A fan is born

A mail landed up in my inbox a few weeks ago, asking if the mailer — recently arrived in India and already converted into a full-fledged cricket fan — could do a guest post on this blog on how he got hooked on the game. Here’s his story:

To watch Trinidad and Tobago bite the dust was a sad, sad moment during my stay in India and a bitter moment in my new life as a cricket fan.

Chikodi at bat

Chikodi at bat -- and I totally love those leafy bails

A few months ago I hardly knew what cricket was, but on that Friday night I felt a bond with tens of millions of Indian cricket fans in support of an unlikely cast of underdogs just forty overs away from worldwide stardom. However, as the tenth wicket fell, I was caught up in a swell of collective grief that I’m sure blankets much of the cricket world, save perhaps Australia.

In a noisy and rock & roll  bar in Bangalore’s Koramangala neighborhood, I patiently explained to a fellow American the rules and scoring system  of cricket as T&T bowled and New South Wales piled on the runs. How had I learned so much about cricket, and so fast, my friend wondered?

It’s true — Americans know next to nothing about cricket, but after three months in India I consider myself a bona fide nut, and few people I know would be willing to take the other side of that argument.

Living for the last four years in New York City, I’ve watched from a distance as cricketers from the sub-continent and the West Indies engaged in the world’s second most popular sport, either on the campus of The City University of New York, or in a few parks in the Bronx and Brooklyn. I was never curious to join, and I wasn’t terribly interested in watching either.

My first weekend back in Bangalore, I played gully cricket in a friend’s backyard and the experience was all I needed to become hooked. To the amazement of my Indian friends, I quickly showed a knack for cricket. Because I grew up playing little league baseball, the eye/hand coordination needed to bat was the same, and bowling was just a full-bodied version of pitching. Next time I play, I hope we go to an open field somewhere I can crush a few balls without breaking any windows.

What captivates me about cricket is the athleticism, the skill level involved and, of course, the razzle dazzle off the field. Cricketers are much more athletic than baseball players; they are expected to bat, bowl and field balls with their bare hands. While a 20 over match may end in just three hours, test cricket is a trial of both physical and mental endurance unlike any other sporting contest I know.

It would seem cricket has even less chance of catching on in the States than soccer, but if Americans knew what huge celebrities cricketers are in India and how much they are paid, they might rethink their sports-related career ambitions.

In America, the legends of basketball, hockey, football and baseball have to share the spotlight with 3,000 other pro athletes, while professional cricketers in India are part of an ultra-exclusive club with just a few hundred living members. The media follows their every move: Harbhajan Singh’s latest brawl with the police commands as much attention as the election to the state legislature.

There’s also the matter of national pride, which can be neatly summed up in India’s intense cricket rivalry with neighboring Pakistan. If America’s Confederate and Union armies had baseball teams, their matchup would be the closest analog to the meeting between Indian and Pakistani cricket teams, two of the sport’s fiercest competitors who engage in periodic contests eagerly awaited by tens if not hundreds of millions.

During the Airtel Champion’s League Twenty20, I was fortunate to attend two matches in Bangalore: the tournament opener featuring Royal Challengers vs Cape Cobras, and the doubleheader of Cape Cobras vs. Victoria Bushrangers and Royal Challengers Bangalore vs. Delhi Daredevils.

The mood inside the stadium was electric throughout, with the crowds rarely going silent even when two non-Indian teams were contesting. Only America’s most storied sports franchises, such as Duke basketball or University of Michigan football, can come close to that kind of atmosphere.

Having also lived in Brazil, I think it is possible to argue that Indians are even more single-minded in their devotion to cricket than Brazilians are into soccer — the jury is still out.

As a full-fledged cricket nut, I felt the loss of T&T on multiple levels. First, T&T was not a team anyone considered for the championship game until they thrashed the Diamond Eagles on a Sunday, then trampled the Cape Cobras the following Thursday in a thrilling 168 run chase. Although T&T had already beaten New South Wales, their team was an underdog in the tournament — and everyone loves to root for the little guy.

Secondly, nearly half the starting 11 for T&T are of Indian origin, such as team captain Daren Ganga, wicket keeper Dinesh Ramdin and slugger and bowler Adrian Barath. The swagger and colourful styles of the team made them endlessly entertaining to watch.

Now that the CLT20 tournament has drawn to a close, I’ll have to content myself with reruns of classic matches and the prospect of IPL3. Let’s hope it can live up to all the hype.

From his mail, I understand that Chikodi grew up in Seattle, Washington playing soccer for his father’s club team. His first exposure to cricket came in the movie ‘Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.’ Today his favorite cricketers are Dilshan, Harbarjan Singh and Dwayne Bravo.

He completed his MS from the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism this May before moving to Bangalore; earlier, he has worked at Google’s world headquarters in California and at MTV in New York City.

Chikodi writes about travel and technology in developing economies on his blog www.techtrotter.org where you will find a post on how India turned him into a sports fan; he also posts on cricket and other interests on Twitter: @chikodi

On Cricinfo Gopal Rangachary talks of how he became a cricket fan. Strikes me, though we are all fans of the game, each of us acquired our fanboy status in different ways. Chikodi and Gopal have their stories; what’s yours?

Unrelated, I’m done with work for the day/week; tomorrow has some running around scheduled which, hopefully, will end in time for me to get to watch the game. Random thoughts, if any occur, on Twitter. And back here Monday.


The TGIF post

Production day here at India Abroad — and all quiet on the cricket front as well. So — off this thing for the most part; much later in my evening, will swing by with any interesting reading material I happen to stumble on in the interim. Oh and as always, random thoughts on Twitter.

Review: Pazhassi Raja

For three hours and twenty minutes, I watched the latest magnum opus from Malayalam cinema, Pazhassi Raja.

Mammootty, in and as Pazhassi RajaThen I left the theatre and, during the 15 minute walk home, promptly forgot all about it – and I am not sure whether that stems from the quality of the movie or from my own expectations of the combination of scriptwriter M T Vasudevan Nair, director Hariharan, and actor Mammootty.

Briefly: The film starts in 1796, when the British East India Company meets with the kings of Malabar to deliver a ‘pay up defaulted taxes or else’ threat. A recurring theme in the history of the Raj is how internal feuds and rivalries weakened the natives while strengthening the hands of the Company; that storyline plays out here through Raja Veeravarma [veteran character actor Thilakan in a cameo], the king of Kurumbaranadu, who plots to usurp power from his nephew Pazhassi Raja.

Thanks to his machinations, the British send a troop to arrest Pazhassi Raja, only to find that he has fled from his palace [Padinjare Kovilakam, near what today is Thalasserry]. In the process, the king however loses both his family fortune and his unborn child — and the conflict is set up.

The story of Pazhassi Raja Kerala Varma is easily told; this wiki entry and this piece by Sreekumar Varma have all you need to brush the dust off those fading classroom memories. For buffs, an interesting resource is Nick Balmer, the great-times-four grand-nephew of Thomas Hervey Baber of the East India Company who is central to this story.

Balmer on his blog cites the diaries of his ancestor to trace the history of that period: the genesis of the conflict; setting out on the trail of the raja; tightening the noose; and the denouement.

The movie has much to recommend it, and at the top of the list I’d put the combination of Resul Pookutty’s sync sound and Ilayaraja’s background score. You first notice the unusually high quality of the sound early on, in the sequence where the British are meeting with the local satraps. As the clerks read out the Company’s diktat, a candle gutters briefly in the breeze, and a blob of wax runs down its side and plops to the floor. Sitting in the theatre, you hear that hiss, that liquid plop, with such incredible clarity, it puts you right inside that space, in that time.

And then it gets better. Pookutty plays to the gallery in the action sequences – the clash of swords, the clang of shield


Sarath Kumar and Mammootty

on shield and the rasping, tortured breathing of the combatants is in itself a good reason to see this one in a theatre with a good sound system. But where he really excels is in the subtle use of the forest and its many moods – the whistle of the wind and the rustle of leaves underfoot, the hoot of the owl and trill of the songbird, and the symphony of untamed water, from the gentle tinkle of quiet-flowing streams to the roar of the occasional waterfall and even the drumbeat of the monsoon play well against the on-screen action.

Ilayaraja, that enduring music maestro from Tamil Nadu, harnesses the Hungarian Symphony Orchestra, Leslie Kovacs conducting, to produce an understated score that riffs off the sounds of nature [Raja has a history with this orchestra; they last collaborated in his brilliant recreation of the Thiruvachakam, the compilation of hymns written by ninth century Shaivite poet Manikkavasagar.]

In a story sign-posted by battles large and small, Ravi Diwan as action director has a large role to play – and to his credit he raises the bar from Jodha Akbar, the comparable film in his oeuvre. A minor quibble, however, about employing wire-work in fight sequences: done right, testosterone-fuelled fighters soar in defiance of gravity; done badly, as it is for the most part in this film, the effect is akin to those ‘mobiles’ that you see sold in our street bazaars – so many birds on strings jerking in the wind. The kalari payattu sequences – including a couple of set piece combats – are well done when the combatants don’t take to the air, and I’d suspect a large part of the credit for this would go to the experts from CVN Kalari who worked with the cast.

Sreekar Prasad is yet another member of the much-awarded technical crew; he edits with trademark competence and, in the action sequences, with some flair. I’m not sure if the decision to abruptly cut the fight sequence involving Neeli [more on her in a bit] was his or the director’s – in any event, we are left with no clue about the outcome of her extended single-handed battle against the company’s Redcoats, and that is bad storytelling.

Venu and Ramnath Shetty seem almost overwhelmed by the spectacular beauty of Kerala’s forests. It is impossible for a halfway competent cinematographer to shoot Kerala’s lush topography badly, so the best yardstick to measure their competence is in the action sequences – and the camerawork there is confident, at times even bold.

I’ll leave Mammootty for later; among the other members of the cast, Tamil veteran Sharat Kumar is a standout in the role of Edachena Kunkan Nair, the orphan boy who in time becomes the king’s military commander and the backbone of the resistance. Manoj K Jayan as tribal hero and archer par excellence Thalakkal Chandu, and Padmapriya as his warlike fiancée, are equally impressive, with Neeli’s Tamil-accented Malayalam adding an unintended touch of verisimilitude to a period piece set at a time when the boundaries between Tamils and Keralites were considerably more fluid than today. This being a period piece, the support cast is too large to detail by name and role; veteran character actors like Mamu Koya, Captain Raju and Lalu Alex are sadly wasted in under-written roles – more so, considering that these actors essay characters that were crucial to the history of that period.

The real problem begins with the British characters, led by Harry Key in the pivotal role of Assistant Collector Thomas Baber. The dialogs written for them are insipid, uninspired – and Key and the others in pivotal British roles are not good enough actors to overcome the handicap. The result is an odd juxtaposition of well-acted native characters counterpointed by caricatured Brits [none so jarring as Dona, Baber’s fiancée, as played by Linda Arsenio] that dilutes the impact of many sequences. Unfortunately, less than pitch-perfect writing also reduces veteran Telugu actor Suman [Pazhayamveedan Chanthu], Jagathi Sreekumar and even the brilliant Nedumudi Venu to the status of broad caricature.

All of these are however side issues – central to this film is the combination of scriptwriter MT Vasudevan Nair, director Hariharan, and actor Mammootty. The last time this troika combined was twenty years ago – and magic happened; this time they – particularly, and sadly, MT – disappoint.

The thing about historical fiction – in literature, movies, whatever – that sets it apart from the dry narratives of schoolroom texts is the ability to delve into character, into motivation and to explore the interplay of relationships. In a recent post, my friend Jai Arjun Singh while writing of Hillary Mantel’s Booker-winning Wolf Hall made a pertinent point:

When we learn about history primarily through cold details set out “objectively” in textbooks, it’s possible to lose sight of the fact that the distant events we take for granted – events that now appear set in stone, almost as if they could have unfolded in no other way – were the accumulated products of the personalities, life experiences and whimsies of human beings who happened to be in a certain place at a certain time: real people with ambitions, weaknesses, dilemmas, biases and prejudices of their own.

It is what MT did brilliantly in Oru Vadakkan Veeragatha; it is also where the writer fails signally with Pazhassi Raja. The key to the Raja was his messianic ability to fire a motley crew of tribals and assorted others of the disenfranchised, to imbue in them his own passion for his land and to fuse them together in a guerilla band that, for nine years, resisted and even at times humbled the far superior British forces.

At no time does the screenplay conjure up this messiah [In fact, on the only occasion where the protagonist is shown speaking to his people, the film-makers chose to superimpose a song on the visuals rather than let the audience, along with his people, listen to the Raja make his case for rebellion]; at no point do we in the audience catch fire from his spark – and the result, sadly, is a visual rendition of history that leaves us emotionally uninvolved, unmoved. Equally, the heart of the story is the confrontation between the Raja and the Company’s dynamic assistant collector – and again, at no point do we get a sense of this titanic clash of personalities and interests. The ambitions, dilemmas, weaknesses and strengths Jai speaks of, that should have powered the narrative are missing from MT’s script, and the biases and prejudices have been reduced to shrill stereotype.

Finally, Mammootty – who won one of his three national awards for his visceral portrayal of the mythical character Chandu in Oru Vadakkan Veeragatha. Old timers talk of Kesavan, an elephant in Guruvayur who was pretty much the same size as most others in the stable but who would, once the deity was installed on his back, gain prideful inches and tower over the pack.

Mammootty is to acting what Kesavan was to temple processions – give him the right role, and he harnesses face and body and trademark bass voice to perfection, and visibly swells to fill the screen with an awesome majesty. Pazhassi Raja offers him almost no scope to test his abilities – and that perhaps is the greatest indictment of this film from the MT-Hariharan team and most especially the former, who fails to give the actor the kind of lines he could really work with.

It’s a decent enough film – the pity is that with so much going for it, the movie remains merely a technically updated version of the 1964 movie of the same name, and stops well short of being a truly great addition to the historical genre.

I’ll leave you with some clips. The first is the official trailer of Pazhassi Raja; the others are choice segments from Oru Vadakkan, a 20-year-old film that, for me, is an evergreen example of what is possible when a great writer, actor and director get their game on.

The why of blogs

A wannabe writer recently mailed me asking for ‘tips’ on how to break into the big time. I mailed back that the only way to break into the writing game was to write — wherever he could, on whatever moved him. Start a blog to explore your own mind, find a voice and showcase what you can do, was the gist of my response.

It didn’t seem to find favor with my correspondent — ‘Who reads blogs?’ was central to his response. I guess he was looking for a response more on the lines of ‘Oh, you want to write? Brilliant, where were you all my life? Come join my organization — we need you yesterday.’

Consider this: way back in April 2009, during the run-up to the general election, Amit Varma did a post critical of Jagdish Tytler, Sajjan Kumar and the Congress party.

Yesterday, he got a response from Tytler. The story of that response, and what followed, is here.

If I were to point to this in response to the ‘Who reads blogs?’ query, the reaction likely would be ‘Oh but Amit is a star [which he is], so he gets read.’

What is not appreciated is that it took the likes of Amit considerable time, and the heck of a lot of hard work, to get to this point — to find his voice, to find focus, to fine tune the internal filter that allows you to allocate mind space to the topics that really interest you…

[While on this, Amit’s earlier post on blogging tips is worth your while; this link takes you to Great Bong on a similar theme].


Random riffs on the second ODI

#Exclusive: IPL, CL part of BCCI’s plans to torpedo Oz:

Confidential sources, speaking confidentially to Smoke Signals, indicated that the much-maligned franchise/club T20 competitions instituted by the BCCI were actually part of a “Chanakyan strategy” to undermine the dominance of Australian cricket.

“If you recall,” the confidential source said, speaking confidentially, “there was daylight between Australia and the rest of the cricketing world, and that was not a good thing for cricket in general. We realized that it was up to us to do something urgently!”

That something, he said, was the creation of the IPL, closely followed by the institution of the Champions’ League.

“Here’s how it works,” the source said. “As you know, the IPL begins in March, which means that by end February international players, including leading Australian stars, have to be in India to begin their training and preparation. We devised this as a very hectic competition — in fact, we are going to up the ante even further in season four, with more teams and more games planned — very deliberately. The way we see it, by the time the tournament is over in early April, most of the top Australian stars will be exhausted and/or injured, while others will decide it is too tough to play for the country and the league, and opt for the latter because we have more money than the ACB, hehehe!

“The injured Oz players will lose a month or two for recovery and rehab — and we are cleverly scheduling home or away tours with Australia during those months to increase our chances of winning. By the time they recover and regain top form, it will be August, September — just in time for them to return to India for the Champions’ League, which also we are planning to extend by adding more ‘champions’. By the time the CL is over, more Australian players will be exhausted and/or injured.

“You see how it works, now? We bring them here for various leagues, tire them out and send them back, so Australia will never have a fully fit team for its international commitments. And the results of our plan are showing already — Lee and Hopes are injured, Paine is in pain, Nielsen is nonplussed, Ponting is perplexed — and Australia are no more undisputed world champions.”

Okay, I’m kidding. I think.

#From a Sidharth Monga piece in Cricinfo on MS Dhoni’s innings yesterday, this laugh-out-loud clip:

When Dhoni hits big shots in the nets, Virender Sehwag is usually quick to point out, in banter, “MS, yahan to bade-bade lag rahe hain, match mein kya ho jata hai? [Where do these big shots disappear in the matches?]”

There is no disputing that Dhoni, batting in sober make-up, is doing statistically better than when he was in berserk mode. His famed cool was on full display during the 4th wicket stand of 119, at a steady 6.31, during which he contributed 55 to Gambhir’s 53. Between them, the two batsmen had [not all of it during their partnership] 89 singles and 15 twos, despite Ponting’s best fielders staying within the ring to deny them [69 dot balls, a touch over 11 overs, between the pair].

So maybe it is churlish to crib about Dhoni not batting in his earlier flamboyant fashion more often — but every so often you feel a nostalgic longing for that other Dhoni, he of the indiarubber wrists and twirling blade; the only batsman in contemporary cricket who is capable of taking a ball on half volley length on off stump and, by some inexplicable process of cricketing alchemy, convert it into a six over wide midwicket. For a flashback to that other Dhoni, read this. [Link courtesy one time cricket writer turned Open magazine feature writer Rahul Bhatia on Twitter].

#On a wicket with more pace and bounce than we have seen lately, it felt good to watch Ashish Nehra and more particularly, Ishant Sharma bowl. The latter looked so much more at ease on a wicket that responded to his efforts; the run up seemed more relaxed, the length was almost perfect, and the ball repeatedly hit the bat before the batsman was fully into his stroke. It’s a different story altogether that the next game will be played at the Firozeshah Kotla in Delhi, where a bowler who sends one down at 140k will see it get to the batsman at under 120k.

#While on the bowling, just when does the team management intend to begin scrutinizing Harbhajan Singh’s performance, and deciding that picking him as first choice spinner is not part of the Ten Commandments? On the day, he was yet again India’s most expensive, and least effective, bowler; Yuvraj and Jadeja outbowled him by a mile and even Raina, in the one over he got to strut his stuff, looked far more effective. A far more worrying sign for an off spinner, and for those monitoring his performance, must be this: he conceded 6 boundaries in the innings and of these, five were hit in the arc between backward point and cover point — shots that against an off spinner mean making room and hitting against the turn, largely off the back foot.

That one statistic underlines a whole slate of problems: the length is too short, the trajectory is flat, and the ball is not turning sufficiently enough to put an element of risk in forcing square on the off. One other statistic that I noticed while watching the live feed on TV: Of the bowlers who have done duty for India in recent ODIs, the most effective both in terms of runs taken and wickets earned has been Pragyan Ojha, while Bajji ranks high in the list of least effective. The captain said after the first ODI that Bajji is ‘perhaps’ not bowling as well as he can — the question that leaves us with is, why then is he an automatic selection, especially when there are other viable options around?

Back to traditional cricket..

..or at least, to tradition at the cricket.

Sari-clad cheerleaders will perform for the first time during the day and night one-day international cricket match between India and Sri Lanka Dec 21 at Barabati Stadium in Cuttack.

The cheerleaders will wear Sambalpuri saris — the oldest form of the tie-and-dye handwoven textile — and perform whenever a boundary is hit or a wicket falls, Orissa Cricket Association (OCA) secretary Ashirbad Behera told IANS.

“At least 15 Oriya girls between 18 and 20 would be selected for the purpose. They will be placed in three different parts of the stadium,” he said.

“The girls will not wear short skirts as has been done in many other places because it would be against our culture and tradition. Our audience will not accept it. They will have modest traditional attire. They will be dressed as per our tradition and culture.”

It is perfectly in keeping with Indian culture to have young women shake their tits and butts in front of a few thousand men — as long as they do it in saris.

There was a time when I seriously contemplated setting up an Indian version of The Onion. Better sense prevailed; also an awareness of my own limitations. No matter how inventive you are, there is no way you can make up anything remotely as wtf as the kind of stuff our contemporary reality produces with such regularity.


This space for sale

Years ago, I dabbled briefly in film journalism, and one of my first assignments was to interview this rising young female starlet in the south who came with a great pedigree and considerable qualifications [it’s a different matter that she was the movie-business equivalent of Solomon Grundy — entered industry on Monday, shot to fame on Tuesday, got bad press for arrogance on Wednesday, married a superstar Thursday, and discovered oblivion Friday].

I was a tyro at the time; when the piece appeared in the paper, I enthusiastically carried a copy over to the Kodambakkam set where the actress was then shooting. My intention was merely to thank her for the time she had given me, and to pass along a copy of the outcome. ‘Madam is busy on the shoot’, a factotum told me. I handed over the paper, with an oral thank-you message, and was asked to wait.

A few minutes later, ‘Madam’s’ hairdresser came out and thrust an envelope into my hand; I opened it, found Rs 5000 [I was freelancing at the time; my payment for the article was Rs 750], and let fly with a startled ‘what the fuck’.

The hairdresser scurried back on set with the envelope I thrust back at her; moments later ‘Madam’ materialized, took me aside and asked if the amount was not right. When I told her giving me the envelope was what was ‘not right’, she looked bewildered. We got talking. She found out I was new to the ‘game’. I found out that in film journalism in the south, a regular rate card applied: so much for a gossipy snippet; so much for snippet plus photograph; so much for an interview; x amount for a full page, and so on.

I took my outrage to senior journalists, and got laughed at for my pains. One of them pointed at the ‘doyen’ of the vernacular film press — almost a star in his own right, turning up on sets in a swank car and being lionized by everyone from the stars to the gatekeepers — at the time and asked me to take a guess at his monthly salary. Turned out, the answer was Rs 1500 per month. His editors know how he makes his money, and don’t feel the need to pay him; he knows the ‘journalist’ tag is his passport to big money, so he doesn’t care what his salary is, they told me.

When I got to Bombay, I found similar stories from among the business journalist fraternity; I once worked with a colleague who, first thing each morning, sifted through the invitations to press conferences and called up the PROs to ask what the ‘gift’ was. He had refined the thing to a fine art — he would attend only those PCs where there was cash or gift cheques on offer.

At some point, newspapers figured out that journalists were making money while managements earned nothing — and lo, Page 3 was born and with it, a cash-and-carry business paradigm where social climbers paid newspaper managements, who in turn meticulously chronicled their appearances at various inane parties [there is at least one party animal on the Mumbai circuit I know of, whose ‘celebrity status’ is entirely a Page 3 concoction].

So I guess this story merely reflects the logical culmination of the space for sale aspect of journalism.

The deals were many and varied. A candidate had to pay different rates for ‘profiles,’ interviews, a list of ‘achievements,’ or even a trashing of his rival in some cases. (With the channels, it was “live” coverage, a ‘special focus,’ or even a team tracking you for hours in a day.) Let alone bad-mouthing your rival, this “pay-per” culture also ensures that the paper or channel will not tell its audiences that you have a criminal record. Over 50 per cent of the MLAs just elected in Maharashtra have criminal charges pending against them. Some of them featured in adulatory “news items” which made no mention of this while tracing their track record.

At the top end of the spectrum, “special supplements” cost a bomb. One put out by one of the State’s most important politicians — celebrating his “era” — cost an estimated Rs.1.5 crore. That is, just this single media insertion cost 15 times what he is totally allowed to spend as a candidate. He has won more than the election, by the way.

One common low-end package: Your profile and “four news items of your choice” to be carried for between Rs.4 lakh or more depending on which page you seek. There is something chilling about those words “news items of your choice.” Here is news on order. Paid for. (Throw in a little extra and a writer from the paper will help you draft your material.) It also lent a curious appearance to some newspaper pages. For instance, you could find several “news items” of exactly the same size in the same newspaper on the same day, saying very different things. Because they were really paid-for propaganda or disguised advertisements. A typical size was four columns by ten centimetres. When a pro-saffron alliance paper carries “news items” of this size extolling the Congress-NCP, you know strange things are happening. (And, oh yes, if you bought “four news items of your choice” many times, a fifth one might be thrown in gratis.)

Besides chronicling what happened, Sainath points at the real danger of this practice:

There are the standard arguments in defence of the whole process. Advertising packages are the bread and butter of the industry. What’s wrong with that? “We have packages for the festive season. Diwali packages, or for the Ganesh puja days.” Only, the falsehoods often disguised as “news” affect an exercise central to India’s electoral democracy. And are outrageously unfair to candidates with less or no money. They also amount to exerting undue influence on the electorate.

[Hat tip ‘The Commentator’ for this link via email]