Yesterday the television was moved from our bedroom to my son's, despite my daughter's protests that her brother would not let her watch Disney Hour, or my wife Saans. Because a sulking family is easier to cope with than a son who insists on usurping the centre of the bed, with the volume high, and a macro discussion on everything that happens when cricketing teams clash, I ensured that the transition took place exactly as planned.
For someone who thinks a leg slip is some kind of designer stocking, the World Cup is proving traumatic, especially since the magazines and papers are full of it, and the only conversation people seem to have is about fast googlies and lazy spins.
Devastating though that is, what's worse is that you can't escape from it, no matter where. Delhi's no city of pubs, but when the few that exist begin to down shutters at 10.30 on your favourite tipple, and instead of music, show live telecasts of cricket with TVs placed on virtually every other table, it's time to escape. But between the pitch and the pitcher, there's no getting away from it anywhere. At all-night coffee shops where they frisk you for weapons first, and take orders later, even the regular club sandwich is now called Jadeja's Jadu.
Since the cops are playing fiddle with hi-society parties, the glitteratti's fled both cricket and town. There are no more designer dos, and all the talk is about Mauritius and Malaysia. "Are you going anywhere for your holidays?" friends ask. Because I don't have holidays, I say yes, I'm considering Manesar for a weekend, and find myself dropped almost as fast as Bina Ramani from their conversations. Between cricket and vacations, I find I've dwindled rapidly into a social outcast.
"We're going to Bikaner," I told the kids, "to spend a week with your grandparents," but they protested that it was too hot in Rajasthan, besides which who ever heard of going to families for a vacation? "I will have you know," I said loftily, "when I was your age, my parents took me to visit my grandparents every summer for a whole month." "Yes," they said, "and look where it left you." Since I didn't know what to make of that statement, I let it hang. Unfortunately, grandfatherly love too seemed a trifle wanting. "I'm thinking of bringing the kids in for a week," I called my father. "I don't think it's such a good idea," he said. When I insisted on knowing why, he said the children would find the weather too hot. "We've coped with the heat before," I reminded him, "besides, the evenings are cooler in the desert." "The truth is," my father confessed, "when the World Cup's on, you'll be constantly whining about putting the TV off."
"Now that we've decided we're staying here," my wife said, "let's at least try and make ourselves comfortable." It added up to investing our savings in an air-conditioner. "At least now we'll be cool," she said, switching on the machine, while I hastened to lecture her on the likely electricity bill. I needn't have bothered for the power failed just then and was restored only five hours later, by when it was time for the Delhi government's three-hour curfew on the use of ACs. "We should have bought a power inverter," my son complained, his TV viewing having been limited by the vagaries of Delhi Vidyut Board.
This morning, I made a booking for Manesar. Surprisingly, the family's behaving as if we're en route to Manila. mains the fat man's collaboration with Bally Sagoo on about a half a dozen tracks. Thus far, no one has reached anywhere near those heights. This is one artiste who threatens to get close. But getting closer will involve pushing the musical envelope. And while taking nothing away from music director Shantanu Moitra's eclectic choice and tasteful employment of sub-genres, this work is just not adventurous enough.
An accusation that can be levelled at Lezz Lewis, one half of the Colonial Cousins and producer of debutant KK's Pal (as in `moment' not `friend'), Sony Music, Rs 55. The singer has been around for some time, a veteran of jingles and film sountracks. The solo outing is a smooth, polished and highly professional affair _ good solid Hindi pop. That would have been fine if this was a singer with limitations. But through the gloss of sophistication are afforded brief glimpses of a potential still to be exploited. This is a sound beginning, next time hopefully KK can be persuaded to go out on a limb.
