My Views On Bollywood


Sharada Iyer

Most people may not be aware that singer Bhupinder Singh loved for his soulful ghazals and memorable songs from films like Gharonda, Mausam, Thodi Si Bewafai, Kinara, Parichay, Aitbaar, Bazaar, etc., is also an expert guitarist and has composed some of the most memorable guitar pieces ever heard of in Hindi cinema.

Born in Amritsar it was destiny that dragged him first to Delhi and then to Mumbai where he became very popular as a playback singer and ghazal singer thanks to his unique resonating voice. However the guitarist in him never came to be publicized much and this humble man always put in his best and just let his work speak for itself.


Adept at playing different types of guitars like the Hawaian guitar, Spanish guitar and Electric guitar, he joined R D Burman’s group of musicians as one of the lead guitarists…

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Fans of P G Wodehouse can be found all over the world. When they decide to meet up once in a while, bread crumbs get thrown. Different versions of Sonny Boy get rendered. The Gussie Fink Nottle speech at Market Snodsbury School gets recreated.

Characters and situations get discussed gleefully. The milk of human kindness flows unabated. Flowers bloom. Sanity regains its throne in one’s mental framework. God takes some time off his onerous responsibilities and relaxes in heaven. All is well with the world.

During 2017, yours truly was fortunate to have had some such Plummy encounters. The video here recapitulates the same.



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The literary canvas of the works of P G Wodehouse is vast, drawing upon the works of several other literary figures we admire.

Here is a blog post from Plumtopia which connects our favourite author’s work to the narratives dished out by Jane Austen.



“Bertie, it is imperative that you marry.”

“But, dash it all…”

“Yes! You should be breeding children to…”

“No, really, I say, please!” I said, blushing richly. Aunt Agatha belongs to two or three of these women’s clubs, and she keeps forgetting she isn’t in the smoking-room.”

The Inimitable Jeeves

Once again, Plumtopia is celebrating the romances of P.G. Wodehouse to commemorate the anniversary of his death on St Valentine’s Day 1975.

This year’s topic is the romances of Bertie Wooster. It’s a potentially controversial subject because Bertie is best known — celebrated even– as one of literature’s bachelors. Despite numerous engagements and entanglements, he always manages to slip the wedding knot.

Bertie’s romances, if we can call them that, are mostly unwanted entanglements brought about by Aunt Agatha’s efforts to marry him off, and his own chivalric code.

In Right Ho, Jeeves, Bertie makes it clear that…

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Those who happen to be offering medical succour in the private mode at Pondicherry are always a delighted lot. The city and its environs enable a steady supply of patients to them at all times of the year.

Absence of adequate parks and public spaces discourages long brisk walks. Ready availability of tissue restoratives of an alcoholic nature further compounds the problem. Pleasures of the table often override other considerations.

An early onset of diabetes sets in, leaving the few cardiac specialists, endocrinologists and diabetologists in the pink of financial health. Those practicing general medicine and dentistry can be found twiddling their thumbs, trying to manage the crowds of eager patients rushing to their doorsteps. Ophthalmologists, nephrologists and urologists also have no reason to complain of any slackness in business.

Couples in the reproductive age group do not shy away from their bounden duty to keep the species of Homo sapiens alive and kicking. This explains the overflowing waiting rooms in the clinics of those who specialize in Obstetrics and gynaecology. It follows that practicing pediatricians are never short of customers willing to top up their coffers.

The wide range of cuisine that is on offer is exotic indeed. Owners of eateries, roadside stalls and lavishly furnished dining halls of jazzy restaurants and hotels can be found laughing all the way to their banks. But Pondicherry’s gifts to our gastric juices also end up enriching another tribe – that of gastroenterologists.

The municipal authorities ensure that pavements in key shopping areas of Pondicherry either remain cluttered with start-ups of all kinds peddling their wares or are in a perennial state of disrepair. The primary benefit of these uneven pavements reaches the limited number of orthopedic doctors and clinics in the town.

Add to this the singular reluctance of two-wheeler drivers to wear helmets, and one realizes why the hapless neurosurgeons also wear a constipated look and have dark circles below their eyes most of the times.

The per capita availability of educational seats and the corresponding jobs available to the youth of Pondicherry continue to be inversely related. Frustration builds up early. Understandably, the place gets labeled as the suicide capital of India. But practicing psychiatrists could be seen pulling their own hair out in their tax consultant’s offices year after year, trying to minimize their tax payouts.

Trying to make a career choice these days? Consider the option of becoming a doctor and setting up shop in Pondicherry. You shall be handsomely rewarded.


When Ginger met Sally

The romantic saga of Ginger and Sally has many dimensions. Here is the second in a series of three blog posts courtesy Jon Brierly, reblogged by Honoria Plum.


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Why do we hold leadership to be something which is fascinating? Perhaps we do so because of the inherent complexity it represents.

One, it is the outcome of a delicate chemistry between an individual and his/her environment. All individuals have personality traits. Some of these come to the fore under some special circumstances. Take away those circumstances, and the trait may continue to remain dormant for a long time.

It follows that there is as much probability at work here as, say, in the tossing of a coin or in a game of chance. In the realm of human resources, we see examples of dullards becoming heroes in a given situation. In case of brands and organizations, we come across several cases where some which were ‘nothing’, when assiduously worked upon and when the market conditions were right, evolved into ‘everything’ and started enjoying commendable market equity.

Two, experts have always been at pains to distinguish it from management. To the initiated, if management is all about people and processes which enable an organization to run smoothly, leadership is all about disruptive vision which could spur innovation and end up transforming the way the organization works and responds.

If one were to draw a parallel from the vast pantheon of Hindu gods and goddesses, one could perhaps say that if management is represented by someone like Lord Vishnu, leadership could be held to be portrayed better by someone like Lord Shiva. One is said to be maintaining and running the universe, while the other is the disruptive force which creates things anew.

Three, the term leadership itself leads us to another pertinent question – that of people being led. Just who are these followers? What are their characteristics? What are their aspirations? It is regrettable that while much research has been done on leadership, the followers – who make a leader what he/she is – have got a short shrift. The traits of this multitude of humanity have never been directly addressed; these are merely covered elsewhere, under the guise of subjects like motivation, communication, delegation, and the like.

Be that as it may, the charisma which a leader is said to possess remains a subject of relentless enquiry. This is yet another reason as to why leadership is fascinating. The inherent difficulty in defining the aura of a leader perhaps makes the phenomenon called leadership an enigma. Anything which is not readily grasped by the human mind invites even more attention. Such are indeed its ways. However, if one were to speak to one’s heart, the mystery unfolds. Human values, compassion and empathy come into play. The cumulative effort of a leader to connect with his/her followers goes a long way in creating the larger-than-life charismatic image of a leader.

P G Wodehouse handed in his dinner pail on the 14th of February, 1975. While delving into any of his narratives, one is not likely to find a single character which comes under the clutches of one of the much-despised inevitable occurrences in life – Death (the other one being Taxation, which does get commented upon once in a while).

In the narratives dished out by him, Death figures only somewhere in the background. It does not depress. Nor does it make the spirits sag. Instead, it finds mention in a positive vein. It confers wealth, castles and titles upon the unsuspecting heirs and wards, paving their way for a smoother life, thereby spreading joy and sunshine all around.

The closest one gets to morbid thoughts is when a character is fed up with facing the harsh slings and arrows of Fate and contemplates an act of suicide, which, rather understandably, never happens.

When husbands kick the bucket

Former husbands do find honourable mentions in some of his narratives. Hot Water scores on this front. So does Ring for Jeeves, where one runs into rich husbands of Mrs Spottsworth who have already kicked their respective buckets, leaving behind sackfuls of the green stuff.

Born Rosalinda Banks, of the Chilicothe, Ohio, Bankses, with no assets beyond a lovely face, a superb figure and a mild talent for vers libre, she had come to Greenwich Village to seek her fortune and had found it first crack out of the box. At a studio party in Macdougall Alley she had met and fascinated Clifton Bessemer, the Pulp Paper Magnate, and in almost no time at all had become his wife.

Widowed owing to Clifton Bessemer trying to drive his car one night through a truck instead of round it, and two years later meeting in Paris and marrying the millionaire sportsman and big game hunter, A. B. Spottsworth, she was almost immediately widowed again.

It was a confusion of ideas between him and one of the lions he was hunting in Kenya that had caused A. B. Spottsworth to make the obituary column. He thought the lion was dead, and the lion thought it wasn’t. The result being that when he placed his foot on the animal’s neck preparatory to being photographed by Captain Biggar, the White Hunter accompanying the expedition, a rather unpleasant brawl had ensued, and owing to Captain Biggar having to drop the camera and spend several vital moments looking about for his rifle, his bullet, though unerring, had come too late to be of practical assistance. There was nothing to be done but pick up the pieces and transfer the millionaire sportsman’s vast fortune to his widow, adding it to the sixteen million or so which she had inherited from Clifton Bessemer.”

When the cup that cheers causes death

In Summer Lightning, Galahad is seen advising his niece about the dangers of drinking tea (instead of whisky) and recalling the death of poor old Buffy Struggles.

“’You be careful,’ urged the Hon. Galahad, who was fond of his niece and did not like to see her falling into bad habits. ‘You be very careful how you fool about with that stuff. Did I ever tell you about poor Buffy Struggles back in ‘ninety-three? Some misguided person lured poor old Buffy into one of those temperance lectures illustrated with coloured slides, and he called on me the next day ashen, poor old chap – ashen.

“Gally,” he said. “What would you say the procedure was when a fellow wants to buy tea? How would a fellow set about it?”

“Tea?” I said. “What do you want tea for?”

“To drink,” said Buffy. “Pull yourself together, dear boy,” I said.

“You’re talking wildly. You can’t drink tea. Have a brandy-and-soda.”

“No more alcohol for me,” said Buffy. “Look what it does to the common earthworm.”

“But you’re not a common earthworm,” I said, putting my finger on the flaw in his argument right away.

“I dashed soon shall be if I go on drinking alcohol,” said Buffy.

Well, I begged him with tears in my eyes not to do anything rash, but I couldn’t move him. He ordered in ten pounds of the much and was dead inside the year.’

‘Good heavens! Really?’

The Hon. Galahad nodded impressively. ‘Dead as a door-nail. Got run over by a hansom cab, poor dear old chap, as he was crossing Piccadilly. You’ll find the story in my book.’”

Tea lovers would surely get offended by the sentiments expressed herein above. But Plum had a knack of making even Death amusing.

Being mentioned in passing

Elsewhere, one finds Clarence and Gally having a conversation of this nature:
“I wish I could consult Wolff-Lehmann”
“Why can’t you?”
“He’s dead.”

In Adventures of Sally, the main protagonist writes to Ginger:

“If Gerald had died and I had lost him that way, I know quite well I shouldn’t be feeling as I do now. I should have been broken-hearted, but it wouldn’t have been the same. It’s my pride that is hurt.”

In Something Fresh, we find Ashe Marson suffering from a writer’s block. He looks blankly for half an hour in front of a sheet of paper bearing the words: “The Adventure of the Wand of Death,” and tries to decide what a wand of death might be. Joan Valentine walks in and demystifies it thus:

“Why, of course; it’s the sacred ebony stick stolen from the Indian temple, which is supposed to bring death to whoever possesses it. The hero gets hold of it, and the priests dog him and send him threatening messages.
What else could it be?”

When Uncles call it a day

Many of us successfully take off the negative emotions associated  with death by using such clichés as “kicked the bucket,” and “cashed in his chips.” In a common Wodehouse usage, an uncle generally “hands in his dinner pail.”

“I’m taking my spade and bucket and going home” is a pout spoken by a child playing at the seashore who feels he or she is no longer wanted. Instead, like in Fixing it for Freddie, he uses the term “buckets and spades.”

When suicidal tendencies evaporate

In the short story Sea of Troubles, we get to meet Mr Meggs who happens to be a martyr to indigestion. Leading a sedentary life for over twenty years, and given to the pleasures of the table, he has no hope for the future.

After much thought, he has decided to commit suicide. The knife, the pistol and the rope do not charm him. Nor do the options of either drowning or jumping from a height. The idea of consuming poison alone appeals to him.

He has encashed his assets and decided to gift the same to six of his well-deserving pals. He has prepared letters enclosing cheques to all the six. He has even thought of his Miss Pellinger, his secretary, and gifts a sum of five hundred pounds to her by way of a parting gift. After handing over the letters to her, asking her to post the same, he hands over the money. Emotionally moved, he even plants a kiss.

But Miss Pillenger is a wary spinster of austere views, uncertain age, and a deep-rooted suspicion of men. She is always ready to swing her clenched fist on any male who might cross the limits of civil behaviour.

She takes the gesture amiss and runs off from the house, startling and shocking Mr Meggs who just cannot comprehend her act of perceived insult. So much so that he scratches the idea of gifting any of his money to some similarly ungrateful friends of his.

He starts chasing his secretary so as to be able to stop her from posting the six letters he has entrusted to her. The latter, thinking he is following him for some amorous reason, creates a scene on the street. A huffing and puffing Mr Meggs, red in the face with the exertion, explains his conduct to a rozzer who has descended on the scene and retrieves the letters.

Back home, he suddenly realizes that the infernal pain in his stomach has ebbed away. He finds hope in brisk walks and decides to cancel his suicide mission.

The Making of Mac’s is another story which also appears in The Man with Two Left Feet.

Katie is in love with Andy who is ambivalent towards her. She aspires to be a first-rate dancer but damages her ankle at one of the rehearsals. This crushes her ambition. Life turns hopeless.

This is how she expresses herself:

Darling Uncle Bill, 

Don’t be too sorry when you read this. It is nobody’s fault, but I am just tired of everything, and I want to end it all. You have been such a dear to me always that I want you to be good to me now. I should not like Andy to know the truth, so I want you to make it seem as if it had happened naturally.

You will do this for me, won’t you? It will be quite easy. By the time you get this, it will be one, and it will all be over, and you can just come up and open the window and let the gas out and then everyone will think I just died naturally. It will be quite easy. I am leaving the door unlocked so that you can get in. I am in the room just above yours. I took it yesterday, so as to be near you.

Good-bye, Uncle Bill.

You will do it for me, won’t you? I don’t want Andy to know what it really was.”

Uncle Bill butts in at the last minute, consoles her, and rushes off to show the letter to Andy. Moved by the letter, Andy does not lose time and rushes to meet her. The affair ends on a positive note.

Slaying Death with his pen

Fans of P G Wodehouse are well aware that his world has different kind of challenges: Obdurate girl friends whose ambitions to either enforce dietary controls upon the parties of the other part, or uplift and refine their intellect, need to be kept on a tight leash; sartorial choices which unwilling masters bow to after having been saved from an impending disaster by their man servants; management of aunts who, when one’s Guardian Angels are busy elsewhere, are not gentlemen; tackling of stingy uncles who refuse to part with the green stuff for loftier goals in life; pigs which decide to register a protest by deciding to go in for unplanned dietary regimen; the art and science of pinching umbrellas and policemen’s helmets, and the like.

Death is on the other side of the spectrum and finds no place in his narratives, except when rich husbands or uncles decide to kick the bucket and leave a pile of money or real estate for their spouses or heirs. The D word, even if it makes a brief appearance, merely indicates a celebration of life.

A spiritual import

Incidentally, by treating Death as a celebration of life, Plum adds a deeper spiritual layer to his narratives.

In his epic poem Savitri, Sri Aurobindo, the renowned Indian seer, presents the end of a person’s life as a transformative event, a passage or a door through which one passes towards a greater life. Essentially, the poem recounts the saga of human victory over ignorance and conquest of death.

Thus, on the racing tracks of Life, Death is but a pit stop. One gives up one’s creaking old jalopy. In exchange, one gets a shimmering new vehicle. One then zooms off to a newer horizon, the engine firing on all six cylinders. With each pit stop, one evolves further.

All works of Wodehouse carry his trademark bright humour and sparkling wit. But hidden beneath the layers of his uplifting narratives are several gems of wisdom – material as well as spiritual.

He continues to live amongst us through his works. In his hands, even Death meets its own death.

(Inputs from the following fans of P G Wodehouse are gratefully acknowledged:

John Dawson, Lars Walker, Louise Culmer, Lucy Smink, Midge Coates, Murray Harper, Narayan Arvind, Pranava Singhal, Satish Pande, Subrata Sarkar and Sughosh Vardarajan.)