I am a humble artist

moulding my earthly clod,

adding my labour to nature's

simply assisting God.

Not that my effort is needed;

yet somehow, I understand,

my maker has willed it that I too should have

unmoulded clay in my hand.

- Piet Hein

So, I have been exploring my spiritual side for about a year now. I know, I know. If you had told me six or seven years ago that I would one day lie on my bed, stare at the ceiling, and ask myself: “What is the meaning of life?” I would have told you to shut the hell up and pass the Old Monk.

But there comes a time in a man’s life when you do ask yourself such questions, and I have been thinking about religion, whether there’s a God, and most importantly, whether there’s an afterlife. I find it hard to convince myself that such things exist, but for the first time in my life, I could feel a mild curiosity, a sort of “what if...?” sentiment.

Now if you’re thinking about religion for the first time, you tend to gravitate to the exotic. Hippies come to India, but where do Indians go? I am a Hindu, and was surrounded by Catholicism in university, which cuts out two options. Besides, I was more interested in the origins of it... in the legends and myths that gave that particular religion its shape.

Of course, many religions started in the North African desert landscape. Someone who visited the Sahara said he could understand why – the supreme beauty of the desert, its awesomeness (in the non-Americanism sense) somehow inspires you to think beyond the mundane, he said.

My finances meant a trip to the Sahara was out of the question. So I was delighted when Mandy suggested on an impulse that we drive up to Denmark. If the extreme weather and beauty of the Saharan desert gave rise to one form of religion, the Nordic region is the other extreme. The long freezing nights in winter and the cold, endless days in the summer, when a dim sun hangs about for pretty much all of the six months leading up to the next winter, at which point the ice and snow take over; and all this fringed by glacial arctic waters. This inspires a different sort of awe, and the Germanic myths took seed there, and left behind a stunningly rich ream of myth, religious belief and literature. Some of this seeped over to England when the Vikings conquered the North. My mate Laurie reckons he has Viking blood in him. I can well believe it, based on his reaction this one time a girl tipped his beer over at the bar.

Now, I knew very little about the region before we set off – I had been to Finland once before, and had been suitably impressed by Helsinki’s architecture –grim buildings frowned down upon the freezing inhabitants walking through the town square, giving the place an air of foreboding. But I hadn’t seen enough of the country to judge – it was just Helsinki and Espoo, where the Nokia factory is located – not a very religious experience, there wasn’t even the annoyingly messianic air that Steve Jobs used to put on over at Apple. Olli-Pekka Kallusvuo, Nokia’s CEO at the time, was frustratingly self-deprecatory.

With regard to Norse myths, most of my knowledge came from the poetry of a fictitious character in AS Byatt’s Possession, a multiplayer game called Ragnarok (oddly, the same name as Byatt’s character’s poem) and from that Led Zeppelin song.

I won’t go into Norse mythology too much, but suffice it to say there are links to all the other myths and religions we are familiar with. There is the same tale of resurrection as in Christianity, and their beliefs around the afterlife – an endless war waged to amuse the more bloodthirsty Gods – is similar to the Greek belief during Homer’s writing of the Iliad.

Denmark is the country furthest south in the Nordic region, or at least, the only country that doesn’t stretch out beyond the Arctic circle. But it was north enough for me. We set off from Hamburg, where M. had just finished her exams, ignoring the lure of Flensburg (the last German town on the Germany-Denmark border) and headed north-ward. This was my first really aimless trip – we were just driving with no particular destination, deciding to simply go to the first town that caught our eye, and stay at the first reasonably priced hotel we came across.

The German countryside is quite beautiful, but I was still disappointed initially that Denmark was not very different. I don’t know what I expected really. But slowly some subtle differences began to surface. Germany is quite cheerful – the shops and town centres are usually painted in stark, bright colours quite pleasing to the eye. Denmark was somehow softer, more subtle. And the weather and the landscape also seemed to dull slightly as we moved further north – the sky turned from blue to iron grey.

We stopped for a hotdog (Danish hotdogs are the best in the world, according to M.) and scoured a map of the part of the country that's part of continental Europe (you have to cross part of the Baltic Sea to get to Copenhagen and the rest). Aabenraa was on the coast and sounded promising. It’s one of those names that sound vaguely familiar, but you can’t quite place it.

Aabenraa turned out to be a little coastal town with some industrial-looking harbours and some unimaginative architecture. For some reason it depressed us both, and we decided against sticking around. But if any citizens of Aabenraa come across this and object, I humbly beg its pardon; no town deserves to dismissed out of hand in a couple of lines, but that’s how we felt.

So we decided to head to the next town on the map: Kolding. It didn’t sound very exciting but when we reached it much, much later on, we loved it. But that’s in a bit. First we had to get out of Aabenraa and on to the main road, which proved tricky. However we seemed to keep heading for the same, massive, yellow crane no matter which direction we drove. Finally, we went off the beaten track slightly and took a rather rustic-looking road.

After a point, we were so hopelessly lost that we could just about make out the bay, so we headed in that direction – insofar as the winding, weather beaten track would allow. Along the way, M. was sharp enough to spot a sign on the side of the road, and she backed up to have a look at it. The road was only big enough to hold the one car – but the area was so deserted that it was extremely unlikely that we would be blocking someone else at any point.

Out we went on to the deserted farmland towards a rock of some sort, the ocean on one side, and a few sparse trees on the other. The only sign of humanity was a few tractor trails on the parched farmland. As we went closer to the rock, I realised it looked vaguely familiar. It was a dolmen – an ancient tomb, supposed to be incredibly rare. The plaque said this one was unusually large, and probably plays host to the remains of six or seven farmers from the 12^th century or whatever.

It was incredibly desolate, looking at this dolmen in the middle of nowhere, and at the same time ridiculously exhilarating to think we had discovered something; even if we only stumbled upon it completely by accident.

Anyway, back on the road, we came across a kindly couple who conveyed, through sign language, the way to get back onto the main road, and we headed Kolding-wards.

This was much better. It was a lovely town with sloping roads and quirky buildings and structures strewn across the streets. We checked into the first hotel we came across, an ancient building on the outside while the interior was decked with strange paintings and ornate mirrors. I was a bit creeped out, to be honest, but that was part of the charm. An unlimited supply of excellent coffee was the icing on the cake.

So I wanted to go to a museum or some other place of interest where I could further my education in Norse mythology, and M. wanted to chill out on the beach. We were not entirely successful in either endeavour. There was just a castle at Kolding, of historical interest certainly, but not really of mythological interest. And the beach was not the chilling out type: it was entirely silent and empty of people, thought it did have a haunting beauty to it.

About the Koldinghus Castle, well it is a 13^th century structure perched on a hill with a sheer drop on one side all the way down to Kolding Fjord – a river that originally marked the border between Denmark and the Duchy of Schleswig. It was built to keep the war-like dukes of Schleswig in their place when they got a bit too ambitious.

The building itself was quite unlike anything I had seen before. Not being an expert in architecture, I can’t really express myself very well. It had a sort of clean cut and rich quality that I am now beginning to associate with Northern Europe and, oddly enough, Protestant churches. Though it is a restored castle (a fire all but destroyed the original) they have apparently stayed faithful to the historical design.

I desperately wanted to go in, but after M. and I debated for about an hour whether we could pay the entrance fee or not, we decided we couldn’t afford it: it was a straight choice between visiting the castle and eating for the rest of the day.

Fortunately, we wandered into the (free) courtyard area, and discovered a little staircase in the corner which gave us a sort of backdoor entry into the castle, and even though I feel really guilty about this (if the Kolding authorities come across this blog please do contact me – I can afford to pay retrospectively now) I’m glad we broke in. The view from the top of the north tower is the image that will define Denmark for me.

Then to the beach, which really was nothing more than a few yards of sand that fringed a bay of sorts. You could see the houses on the other side. The water itself was cold and clear – you could see every pebble at the bottom.

For a small town, Kolding had a pretty vibrant night life. The extremely pretty town centre was pretty empty, but you could hear the night clubs blaring and the screams of laughter. Rather lamely, we chose not to participate, instead eating an excellent pasta at the local restaurant and downing a couple of beers.

We were so enchanted by the town centre that we went back the next morning to check it out in the daylight. And yes, the creepy man we saw standing in the dark did turn out to be a statue – and a weird one at that.

We soon said goodbye to Denmark – we could only afford to stay for the weekend – and headed off back towards Germany, where the delights of a RyanAir flight to London awaited me. We only stopped to make one last purchase in Danish kronur – hotdogs, of course.

For me Denmark was all about that image from the top of the castle. Though I can’t explain exactly what went through my mind at the time, suffice it to say I got what I came for.

my last cigarette

I’ve smoked at least ten “last” cigarettes in the last six months.

Today is my last attempt to beat that sneaky bastard – the nicotine addiction. Not last attempt in the sense of if I don’t succeed, I will be a smoker for life. But last attempt in the sense of – after today, I will never smoke a cigarette again.

So why, you may well ask, (I am assuming I will have at least one reader) am I documenting this seminal moment? Is it just a self-indulgent exercise? Am I crowing over other smokers? What is it about this subject that makes me reignite (pun unintended) this blog after years?

I have been through so many highs and lows since I first made my decision to quit, and I feel so rotten that I picked up that disgusting stick again after months of blissful freedom, that I feel the need to express myself in some way – and I will also list some of the crazy, mad, downright ridiculous excuses I came up with after quitting to get back on the troublesome weed. Why? Well, they’re pretty funny.

To begin at the beginning. I first made the decision to quit over the summer in 2010 when I realised I have spent more than ten years of my life as a smoker, and fine, I’ve enjoyed it, I’ve had my fun, but now it’s time to stop. Until then it was always a distant oh, I would like to quit soon. But in July last year I meant business. Why? I don’t think there are any smokers who don’t want to quit... but in case that’s wrong, there might be several reasons unique to me.

Maybe it was because my 27^th year was my most dark and depressing, as I stumbled from one existential crisis to another, and I needed something to feel good about; or maybe it was because I finally started to feel the effects of smoking, gasping for breath after climbing just one flight of stairs.

Probably I was just sick of my dad asking me if I have quit yet, and mumbling something in response. This is a stressful time, my job is demanding, I have a toothache (yes, I kid you not, that was one of my reasons for not quitting).

I made a serious attempt last year with NHS’s programme. This includes a diet of nicotine patches and nicorette gum. This is a ridiculous programme, unfortunately – because the thing you are fighting is the nicotine addiction. So to fight it by stuffing yourself with nicotine instead of smoking is like eating coke instead of snorting it. The gum is healthier, but it doesn’t rid you of the addiction.

I got to the pathetic point where I was chewing gum and then smoking a cigarette five minutes after. Once I realised this wasn’t working, I went cold turkey. My first attempt was as winter approached last year. And I lasted... a couple of days on one occasion, a few hours another, three days on one other occasion, and most pathetically, a few minutes – i smoke a “last” cigarette and then thought to myself, oh hang on, I’ll just have one more.

The top five excuses I came up with were:

5) I am stressed out because of my job so I need a cigarette now. Never mind the fact that I’ll probably work until I’m sixty at the very least (not so sure about even that, if I carry on smoking).

4) I will wait for a special occasion. Like new years’ day. Or my birthday (which is a couple of weeks after). Or til my girlfriend moves to town (this was one of my excuses and it makes no sense given that she smokes more than I do – if anything I should have quit well before to avoid temptation). Or when I holiday in India so my parents wont have to see me smoke – again, the illogic of this doesn’t strike you, because you’re making excuses to smoke.

3) I will put on weight when I quit, so let’s lose five kilos in anticipation before I stop. This would have made some sense if I had actually done anything to lose weight. I didn’t go to the gym, sports are out in winter, I didn’t even do two push ups every morning (I can actually manage two-and-a-half on a good day, but anyway).

2) Nostalgia. I kid you not. I kept remembering sunny days of lying about in the grass with friends during uni in Sheffield and smoking the day away. Or days of thirittu smoking in the bus stop outside Loyola college with Craig, Marky and all my other fellow smokers.

1) This is my favourite, and it got me smoking after two months without. I went to Sheffield on a nostalgia trip, and I remembered the days when I was there I used to smoke – and I told myself Sheffield wouldn’t be the same without a few cigarettes.

The most common one, the one to watch out for most was the “social” cigarette when out drinking with friends. This is the real trap that gets a lot of people smoking properly.

Anyway, having succumbed to all of these pitfalls, I decided I needed help. My editor Matthew at some point saw the nicorette on my desk, and recommended Allen Carr’s How To Quit Smoking. I will in turn recommend it. It removed every illusion about smoking, and in the end, I saw, as Allen intended, what a pleasure life was without smoking.

The days after I quit, I came home from work and felt full of energy, I felt like, ok, what shall we do NOW. When I was a smoker, I used to just be completely exhausted in the evenings. Dinner, TV and bed was the sum of my ambitions.

And after the first few days you suddenly have this moment when the sky seems bluer, and everything seems just sharper, clearer, more in focus. It’s a great feeling. As Allen says, nicotine withdrawal symptoms are actually very mild. You don’t experience headaches or nausea or any other medical side effect from quitting.

The much harder thing is the mental side. Your mind keeps making excuses to start again, many as ridiculous as the ones I listed above, when what you are truly feeling is the nicotine craving.

In fact, I actually respect myself for the reason I started smoking again last Wednesday.

I saw one of my girlfriend’s cigarettes lying around, I wanted it so I smoked it. At least it was straightforward. Unfortunately that one cigarette is disastrous, and I finally succumbed and bought a pack yesterday. And today.

I may joke about it, but this was really quite demoralising. In fact, as I started writing this blog, I suddenly felt a wave of self loathing, depression and anger. Not least because I’ve put on 10 kilos since I started the attempt, and I don’t want it to be in vain... What’s the point of being fat and back to square one?

And I don’t want to feel it again if possible. So... here’s what I thought I would do. Write a blog, and then post every single silly excuse I make in the future as and when they occur to me. And there it will be, in black and white, and in its vast ludicrousness, and I’ll see it for what it is, and I won’t smoke that horrible bloody thing ever.

This cigarette, the one I am holding now, is my last one. One last drag.

And now I am a non-smoker.

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I wrote the above on 6 March 2011, a Sunday. It is now Thursday, 10 March, and I haven't smoked a cigarette yet. However today is being a bit of a bitch. I'm trying to justify having a cigarette because i'm really stressed out about my money situation.

this is crazy, because if i hadn't smoked, just in the last three years i would have saved about £1,020 at the very least, and wouldn't be in this situation!

A.

Lord it over

It was a bright sunny day, the sort that comes at a  premium in London, when I set off to watch India v England at Lords. It was odd - the home of cricket, here WG Grace smacked the ball around with a toss of his impressive beard, here Michael Holding murdered the English batting lineup after Tony Grieg said he would make the West Indies "grovel", and here Ganguly and Dravid played their first Test series, succeeding in their contrasting styles. And I was here to watch a 20-20. Talk about strange bedfellows.

But whatever, when I walked in, I caught my breath for a second - the ground is absolutely gorgeous, and as soaked with history as I could have imagined, and as modern as it gets, with the new media stand looming impressively to one side. I turned to Jenner, who was also at the ground for the first time, and we both shook our heads in disbelief, and had idiotic grins of excitement permanently etched on our faces (right until Yuvraj got out).

And man, the atmosphere was un-be-lievable. i mean, my stand had about 2000 Indian fans, and about ten englishmen - three were sat in front of me, and three behind, as luck would have it. The brit in front of me turned to me in disbelief and said: "Are we in Mumbai or London?" and i know how he felt. 

First off, Ireland v Sri Lanka, which was a great game. But there was no question about which game people came to see. 

Ive seen several test matches and ODIs at the stadium, saw India v Pakistan, a great test match, and India beating Aus. in the decider in THAT series when Laxman got 281, but believe me, none of those compared with the excitement and atmosphere in this stadium. It was just electric - and when the national anthems were sung, and the whole stadium erupted in a ear-splitting "Jai Hai!" it was the most phenomenal feeling.

The first innings was incredible - Pietersen and Bopara were runnign away with the game, but boy when Jadeja got Bopara's wicket, we were all out of our seats, some people even did a Ganguly-style shirt wave sans the shirt... and when Pietersen got out, Jenner normally soft spoken intellectual was howling "Get lost you BASTARD, just FUCK OFF", spraying spittle all over the english fans in front of us to rub salt into the wound...

but I must say i had tremendous admiration for the english fans behind me - their spirited rally included chants such as "Singh is shit" when the words "singh is king" were ringing thro the stadium, and when Harbhajan held back his run up in anticipation of KP's switch hit, the guys behind me started shouting "Shame on India.. It's a disgrace.." and then repeated it, and then repeated it again, when they couldn't come up with anything new. You have to be really brave to say that amidst 2,000 volatile opposition fans!

And the second innings. 

We had our moments of ecstacy, that first ball six by Yuvraj was ridiculous, and a couple of lovely cover drives by Gambhir. And that delightful cameo by Pathan, tho it was obvious to us by then that it was too late. 

Losing that game was one of the most heartbreaking experiences, with all the high hopes we had for the Indian team. Everywhere I looked, stunned Indian fans, some in tears - and I knew how they felt. I was just sat there, completely shattered. And I was to wake up the next day, stare at the ceiling and think - even being dumped by my girlfriend didn't feel this bad the next morning...

At the time, one of the English fans in front of me, turned to shake my hand in a gesture of goodwill. Jenner cheerfully did so (he bounced back much better than I did) but I just shook my head and refused. I felt really bad about it afterwards - but I hope the guy understood just how shattered I was.

At the time, I thought: That's a waste of 50 quid, isn't it.

But now, I feel differently - the highs and lows I felt in that ground was something you can't put a price on. 

10 indications that you're in danger of becoming British.

1) When you cancel dinner plans on a Wednesday night so you can rush home to watch the Apprentice.

2) When you start using 'mate' in your conversation instinctively rather than intentionally, and when you start saying 'chips' instead of 'french fries' and 'crisps' instead of 'chips'.

3) When you find, to your surprise, that you're usually on time for appointments.

4) When you actually get annoyed that someone's breaking the eerie silence on the london underground by talking.

5) When you can have a long chat with someone in the supposedly lower strata of society without being uncomfortably aware of it.

6) When you start hating Margaret Thatcher with a violent passion.

7) When you smile and say a polite 'good morning' to people in your neighbourhood that you don't know, but have passed by once or twice on the street.

8) When you read a report about another government cock-up and think: "That's taxpayers' money they're wasting!"

9) When you begin to take it for granted that nobody will ask you why you've lost or put on weight, and whether that mole on your face was always there?

10) When you say " 'We' played pretty well last night" when you're actually talking about 11 people you've never met kicking a ball hundreds of miles away.

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10 reasons why you know you'll ALWAYS be Indian and NEVER British.

1) When you stay up til 6 in the morning watching Rahul Dravid play that oh-so-perfect forward defence.

2) When you read a report about how the number of students getting A's in GCSEs have gone up by 0.67% since 2004, and think to yourself - even a Dr Cox-style rant wouldn't do justice to how little I care about this.

3) When someone's over for dinner and you absolutely insist that they have just a little bit more to eat, even though they've said 'No' three times.

4) When you meet another Indian, and find out - after many minutes of cathersis - that you are 6th cousins twice removed.

5) When you walk two miles to buy milk for £1.49 rather than £1.53 at the cornershop just outside your house.

6) When you listen to AR Rehman.

7) When you go out to Soho or Covent Garden, get completely pissed on beer and tequila shots, and then experience a sudden craving for thayir sadam and vadu manga (insert appropriate dish depending on where in India you're from).

8) When you read or hear someone mention the UK-US "special relationship" and wonder if we really ever did get our freedom..

9) When you know you shouldn't, but are dying to, make a racist/sexist joke which would go down pretty well back home - but would shock people around here.

10) When you read The Daily Mail

the ageless empires

I found my age of empires 3 DVD while clearing away some papers and popped it in again - it's been at least five years since I played the game. I was struck anew by the gorgeous graphics - just the way the tree sways when a woodcutter takes the axe to it - the way the fish leap over each other in the rippling water, and even the way the dogs scratch their ears. The background score is lovely, and the gameplay is pretty exciting - training cossacks and infantrymen, and building frontier outposts and mortars to protect your camp.
But I couldn't help feeling slightly uncomfortable.

I couldn't remember ever feeling that the game was slightly un-PC when I last played it... i suppose when you're a kid, you're able to carefully segregate the world of video games from reality. you kill germans, monsters from mars, stormtroopers, sacrifice your peaceful peasants so that your knights have time to recharge their batteries without giving it a second thought.
it's only when you're a bit older you start thinking about and "reinforcing stereotypes"...
and then i thought, whatever, i love this game.

so, i was talking to my sister the next day on chat, and tried explaining the game - the conversation:


me: anyway so thats my little incident for the day

i have also rediscovered age of empires

akhila: what is thta?

me: its a computer game where you are one of the colonial powers taking over

8:08 PM parts of 16th cent america

finishing off the native americans and so on

ultra un-PC but amazing fun

akhila: that's pretty awful

me: lol i said that for effect - you actually befriend the native americans

8:09 PM but its so patronising you may as well just kill them off

akhila: right

to be pc-right?

me: exactly

akhila: bogus bullcrap

me: and there's an expansion pack (not sure if yr familiar with that?) called asian something

8:10 PM and u get to be a young british officer, who is so sick of the east india company's atrocities that he gathers the local indians and rebels against the british

i dont think they realise how patronising that is!

white man saves black men from white men etc.

8:11 PM

akhila: awful

me: but it's a great game!

akhila: hey i want to talk about this in my postcolonial class

8:12 PM fucking awful

me: hey you should

you can look up their website

hang on

akhila: ok

me: http://www.ageofempires3.com/

this has all the stories and that

you wont have to play the game!

8:13 PM but youll have to admit - its a remarkably elegant website

8:15 PM akhila: dude it's nuts

which about sums it up, really - it IS nuts. but i'm still playing it!
i wonder if it's better to just play something like grand theft auto, which doesn't attempt to be politically correct at all. i think that's better cos, the maker is saying - it's all wrong, but just go nuts anyway, rather than having this warped sense of right and wrong.

OR we could follow charlie brooker's ideas for a really thrilling video game. My favourite is:

"Magic Agreement Party This is simply a game in which you sit at a dinner party table espousing your viewpoints on any subject under the sun, while everyone else slowly comes to agree with everything you're saying."

I'd rather play that than age of empires, definitely.

not-quite-british desi

the other day, i bought the slum dog millionaire soundtrack in the safe knowledge that it has to be good, not because it won an oscar, but because it was a r rahman. he's never disappointed, except maybe with bombay dreams.
what i wasn't expecting, is to feel this deep surge of homesickness, and a deep sense of wasting a large portion of my youth because of my cynical attempts to be 'cool'. this was when i heard the eighth track, aaj ki raat, originally from the movie Don, and i'd realised that despite my steadfast attempts to wall out bollywood, the song along with many others had seeped in under, over, and through the cracks of my mental block. first of all, it's a lovely track, and i seem to remember several others by shankar/ehsan/loy, both from dil chahta hai and kal ho na ho that i really liked. sure, they were laced by some that made me cringe ("it's the time to disco!") but mostly they were really nice. secondly, i'd totally forgotten how gorgeous sonu nigam's voice is.. it conjured up memories of being sprawled on the sofa and reading a book while my dad watched 'saregama'... of course this memory is slightly sullied by the remembrance of 'saregamapa! hero honda!' before and after every ad break.
the thing is, i was cynical about being mainstream - and bollywood is certainly that - and i was cynical about being americanised - so i went and anglicised myself.
how is that better? it's not, tho i generally feel that indie rock in UK is ten times better than american rock (i still think oasis is the greatest rock band in the world, and still listen to them obsessively) . but the thing is, i missed out on the indian stuff that was all around me.
it has actually stunned and baffled me how much the brits celebrate their pop culture. pop bands are reviewed in 'serious' papers, such as the one i work for, everyone unashamedly watches either x-factor or strictly come dancing, some guys even watch hollyoaks and discuss it keenly - the british equivalent of OC, i think (i haven't seen either for more than ten minutes, so i could be completely wrong). i think, from what i've seen, it's not particularly cool to go smoke up and jam on the acoustic guitar - in fact, it's distinctly uncool.
but whatever, cool or uncool, the point is, it's so much more liberating to have an open mind to pop culture, and while i may never get girls aloud or lady gaga, i've definitely missed out on some really nice music from both tamil and hindi cinema.
or maybe i'm just being born again. i actually totally get why NRIs are born again, its been coming for awhile now as far as i'm concerned. when i was in india, i used to get really angry at the way tendulkar was idolised, i felt other batsman were better. now i so get why he is so much more than a player, and just want to be home celebrating a sachin-century with everyone else..
how annoying that i seem to be having an american-desi moment even tho ive lived in india all my life!
who knows, i might even start learning hindi.

the final answer...

journalism is so simple.

take slumdog millionaire, for example. ive had several people in england ask me if 'that sort of thing' really happens, and i've had heated debates with several people in india if it's villifying the country, exaggerated, or just plain bollocks.

these arguments - with other Indians - have mostly been long and pointless, and when people from England ask me - i usually reply "i wouldn't be surprised" - but i can't say yes or no.
i mean, i have seen police brutality, so i know THAT happens, but do they shock prisoners into unconsciousness? again, i wouldn't be surprised but i don't know.

are young beggars deliberately maimed? i am almost certain that DOES happen because in what little social work i've done i've heard stories of this sort - in fact stories that are worse, if u can actually imagine. but once again, i can't say yes for sure.

The Times did the obvious thing. It's so obvious that noone seems to do it.

They went and asked the slumdogs.

They screened the movie for 30 kids from the slums, and then asked them what they thought. The reporter writes:

"Barefoot in their filthy vests and shorts, they pick their noses, hold their mouths wide open and goggle at the television screen. The older boys - the eldest is 17 - clap their hands and laugh uproariously during the comic scenes. "

So beautifully written, I can just see that so clearly. Anyway, i digress. The final answer is.. (i didn't intend that)

“It gives an accurate picture of the world, of our kind of life.”

And about the beggar scene:

" 'It doesn't happen like that,' says Pipi, who claims to be 14. 'Most of the beggars stay with their families. Their mothers and fathers are in charge.' The children say that nobody in their neighbourhood has been mutilated deliberately like the fictional youngster who is blinded in Slumdog - but they believe that such atrocities do happen elsewhere in Mumbai."

I found this line quite moving, actually:

"They approve of the way in which Jamal and his brother are shown working together to survive. 'We have to look after each other,' says Ashfaq, 13. 'Nobody else does.' "

Anyway, there were some comments at the bottom of the piece from online readers - one of them is from Toronto and claims that the movie is an accurate depiction of life in India. I don't know who this character is, but I find it really hard to believe that he knows anything about it. He may be Indian, and he may have spent years in India, but how many of us who've lived all our lives in the country know about this world?

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About the movie itself - as eyefry says, don't know what the fuss is all about. I thought it was fantastic, moving, (even though I'd read the book and knew what was coming, I had to choke back the tears during the beggar scene).. whether it wins the oscar or not is immaterial. i mean, no country for old men won it last year, the departed won it the year before. sure, these movies were all wonderful in an arty kind of way, but slumdog makes you look at reality doesn't it? anyway the oscars is all bollocks, so i'm not going to waste time talking about it.

And the movie made me want to DO something, and from people I've spoken to I'm not the only one who felt that way – what more could a film hope to achieve?