What's In A Nickname?

What’s In A Nickname?
31st March 2006

The single, greatest fallout of the Internet era isn’t about communication.

It isn’t about bringing two lovers separated by three oceans together. Or about facilitating commerce between Antarctica and Jhoomritalaiya. Or even about titillating millions the world over.

It’s about anonymity. And the creativity that anonymity gives rise to.

In a nutshell, it’s about identities.

Log on to MSN Messenger and you’ll know what I mean. Where Raju from Ramgarh becomes Ravishing Racer Dude.

It’s so amazing how everybody tries to outdo the other in nickname creativity. I mean, ordinary names are sooooo boring. Here, online, we can have some fun.

I’ve had two major MSN identities. Both inspired by the films I love.

The first was Master Yoduh. The Jedi Master was born in the months leading up to the release of The Revenge Of The Sith. And, like his namesake, backwards spoke he.

It wouldn’t be unusual to see my nick reading: “Busy Am I Today With Work.” Or, “Paid Under Am I, Worked Over Also.”

Deciphering the true meaning of my nickname was a challenge my friends grew to hate. Slappy kept going, “Oh God!” To which I kept responding, “The Force, May It Be With You.”

Or Legs, who simply started to talk backwards to me. “Went I Out For Dinner Last Night.” Or, “Hate You I Do, For Out-Of-Touch So-And-So Are You.”

The daily (sometimes hourly) nickname changed according to mood, workload, or sheer boredom. And was accompanied by a cartoon of a determined-looking Yoda, complete with lightsaber (accessories not included).

Hit As Much Though Was Yoduh, Too Complicated Was It Understandable To Be.

And after growing tired of mangling the English language, I discovered my next identity. Which stemmed from my favourite superhero, and my own swelling ego.

I donned the chaddi over my trousers, and became SuperbMan.

Complete, may I add, with the famous ‘S’ symbol.

The code was clear. I am the Ambitious Avenger, the Caped Crusader (I even went back in time and trademarked that phrase – and the other superheroes had to pay me for its use), the Invincible Idiot, the Weary Warrior, what-have-you.

Ads and briefs became the criminals I fought. My current battle is with Taklu Teli – Slappy will understand – and the Mutant BaggageMan.

And by day I am a mild-mannered advertising man.

It’s caught on. At least three people call me Superman regularly. I need to explain to them – the ‘b’ is very important. Superman was merely invincible. I, on the other hand, am the epitome of manhood.

Then Slappy gifted me the ‘S’ t-shirt and matching keychain. I have battled “criminals” in this uniform, and sent colleagues into smothered peals of laughter at the sight.

My desktop is artwork from the to-be-released Superman V.

Now for the other interesting nicknames I’ve seen.

Doc’s nicknames reflect what he’s up to currently. “Anasthusia”. Or “On Strike”. Or “Allied Postings, No More Emergencies, Woohoo!”

Slappy’s nicknames are more abstract. “But Why?” “Do You Mind?” They used to be a rejoinder to my nicknames (which used to be secret communications to her), but eventually she too gave up and surrendered to SuperbMan.

Legs is irregular. This time it’s “Cat-zapped”. Or something of the ilk.

My best friend is the simplest. Just her name, in lower-case. And the most boring too.

Milee uses a lot of emoticons. “Back At Home – Happy Smiley.” Or “Sick Smiley” for the last few days.

My former trainee, Brashmouth, calls himself “Random”. The suffix talks about his new IPod, or exams, or soccer, or Goa, or whatever else is happening in his life.

Guzzler is advertising his blog address. Which hasn’t been updated in a while.

While Lefty has a nick reading, “Omygod they killed Kenny”. Who’s Kenny dude?

It just gets weirder and weirder.

Just like the battles SuperbMan fights.

The Lost City

The Lost City
21st March 2006

I’ve just started reading the book Maximum City by Suketu Mehta. And it’s helped me crystallise what I’ve been thinking and feeling for a long time now.

Maximum City is, as the cover describes it, “an account of a love story with a city”. It tells the author’s own story, as he returns to the city he loves. Only to find that it has changed irreparably.

Mehta goes deep into the heart, soul, belly and, sometimes, armpits of Bombay – he seems to refuse to call it Mumbai, at least in the first few chapters. Meeting rioters, criminals, gangsters, slum lords, politicians, cops – what have you.

And, along the way, exposing the true nature of what our great city has become.

Read it. It’s a must for all those who use the name Mumbai only in official correspondence.

I’m only into the third chapter, so I can’t give you a full review. But I can finally say what I’ve wanted to for ages.

The city I was born in, the city I’m so proud of being in, no longer exists.

I was born in Bombay. Where I live right now is Mumbai.

It may seem like a simple name change on paper. But what has changed are the attitudes towards this city. There are so many examples – let me start with the ones that are foremost in my mind.

When the police turn moral(?), and ban a rock concert at the Gateway of India, despite issuing permits before the event. Or imprison couples, and rape the girl, just for holding hands or kissing in public.

When the authorities shut down our dance bars. And impose heavy licenses on pubs, discotheques and bars, shutting down many in the process. This, after making sure every nightclub in the city downs shutters post 1 AM.

Where do I party now? Where can I unwind, let my hair loose, dance (even on my two left feet)? Where is the choice and freedom I’m supposed to have?

Why do the ubiquitous “they” interfere in the cultural events I love? Why is the Jazz Yatra shifted out of its decades-old home? Why?

Why do self-styled social activists keep us from seeing porn or adult movies or even rated-18 movies in the privacy of our own homes? What can we not see on TV that we do not do in our beds and elsewhere? Are they concerned about what our kids may see? Hell, they’re our kids – let us bring them up the way we want. Let us decide if they’re mature enough to handle sex as a topic. My parents did. They debated, but eventually took me to see Sharon Stone make love with Sylvester Stallone in The Specialist themselves. Did I grow up wanting to rape every woman I see? No.

Ten gets you a million that these very activists get themselves off at night watching exactly the same titillation they don’t want us to see.

Why is our city more corrupt than most? Why does the money I earn go into pockets of the men in power? Why are the electricity and water I’m paying for not getting delivered to me? Where are the roads that are promised us?

Where the hell is our greenery? Our lungs?

Why are those bloody villagers who rule us turning my city into another bloody village? They talk about making Bombay another Shanghai. When they should be talking about keeping it from becoming another Jhoomritalaiya in the armpits of the back of beyond.

Why do more and more people come here for jobs? Why can’t they be taken care of in their own states or cities? True, Bombay is for everyone. The Constitution declares it. But why does this influx need to choke the life out of the city?

Why did our city get paralysed by one flood? Where was that villager of a Chief Minister? Or the assholes in the BMC who claim to be doing their jobs?

After the floods, it seemed like the public’s voice was going to be heard. Today, I strain for the sound. Where has our ire gone? Why don’t we realise the power we have? Why can’t we gather in a flash mob to peacefully express our protests? Why is that more dangerous than the men in power? Who watches the watchers?

Why can’t I show my patriotism on my sleeve? Or in my t-shirt pattern? Why can’t I sing my national anthem in rock, the way I love it?

Why do we pay more in taxes than any other city – including our rich capital – and get so much less in return? Why is the State Government’s bank account empty, despite taxes, taxes on taxes, cesses on taxes on taxes…?

Where has my city gone?

Most of this sounds like the rebellious cant it is. The stuff you’ve heard a million times before, or even felt and expressed.

The thing is, you read a book about your city by someone who loves it as much as you do. And you can’t help getting affected.

I know I did.