursday, August 25, 2011
The Noble Prize for Corruption
These are trying times for the truly corrupt. To fathom their angst, put yourself in their shiny black shoes.
For beating the system 6-0, 6-0, 6-0, no one applauds you the way they celebrate Roger Federer. For constructing a financial maze that would flummox any modern day Theseus, all you get is the label of a ‘crook’. For generating more wealth than any elected government, no honourable university is willing to give you an honorary doctorate. Ain’t this rank injustice?
We at Seriously Crazy Activist’s Movement (SCAM) think it’s a cause worth fighting for. We feel it’s time for a principled battle to win back the lost halo of the unscrupulous. To reclaim a life of dignity for the depraved and the debauched, we’re launching the Blackmark Awards. The Awards will be modelled on the Nobel Prize. Only the most deserving with an enviable track record of unquestionable dishonesty will be deemed worthy of a nomination.
There will be 5 categories in all: Category 1 is the Blackmark for Exemplary Craftsmanship in Yarn Spinning. William Miller, the New Yorker who claimed enough insider knowledge to deliver an astonishing ‘520% return on investments’ would have made a great nominee had he been an Indian. Category 2 is the Blackmark for Extraordinary Prowess in Process Lubrication. The real life Polyester ‘Guru’ with his penchant for sealed envelopes, fat suitcases, mystery gifts, surprise donations and paid vacations would be an automatic choice for the award. Alas he’s no more.
Category 3 is the Blackmark for Outstanding Expertise in Creative Accounting. People like Ramalinga Raju, who’s legendary for inventing fixed deposits worth 33 billion rupees, will be vying for this slot. Category 4 is the Blackmark for Unimpeachable Give & Take. Only parliamentarians, cabinet ministers, chief ministers, prime ministers and presidents with proven credentials in Generosity in Awarding Contracts to the Undeserving, will be eligible. Category 5 is the Blackmark for Innovative Interpretation of Rules. Awarded to meritorious bureaucrats and judges with the uncanny knack of envisioning loopholes for every clause in the book.
Entry forms can be obtained when you wire USD 100,000 to my Nigerian account. Interested?
Thursday, August 18, 2011
That thingy with that name.
Some jerks revel in making everyone else feel inadequate. They seem to have the answers for everything ranging from, ‘what’s the colour of Lady Gaga’s armpit hair?’ to ‘why do Giraffes stand while sleeping?’ I have often wondered if there will ever be a day, when people-like-us will get a chance to outsmart these smart-asses. Ladies and gentlemen, that day has arrived.
I am about to let you in on my private collection of thingamajigs (unfamiliar terms for familiar things). Digest it, memorise it, unleash it on the Walking Wikipedias in your circle and watch that look-of-awe in their faces for one superficial second. When that ‘Gotcha Moment’ happens, don’t forget to thank me.
Nuff said. No more foreplay. Let’s get straight to the meat. Did you know that the cleft above the middle of the lips and below the nose is called Philtrum? Or for that matter the English equivalent for Mann Vasanai or Saundhi Mitti is Petrichor? If that had you flummoxed, I’ve got tonnes of Whatchamacallits (the name of a Hershey candy bar derived from ‘what you may call it’).
Here’s more: Ferrule is the metal band on a pencil that holds the eraser in place. It’s also the name for the metal tip on top of an umbrella. Diastema is the word for gap between the front teeth on the upper jaw. Achenes (pronounced a-keens) are the little seeds on the outside of the strawberry. The technical appellation for Cat’s Whiskers is Vibrissae. Grawlix is the ‘@#$%&!’ typographical string used for representing foul language. Bobeche is the drip catcher in your candle holder. Plungers are the two buttons on which a telephone receiver rests. And Keeper is the belt loop that secures the tip.
If the nerds you wish to ambush have read Danny Danziger’s book on everyday objects, then leave them speechless by quizzing them on Dactylonomy (counting numbers with fingers), Onycophagy (the habit of biting one’s nails) and Steatopygia (fat accumulation in the rear). When you’re done stupefying them, walk away into the sunset by announcing that the inability to find the right word is called Lethologica!
I am about to let you in on my private collection of thingamajigs (unfamiliar terms for familiar things). Digest it, memorise it, unleash it on the Walking Wikipedias in your circle and watch that look-of-awe in their faces for one superficial second. When that ‘Gotcha Moment’ happens, don’t forget to thank me.
Nuff said. No more foreplay. Let’s get straight to the meat. Did you know that the cleft above the middle of the lips and below the nose is called Philtrum? Or for that matter the English equivalent for Mann Vasanai or Saundhi Mitti is Petrichor? If that had you flummoxed, I’ve got tonnes of Whatchamacallits (the name of a Hershey candy bar derived from ‘what you may call it’).
Here’s more: Ferrule is the metal band on a pencil that holds the eraser in place. It’s also the name for the metal tip on top of an umbrella. Diastema is the word for gap between the front teeth on the upper jaw. Achenes (pronounced a-keens) are the little seeds on the outside of the strawberry. The technical appellation for Cat’s Whiskers is Vibrissae. Grawlix is the ‘@#$%&!’ typographical string used for representing foul language. Bobeche is the drip catcher in your candle holder. Plungers are the two buttons on which a telephone receiver rests. And Keeper is the belt loop that secures the tip.
If the nerds you wish to ambush have read Danny Danziger’s book on everyday objects, then leave them speechless by quizzing them on Dactylonomy (counting numbers with fingers), Onycophagy (the habit of biting one’s nails) and Steatopygia (fat accumulation in the rear). When you’re done stupefying them, walk away into the sunset by announcing that the inability to find the right word is called Lethologica!
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Straight from the horse's mouth
I’ve realised that city slickers are the real country brutes. We can’t tell a jackass from a jennett (female donkey). We wonder why cowboys don’t ride cows. We’re in a state of shock without electricity. We are tongue tied when we have to speak in the native language. We are like the proverbial frog-in-the-well hopping between office and home. Our daily vocabulary has 100 humble words. Our offline social circle consists of 5 friends, 6 relatives and 7 acquaintances. And whatever we know is just a regurgitation of whatever Google throws up.
How exactly did I figure this out? It all dawned upon me when I decided to pen a piece on horses. Two sentences into the article, I discerned that I knew zilch about them.
Honestly, I didn’t know the difference between a Foal (baby horse), Yearling (1 to 2 year old), Colt (under 4), Filly (female colt), Stallion (non-castrated male horse above 4), Mare (female stallion) and Gelding (castrated male horse). I wasn’t even aware that Ponies are stronger, sturdier, stockier equines with a height of 58 inches or below. I had no clue that horses cannot vomit or the fact that they drink around 40 litres of water, daily.
Thankfully, not everyone is a hoofus doofus like me. There are still a lot of big-city big shots who fathom the value a horse brings to the table. Barons like MAM Ramaswamy and Vijay Mallya, jockey for power annually by racing their steeds in Derbies.
There are a few other corporate knights who saddle up by bestowing their brands with names of champion horses. Rahul Bajaj was the first in India to have the horse-sense to christen his scooter as ‘Chetak’ (Maharaja Rana Pratap’s legendary warhorse).
Rahul was, perhaps, inspired by Frank Mars, the creator of the Snickers candy bar which was named after the Mars family’s favourite racehorse. Frank’s innovative naming technique might have also prompted George Smith to call his stick candy Lollipop (the horse he used to bet on). In 1964, Ford cantered along the same path with Mustang. I wonder why dark horse brands aren’t deploying this strategy anymore.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Digging into Name Archaeology
In ancient times, there was no Facebook, remember? So you never got updates like: ‘Dude, I just composed the Rig Veda!’ There was no Twitter either. Otherwise Sita would have surely tweeted: Saw Ravan. He is 10 times worse than the movie!
It was an unimaginable era without essential accoutrements like iPods, iPads, Google, Paper and Electricity. They didn’t even have a pen drive for god’s sake! No wonder, transfer of knowledge was the biggest challenge faced by prehistoric men and women.
The only lasting way to pass on culture and religion was by bequeathing names to things, rivers, hills, forests, villages, festivals, stars, gods, and people. That’s why names can serve as verbal fossils that can reveal the historic secrets of yore.
Let me demonstrate how by focusing on some fascinating toponyms (place names). Let’s begin with Europe’s second longest river – The Danube. I am kinda convinced that Danube must have derived its name from Danu, the Vedic goddess of primordial waters. I have reasons to believe so, as a lot of water bodies in Europe, seem to have a Sanskrit root. Caspian Sea for example, seems a phonetic offspring of Kashyapi Sagar.
Cut to Georgia in Eurasia. They have an Indian sounding plateau called Javakheti that is home to six alpine lakes. One of which is Paravani. Those who know their Hindu Mythology, may remember that Lord Karthikeya’s peacock is named Paravani!
Now jump to Ukraine. You’ll see many cities bearing very Indic names. The most striking one being Vysheneve - doesn’t that sound like Vaishnav? Shift focus to Latvia. The largest resort city there is Jurmala. 8 kilometers away is Sloka. Doesn’t that ring a bell? Zip over to Serbia. You’ll be shocked to know they have a town called Indija (pronounced India) that’s been in existence since 1496!
So what does all this tell-tale evidence amount to? Well, contrary to conventional wisdom, it looks like Europe owes its origins to Ancient Indians. And how did we arrive at this mother of an assertion? By just scratching the surface of name archaeology!
Conclusion: Know your names. Know your history.
It was an unimaginable era without essential accoutrements like iPods, iPads, Google, Paper and Electricity. They didn’t even have a pen drive for god’s sake! No wonder, transfer of knowledge was the biggest challenge faced by prehistoric men and women.
The only lasting way to pass on culture and religion was by bequeathing names to things, rivers, hills, forests, villages, festivals, stars, gods, and people. That’s why names can serve as verbal fossils that can reveal the historic secrets of yore.
Let me demonstrate how by focusing on some fascinating toponyms (place names). Let’s begin with Europe’s second longest river – The Danube. I am kinda convinced that Danube must have derived its name from Danu, the Vedic goddess of primordial waters. I have reasons to believe so, as a lot of water bodies in Europe, seem to have a Sanskrit root. Caspian Sea for example, seems a phonetic offspring of Kashyapi Sagar.
Cut to Georgia in Eurasia. They have an Indian sounding plateau called Javakheti that is home to six alpine lakes. One of which is Paravani. Those who know their Hindu Mythology, may remember that Lord Karthikeya’s peacock is named Paravani!
Now jump to Ukraine. You’ll see many cities bearing very Indic names. The most striking one being Vysheneve - doesn’t that sound like Vaishnav? Shift focus to Latvia. The largest resort city there is Jurmala. 8 kilometers away is Sloka. Doesn’t that ring a bell? Zip over to Serbia. You’ll be shocked to know they have a town called Indija (pronounced India) that’s been in existence since 1496!
So what does all this tell-tale evidence amount to? Well, contrary to conventional wisdom, it looks like Europe owes its origins to Ancient Indians. And how did we arrive at this mother of an assertion? By just scratching the surface of name archaeology!
Conclusion: Know your names. Know your history.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Names, Shoots & Leaves
One of the most absurdly racist notions that many of us carry in our airheads is what I call The Chink Think. It’s a downright preposterous belief that has no goddamn basis. It goes like this: All Chinese Men in this considerably colossal cosmos look the same. Likewise, All Chinese Women look indistinguishably identical!
Can there be a more ludicrously ignoramus view? I mean, it’s like saying baseball and cricket are one and the same just because they involve a bat and a ball!
Such imbecilic constructs have been wafting around for centuries in the botanic world. Luckily along came Carl Linnaeus in the 1750s, and he put an end to this poppycock by introducing the concept of identifying, classifying, arranging and naming life forms. In one revolutionary swoop, he hit upon the idea of having binomial nomenclature (names with two words) for every blooming thing in this universe.
Thanks to his back-breaking work, today, we know that there are 10,000 species of grasses, 7000 varieties of apples, 200 types of roses and so on. We even know their Latin names. For example Aalu is Solanum Tuberosum, Gongura is Hibiscus Sabdarifa, Mulai Keerai is Amaranthus Spinosus and Jackfruit is Artocarpus Heterophyllus.
Carl’s fetish for naming flora gave birth to Botany. This in turn, set in motion a movement that has helped us identify nearly 10% of all creepy-crawlies in the world.
But Taxonomists are of the view that we’ve not even scratched the surface. There’s a hell a lot of nomenclaturing that needs to be done. If ‘We the People’ leave the job to do these boring white coats, we’ll end up making progress at the lethargic pace of an intoxicated slug.
In networked times like these, what we need is collective effort. The Guardian, licked this issue, by launching the ‘Name a Species’ contest. The results for 2011 are just out. One of the winners is a 12-year old girl, who’s just christened a lurid orange fungus as ‘Hotlips’. The new name has drawn a lot of attention to the otherwise overlooked species. Time we transplanted the contest to India?
Can there be a more ludicrously ignoramus view? I mean, it’s like saying baseball and cricket are one and the same just because they involve a bat and a ball!
Such imbecilic constructs have been wafting around for centuries in the botanic world. Luckily along came Carl Linnaeus in the 1750s, and he put an end to this poppycock by introducing the concept of identifying, classifying, arranging and naming life forms. In one revolutionary swoop, he hit upon the idea of having binomial nomenclature (names with two words) for every blooming thing in this universe.
Thanks to his back-breaking work, today, we know that there are 10,000 species of grasses, 7000 varieties of apples, 200 types of roses and so on. We even know their Latin names. For example Aalu is Solanum Tuberosum, Gongura is Hibiscus Sabdarifa, Mulai Keerai is Amaranthus Spinosus and Jackfruit is Artocarpus Heterophyllus.
Carl’s fetish for naming flora gave birth to Botany. This in turn, set in motion a movement that has helped us identify nearly 10% of all creepy-crawlies in the world.
But Taxonomists are of the view that we’ve not even scratched the surface. There’s a hell a lot of nomenclaturing that needs to be done. If ‘We the People’ leave the job to do these boring white coats, we’ll end up making progress at the lethargic pace of an intoxicated slug.
In networked times like these, what we need is collective effort. The Guardian, licked this issue, by launching the ‘Name a Species’ contest. The results for 2011 are just out. One of the winners is a 12-year old girl, who’s just christened a lurid orange fungus as ‘Hotlips’. The new name has drawn a lot of attention to the otherwise overlooked species. Time we transplanted the contest to India?
Thursday, July 14, 2011
The Bongs Want A New Name
My name starts with ‘A’. And I consider myself accursed. I am sure, everyone on the ‘A-List’ will wholeheartedly agree with me. We have reasons for our revulsion.
For starters, A-people can rarely bunk classes as our faces are as familiar as chalk to our professors during a roll call. Then there’s the problem of seating during exams. Thanks to the sheer misfortune of being alphabetically ahead of our mates, we are assigned tables right in front of the eagle-eyed, pokey-nosed invigilator. What that means is there is zero scope for copying. That explains why most A-club members are never A-graders in education, doesn’t it?
Now see my rant in the context of a piece of news that would have surely caught your roving eye. I am talking about West Bengal’s decision to opt for a name change. Their big gripe: During administrative meetings, their turn comes last as West Bengal starts with the letter ‘W’. Such a schoolboyish explanation proffered for a ponderous issue like renaming of a key State of India!
I can understand if the logic had been, “Look, West Bengal sucks because it gives the impression of being a counterpoint to East Bengal which has become Bangladesh.” Alas, all we got was this W-is-bad claptrap! Anyways, let’s search for possible alternatives as Mamta is on the verge of giving WB, a golden handshake.
Sondesh is the first name that strikes my lightning-starved head. It feels like that legendary milk sweet and is a derivation from Sonar (Bengali for golden) and Desh (country). A safer option could be Banga (what comes after Dravida and Utkala in our national anthem). But then it bears too much of a resemblance to Bangladesh. On second thoughts, perhaps just Bengal might actually work better than Banga.
If levity is required, there are plenty of choices: Hilsaland will whet the appetite of the fish-gorging vegetarians in Kolkata. Gangulistan will be a hit with everyone except SRK. And Netaji lovers will salute Bose-nia. But if the idea is to be on top of the Letter Ladder, then Amar Rashtra (Our Country) should earn a khoob bhalo!
For starters, A-people can rarely bunk classes as our faces are as familiar as chalk to our professors during a roll call. Then there’s the problem of seating during exams. Thanks to the sheer misfortune of being alphabetically ahead of our mates, we are assigned tables right in front of the eagle-eyed, pokey-nosed invigilator. What that means is there is zero scope for copying. That explains why most A-club members are never A-graders in education, doesn’t it?
Now see my rant in the context of a piece of news that would have surely caught your roving eye. I am talking about West Bengal’s decision to opt for a name change. Their big gripe: During administrative meetings, their turn comes last as West Bengal starts with the letter ‘W’. Such a schoolboyish explanation proffered for a ponderous issue like renaming of a key State of India!
I can understand if the logic had been, “Look, West Bengal sucks because it gives the impression of being a counterpoint to East Bengal which has become Bangladesh.” Alas, all we got was this W-is-bad claptrap! Anyways, let’s search for possible alternatives as Mamta is on the verge of giving WB, a golden handshake.
Sondesh is the first name that strikes my lightning-starved head. It feels like that legendary milk sweet and is a derivation from Sonar (Bengali for golden) and Desh (country). A safer option could be Banga (what comes after Dravida and Utkala in our national anthem). But then it bears too much of a resemblance to Bangladesh. On second thoughts, perhaps just Bengal might actually work better than Banga.
If levity is required, there are plenty of choices: Hilsaland will whet the appetite of the fish-gorging vegetarians in Kolkata. Gangulistan will be a hit with everyone except SRK. And Netaji lovers will salute Bose-nia. But if the idea is to be on top of the Letter Ladder, then Amar Rashtra (Our Country) should earn a khoob bhalo!
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Unknown inventors of known names.
In 1968, Andy Warhol is said to have famously tweeted that, “In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes”. As I grew up waiting for my moment in the sun, I was shocked to read somewhere that the Department of Celebrityhood had pruned this figure to 15 seconds.
Just when I started auditioning for my share of the limelight, I discovered that stardom was now being rationed like Kalakand in Kalahandi. Yup, it was down to 3 goddamn seconds! By the time I make the Page 3 grade, I am sure even those fleeting temporal strands, would have gone with the wind.
BOTTOMLINE: If you’re ordinary like me, you have no chance of hitting the headlines. Unless of course, you get a big fat butt-implant like Kim Kardashian or dress up like Lady Gaga.
Since we’re incapable of being outrageous, what’s the way out for us Perpetually Anonymous Folks (PAFs)? The answer my friend, lies in kick starting a ‘You-scratch-my-back-I’ll-scratch-yours’ movement. Basically it involves making rank strangers famous and hoping that they return the compliment in kind.
Like my plan? Then let’s set the ball rolling by spreading the word about 3 ordinary people who deserve to escape anonymity. Kim Peterson is my Choice No.1. Nobody knows about this bloke. Or the fact that, he’s the guy who gave Accenture (derived from ‘Accent on the future’) its name.
Next up, is Milton Sirotta. As a 9-year old, he gave his mathematician uncle, Edward Kasner, a newly coined term to describe the largest known number in 1938. Milton called it Googol - which gave us Google! Mr. Sirotta is not the only unfortunate soul to have missed his date with glory.
Joan Coles is another example. When her boss Allen Lane was looking for a ‘dignified, yet flippant’ name for his publishing house, his secretary Ms. Coles mumbled, ‘Penguin’. Everybody knows Penguin today. Some may know even Allen Lane. But what about Joan Coles? Does she deserve her obscurity? If you think she deserves more, go make her popular. Who knows, your good karma, will earn you your three seconds of fame!
Just when I started auditioning for my share of the limelight, I discovered that stardom was now being rationed like Kalakand in Kalahandi. Yup, it was down to 3 goddamn seconds! By the time I make the Page 3 grade, I am sure even those fleeting temporal strands, would have gone with the wind.
BOTTOMLINE: If you’re ordinary like me, you have no chance of hitting the headlines. Unless of course, you get a big fat butt-implant like Kim Kardashian or dress up like Lady Gaga.
Since we’re incapable of being outrageous, what’s the way out for us Perpetually Anonymous Folks (PAFs)? The answer my friend, lies in kick starting a ‘You-scratch-my-back-I’ll-scratch-yours’ movement. Basically it involves making rank strangers famous and hoping that they return the compliment in kind.
Like my plan? Then let’s set the ball rolling by spreading the word about 3 ordinary people who deserve to escape anonymity. Kim Peterson is my Choice No.1. Nobody knows about this bloke. Or the fact that, he’s the guy who gave Accenture (derived from ‘Accent on the future’) its name.
Next up, is Milton Sirotta. As a 9-year old, he gave his mathematician uncle, Edward Kasner, a newly coined term to describe the largest known number in 1938. Milton called it Googol - which gave us Google! Mr. Sirotta is not the only unfortunate soul to have missed his date with glory.
Joan Coles is another example. When her boss Allen Lane was looking for a ‘dignified, yet flippant’ name for his publishing house, his secretary Ms. Coles mumbled, ‘Penguin’. Everybody knows Penguin today. Some may know even Allen Lane. But what about Joan Coles? Does she deserve her obscurity? If you think she deserves more, go make her popular. Who knows, your good karma, will earn you your three seconds of fame!
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Birthing a New Improved Al-Qaeda
The Devil once had a diabolic idea: what if SATAN were to change his name to GOD, wear a virgin white robe, grow angelic wings, sport a saccharine smile, swear by the truth, grant wishes to the needy, publish a ‘Yes We Can’ manifesto, and deliver eloquent speeches…would he sweep the polls and rule the world?
After being bewitched by the thought, the King of Darkness junked the revolutionary re-branding exercise as it was fraught with the risks of copyright infringement and intellectual property violation. The last thing that the Devil wanted was to be hauled up by GOD for being a cheap knockoff!
Looks like Osama Bin Laden faced a similar dilemma in the fag end of his life. The only difference though was he badly wanted a name change for Al-Qaeda and not himself. Osama wanted to give Al-Qaeda a quiet makeover not because it had become famously infamous but because it didn’t sound sufficiently religious or jihadi.
That’s why he grappled with clunky alternatives such as Jama'at I'Adat al-Khilafat al-Rashida (Restoration of the Caliphate Group) and Taifat al-Tawhed Wal-Jihad (Monotheism & Jihad Group). Osama’s search for more meaningful options has spawned a whole new sub-genre of black humour tinged names that may be abhorred by the brand managers of the banned organization.
Readers of the Danger Room defense blog have been the first off the block to spew vitriol. Their suggestions vary from the machine-like Jihad-o-Matic, the movie-like League of Extraordinary Beards, the spoofy People for Extreme Terrorist Adventures (PETA), to the downright blasphemous Kandahar Ardent Brotherhood of Orthodox Muslims (KABOOM)!
Perhaps Al-Qaeda needs a more acceptable moniker to be deemed acceptable. In keeping with this brief, we have explored a few other ways of repositioning the terror movement. Here are the ones that made the cut: Slam Walequm may offer a civil yet violent nomenclature for jihadis to greet opposers of their ideology; Osamaritans can help appropriate the halo of do-gooders spreading the legacy of Bin Laden; and Bush Ambushers will present Al-Qaeda as a counterpoint for American fascism. Whatever the new name, it remains to be seen if Ayman Al-Zawahiri bites the bullet.
After being bewitched by the thought, the King of Darkness junked the revolutionary re-branding exercise as it was fraught with the risks of copyright infringement and intellectual property violation. The last thing that the Devil wanted was to be hauled up by GOD for being a cheap knockoff!
Looks like Osama Bin Laden faced a similar dilemma in the fag end of his life. The only difference though was he badly wanted a name change for Al-Qaeda and not himself. Osama wanted to give Al-Qaeda a quiet makeover not because it had become famously infamous but because it didn’t sound sufficiently religious or jihadi.
That’s why he grappled with clunky alternatives such as Jama'at I'Adat al-Khilafat al-Rashida (Restoration of the Caliphate Group) and Taifat al-Tawhed Wal-Jihad (Monotheism & Jihad Group). Osama’s search for more meaningful options has spawned a whole new sub-genre of black humour tinged names that may be abhorred by the brand managers of the banned organization.
Readers of the Danger Room defense blog have been the first off the block to spew vitriol. Their suggestions vary from the machine-like Jihad-o-Matic, the movie-like League of Extraordinary Beards, the spoofy People for Extreme Terrorist Adventures (PETA), to the downright blasphemous Kandahar Ardent Brotherhood of Orthodox Muslims (KABOOM)!
Perhaps Al-Qaeda needs a more acceptable moniker to be deemed acceptable. In keeping with this brief, we have explored a few other ways of repositioning the terror movement. Here are the ones that made the cut: Slam Walequm may offer a civil yet violent nomenclature for jihadis to greet opposers of their ideology; Osamaritans can help appropriate the halo of do-gooders spreading the legacy of Bin Laden; and Bush Ambushers will present Al-Qaeda as a counterpoint for American fascism. Whatever the new name, it remains to be seen if Ayman Al-Zawahiri bites the bullet.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
The Watch That Speaks Esperanto
Tick tock. Tick tock. Time’s running out for more than half of the world’s 7000 languages. Doomsdayers estimate that at least one of these dialects will go extinct every week. Experts attribute this phenomenon to the slow death of the indigenous tribes. The language Amurtag, for example, is said to have just 1 speaker now. And if an alien abducts this chap, our planet will be down to 6999 bhashas in a jiffy!
So who’s responsible for this linguistic holocaust? It’s not a Hitler by the name English. It’s not even globalisation. It’s bummers like us who have to be hauled up for The Case of the Vanishing Vernacular. If you want proof for your guilt, I shall stack them up one by one.
Did you know that the English language has over 500,000 words under its able command? The average bloke on the street uses less than 5000 words everyday! That’s a usage rate of just one percent.
Apply this 1% rule to Hindi, Tamil or Kannada and you’ll realise we waste away 99% of the words in the dictionary. What that means is we have no one else to blame for the silent necrosis of our sacred tongues.
Which is why, any movement to promote usage of new words or languages, should be actively lauded. One group of linguaphiles who’ve been at the forefront in fighting the ‘War against Poverty in Vocabulary’ are the unsung Brand Namers.
Thanks to them, the Average Joe knows exotic words like Ubuntu (Afrikaans for ‘humanity’), Hitachi (Japanese for ‘sunrise’), Samsung (Korean for ‘three stars’), Alta Vista (Spanish for ‘high view’) and Volvo (Latin for ‘I roll’).
Achilles Ditesheim, a Swiss Entrepreneur, deserves full credit for adding a dash of Esperanto to our lives. His move of choosing Movado (meaning ‘always in motion’) as the moniker for his luxury watch, paved the way for a bouquet of mellifluous Esperantist names from that company, including Amorosa, Eliro, Juro, Kara, Mezo, Saffiro and Vizio. Inspired by the acoustics of this universal language, a famed soft drink major christened its orange fizzy as Mirinda (means ‘wonderful’). They’ve never looked back ever since.
So who’s responsible for this linguistic holocaust? It’s not a Hitler by the name English. It’s not even globalisation. It’s bummers like us who have to be hauled up for The Case of the Vanishing Vernacular. If you want proof for your guilt, I shall stack them up one by one.
Did you know that the English language has over 500,000 words under its able command? The average bloke on the street uses less than 5000 words everyday! That’s a usage rate of just one percent.
Apply this 1% rule to Hindi, Tamil or Kannada and you’ll realise we waste away 99% of the words in the dictionary. What that means is we have no one else to blame for the silent necrosis of our sacred tongues.
Which is why, any movement to promote usage of new words or languages, should be actively lauded. One group of linguaphiles who’ve been at the forefront in fighting the ‘War against Poverty in Vocabulary’ are the unsung Brand Namers.
Thanks to them, the Average Joe knows exotic words like Ubuntu (Afrikaans for ‘humanity’), Hitachi (Japanese for ‘sunrise’), Samsung (Korean for ‘three stars’), Alta Vista (Spanish for ‘high view’) and Volvo (Latin for ‘I roll’).
Achilles Ditesheim, a Swiss Entrepreneur, deserves full credit for adding a dash of Esperanto to our lives. His move of choosing Movado (meaning ‘always in motion’) as the moniker for his luxury watch, paved the way for a bouquet of mellifluous Esperantist names from that company, including Amorosa, Eliro, Juro, Kara, Mezo, Saffiro and Vizio. Inspired by the acoustics of this universal language, a famed soft drink major christened its orange fizzy as Mirinda (means ‘wonderful’). They’ve never looked back ever since.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
11 Indians on Planet Mercury
Name perpetuation is the family dhandha of scores of dynasties in India. The Gandhis are the greatest exponents of this craft in the modern times. They’ve quietly gone about naming airports, bridges, flyovers, gardens, technological parks, stadiums, universities, institutes, tournaments, awards, blocks, areas, roads, streets, nooks, crannies, slums - and believe it or not - even zoos, after Rajiv G and Indira G!
If the branding rights of these public places were to be licensed to companies, it would easily fetch a hundred thousand crores. To think that the Gandhi family has deftly managed to foist their name, without paying a rupee to the Government, speaks volumes about the amazing lack of public discourse in our country.
Despite muscling their way into every Indian city, the Gandhis, have been abysmally unsuccessful in plastering their surname on any celestial object in the sky. Have you ever wondered why you don’t ever find an Indira Gandhi Galaxy or a Rajiv Gandhi Comet on a cosmic map?
The reason is simple: the International Astronomical Union (IAU) as a policy never asks Governments for their suggestions in naming Outer Space entities. The choice is always made by astronomers, committee members of IAU and the discoverer. Sometimes public opinion is sought. Usually, the nomenclature follows pre-drafted conventions.
For example, all the 88 Constellations have Latin names. The year of discovery comes into play in naming Supernovae. Catalog numbers are used for identifying galaxies. While Moons of Jupiter are named after lovers of Zeus! IAU is a bit more liberal with real people names when it comes to christening craters in planets like Mercury.
To give you an idea, the 5 largest craters in Mercury are Rembrandt, Beethoven, Tolstoy, Raphael & Shakespeare. The mid-sized ones sport names like Hemingway, Gibran, Michelangelo, Matisse, Schubert, Vivaldi, Haydn and Rodin. You’d be delighted to know that 11 small Mercurian craters have been dedicated to Indians. They include Valmiki, Vyasa, Asvagosha, Kalidasa, Andaal, Tyagaraja, Tansen, Surdas, Ustaad Mansur, Tagore, and Amrita Sher-Gil. The point to note is - No Gandhi made the cut. Is there an extra terrestrial message there for Rahul G?
If the branding rights of these public places were to be licensed to companies, it would easily fetch a hundred thousand crores. To think that the Gandhi family has deftly managed to foist their name, without paying a rupee to the Government, speaks volumes about the amazing lack of public discourse in our country.
Despite muscling their way into every Indian city, the Gandhis, have been abysmally unsuccessful in plastering their surname on any celestial object in the sky. Have you ever wondered why you don’t ever find an Indira Gandhi Galaxy or a Rajiv Gandhi Comet on a cosmic map?
The reason is simple: the International Astronomical Union (IAU) as a policy never asks Governments for their suggestions in naming Outer Space entities. The choice is always made by astronomers, committee members of IAU and the discoverer. Sometimes public opinion is sought. Usually, the nomenclature follows pre-drafted conventions.
For example, all the 88 Constellations have Latin names. The year of discovery comes into play in naming Supernovae. Catalog numbers are used for identifying galaxies. While Moons of Jupiter are named after lovers of Zeus! IAU is a bit more liberal with real people names when it comes to christening craters in planets like Mercury.
To give you an idea, the 5 largest craters in Mercury are Rembrandt, Beethoven, Tolstoy, Raphael & Shakespeare. The mid-sized ones sport names like Hemingway, Gibran, Michelangelo, Matisse, Schubert, Vivaldi, Haydn and Rodin. You’d be delighted to know that 11 small Mercurian craters have been dedicated to Indians. They include Valmiki, Vyasa, Asvagosha, Kalidasa, Andaal, Tyagaraja, Tansen, Surdas, Ustaad Mansur, Tagore, and Amrita Sher-Gil. The point to note is - No Gandhi made the cut. Is there an extra terrestrial message there for Rahul G?
Thursday, June 9, 2011
At Home With Two Identities
There are supposedly 233 million South Indians living in our mind boggling nation. As a qualified Armchair Theorist from the Indian Institute of Mumbo Jumbo (not to be confused with IIPM), I dare to wager that this piece of statistic is utter bunkum.
Because every Quickgun Murugan in Dosaland knows that every CSK, RCB and KTK supporter is born as TWO people and NOT one. So logically the population of South India should be doubled to 466 million!
Before you snigger at my mathematical jiggery-pokery, just look within you. Ask yourself one profound question: Are you one person or two people cohabiting one body? If you’re even half as honest as the minister-who-stole-a-telephone-exchange, you’ll wholeheartedly agree with me that there is a Jekyll and Haider inside all of us.
Let’s delve deeper with an example. Baby X is born in Chennai. Parents bestow him with two names – a home name and an official name. The home name in all likelihood will be a commonplace 2 or 3-syllable mythological like Krishna that can be conveniently zipped into a pet name like Kicchu. The official name will be a serious-sounding, burdensome legacy the baby has to bear all his life.
The length of the official name is usually proportional to the sadistic streak of the dad in question. If your hapless father was saddled with a Chakravarthi Melpakkam Thathachari in his childhood, chances are he will christen you as Desikacharya Melpakkam Kalyana Sundaram. But then, if he were a nice bloke, it would just be DMK Sundaram.
So to summarise, Baby X will have two identities – Krishna to his folks and DMK Sundaram to his friends, colleagues and acquaintances. Krishna allows the scope for a playful, outgoing, chaotic, creative guy to bloom. While DMK Sundaram lets the same man be - an organised, smart, nerdy, and unpleasant control-freak.
Two polar opposites residing in one normal person. Almost like the left brain and the right brain operating in perfect synchrony inside the cranium. That’s the beautiful by-product of the South Indian nomenclature. And may be that’s why we are twice as productive as the Santas and Bantas in the cow belt!
Because every Quickgun Murugan in Dosaland knows that every CSK, RCB and KTK supporter is born as TWO people and NOT one. So logically the population of South India should be doubled to 466 million!
Before you snigger at my mathematical jiggery-pokery, just look within you. Ask yourself one profound question: Are you one person or two people cohabiting one body? If you’re even half as honest as the minister-who-stole-a-telephone-exchange, you’ll wholeheartedly agree with me that there is a Jekyll and Haider inside all of us.
Let’s delve deeper with an example. Baby X is born in Chennai. Parents bestow him with two names – a home name and an official name. The home name in all likelihood will be a commonplace 2 or 3-syllable mythological like Krishna that can be conveniently zipped into a pet name like Kicchu. The official name will be a serious-sounding, burdensome legacy the baby has to bear all his life.
The length of the official name is usually proportional to the sadistic streak of the dad in question. If your hapless father was saddled with a Chakravarthi Melpakkam Thathachari in his childhood, chances are he will christen you as Desikacharya Melpakkam Kalyana Sundaram. But then, if he were a nice bloke, it would just be DMK Sundaram.
So to summarise, Baby X will have two identities – Krishna to his folks and DMK Sundaram to his friends, colleagues and acquaintances. Krishna allows the scope for a playful, outgoing, chaotic, creative guy to bloom. While DMK Sundaram lets the same man be - an organised, smart, nerdy, and unpleasant control-freak.
Two polar opposites residing in one normal person. Almost like the left brain and the right brain operating in perfect synchrony inside the cranium. That’s the beautiful by-product of the South Indian nomenclature. And may be that’s why we are twice as productive as the Santas and Bantas in the cow belt!
Thursday, June 2, 2011
The One-Word Poem
Why did Einstein strive to explain the universe with one equation? Why did the ancients distil their wisdom into one book? Why do doctors crave for that one cure for all ills? The answer lies in one word: Minimalism.
Minimalism is all about creating the highest impact with the lowest levels of effort. Visualize it as the Spartan School of Artistry. To give you an example, Laxman is the walking-talking Brand Ambassador for Minimalism in the killing fields of cricket. He always prefers to deal in sublime boundaries than waste precious sweat over pedestrian singles, doesn’t he?
The fluidity, flow and effortless elegance of Laxman, is what one gets to experience with Evokonyms. Extreme minimalists by nature, Evokonyms are evocative names with the uncanny ability to suffuse the senses with the beguiling beauty of a one-word poem.
Before you go fhat-the-wuck, let me define a one-word poem for you. It’s like a bodiless soul wrapped with layers of invisible meaning, waiting to spring to life in the formless world of your imagination.
Evokonyms have this magical quality. They pierce the doors of perception, seep into your consciousness, float in the Eddies in the thought stream, and influence your thinking like the Inception movie drug.
Obama is a zen-like evokonym. Nobody knows what it means. But everyone is entranced when they hear the sound. Even if Obama hadn’t been an adjunct to Barack, I am of the view, that it would have been as magnetic. Such is the pull of this 3-syllable Kenyan word.
Google is what I call, the coined evokonym. A tweaked version of the mathematical term Googol - which means 10 to the power of 100 - Google feels as sharp-eyed as an eagle and as goofy as a lovable geek.
Jesus is a transformative evokonym that is equally fascinating. Spelled the English way, it has a very lively and adorable sound. Pronounced the Aramaic way, it almost resembles Eesha, the Sanskrit word for Lord!
Sculpting an evokonym is never too easy. But spotting one is. All you have to do is to pick the name you like for no rhyme or reason!
Minimalism is all about creating the highest impact with the lowest levels of effort. Visualize it as the Spartan School of Artistry. To give you an example, Laxman is the walking-talking Brand Ambassador for Minimalism in the killing fields of cricket. He always prefers to deal in sublime boundaries than waste precious sweat over pedestrian singles, doesn’t he?
The fluidity, flow and effortless elegance of Laxman, is what one gets to experience with Evokonyms. Extreme minimalists by nature, Evokonyms are evocative names with the uncanny ability to suffuse the senses with the beguiling beauty of a one-word poem.
Before you go fhat-the-wuck, let me define a one-word poem for you. It’s like a bodiless soul wrapped with layers of invisible meaning, waiting to spring to life in the formless world of your imagination.
Evokonyms have this magical quality. They pierce the doors of perception, seep into your consciousness, float in the Eddies in the thought stream, and influence your thinking like the Inception movie drug.
Obama is a zen-like evokonym. Nobody knows what it means. But everyone is entranced when they hear the sound. Even if Obama hadn’t been an adjunct to Barack, I am of the view, that it would have been as magnetic. Such is the pull of this 3-syllable Kenyan word.
Google is what I call, the coined evokonym. A tweaked version of the mathematical term Googol - which means 10 to the power of 100 - Google feels as sharp-eyed as an eagle and as goofy as a lovable geek.
Jesus is a transformative evokonym that is equally fascinating. Spelled the English way, it has a very lively and adorable sound. Pronounced the Aramaic way, it almost resembles Eesha, the Sanskrit word for Lord!
Sculpting an evokonym is never too easy. But spotting one is. All you have to do is to pick the name you like for no rhyme or reason!
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Meet the Kung Fu Pandians
Long before the advent of Kung Fu Panda, there must have been a Kung Fu Pandian crouching somewhere, wielding a megaphone, in a dingy set in the dishoom dishoom world of Kollywood, training hulk-like haraam zaadeys to take a million blows from an apology of a hero.
Truth be told, life ain’t easy for the Kung Fu Pandians. Being stunt masters, they have to grapple with ideas, engineer new ways of venting violence, thrash them out with the director, stage the fights and morph tomato squirt fests into believable blood baths. And for all that inventiveness, in the end, some pot-bellied Captain or a balding Superstar will walk away with all the glories!
Thankfully, these under appreciated action men have One Big Compensation that no other profession offers - they get to keep the coolest names! For example, if your dad gave you a yucky sucky name like Sambandam, and you have this god given gift of teaching a podgy star to pummel a hundred rampaging rowdies, then you’re eligible to call yourself, Pummel Sambandam. Ain’t that awesomeness?
The fun of legitimately strutting around with a sobriquet as your name is something else. Imagine introducing your humble self as, “Hi, I am Super Subbarayan. You can call me Super!” Or “Hey babe, I am Fire Kartik. Wanna play with Fire?” Even this pick up line isn’t that corny, “Hello, I am Wham Bam Balaji. Yes, that’s right. Wham Bam. Thank you ma’m!”
The tradition of stunt gurus appropriating macho sounding names began in the early eighties with the release of a rash of martial art movies in Chennai. Anyone who could mimic these jaw-dropping stunts bagged the bragging rights for that genre. That’s how ‘Karate’ Mani and Judo Rathnam were born.
Then came Rambo Rajkumar and Rocky Rajesh inspired by the daredevilry of their guru Sylvester Stallone. The nineties saw the emergence of a whole new pack of action kings who didn’t want to sound very wannabe. So out went, naming the source. In came, alliterative names. Kanal Kannan and Anal Arasu exemplify this curious trend. For all their clever name play, one still feels the Vedi Vedantams of today, still don’t match the authenticity or the roar of a Jaguar Thangam.
Truth be told, life ain’t easy for the Kung Fu Pandians. Being stunt masters, they have to grapple with ideas, engineer new ways of venting violence, thrash them out with the director, stage the fights and morph tomato squirt fests into believable blood baths. And for all that inventiveness, in the end, some pot-bellied Captain or a balding Superstar will walk away with all the glories!
Thankfully, these under appreciated action men have One Big Compensation that no other profession offers - they get to keep the coolest names! For example, if your dad gave you a yucky sucky name like Sambandam, and you have this god given gift of teaching a podgy star to pummel a hundred rampaging rowdies, then you’re eligible to call yourself, Pummel Sambandam. Ain’t that awesomeness?
The fun of legitimately strutting around with a sobriquet as your name is something else. Imagine introducing your humble self as, “Hi, I am Super Subbarayan. You can call me Super!” Or “Hey babe, I am Fire Kartik. Wanna play with Fire?” Even this pick up line isn’t that corny, “Hello, I am Wham Bam Balaji. Yes, that’s right. Wham Bam. Thank you ma’m!”
The tradition of stunt gurus appropriating macho sounding names began in the early eighties with the release of a rash of martial art movies in Chennai. Anyone who could mimic these jaw-dropping stunts bagged the bragging rights for that genre. That’s how ‘Karate’ Mani and Judo Rathnam were born.
Then came Rambo Rajkumar and Rocky Rajesh inspired by the daredevilry of their guru Sylvester Stallone. The nineties saw the emergence of a whole new pack of action kings who didn’t want to sound very wannabe. So out went, naming the source. In came, alliterative names. Kanal Kannan and Anal Arasu exemplify this curious trend. For all their clever name play, one still feels the Vedi Vedantams of today, still don’t match the authenticity or the roar of a Jaguar Thangam.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Dead but still living
Mortality is a myth. Nothing EVER dies. Osama may be gone but is he really dead? Hell, no! He’s just been sent on a forced sabbatical to purgatory. In all probability, he’ll visit us soon as Hurricane Harami. You think I am kidding, don’t you?
The fact of life is everything keeps coming back. The colleague whom you gladly bade farewell to - will return to haunt you as a client! Well, such is the cycle of karma. Whether you like it or not, it does a wicked about-turn, and lands up at your doorstep, unannounced, like that pesky little encyclopaedia salesman!
The positive way of looking at it is, if the theory of Grand Recycling of Karma were true, there must be some hope for the good guys who just vanished from this face of earth without getting their due. Since brands have a soul too, the karmic reincarnation possibilities could throw up some fascinating comeback scenarios for dead brands that still live in our collective consciousness. Especially brands like Solidaire (French word for ‘the bond’).
An eighties synonym for hi-tech televisions in South India, Solidaire can easily pass off today as a mobile phone maker. I am almost certain that if some marketer puts his muscle behind this brand, it has the legs to give Micromax a run for its money.
Illustrated Weekly is another brand, worthy of a rebirth. With its lovely mix of humour, mind sport, scoops, comics and ballsiness, this magazine is any day more readable than the opinionated Outlook and the insipid India Today. Methinks it will be a runaway hit if it hits the newsstands as a tabloid.
Forhans (named after the dentist Richard Forhan) was a brand buried many times over in India. With its super strong equity in oral care, I reckon, it has the DNA to self-mutate into a chewing gum that cleans your teeth!
Likewise TVS 50, the two-wheeler that carried our nation’s ambitions for a decade, can be reinvented as a Segway type bike for the elderly (over 50). All these ideas are way better than flogging the same old dead horses. What say you?
The fact of life is everything keeps coming back. The colleague whom you gladly bade farewell to - will return to haunt you as a client! Well, such is the cycle of karma. Whether you like it or not, it does a wicked about-turn, and lands up at your doorstep, unannounced, like that pesky little encyclopaedia salesman!
The positive way of looking at it is, if the theory of Grand Recycling of Karma were true, there must be some hope for the good guys who just vanished from this face of earth without getting their due. Since brands have a soul too, the karmic reincarnation possibilities could throw up some fascinating comeback scenarios for dead brands that still live in our collective consciousness. Especially brands like Solidaire (French word for ‘the bond’).
An eighties synonym for hi-tech televisions in South India, Solidaire can easily pass off today as a mobile phone maker. I am almost certain that if some marketer puts his muscle behind this brand, it has the legs to give Micromax a run for its money.
Illustrated Weekly is another brand, worthy of a rebirth. With its lovely mix of humour, mind sport, scoops, comics and ballsiness, this magazine is any day more readable than the opinionated Outlook and the insipid India Today. Methinks it will be a runaway hit if it hits the newsstands as a tabloid.
Forhans (named after the dentist Richard Forhan) was a brand buried many times over in India. With its super strong equity in oral care, I reckon, it has the DNA to self-mutate into a chewing gum that cleans your teeth!
Likewise TVS 50, the two-wheeler that carried our nation’s ambitions for a decade, can be reinvented as a Segway type bike for the elderly (over 50). All these ideas are way better than flogging the same old dead horses. What say you?
Friday, May 13, 2011
When Earth Becomes Thrae
If the theory of Parallel Universes were true, there must be at least one universe where things happen in reverse. In that fantasy world, Saurav Ganguly would have fired Shah Rukh Khan from KKR; Osama would have hunted down Obama’s hideout; and Manmohan would have, by now, become Sonia’s remote!
I suspect Thrae (Earth read backwards) would be the name of that planet. And every being there would be known by their Ananym (a word derived by reversing the spelling of another word). For example, Men won’t be Men. Nem will be more like it. Chances are they must be stay-at-home dads focusing on rearing Nerdlihc for a polyandrous species called Nemow who prefer to wear the pants at home.
The currency of Thrae would most probably be Hsac. Unlike its terrestrial cousin Cash, Hsac must be a least-sought-after liability with the bizarre ability to turn anyone poorer. So no Fortune 500 lists. Only Misfortune 500.
In all likelihood, our very own India in Thrae would be a muscle-flexing, war-mongering subcontinent courted by aman-ki-asha loving nations like Natsikap and Anihc. The United Nations, in such a paradigm, would be dominated by the majestic leadership of Uruan, a teeny-weeny Polynesian island best remembered for exporting bird poop to a world, craving for more shit.
To sum up, Thrae would be the very antithesis of Earth. Out there, Paris Hilton would be the Mother Teresa. Pramod Muthalik would be Saint Valentine. Anna Hazare, a Nigerian Scamster. And Arundhati Roy, a rightist wrongster.
From a cinematic point of view, Thrae offers amazing grist for an Inceptionesque script. But what excites me more, is the naming possibilities offered by its core idea of reverse thinking. We can create a terragazillion names with this new technique.
For parents tired of the same old baby names spewed by Google and Maneka Gandhi, thinking backwards can be a massive eye opener. For example, the masculine Arjuna can yield you the feminine Anujra. The girly Kareena can result in a boyish Aneerak. Simple Ishwar can morph into an exotic Rawshi. All it takes is a little reverse engineering!
I suspect Thrae (Earth read backwards) would be the name of that planet. And every being there would be known by their Ananym (a word derived by reversing the spelling of another word). For example, Men won’t be Men. Nem will be more like it. Chances are they must be stay-at-home dads focusing on rearing Nerdlihc for a polyandrous species called Nemow who prefer to wear the pants at home.
The currency of Thrae would most probably be Hsac. Unlike its terrestrial cousin Cash, Hsac must be a least-sought-after liability with the bizarre ability to turn anyone poorer. So no Fortune 500 lists. Only Misfortune 500.
In all likelihood, our very own India in Thrae would be a muscle-flexing, war-mongering subcontinent courted by aman-ki-asha loving nations like Natsikap and Anihc. The United Nations, in such a paradigm, would be dominated by the majestic leadership of Uruan, a teeny-weeny Polynesian island best remembered for exporting bird poop to a world, craving for more shit.
To sum up, Thrae would be the very antithesis of Earth. Out there, Paris Hilton would be the Mother Teresa. Pramod Muthalik would be Saint Valentine. Anna Hazare, a Nigerian Scamster. And Arundhati Roy, a rightist wrongster.
From a cinematic point of view, Thrae offers amazing grist for an Inceptionesque script. But what excites me more, is the naming possibilities offered by its core idea of reverse thinking. We can create a terragazillion names with this new technique.
For parents tired of the same old baby names spewed by Google and Maneka Gandhi, thinking backwards can be a massive eye opener. For example, the masculine Arjuna can yield you the feminine Anujra. The girly Kareena can result in a boyish Aneerak. Simple Ishwar can morph into an exotic Rawshi. All it takes is a little reverse engineering!
Thursday, May 5, 2011
The Secret World of Passwords
If your name is the public face of your identity, your password is the veiled visage of your Freudian subconscious. A lot can be deciphered by studying that mystery word clothed in asterisks.
If I had the powers, I would pinch some small change from the 40,000-crore Sai Baba Trust and institute an Indian Institute of Cryptobabble. The mandate of this madcap research foundation would be to map out psychological profiles based on password analysis. As I see it, at least 5 personality types can be derived after dissecting username keys.
Type 1 is what I call the Baap-Beta Breed. Such folks invariably name their password after their parents, spouses, kids, or pets. My gut feel is nearly 50% of our universe will be populated by these family-loving, Karan Johar movie-watching, closet conservatives. A classic example of this ilk is Karunanidhi. I wonder if his password starts with R or D.
Type 2 is the Unrequited Lover. This beer-glugging, dard-bharey-geet-listening, poetry-penning romantic has the habit of immortalising names of old flames in passwords. Some one like Salman might fall into this category. I suspect, one of his khuljasimsims, would surely be BewafaAsh or ZaalimKatrina.
Type 3 is the Lewd Dude. High on libido, low on fidelity, these hot rods have multiple usernames and usually, a smorgasbord of sexually-loaded passwords to choose from. From all media accounts, Shane Warne shows all signs of being one. I won’t be surprised if his current password is FizzHurley.
Type 4 is the I-like-me generation. Predictably immodest, these bloat heads see no fault in embedding their royal names in the password. You Tube legend T Rajendhar is the kind of bloke we are talking about, here. Knowing him, he’s capable of selecting RajendharMadhiriStarEnrumVaraadhuSaar - even if it has 37 characters!
Type 5 is the ubiquitous Destiny Believer. Superstitious, entrepreneurial, ambitious and totally bhagwan bharosey, this person prefers using the date of birth as the alpha numeric code. Yeddy2721943 is the genre I am talking about.
Now that you’ve hacked into my little theory of passwords, it’s time you logged into your mind and answered one small question: So what type are you?
If I had the powers, I would pinch some small change from the 40,000-crore Sai Baba Trust and institute an Indian Institute of Cryptobabble. The mandate of this madcap research foundation would be to map out psychological profiles based on password analysis. As I see it, at least 5 personality types can be derived after dissecting username keys.
Type 1 is what I call the Baap-Beta Breed. Such folks invariably name their password after their parents, spouses, kids, or pets. My gut feel is nearly 50% of our universe will be populated by these family-loving, Karan Johar movie-watching, closet conservatives. A classic example of this ilk is Karunanidhi. I wonder if his password starts with R or D.
Type 2 is the Unrequited Lover. This beer-glugging, dard-bharey-geet-listening, poetry-penning romantic has the habit of immortalising names of old flames in passwords. Some one like Salman might fall into this category. I suspect, one of his khuljasimsims, would surely be BewafaAsh or ZaalimKatrina.
Type 3 is the Lewd Dude. High on libido, low on fidelity, these hot rods have multiple usernames and usually, a smorgasbord of sexually-loaded passwords to choose from. From all media accounts, Shane Warne shows all signs of being one. I won’t be surprised if his current password is FizzHurley.
Type 4 is the I-like-me generation. Predictably immodest, these bloat heads see no fault in embedding their royal names in the password. You Tube legend T Rajendhar is the kind of bloke we are talking about, here. Knowing him, he’s capable of selecting RajendharMadhiriStarEnrumVaraadhuSaar - even if it has 37 characters!
Type 5 is the ubiquitous Destiny Believer. Superstitious, entrepreneurial, ambitious and totally bhagwan bharosey, this person prefers using the date of birth as the alpha numeric code. Yeddy2721943 is the genre I am talking about.
Now that you’ve hacked into my little theory of passwords, it’s time you logged into your mind and answered one small question: So what type are you?
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Names unusual by berth
They say everyone has a distinctive aroma. Only dogs and Rajnikant have the ability to sniff the odour from a mile. If that freshly-whipped-up myth were true, what would be the fragrance of the Indian Railways? Let's see...103 Indians out of 100 would label the effluvium as Human Piss. Such are the sweet memories evoked by the largest employer in the country.
Stink they might, but the trains that snake across the rusty, rickety and tired tracks of our nation, do warm the cockles of our collective heart. To most of us, the Grand Trunk Express, Howrah Mail, Ganga Kaveri Express or any other long distance chugger is like a long-lost pal who triggers waves of nostalgia, by the minute.
And like all familiar friends, the trains seem to sport unremarkable names that one remembers because of frequent exposure. Or that’s what I thought till I came across the wonderful etymological compilation of train names by Dr. Jitendra Mulki.
His painstaking research has unearthed one little fact – the Railway Babus are not as boring as we think. They do have an under-appreciated, evolved sense of naming. Within the constraints of reporting to nosey netas, the top dogs have managed to push through several names that look beyond destinations, dynasties, rivers, hills and mountains. Here are a few samplers:
The Kaifiat Express is a train that plies between Azamgarh and Delhi. Not many are aware that it’s a surrogate for Kaifi Azmi, the poet-dad of actress Shabana Azmi. Likewise Vibhuti Express is a nod to the Bengali novelist Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyay - the man who penned Pather Panchali. Legendary Hindi raconteur Premchand has been immortalized with Godaan Express. Those who know their trivia will know that Godaan was his last novel. Gitanjali, Kamayani, Thirukkural and Agniveena are other Expresses christened after epic novels and poems.
Another intriguing name is the Shifung Passenger. Named after the Bodo bamboo flute with seven holes it happens to the only train labeled after a musical instrument. Incidentally, Amritha Express (after Mata Amritananda Mayi) is the only tribute from Railways to a living person. I am sure many more will join the bandwagon soon.
Stink they might, but the trains that snake across the rusty, rickety and tired tracks of our nation, do warm the cockles of our collective heart. To most of us, the Grand Trunk Express, Howrah Mail, Ganga Kaveri Express or any other long distance chugger is like a long-lost pal who triggers waves of nostalgia, by the minute.
And like all familiar friends, the trains seem to sport unremarkable names that one remembers because of frequent exposure. Or that’s what I thought till I came across the wonderful etymological compilation of train names by Dr. Jitendra Mulki.
His painstaking research has unearthed one little fact – the Railway Babus are not as boring as we think. They do have an under-appreciated, evolved sense of naming. Within the constraints of reporting to nosey netas, the top dogs have managed to push through several names that look beyond destinations, dynasties, rivers, hills and mountains. Here are a few samplers:
The Kaifiat Express is a train that plies between Azamgarh and Delhi. Not many are aware that it’s a surrogate for Kaifi Azmi, the poet-dad of actress Shabana Azmi. Likewise Vibhuti Express is a nod to the Bengali novelist Bibhutibhushan Bandopadhyay - the man who penned Pather Panchali. Legendary Hindi raconteur Premchand has been immortalized with Godaan Express. Those who know their trivia will know that Godaan was his last novel. Gitanjali, Kamayani, Thirukkural and Agniveena are other Expresses christened after epic novels and poems.
Another intriguing name is the Shifung Passenger. Named after the Bodo bamboo flute with seven holes it happens to the only train labeled after a musical instrument. Incidentally, Amritha Express (after Mata Amritananda Mayi) is the only tribute from Railways to a living person. I am sure many more will join the bandwagon soon.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Rich Homes. Richer Names.
The Wealthy Man’s Dictionary is very unlike yours or mine. The 300,000 odd words listed there are invariably synonyms and antonyms for one of 4 things – Pleasure, Prestige, Publicity, or Profit.
Even these 4Ps have a very different connotation in Mr. Richie Rich’s world. Pleasure, for example, would mean commissioning a photo shoot for a swimsuit calendar. Prestige would mean outbidding a peer for an unworthy cricket star in an IPL auction. Publicity would mean schmoozing with an arm candy half-your-age in a Page 3 do. And Profit would mean building an expensive home with an exotic name.
Antilia is a shimmering case study for the billionaire’s Fourth P. When Mukesh Ambani unveiled his now famous 173-meter, 27-floor home on Altamont Road in South Mumbai, replete with an ice room, yoga studio, hanging gardens, 9 elevators and 3 helipads, it was pegged as a 70 million dollar home. The location (10th most expensive street in the world), the name (Antilia is said to be a mythical island in the Atlantic), and the buzz associated with it, have today, upped the market value to a few billion dollars!
Now this value appreciation wouldn’t have been possible if the building had been named Ambani House or Mukesh Nivas. The conscious choice of an almost international-brand like appellation shows the faith Dhirubhai’s beta has in the aura-enhancing-power of a mystical name.
Jennifer Aniston had similar calculations, when she tagged her 10,000 sq ft Beverly Hills home as Ohana (Hawaiian word for ‘extended family’). Having bought the house at $13.5 million in 2006, the former Friends star is now selling Ohana at 42 million! If the home had been another nameless manor, I doubt if she could have charged this premium.
The tendency to view homes as luxury brands has triggered a veritable naming contest among celebrities. Oprah’s called her estate, The Promised Land. Mel Gibson has named his Malibu mansion, Lavender Hill Farm. Spielberg’s picked Quelle Farm. While Bill Gates has opted for The Ecology House. The Bottom Line: The next time you build a bungalow, remember to home in on a snazzy label.
Even these 4Ps have a very different connotation in Mr. Richie Rich’s world. Pleasure, for example, would mean commissioning a photo shoot for a swimsuit calendar. Prestige would mean outbidding a peer for an unworthy cricket star in an IPL auction. Publicity would mean schmoozing with an arm candy half-your-age in a Page 3 do. And Profit would mean building an expensive home with an exotic name.
Antilia is a shimmering case study for the billionaire’s Fourth P. When Mukesh Ambani unveiled his now famous 173-meter, 27-floor home on Altamont Road in South Mumbai, replete with an ice room, yoga studio, hanging gardens, 9 elevators and 3 helipads, it was pegged as a 70 million dollar home. The location (10th most expensive street in the world), the name (Antilia is said to be a mythical island in the Atlantic), and the buzz associated with it, have today, upped the market value to a few billion dollars!
Now this value appreciation wouldn’t have been possible if the building had been named Ambani House or Mukesh Nivas. The conscious choice of an almost international-brand like appellation shows the faith Dhirubhai’s beta has in the aura-enhancing-power of a mystical name.
Jennifer Aniston had similar calculations, when she tagged her 10,000 sq ft Beverly Hills home as Ohana (Hawaiian word for ‘extended family’). Having bought the house at $13.5 million in 2006, the former Friends star is now selling Ohana at 42 million! If the home had been another nameless manor, I doubt if she could have charged this premium.
The tendency to view homes as luxury brands has triggered a veritable naming contest among celebrities. Oprah’s called her estate, The Promised Land. Mel Gibson has named his Malibu mansion, Lavender Hill Farm. Spielberg’s picked Quelle Farm. While Bill Gates has opted for The Ecology House. The Bottom Line: The next time you build a bungalow, remember to home in on a snazzy label.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The Shortest Movie Titles
Mindless surfing is a good thing. I recommend it to anyone who leads a pointless life. It can be particularly therapeutic to the bored mind that has ventured on a journey of sweet nothings down the river of drift on a yacht named Whatever-floats-your-boat.
On one such futile voyage, I discovered the longest horror movie title. It reads: Night of the Day of the Dawn of the Son of the Bride of the Return of the Revenge of the Terror of the Attack of the Evil, Mutant, Alien, Flesh Eating, Hellbound, Zombified Living Dead Part 2: In Shocking 2-D! The very sight of this grotesque reticulated python kind of longness made me lust for stark-naked short movie titles shorn of all imaginable fluff.
That’s when I thought of Ram Gopal Varma’s D. Presumably the abbreviation for Dawood, D was hyped as the prequel to Company. Considering that Company itself was an allusion for D-Company, the title D was indeed a masterstroke. When I heard of it first, RGV grew taller in my eyes by a whole 70 mm. I mean, here was a man who had coined the the Sabse Chota Hindi Movie Title, and the media didn’t even acknowledge this fact!
Exactly one year after D, came E, the crispest ever Tamil Movie Title minted this side of Cooum. The very intriguing E is not a story about the housefly. It’s a character-study of a chap named Easwaran (played by Jeeva) embroiled in a bio-warfare saga. If the director SP Jananathan had named the film Easwaran, I reckon E wouldn’t have fared as well.
Fritz Lang deserves all the credit for pioneering the shorter-than-the-shortest-movie-title trend way back in 1931, when he unveiled the first ever serial killer movie M (short for Murderer). Costa Gravas made this even more popular by choosing the title Z (pronounced zee) for his French Political Thriller in 1969. The one-letter gamble worked like a blockbuster. And ever since, we’ve had a rash of films like Q (horror flick), H (a South Korean thriller) and O (aka Othello). To cut a long story short, sometimes it might just help to take the shortest cut.
On one such futile voyage, I discovered the longest horror movie title. It reads: Night of the Day of the Dawn of the Son of the Bride of the Return of the Revenge of the Terror of the Attack of the Evil, Mutant, Alien, Flesh Eating, Hellbound, Zombified Living Dead Part 2: In Shocking 2-D! The very sight of this grotesque reticulated python kind of longness made me lust for stark-naked short movie titles shorn of all imaginable fluff.
That’s when I thought of Ram Gopal Varma’s D. Presumably the abbreviation for Dawood, D was hyped as the prequel to Company. Considering that Company itself was an allusion for D-Company, the title D was indeed a masterstroke. When I heard of it first, RGV grew taller in my eyes by a whole 70 mm. I mean, here was a man who had coined the the Sabse Chota Hindi Movie Title, and the media didn’t even acknowledge this fact!
Exactly one year after D, came E, the crispest ever Tamil Movie Title minted this side of Cooum. The very intriguing E is not a story about the housefly. It’s a character-study of a chap named Easwaran (played by Jeeva) embroiled in a bio-warfare saga. If the director SP Jananathan had named the film Easwaran, I reckon E wouldn’t have fared as well.
Fritz Lang deserves all the credit for pioneering the shorter-than-the-shortest-movie-title trend way back in 1931, when he unveiled the first ever serial killer movie M (short for Murderer). Costa Gravas made this even more popular by choosing the title Z (pronounced zee) for his French Political Thriller in 1969. The one-letter gamble worked like a blockbuster. And ever since, we’ve had a rash of films like Q (horror flick), H (a South Korean thriller) and O (aka Othello). To cut a long story short, sometimes it might just help to take the shortest cut.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Moron & the Art of Airport Naming
Politicians of the world are not exactly airheads. They are smarter than you think. Decades of defeats and victories have taught them one priceless lesson – public memory is woefully short. Almost Ghajini like. After a point, no one remembers who looted the country, who screwed around with the economy, who botched up wars, who looked the other way during genocides and who sold our national secrets for a song. All one cares to recollect is what is written on the national mementoes.
That psychological insight is the reason why our netas name roads, parks, stations, dams, localities and airports after themselves. Their logic is simple. The more Indira Gandhis, Mao Zedongs and JFKs you see, the more you think of them as flawless legends.
Thankfully some nations think differently. The United Kingdom is a classic example. None of their 40 odd airports are named after has-been leaders or long-gone kings. Even Churchill, Queen Elizabeth II, Margaret Thatcher, and Princess Diana haven’t been accorded this privilege. Instead, rock stars, football legends and honorable thieves have been immortalized by English terminals. Cases in point: the Liverpool John Lennon Airport , George Best Belfast City Airport and Robin Hood Doncaster Airport!
Italy is another exception. Key cities here, celebrate historical figures rather than just the big fat politician. Genoa Airport for example, is named after Christopher Columbus. Rome has embraced Leonardo Da Vinci. Federico Fellini is Rimini’s pick. Pisa has opted for Galileo Galelei. And Marco Polo stares at you when you land in Venice.
If Italy has a fixation for painters and scientists, America loves its musicians, actors and cartoonists. Louis Armstrong, John Wayne, Bob Hope and Charles Schulz have befitting namesake airports in New Orleans, Orange County, Burbank and Sonoma County. Can you believe that? I mean, imagine having an RK Laxman Airport in Mysore!
Not all countries bore you to death with done to death celebrity names. Some nations have unwittingly selected bizarre names that can bring a much needed smile to your jet-lag weary face. Try Tanzania’s Mafia, Mongolia’s Moron, Guyana’s Ogle, Canada’s Deception and Australia’s Useless Loop Airport. Ain’t it all, flight-hearted?
That psychological insight is the reason why our netas name roads, parks, stations, dams, localities and airports after themselves. Their logic is simple. The more Indira Gandhis, Mao Zedongs and JFKs you see, the more you think of them as flawless legends.
Thankfully some nations think differently. The United Kingdom is a classic example. None of their 40 odd airports are named after has-been leaders or long-gone kings. Even Churchill, Queen Elizabeth II, Margaret Thatcher, and Princess Diana haven’t been accorded this privilege. Instead, rock stars, football legends and honorable thieves have been immortalized by English terminals. Cases in point: the Liverpool John Lennon Airport , George Best Belfast City Airport and Robin Hood Doncaster Airport!
Italy is another exception. Key cities here, celebrate historical figures rather than just the big fat politician. Genoa Airport for example, is named after Christopher Columbus. Rome has embraced Leonardo Da Vinci. Federico Fellini is Rimini’s pick. Pisa has opted for Galileo Galelei. And Marco Polo stares at you when you land in Venice.
If Italy has a fixation for painters and scientists, America loves its musicians, actors and cartoonists. Louis Armstrong, John Wayne, Bob Hope and Charles Schulz have befitting namesake airports in New Orleans, Orange County, Burbank and Sonoma County. Can you believe that? I mean, imagine having an RK Laxman Airport in Mysore!
Not all countries bore you to death with done to death celebrity names. Some nations have unwittingly selected bizarre names that can bring a much needed smile to your jet-lag weary face. Try Tanzania’s Mafia, Mongolia’s Moron, Guyana’s Ogle, Canada’s Deception and Australia’s Useless Loop Airport. Ain’t it all, flight-hearted?
Monday, February 14, 2011
Where names are lager than life
Pub naming in India has become, almost like Tendulkar - terrifically effective yet terribly predictable. No, I didn’t mean that as a compliment. With all due respect to the living legend, I think the ‘master blaster’ now just plays template and not tempting cricket. Gone are the shots that kept a nation glued. It’s all about carefully calibrated nudges, cleverly stroked drives and get-that-next-century glides. Instead of the ingenious, we’re being trotted out shots that reek of incremental genius.
That’s exactly my problem with our pubs. We started with a high called Purple Haze. Today we are forced to make do with the straight-forwards (Distil, Diesel & Liquid) and the lazily-themed ones (Bikes & Barrels, NASA & Sherlock Holmes). If you think I am being too uncharitable, wait till you get a whiff of some really quirky names opted for by some really kooky English pubs.
For every blue blooded Queen’s Head, you have the down right rustic, The Boondocks. For every oxymoronically funny Honest Lawyer or Jolly Taxpayer you have the smile inducing puns, Nobody Inn and Elbo Room.
The very deadpan Office gives you a perfect alibi when you get that call from home – ‘Where are you? I am still at the Office!’ Even better is, the cutely curt He’s not here. Imagine how handy this might be if you had a gay partner!
Spread Eagle may be offensive but it draws you right in. Cockwell Inn may not appeal to your sister, but it has enough shock value for a gaggle of giggly girls. Frog and Firkin, sounds firkin good when you say it aloud. Filthy McNasty’s makes you wonder if some old faggot will call you names while serving Old Fart wine and Piss beer.
Group Therapy and Rehab Lounge can offer dignified refuges for the alcoholics pretending to be alcoholics anonymous. The Oval can serve as a nice fig leaf for cricketers who wish to dabble in some furious spot fixing. And Library can act as a safe haven for college kids bunking college.
As you can see, pubs can look spirited even with sober names. So why not uncork a bold new bubbly?
That’s exactly my problem with our pubs. We started with a high called Purple Haze. Today we are forced to make do with the straight-forwards (Distil, Diesel & Liquid) and the lazily-themed ones (Bikes & Barrels, NASA & Sherlock Holmes). If you think I am being too uncharitable, wait till you get a whiff of some really quirky names opted for by some really kooky English pubs.
For every blue blooded Queen’s Head, you have the down right rustic, The Boondocks. For every oxymoronically funny Honest Lawyer or Jolly Taxpayer you have the smile inducing puns, Nobody Inn and Elbo Room.
The very deadpan Office gives you a perfect alibi when you get that call from home – ‘Where are you? I am still at the Office!’ Even better is, the cutely curt He’s not here. Imagine how handy this might be if you had a gay partner!
Spread Eagle may be offensive but it draws you right in. Cockwell Inn may not appeal to your sister, but it has enough shock value for a gaggle of giggly girls. Frog and Firkin, sounds firkin good when you say it aloud. Filthy McNasty’s makes you wonder if some old faggot will call you names while serving Old Fart wine and Piss beer.
Group Therapy and Rehab Lounge can offer dignified refuges for the alcoholics pretending to be alcoholics anonymous. The Oval can serve as a nice fig leaf for cricketers who wish to dabble in some furious spot fixing. And Library can act as a safe haven for college kids bunking college.
As you can see, pubs can look spirited even with sober names. So why not uncork a bold new bubbly?
Friday, September 10, 2010
The Penchant for Pen Names
In the late nineties, when free email burst forth into our collective consciousness, there was a gold rush for cooler-than-thou email ids. Back then, hotmale@hotmail.com was considered lame. Everyone wanted a badass avatar. Thescoundrel@yahoo.com, haraami@coolmail.com, or kamnati@rocketmail.com invariably earned you that extra brownie from that ‘shygirl’ in that mystery chatroom. If you really analyze, it was all about appropriating an escape identity, very different from our drab selves. Pen Names played that role, in the pre-internet era.
Sadly, whenever we think of pen names, we always think of it as a Western phenomenon. Because we’ve all grown up on pseudonyms like Ayn Rand (Born Alisa Zinov'yevna Rosenbaum), Mark Twain (Samuel Langhorne Clemens), O. Henry (William Sydney Porter), Saki (Henry Hector Munro) and Lewis Carroll (Charles Lutwidge Dodgson). If you care to ask your mom and dad, they’ll tell you, Tamil Nadu has a far richer tradition of nom de plumes.
The creator of the epic Ponniyin Selvan, could have written the novel under his real name R. Krishnamurthy. Instead he opted for Vishnu’s tenth avatar ‘Kalki’. The trick worked as the two-syllable name had the acoustics and profundity to intrigue any reader. Kalki is actually a clever coinage minted by fusing the ‘Kal’ from Kalyana Sundara Mudaliar (his mentor) and Krishnamurthy’s Tamil initial ‘Ki’.
Abdul Kalam’s classmate, screenplay writer and ace novelist S. Rangarajan wrote under his wife’s name (Sujatha). A male writing under a female name! Considering it was way before the era of gender-bender chat screennames, it was truly pioneering. An even more scintillating name was thought up by Madabushi Rangadurai when he anagrammed the phonetics of Rangadurai into the very-hip and Anglo Randor Guy.
If authors were having a field day choosing wacky pen names, can poets be far behind? C. Virudachalam dropped his boring name and picked Pudumai Pithan (meaning: Mad about the New). AL Muthiah added a touch of elegance to his persona with Kannadasan. TS Rangarajan swapped his pedestrian name for the mythical Vaali. Muhammad Metha shrunk it all and wrote pudhu kavidhai under Mu. Metha. Moral of the Story: Get your name right, before you write.
Sadly, whenever we think of pen names, we always think of it as a Western phenomenon. Because we’ve all grown up on pseudonyms like Ayn Rand (Born Alisa Zinov'yevna Rosenbaum), Mark Twain (Samuel Langhorne Clemens), O. Henry (William Sydney Porter), Saki (Henry Hector Munro) and Lewis Carroll (Charles Lutwidge Dodgson). If you care to ask your mom and dad, they’ll tell you, Tamil Nadu has a far richer tradition of nom de plumes.
The creator of the epic Ponniyin Selvan, could have written the novel under his real name R. Krishnamurthy. Instead he opted for Vishnu’s tenth avatar ‘Kalki’. The trick worked as the two-syllable name had the acoustics and profundity to intrigue any reader. Kalki is actually a clever coinage minted by fusing the ‘Kal’ from Kalyana Sundara Mudaliar (his mentor) and Krishnamurthy’s Tamil initial ‘Ki’.
Abdul Kalam’s classmate, screenplay writer and ace novelist S. Rangarajan wrote under his wife’s name (Sujatha). A male writing under a female name! Considering it was way before the era of gender-bender chat screennames, it was truly pioneering. An even more scintillating name was thought up by Madabushi Rangadurai when he anagrammed the phonetics of Rangadurai into the very-hip and Anglo Randor Guy.
If authors were having a field day choosing wacky pen names, can poets be far behind? C. Virudachalam dropped his boring name and picked Pudumai Pithan (meaning: Mad about the New). AL Muthiah added a touch of elegance to his persona with Kannadasan. TS Rangarajan swapped his pedestrian name for the mythical Vaali. Muhammad Metha shrunk it all and wrote pudhu kavidhai under Mu. Metha. Moral of the Story: Get your name right, before you write.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
LSD & the trip of numbers
Being a conceited writer, I used to entertain this naïve notion that ‘The Script’ decides the fate of a movie. Every time an awful film made it big, I used to attribute it to huge doses of good karma. But the shocking success of some dubla patla plots (Twilight, Transformers 2 and Wanted), has made me question the very foundations of my craft. So, does the bound book, matter at all? If it doesn’t, what is the blue print for weaving a sure-fire blockbuster? Ekta Kapoor, the Temptress of Television, seems to have cracked the code. And her password is: NUMEROLOGY.
Yes my disbelieving pal, the answer lies in numbers. Let’s study the Queen of Soaps for more clues. Ekta Kapoor was born on 7th of June, 1975. Her birth number (sum of the digits of her birth date) is 7 and fadic number (sum of the digits of her DOB) is 8. If one were to go purely by the merits of the never-ending story line of Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi, one would have dismissed it as a non-starter.
But when you apply the science of Pythagorean numerology, even pigs can fly. And that’s what Jumping Jeetu’s daughter did. She just sculpted the serial title in such a way that it tallied with her birth number 7. After tasting success with this gamble, she applied the same formula to Kahaani Ghar Ghar Kii. It became a TRP magnet too! She then extended this 7-logic to movie making with Kyaa Kool Hai Hum. It became the surprise hit of 2005. Incidentally 2005 also adds up to 7!
Recently I read a news item that Ekta Kapoor has floated a new production house named ALT. And their first new feature is LSD or Love, Sex Aur Dokha. The numerologist in me did the number crunching. It didn’t add up to 7. I was puzzled. Then I applied the Chaldean Numerology Code instead of the Pythagorean one. Both ALT and Love, Sex Aur Dokha added to 8. And that happens to be our lady’s fadic number! Will 8 work as well as 7? If it does, I’ll start believing in numerology.
Yes my disbelieving pal, the answer lies in numbers. Let’s study the Queen of Soaps for more clues. Ekta Kapoor was born on 7th of June, 1975. Her birth number (sum of the digits of her birth date) is 7 and fadic number (sum of the digits of her DOB) is 8. If one were to go purely by the merits of the never-ending story line of Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi, one would have dismissed it as a non-starter.
But when you apply the science of Pythagorean numerology, even pigs can fly. And that’s what Jumping Jeetu’s daughter did. She just sculpted the serial title in such a way that it tallied with her birth number 7. After tasting success with this gamble, she applied the same formula to Kahaani Ghar Ghar Kii. It became a TRP magnet too! She then extended this 7-logic to movie making with Kyaa Kool Hai Hum. It became the surprise hit of 2005. Incidentally 2005 also adds up to 7!
Recently I read a news item that Ekta Kapoor has floated a new production house named ALT. And their first new feature is LSD or Love, Sex Aur Dokha. The numerologist in me did the number crunching. It didn’t add up to 7. I was puzzled. Then I applied the Chaldean Numerology Code instead of the Pythagorean one. Both ALT and Love, Sex Aur Dokha added to 8. And that happens to be our lady’s fadic number! Will 8 work as well as 7? If it does, I’ll start believing in numerology.
Monday, May 3, 2010
In the Name of Demockracy
Close your eyes. And visualize. What do you see when you think of politics? Nehru coated netajis delivering boring bhaashans, men in white minting black money, MLAs practicing the javelin by hurling microphones, schemers multiplying votes by dividing the nation, unkempt men and unkept promises, film stars and drama queens, rising sons and falling standards…wasn’t this Dismal Documentary playing in your Mindscreen when you pressed the START button? Sad, na? Don’t you think ‘We the People’ deserve better?
The rest of the world has discovered an antidote to this political ailment. If you ask me, the solution deserves a Nobel Prize for Medicine. Mota moti, the idea is to do a Jaspal Bhatti and to ridicule the jokers who rule you by creating your own ridiculous political party!
The first trend setter in this genre was the Rhinoceros Party of Canada. Instituted in 1963 by Jacques Ferron, the organization elected a rhino from one Montreal zoo as its leader citing remarkable similarities to thick-skinned, slow-moving and dim-witted politicians. Inspired by this, the McGillicuddy Serious Party came into being in New Zealand. It made a splash with the promise of free dung, good weather and full unemployment.
The limelight enjoyed by these Satirical Political Parties encouraged the birth of a whole parliament of jocularly named rag tag coalitions. The OWL Party of Washington made its debut at the hustings, in 1976, as a double acronym standing for ‘Out With Logic, On With Lunacy’. Leading the clown fest in Sweden was the Donald Duck Party with the ‘free liquor’ manifesto. The Hungarian Double-tailed Dog Party pushed the envelope further by announcing ‘eternal life, world peace, one work day per week and two sunsets a day!’ Some porn stars took the cue and floated the Love Party in Italy with the solemn oath of legalizing brothels and injecting more fun in Sex Education. But the one that really rocked was the Sun Ripened Warm Tomato Party of Australia. It polled 0.69% of the national vote, thanks to its bizarre name! Hopefully the Cho Ramaswamis of the world will take note and start their own Mock Munnetra Kazhakams.
The rest of the world has discovered an antidote to this political ailment. If you ask me, the solution deserves a Nobel Prize for Medicine. Mota moti, the idea is to do a Jaspal Bhatti and to ridicule the jokers who rule you by creating your own ridiculous political party!
The first trend setter in this genre was the Rhinoceros Party of Canada. Instituted in 1963 by Jacques Ferron, the organization elected a rhino from one Montreal zoo as its leader citing remarkable similarities to thick-skinned, slow-moving and dim-witted politicians. Inspired by this, the McGillicuddy Serious Party came into being in New Zealand. It made a splash with the promise of free dung, good weather and full unemployment.
The limelight enjoyed by these Satirical Political Parties encouraged the birth of a whole parliament of jocularly named rag tag coalitions. The OWL Party of Washington made its debut at the hustings, in 1976, as a double acronym standing for ‘Out With Logic, On With Lunacy’. Leading the clown fest in Sweden was the Donald Duck Party with the ‘free liquor’ manifesto. The Hungarian Double-tailed Dog Party pushed the envelope further by announcing ‘eternal life, world peace, one work day per week and two sunsets a day!’ Some porn stars took the cue and floated the Love Party in Italy with the solemn oath of legalizing brothels and injecting more fun in Sex Education. But the one that really rocked was the Sun Ripened Warm Tomato Party of Australia. It polled 0.69% of the national vote, thanks to its bizarre name! Hopefully the Cho Ramaswamis of the world will take note and start their own Mock Munnetra Kazhakams.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
The Godmen of Small Things
There was a time when honorific prefixes and suffixes were appended to names only after a lifetime of consideration. Paramahamsa was one such lofty title. Only the enlightened metasouls who could sift the truth from the illusion were conferred this spiritual knighthood. Recently while watching Vinnaithandi Varuvaya, the cinematographer’s work caught my eye. I discovered it was by one, Manoj Paramahamsa! With all due respect to the man, I wonder how his parents bestowed him this coveted surname without going through the contortions of acquiring the black belt of Yogahood. I am almost certain the genuine gurus who slaved away all their empty lives in pursuit of such mystic honorifics, will be collectively scowling in their saintly samadhis.
But they must be used to it now. After all, they have seen so many godmen take so many liberties and bring so much disrepute to so many guru names that they would’ve stopped counting. Like our newest sensation, Paramahamsa Nithyananda (born as Rajasekaran).
Son of a farmer, the young lad did his studies in Tiruvannamalai (Ramana Maharishi’s abode) and one fine day discovered the stairway to heaven and the short cut to nirvana. That’s when he decided to switch over to the saffron garb and appropriated the aura of a sanyasi by attempting a naming technique, we call fusonyms. He just sliced the ‘ananda’ from Vivekananda, diced ‘Nithya’ from Nithya Chaitanya Yati and added a sprinkling of the reverential P-word and thus was born Paramhamsa Nithyananda. That one masterstroke changed his destiny and the rest is television history.
The ingeniousness of Rajasekaran has inspired me to create a whole new cult of Fake Godmen names. It’s royalty free. So feel free to partake of my holy prasad. Up for grabs first is Swami Twistananda, for the dancing guru. With such a name, one can give Shiamak Davar, a gambol for his money. Laptop Baba can be a brilliant way to make nubile chicks, plonk on your lap. Football Maharaj is for disciples in search of a guru who can help them kick their bad karma. I have a lot more monikers. I shall preserve them for my salvation!
But they must be used to it now. After all, they have seen so many godmen take so many liberties and bring so much disrepute to so many guru names that they would’ve stopped counting. Like our newest sensation, Paramahamsa Nithyananda (born as Rajasekaran).
Son of a farmer, the young lad did his studies in Tiruvannamalai (Ramana Maharishi’s abode) and one fine day discovered the stairway to heaven and the short cut to nirvana. That’s when he decided to switch over to the saffron garb and appropriated the aura of a sanyasi by attempting a naming technique, we call fusonyms. He just sliced the ‘ananda’ from Vivekananda, diced ‘Nithya’ from Nithya Chaitanya Yati and added a sprinkling of the reverential P-word and thus was born Paramhamsa Nithyananda. That one masterstroke changed his destiny and the rest is television history.
The ingeniousness of Rajasekaran has inspired me to create a whole new cult of Fake Godmen names. It’s royalty free. So feel free to partake of my holy prasad. Up for grabs first is Swami Twistananda, for the dancing guru. With such a name, one can give Shiamak Davar, a gambol for his money. Laptop Baba can be a brilliant way to make nubile chicks, plonk on your lap. Football Maharaj is for disciples in search of a guru who can help them kick their bad karma. I have a lot more monikers. I shall preserve them for my salvation!
Friday, April 2, 2010
The Doctor Balki Syndrome
Doctor Balki is an honorable man. After giving us India’s first diabetic-friendly movie (Cheeni Kum), he followed it up with a flick on the Hutchinson-Gilford Progeria Syndrome. The ingenious choice of a rare disease gave the audience a reason-to-lap-up the monkey dancing antics of Auro, and more importantly, it provided Amitabh, a new medical condition to milk an award (flash back: Alzheimer’s fetched Big B, the National for Black). Inspired by Balki’s award winning template, KJo injected doses of the Asperger Syndrome into the MNIK script, to resuscitate the thespian in Star Rukh Khan. Now I hear the search is on for even more obscure diseases and syndromes for creating roles-to-die-for, for the other Khans, Kumars, Deols and Khannas. Let’s raise a toast to the gentlemen who started this trend.
To aid my fellow miserable scriptwriters, the black humorist in me, thought, it would be a nice idea to share a few ‘zara hat ke’ syndrome names that can serve as a neat fig leaf for the lack of a plot. Here’s the deluge with suitable pointers on the cast…
Leriche’s Syndrome will be ideal for a Mukesh Bhatt production starring the serial kisser Emran Hashmi. Leriche is a disease that causes impotence due to the paralysis of the Lumbar spinal nerve. Goodpasture’s Syndrome can serve as today’s Lymphosarcoma of the Intestine (Rajesh Khanna dies in ‘Anand’ because of this condition). Goodpasture results in death by renal failure and it offers immense scope for Guru Duttesque melodramas. Marfan Syndrome can fulfill Aamir’s long cherished desire to play a tall character! Because this genetic disorder is known to lead to extra long limbs and long thin fingers. Marfan can also seriously impair the eyes causing Astigmatism and Nearsightedness. These touches could enhance the glycerine quotient in the poignant climax.
Bipasha would love the Takayasu’s Syndrome as it is known to cause pulselessness. Imagine a Ram Gopal Varma horror film where the protagonist is assumed to be dead because Shiney Ahuja can’t feel the pulse! Do you sense the possibilities? So go on. Abuse the syndromes. And blame it all on Balki.
Extracted from my Nama Sutra column, featured in Indulge, the Friday lifestyle tabloid of New Indian Express.
To aid my fellow miserable scriptwriters, the black humorist in me, thought, it would be a nice idea to share a few ‘zara hat ke’ syndrome names that can serve as a neat fig leaf for the lack of a plot. Here’s the deluge with suitable pointers on the cast…
Leriche’s Syndrome will be ideal for a Mukesh Bhatt production starring the serial kisser Emran Hashmi. Leriche is a disease that causes impotence due to the paralysis of the Lumbar spinal nerve. Goodpasture’s Syndrome can serve as today’s Lymphosarcoma of the Intestine (Rajesh Khanna dies in ‘Anand’ because of this condition). Goodpasture results in death by renal failure and it offers immense scope for Guru Duttesque melodramas. Marfan Syndrome can fulfill Aamir’s long cherished desire to play a tall character! Because this genetic disorder is known to lead to extra long limbs and long thin fingers. Marfan can also seriously impair the eyes causing Astigmatism and Nearsightedness. These touches could enhance the glycerine quotient in the poignant climax.
Bipasha would love the Takayasu’s Syndrome as it is known to cause pulselessness. Imagine a Ram Gopal Varma horror film where the protagonist is assumed to be dead because Shiney Ahuja can’t feel the pulse! Do you sense the possibilities? So go on. Abuse the syndromes. And blame it all on Balki.
Extracted from my Nama Sutra column, featured in Indulge, the Friday lifestyle tabloid of New Indian Express.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Friday, January 8, 2010
Alert, Nunuvut
Located in Canada on the tip of the Nunavut territory, Alert is a small village that lies on the Arctic Ocean only 500 miles below the North Pole. It is widely considered to be the northernmost permanently inhabited place in the world (with a whopping five year-round residents), and also one of the most inhospitable. Interesting name.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Do you know how Shemaroo got its name?
Shemaroo Entertainment was started in 1962 by the Maroo brothers (Buddhichand, Atul & Raman)in collaboration with the Shethias. SHEthias + MAROO = Shemaroo. And thus was born Shemaroo.
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