Thoughts on film comedy

 Eventually all of my thoughts on comedy come back to Old Charlie and his spiritual successor Jacques Tati. Charlie's birthday gives me the perfect opportunity to write about comedy, via his ideas.

Anecdotes:

Chaplin had a gift for expressing his vision of comedy with superb economy. I found two anecdotes in his autobiography that seem relevant.

Charlie in his non-Tramp persona.

The first is a hypothetical scenario: a man goes to a funeral. Everyone is standing. The man keeps his hat on a chair beside him. When everyone sits down, the fellow next to our man sits on his hat without noticing it. No one else has paid any attention to this little incident, but between the two of them the sombreness has been lost. I have no idea if Tati ever read Chaplin's autobiography but there's a reenactment of this in M. Hulot's Holiday. The ever-bumbling M. Hulot happens upon a funeral when his car breaks down. Dry leaves stick to one of the spare tyre-tubes in his jalopy. One of the attendants at the funeral takes it for a wreath and places it by the corpse's side. As upper-class mock-sombre people pass by the deceased in a file, air leaks from the tube and the "wreath" droops. The spell of seriousness has been broken.

The second is one of Chaplin's childhood memories: a flock of sheep are crossing by his house. This delights the kid to no end, until he realises that they are being led to the neighbourhood slaughterhouse. Comedy and tragedy often live with each other in an uneasy space.

Statement:

Tati!

Which bring us to Chaplin's most memorable quote: "Life is a tragedy in close-up, a comedy in long shot." Virtually all comedy - and not just the distinctively visual comedy practised by the likes of Charlie and Tati - has its essence in that one line. In a strictly visual interpretation it is probably best summarised in Tati's Playtime - a film of magnificent ambition where every frame has multiple gags being played out in various planes in the foreground and background, often contrasting each other, sometimes creating a sort of magical symphony. Needless to say everything is in long-shot - most of the film's situational humour is derived from the fact that the players are lost in their own internal worlds, unaware of the other players in the frame, whereas we can see all of them at once. A classic example is the scene where Tati's M. Hulot goes to an old army friend's house - an glass-walled apartment building where every movement can be seen from the streets. While the army buddy undresses, we can also see his female neighbour watching TV. The resulting visual gag suggests that the lady is seeing the man strip!

Visual interpretations aside, all black humour also relies on the same principle of the larger picture undercutting the smaller one. Consider Dr. Strangelove. In the scene where Bat Guano is sent to Burpelson Air Base to get to Jack D. Ripper, he's confronted with Mandrake. Mandrake assures Guano that he knows that Ripper's commands mean nuclear annihilation, and only he can stop it if he can put a call through to the US President. The phone booth requires loose change - and since no one has the required amount to place a call to the President - Mandrake suggests Guano blast the Coca Cola machine and get some. Which prompts Guano's much-quoted rebuttal, "That's private property. You'll have to answer to the Coca Cola company!" As in Tati, our previous knowledge of imminent nuclear disaster provides this banter-driven scene the darkly comic tone it is remembered for.

Vatican condemns Facebook

The Vatican released a statement on Halloween this year to protest against the rising influence of Facebook on today's generation. The Church condemned the popular social networking site citing that the growing obsession with Facebook has derailed the attention devout Christians should be giving to God and Good.

In his editorial piece on the Vatican newspaper the Pope also insinuated that Facebook creates walls around people, drawing them away from each other. He condemned the absurdity sometimes evident in Facebook conversations - where people sitting in adjacent rooms often exchange messages to ask if they'd like to have coffee together.

The Pope further decried what he saw as covert promotion of bad habits - like writing on the wall and poking each other endlessly. He said, "Facebook poses a new problem to Christian parents. Now that every newborn is exposed to the harmful effects of Facebook from an early age, it may become difficult to control the vile habits of little children. That day is not far away when children will want a separate wall in their rooms in which they'll write and scribble - often inanities like 'lukin ht babes, muaaahzzz!' - and, to add insult to injury, which will also be liked by his/her friends. Also, the poke functionality irks me a lot. What will these children learn? For all I know, they may poke whoever is sitting in the front seat of the bus just to draw attention!"

The Vatican's chief exorcist, Father Gabriele Amorth (who indignantly clarified that he hated the band Amon Amarth), alleged in his supportive letter to the editor that he sensed an uncanny presence of one Robert Langdon in the viral surge in popularity of Facebook. He was quoted as saying, "Think about it! Both Mr. Langdon and Mr. Zuckerberg went to the same college, Harvard. I sense something wrong. Besides, if you connect the dots, you realise that both of them have a deep grudge against religion. Mr. Zuckerberg professes atheism, and I haven't yet forgiven Mr. Langdon for his painstaking adventure that revealed one Sophie Neveu to be a blood relative of Our Saviour. I hate them both!" Off the record, he professed that he thought Audrey Tatou was hot.

Acknowledgement: Avishek Basu Mallick for the idea.

Post-script: For more on Langdon and Facebook, head here.

Face/off: Prose and verse

If you consider them in their own places,

I think both of these have good cases.

In fact, a neutral observer should

See that both of them are good!

Poetry has its own norm,

Rhyme and rhythm are its form.

Prose, on the other hand,

Is easier to understand.

Consider for a while,

(No doubt with a wry smile)

A defendant standing before court,

And presenting in defence quote

After quote of lucid rhyme.

The judge loses sense of time,

And, next in line, logic.

(You see, the judge in question is a failed poet.

And the defendant seems to know it.)

Which only makes the verdict tragic -

The defendant did commit a crime,

He killed a poet past his prime.

Consider a surgeon removing a tumour.

He asks the nurse

In perfect verse

To pass the roll of bandage.

With the unfortunate disadvantage

That he laughs out in great humour,

Which makes his hands shake and swerve.

And the patient has a bruised nerve.

Also think of such a case.

A general in an army base

Briefing his men of their mission.

With great pride, he narrates his vision

Of defending his territory and doing his country proud.

Then he takes the fatal step, he lets emotions shroud

The driving energy of his speech, and the crowd

Follows suit. They cry out loud

As the general slips into lucid rhyme.

All the while, through mud and grime

Enemy soldiers reach the base.

Which now stands a desolate place.

As you see, even as I admire

Verse, consequences dire

Might result from the victory

Of rhymed and rhythmic poetry.

Written as a riposte to K-da's note.

Rhymes: For a few dimes more...

On the Uncommon Wealth Games:
What happened: I posted a BBC link containing embarrassing photos of the games village. Sudhang posted that conditions have improved since then, that inspite of mismanagement and corruption Delhi has drastically improved after many years. What might have been a debate got heated, and Sudhang said that he didn't want to continue the argument anymore. What follows is the poetic conclusion.

Sudhang:
I bade thee adieu.
And though you're mistaken
I remain unshaken;
I shan't start the conversation anew.
 

Me:
Since you insist so much,
I'll admit it as such.
Whatever I say
Doesn't change shit.
Why not call it a day,
And from this argument quit?

Why annoy a friend,
As I chase till the end
What has already been said?!
(Besides) For this, I'm not even paid.

You might be true.
And then I might rue
That I lost a good pal.
Can we meet up when you next come to Cal?

(The last line is, of course, my signature way of ending a rhyme on an irrelevant note.)

Double class: viewed through a looking glass
What happened: I was sitting in a double-period, a continuous drawl that went on for two hours. The experience of it.

Juggling words in weariness,
Trying to escape the dreariness
Of listening to a boorish teacher.
Grown tired of this babbling creature.
Time moves in a slow, languid manner,
Which, needless to say, throws a spanner
To my plans of having a good day,
And, while the sun shines, make hay.
All of that, I think, now goes haywire
As this man tries his best to tire
Each and everyone of us out.
Well, that's what this poem is about!

Among the various replies accumulated in the Facebook note, K-da was the only one pitching in with rhyme.

K-da:
The world of verse,
Whether pompous or terse,
Would be my forte.
'Twas a settlement reached out of court!

A small patch of grass,
Where I’ll lamely graze like the lethargic ass,
No shepherd to lord over me.
A quiet day after a full tummy!

Ambling across the lakes and leas,
A smug smile to wear,
Churning the rhymes in perfect bliss,
Ouch! the smile droops to a fear!

Who’s he? ah! no one, a small boy,
Want to learn something, ahoy!
Pithy verses, laced with wit.
Come-on, I’ll stand that little bit!

But oh! The boy or an angel coming to age,
With words and rhythm, rivaling the sage,
The good old days of the ruminant, gone!
Now it specializes in “chorbito chorbon”!

The last two words in Bengali roughly translate to "chewing what has been chewed" (I'm ignoring the implication that I might be a cow). Now I had to reply in verse, of course. Otherwise the whole fun would've gone. Came up with two.

Me:
In matters of wordplay and wit,
There are few who can quite hit
The levels of mastery you show.
That's something all of us know!

With words, you have a flair
(That) I'd be too happy to share.
But, of course, that's a wild dream!
Poetry comes slow, as ream upon ream
Of virtual paper is wasted.
And then some sort of success tasted.

So cheer up, and have a beer.
You're still the pioneer!
(Oh, assuming you like to drink!
If not, take it with a wink.)

Your verses still shine,
They're better than mine.
And if one is just short of divine,
Add a little polish and refine.
I'm sure that'll make it fine.
Oh damn, I can't write one more rhyming line!

Me, again:
An angel? Oh dear!
With every praise you gear
Towards hyperbole.
My insignificant role
Of a humourous prole
You send down the greatness-hole!

I much prefer to be the boy,
Who with his humour-sarcasm alloy,
Tears things down to bits:
From boring teachers to pop-hermits!
(I mean the celeb Guru of Yoga,
The one with stone-eye and saffron toga.)

Amusement is the only aim
And if, by chance, a little fame
Does stride up to me,
Who'm I to set it free?
And if someone does learn a slice
Wouldn't it be very nice?

But don't mourn the ruminant gone.
From its ashes, a cynic born
Shares his lop-sided worldview.
He sees the world with eyes anew.

To be honest, the ruminant was boring.
As he talked you could hear the snoring
Of those around him.
So he'd turn grim
And morose.
But then, he chose
To abandon prose.
(A chapter-close.)

 

Bogie:

What happened: This was spurred by the verbal portrait of me that Basu-da drew, while in conversation. I started with the intention of exaggerating his words. But in place of the archetypal hardboiled cynic, I ended up with the man I was modelling the poem on.
 

On his forehead, a deep frown.
A compulsive loner in tinseltown.
His utterances bitter, sardonic,
While he gulps down a gin and tonic.
Cool, steely, suave and smart,
Who's he but Humphrey Bogart?

First Crush:
Somebody wrote, "Experiencing my first crush".
Dude, I just hope you're not having your first brush
With compressive load!

#Joking civil-engg. mode

Random wisecrack on seeing someone's facebook status. Contains mild geek-humour, and complete irreverence for emotions. Be warned! Also, hashtags are wonderful, aren't they?

P.S.: Second roundup of facebook verses. Part 1 here.

A quick roundup

If you are on my Facebook friend-list and log in periodically, you might have seen some of my attempts at lighthearted, humorous poetry. Most of these are hastily typed down in a minute or two, and therefore exhibit awkward structure and meter.

Still, I'm fond of them. Lightheartedness is a good excuse for laziness - I can get away with the excuse of parodying wannabe poets.

Penny-a-word poets:

Sudipto Basu wants to create rhythm but rhyme,

but can't find a word more fitting than slime.

Boy, these rhymes for a dime 

are just not worth his time.

On falling down from a bicycle:

Sudipto Basu is having much fun.
As much as can be done
with a painful hurt arm;
A silly book's done the harm!

Footnote - a book in a big bag hanging from the handle got stuck in the wheel. Hence, a bad fall.

To this, K-da added:

And with raging fever
It’s more than a shiver
that keeps you off
from FB and all the cine blokes you dare to scoff!

But which is the buck
You’d like to pass;
That created this fuss,
the book, tyre, muck
or a little less than luck ?

So get better soon.
You can’t set for a greater boon.
A half-way spoonerism this, it’s then a spoon!
For want of an apt ender,
I’ll rather take this bender
And settle for my LB’s lampoon!

Footnote - LB is for little brother, which is how K-da often calls me. The fall was soon accompanied by high fever.


On writing infrequently:

Sudipto Basu needs to write more often,
His writing skills mustn't soften.

Sayantani added:

Love your couplets,

Nice mind-outlets.

To which I rejoined:

Writing a couplet ain't hard.

For an easy going two-line bard.

Self-referential fun:

The other day I wrote
something of eminent note:
"Writing couplets ain't hard
for an easy-going two-line bard."
A couple more I want to fix,
In place of four, now I have six.
Two lines more I want to frame.
But can't, oh what a shame!

The Basics of a Trivial Art:

A writer of lighthearted verse
Must make his lines terse.

Succumb to the prolix curse
and your rhymes become worse.

Hold your tongue tight, and your words tighter.
That adds to the humour, makes the verse lighter.

(Lines three and four contributed by Sudhang Shankar. The in-joke is that I've often been susceptible to the prolix curse. Sudhang's couplet might also be a word of warning to me.)

Bad mess food:

"How does it feel?, how does it feel?"
Well how should I feel without a meal!
The mess serves gooey broth.
Good reason for fume and froth.

The first line is of course lifted from a famous Dylan song. This is one of my laziest rhymes, which prompted Karn Kaul to announce that I'm going mad.


The Humourless:

A man who's serious and sombre
is almost as deadly as a mad bomber.
The self-serious man refuses to understand humour,
His earnest unfunny-ness keeps growing like a tumour.
In case you're wondering, this is exaggerated verse.
Don't sulk so much, it could have been worse.

Inspired by a post on Jabberwock's blog which goes by the same name. Funny thing he responded to this facebook status! Reason for writing: professors earnestly asking students to make movies with social relevance at a screening of short-films. This, when some of the films being chided were excellent parody/mockumentary stuff. And a "socially-relevant" film scripted by one of the professors in question prone to turgid seriousness. As you can see, I also did a good job of plagiarising two rhyming words from 'The Basics of a Trivial Art'.

The last one in this post is a playoff started due to a friend who called K-da "a great cine buff". Anyway, here goes Film Conversations.

Beginning with K-da:

"A great cine buff?!"
If that isn't a bluff,
I'd have to leave the place in a huff!
Lest Mr Sudipto Basu chortles
With a violent sneeze and a non-phlegmatic cough!

To which I said:

It isn't very tough
to be recognised as a cine buff.
Some acquaintance
with films of great importance
should be enough
to make you a cine buff.

And K-da replied:

Now, it's a piquant call,
when K-da's having a pit-less fall,
to try and give him a prop,
and in the process go for a crop,
of all those virtues that a buff so deserves,
Insight, vision and the mental reserves,
And, Mr Basu at this age,
Matches a feat that envies the sage,
And this is the fact without any toss
needs to be driven sure across,
to all those friends, don't be cross!

My sagacious rejoinder:

A film buff requires vision and insight
to be able to look into the plight
of fellow men and women.
All that is accepted, but then
(here to your assumption i'll say no
a true cineaste mustn't be so)
mental reserves are a dent
to a film buff's temperament.

To those confounded with this playful reverence, K-da has unusually high opinions of people he likes. Don't be fooled!

Some explanation owed for the "mental reserves" bit. A friend of K-da opined that once someone starts appreciating the masters of world cinema, locally acclaimed film-makers start looking pale in comparison. So much so that one doesn't even want to watch Indian films anymore. (Personal opinion: untrue.)

P.S. and N.B:
1.) A few of the verses begin awkwardly with Sudipto Basu because facebook statuses, as you may know, begin with the poster's name.
2.) Some lines have been modified here and there. Still there is minimum editorial interference.
3.) Prosaic explanations ironically required.
4.) Due acknowledgement to all the greats: Ogden Nash, Edward Lear, Piet Hein, Carroll and Sukumar Ray.

A cut-out case

This report thrilled me. Not only did the eight Congress workers get themselves photographed with a cardboard cut-out of Rahul Gandhi, they also “apprised him of the problems of Agra, particularly of those dealing in leather business”. I think this is a giant step for mankind, even though it must've been a small one for the concerned eight. As the ad-line goes, let me show you how!

How often do we hear complaints from film reviewers that characters seem like cardboard cut-outs with the sole intention of mouthing a few lines, shaking a few legs and populating the frame? Often, very often. I propose future directors to take the criticism literally. Think about this: won't a well-designed cutout of Aishwarya Rai be enough for her part? One, the beauty is there. Two, so is the wooden acting. Three, the deadpan dialogue delivery is "naturalistic" (I mean, get the voice dubbed or something - learn something from Rituparno!). And it's cheap. This could well be the next big step in low-budget film-making after the invention of digital photography. What more, the director can take a cue from the Egregious Eight, and release the following statement in his press conference:

It was a very challenging role for Ash. Her role required restraint. A lack of emotion was the very key of her character. During the shoots, she'd often consult with me if she should underplay her expressions even more. For example, in the climactic showdown, we required seven takes to get her passive expression right.

At the preview screening, there may a few doubts regarding why there were no profile shots of Aishwarya, but the director can dispel them with his explanation.

The role demanded that we see only one 'side' of her character. With my extra-ordinary ability to be literal-minded, I formulated a plan to do this. I would take shots only from the front.

Once some behind-the-scenes footage is accidentally released, the media will go into a tizzy reporting this latest development in the world of entertainment. There will possibly be several critics of this extreme step, but noted film-academician Roger Abhert will defend it. In his words:

At one point in Godard's History of Cinema, he anticipates the death of cinema (He apparently asked Henri Langlois to burn the archives). Death, so that it can rise again from the ashes. “Art is like fire. Born from what it burns.” says Godard and that is precisely what he desires – Cinema to go down with all its exploitations and restrictions and rise in its purest form. Back to infancy, so that it can learn everything out of free will, without rules and without vanity.”

In a world of boring 3D cinema like Avatar, it is worth considering going back to basics. From 2D to 1D. I congratulate whoever thought of using cutouts as actors.

And why only films? Soap serials can also consider taking the step. In fact, they can have several cutouts having different stock expressions - angry, sad, shocked, evil-smiling, sweet-baby-like-smiling, thoughtfully romantic, etc. And all the budget saved from actor salaries can go to more grandiose sets and designer apparel (for the cutouts, of course).

Consider also the tremendous impact this may have on politics. Mamata Banerjee calls a hunger strike - you do or I die - opposing an industrial project and sends a cutout to her dharna. A careful angle of exposure to mediapersons along with an army of aam-janata guarding the cutout can keep her tummy filled; and the project stalled forever.

I think this may also prevent a lot of warfare. Countries can keep their borders lined with cutouts of soldiers. On both sides of the divide. No one fires a shell (since it is difficult to figure out if it's a real soldier or a fake from great distances). Both countries stay "on the alert for enemy-action". Forever.

A last proposition: the Egregious Eight must be given the Idea Cellular "What an idea, sirjee!" award for excellence in brainstorming. Also, I wait for the day when a Dalit feeds a humble Rahul Gandhi cutout in his house.

(NB: Part of the Roger Abhert quote taken from this excellent review of Inglourious Basterds.)

Notes from a public pulpit

Pre-script: The translations in English are mine. Those offered by the Telegraph were too literal and bland.

Lokey pachchhe naa aaloo
CPM-er durnitio chalu

People can't buy potatoes
That's how CPM's anarchy goes.

Thus spake Mamata. Her latest Shahid Minar rally drew an audience of 2 million, for which a police force of 3 lakh had to be deployed. Now my post is not to criticise the vast wastage of law-keeping resources. Neither the blockage of one of the busiest transport and commercial centres in the heart of Kolkata. It is to ponder upon Mamata Banerjee's nonpareil poetic acumen. Too much of which we just can't have. And it's not just the never-done-before rhyming of "aaloo" with "chalu". There's a bit of nearly every major Bengali poet in her.

Fiery espousal of the common man's aspirations, a cause once championed by Sukanta Bhattacharya:

Aamader shopno, aamade pon
dhongsho noi unnayan.

Our dream, our promise to redress
No destruction, a path towards progress.

Not to forget Madhusudan Dutt's brand of unrhymed verse:

Shobaar pete bhaat,
shobaar jonyo kaaj chai.

Food in every stomach,
jobs for all.

Also a bit of Nazrul (who spoke for a society inclusive of people across the socio-economic spectrum):

Chhatra, jubak, krishak, shramik
tomra aamader unnayan-er sharik.

Worker, youth, farmer, student
All of you are reapers of development.

For those not on her side after the recent train mishaps, she has a stern word of warning:

Aamar podotyag chaichho,
bondhu tomai dehotyag korte hobe!

You ask me to resign from my post
Before that happens, you'll have to turn into a ghost!

If you think she is too Bong-centric, with only local influences, think twice. She throws in a bit of Dali-esque surrealism:

Aajke chan kortey gechhilam, paye ki jeno shur-shuri dichchhilo... dekhlam ekta kankra bichhe.

I had gone to take a shower today when something tickled me... It was a scorpion.

Scorpions usually sting. But this one didn't. It tickled her. Some CPM stooge must have planted it in her bathroom. Even scorpions can't resist Didi's animal magnetism.

And the best of all:

Shudhu Mamata Banerjee-te allergy?

(This one is immune to good translation. One cannot retain her otherworldly alliteration.)

Such valiant attempts at poetry should inspire some amount of optimism in me. What it does, however, is instigate the naughty cells in my brain. So let me make up a few slogans, in the best Mamata tradition, for her next rally.

Kalchar Kolkata-r hrid-spondon
Buddha babu aar jachchhen naa Nondon.

Culture is Calcutta's lifeline
(But) For that Buddha babu has no more time.

Lal durgo bhengechhi aamra
tai toh uriye dichchhe train-er kamra.

We've breached the Red Battlement
That's why they blew up a train compartment.

Jyoti babu chhilen maanusher trata
kobe dhuye diyechhilam aamar-onar hisheber khata.

Jyoti babu was the common man's life-support.
Between us, we shared an amicable rapport.

Mamata-di should draft me to her culture brigade or advising body. I'll keep supplying her such wonderful lines. And she can keep me perpetually fed and cared for. Plus, lots of celebs from film, theatre and art there. August company, and better chances for me to make my first film! Whatsayall?

Disclaimer: This is just to parody what I consider unintentionally hilarious public-speaking. No other intentions exist.

The tale of a weighing machine

If you have been to Indian railway stations, you may have seen those tall contraptions that show your weight. A couple of weeks back, I stood before one of these in the Jatin Das Park metro station. The colourful LEDs blinked in perfect rhythm, the cardboard disc with black-and-white stripes (which invariably remind me of Newton's colour disc) rotated without any hesitation. All symptoms of an alive and kicking thing.

The previous time I had weighed myself, I got a measly 56. This was a goodish 4 below the 60 I weighed back in class 12. With some expectation of improvement, I stood before this shiny yellow giant in JD Park and took out the necessary two rupees from my wallet. Stripped down to whatever bare essentials my surroundings allowed, to get as accurate a reading as possible (removed the watch, put the mobile phone and wallet in my bag and set it aside, removed my sneakers; a la James Blunt).

Normally what happens is that you put the money in the slot after standing on the platform, the machine purrs for an instant, and gives out a small receipt which has your weight on it (some of these receipts often add a Bollywood line as a bonus - I remember one from my childhood that had a rip-roaring Sunny Deol fataka written below my 24 kilos).

This machine - this contraption - kept silent for a long while. I thought, "maybe it's doing some complex calculations, or maybe it just operates on some outdated calculating system" and stood there for ten seconds in anticipation. I put my fingers in the receipt-spitting slot to check if the paper was stuck somewhere inside. Uncheck. I banged lightly on its body, hoping that would set in motion some old rusted gear. It didn't. The monster just kept silent. Like a Jyoti Basu of yesteryears whose CPI(M) goons had committed some dastardly act. Ate up my two bucks without a single regret.

My dignity lost, my two rupees lost, I boarded the train to Sovabazar. And then I thought, "damn, isn't this how a government acts?"

P.S.: It hadn't occurred to me when I first wrote this piece on Facebook, but these weighing machines are several times larger than needed. When those round light things that doctors have can tell your weight efficiently, pray why do you need something the size of an ATM? Which leads me to this.

Democratic humour

In my early school-years, English papers had this curious section named Composition. For one, it had little to with composing of any kind (least of all related to music). Decomposition would certainly be a more fitting name, seeing that it taught us little other than mugging up standard pieces from queer phenomena which had glib, banal information cluttered up in the name of essays. In the process burying the inherent creativity that children possess with meaningless rote-learning.

There was this fabled young chap who did not have much in the way of memory or was perhaps too lazy. For he just memorised one essay on cows. Unfortunately, the question paper demanded one on floods. Being suitably endowed with imagination, he began:
"Floods are natural disasters. The rivers swell with water after heavy rain and nearby villages are swept away. Life and property incur heavy damages. Cattle like cows and buffalo are carried away too. Cows are four-legged creatures. They have two eyes, two ears, one tail; and are worshipped by Hindus...."

An oft-repeated joke. Stale.

Sometime in early May, 2009. Kolkata. A rickety croaking affair that vaguely resembles an auto-rickshaw liberally dressed in red apparel passes in the thoroughfare bellowing an animated speaker's voice besides a lot of choking exhaust. "Friends, Indians and countrymen, lend me your ears. Tomorrow at such-and-such time, The Party has organised a blood-donation camp at such-and-such ground, and it is requested that you spare five minutes of your precious time to help our noble endeavour. Remember that some five minutes can help save thousands of lives. Donate blood for your brothers and sisters, friends. Blood has no religion, nor caste, nor sect. Blood is life."

All noble thoughts and intentions, you say! Undoubtedly so.

With a higher pitch and considerably more fervent passion than before, the voice trails:
"And remember friends, that we do not tolerate those who divide our beloved nation in the name of religion, caste and creed. We do not forgive those who deprive our brothers the light of industrialisation, those who eat away the jobs of the poor and needy. And so will you. Let us join hands in our endeavour to defeat the scourge of a party which wants disorder. The Party will stand by you throughout."

Deja vu, aye?