Unique tabla school enters 25th year

Kallur Mahalakshmi Tabla Vidyalaya is producing some of Bangalore's brightest young percussionists

Kallur Mahalakshmi Tabla Vidyalaya, one of Bangalore's most respected music institutions, begins its 25th year celebrations this Sunday.

Founded and run by well-known tabla player Rajgopal Kallurkar, it is the only school in Karnataka dedicated to the tabla. “The focus helps,” says Kallurkar. “Students here can go all the way up to a Ph D in tabla playing.” Most students train for exams conducted by the state board, or academies such as the Gandharva Mahavidyalaya.

The school’s 150 students come from all corners of Bangalore. It gets overseas students as well. Kallurkar founded the school in Dharwad in 1985. He migrated to Bangalore in 1997, and brought the school with him. “Bangalore was a bigger city with more opportunities, and my friends, especially the famous tabla player Ravindra Yavagal, advised me to move out of Dharwad,” recalls Kallurkar.

Wah Taj effect
Like him, several Hindustani musicians moved from Dharwad to Bangalore, looking to survive by performing and teaching. The cultural curiosity of the Old Bangalorean ensured that they had a steady stream of students. Many families switched from Carnatic to Hindustani music. Around the time the school came to Bangalore, tabla playing had become glamorous, thanks to Ustad Zakir Husain's TV appearances.

“Young people are crazy about the tabla,” says Kallurkar, whose youngest student is four. He gets enquiries from parents who want their children to hang out at the school even if they don’t take lessons. But six, he says, is a good age to start learning.

Kallurkar slowly built up the school, conducting classes inside his ground floor house initially, and then adding the first floor. He gives free lessons to about 20 needy students.

With a master vocalist
In Dharwad, celebrated vocalist Basavaraj Rajguru used to drop by at Kallurkar’s school during his morning walks. He would watch Kallurkar teaching his young disciples. And then, there were long practice sessions and concerts with him.

“It was such an awesome experience playing with him,” says Kallurkar, who believes he learnt a lot about complex rhythmic patterns and saat sangat (accompaniment) from that master. Kallurkar has fond memories of Gangubai Hanagal, who graced the 10th anniversary of the school. His photo album shows him with some of the greatest musicians of our times. In one, Kallurkar, then just a teenager, is standing shyly next to a regal-looking Pandit Bhimsen Joshi.

Kallurkar holds an MA in Sanskrit, and could have become a lecturer, or, if he had followed his father’s vocation, a priest. But his heart was in tabla playing. As a boy, he moved from his native Kallur to Dharwad to learn under Pandit Girish Avate. He then trained under Ustad Sheikh Dawood in Hyderabad.

Life’s roopak taal
“Teen taal, with 16 beats, is the king of taals. Take two beats off, you get deepchandi, four off, it’s ek taal, nine off, and you have roopak,” Kallurkar remembers the ustad telling him.

Incidentally, Kallurkar has named his son after the seven-beat taal Roopak. The 12-year-old is among the more accomplished students of the school. Adarsh Shenoy, another of Kallurkar's students, has already won the acclaim of hard-to-please musicians. And when disciples put together a memorial concert for Ustad Sheikh Dawood, Kallurkar met another tabla legend, Ustad Alla Rakha.

“He was short-tempered, and a chain smoker,” Kallurkar recalls. "He scared the others away, but let me sit with him and have a picture taken."

Thanks to his crisp, imaginative style, Kallurkar is a much sought-after accompanist on the concert stage. He is also active on several academic boards and committees.

As his school enters its 25th year, Kallurkar looks forward to offering scholarships, instituting a national award, and doing lots more for tabla studies.

Silver event
The school's 25th celebrations begin at 9 am on Sunday, February 21, with a concert featuring Prasanna Gudi (vocal), and a tabla solo by Pandit Vijay Ghate. The venue is J S S Auditorium, 8th Block, Jayanagar. For details call 98452 05803 or 94806 12234.

Jackets smother sweaters in fashion war

Have you noticed sweaters fading away from the Bangalore landscape? This city’s sweater culture seems to be on the way out, along with all the other things old Bangalore was once famous for. The reason could be that it is a much warmer city that it was some years ago. And the ones who need protection from the cold would rather wear jackets or coats.

So is wearing woollens one of those lost, forgotten pleasures? Maybe in Bangalore, but Delhi hasn’t given up its love for knitted wool yet. On the Metro, which makes commutes within the sprawling capital a breeze, almost everyone wears a sweater. Many shops at Connaught Place start promoting winterwear, especially sweaters, in October-November.

Some years ago, Bangalore used to have a big annual sale of woollen knitwear, but you won’t find too many sweater ads these days. When was the last you saw someone hand-knitting a sweater?

Jackets are probably seen as more macho (even by women who wear them) and contemporary, but they can’t beat the romance of the sweaters. But, on the other hand, jackets are water-proof, which sweaters can’t be.

Sweaters are crafted in colours, textures and designs that are a feast to see, touch and feel. Pure wool doesn’t come cheap, and acrylic is taking its place, but sweaters of whatever material still have a delicate charm that jackets just can’t match. Hundreds of colour and pattern possibilities present themselves before a sweater designer. Can you say the same of jackets, mostly made in manly, sober colours? I would imagine jackets wouldn’t inspire a designer as much as sweaters would.

In Bangalore, the first challenge to sweaters came from ‘windcheaters’, jackets made from thin nylon-like material, and designed like the stuff that motorbike racers sport. These are meant to protect you from the wind, and were a huge hit among two-wheeler riders in the 1980s. Where have they disappeared?

Bangalore’s motorcycle riders now wear thicker jackets. And thanks to easy loans and rising incomes, many of them have graduated to air-conditioned cars, in which the atmosphere can be controlled, and they don’t much feel the need for warm clothing. Shawls are still in vogue, but they seem to be preferred by the elderly and the art fraternity.

Many moviemakers now use sweaters are a class marker: only the less affluent or lovers of retro styles wear them. But do check out the stores in Bangalore. They have on offer a winter collection of sweaters that could, if nothing else, delight the art lover in you. Shawls may be dignified, and jackets functional, but sweaters are beautiful.

Strange case of Priya Krishna

Priya is an unusual name for a boy, but this one is named after his mother. At 25, his declared wealth is, hold your breath, Rs 770 crore. He can’t drive, but owns swanky Mercs, Audis and Mitsubishis (we don’t know exactly how many, but it’s a big stable). He studied at a modest Vidya Mandira-kind of school. And he dabbles in politics.

Priya Krishna, son of Layout Krishnappa, would be a challenge to marketing wizards who believe this city’s moneybags look and behave a particular way. The wizards are convinced the affluent young professional swigs beer at the pubs, catches the latest Bollywood films at the multiplex, and devours the English dailies. Well, not Priya Krishna, or his equally rich peers in the real estate business.

Priya has quietly developed 10 townships. His friends say he is developing 10 more. He doesn't go near the pubs. His parents force him to go out and watch the occasional film, which he does reluctantly. He doesn’t hit the hot spots with his girlfriends (and here’s something we heard: Deve Gowda, leader of a rival party, is trying to give his granddaughter in marriage to him).

Where do you fit this guy into your media plan? And what of his friends? Bangalore's real estate lords read the Kannada papers, are fascinated by the crime shows on TV, and catch all the gory Darshan potboilers. Their Telugu-speaking counterparts would rather watch a Ram Charan Teja blockbuster than Love Aaj Kal. You can’t sell them your kind of fashion. They love politics and take their fashion cues from politicians, wearing “white and white” (white shirt and white trousers), and completing the get-up with white-coloured sandals.

You can’t sell chic accessories to them: they will only wear thick gold necklaces, bracelets, and rings. They love the Scorpio and the Swift Diesel, and will make a "big-ticket" purchase only when bitten by the itch to show off a little more. Their idea of a night out is to drive in a convoy, phone a starlet over to a resort, and discuss a movie project.

The marketplace has a logic laypeople hardly understand, but I often wonder. Are marketers within media going after people who look affluent but who, in truth, are in danger of being visited by the credit card recovery agent? Are they trying to please jobless riff raff masquerading as celebs? Are they giving away precious media space to shameless freeloaders?

Spiritual materialism

Whitefield and Bannerghatta Road are famous as Bangalore's IT corridors. But not many know that Kanakapura Road is this city's guru corridor. It has scores of ashrams along the way. It is not as busy as Bangalore's other highways, but the density of dollar-rich tourist traffic is disproportionately high on this green, picturesque stretch.

The most well-known among the gurus here is Sri Sri Ravishankar, who presides over a sprawling estate, and controls a worldwide empire from a lotus-shaped head office. Late last week, our chief reporter B V Shiva Shankar stumbled on an interesting story about yet another 'spiritual tourism' project coming up on Kanakapura Road.The International Society for Krishna Consciousness, which has branches across the globe, is building a Krishna Leela theme park on 28 acres. It plans to beat Disneyland and such other amusement parks with animated scenes from the life of god Krishna. The idea is to dazzle you with tech, and tell stories from the puranas.

The Karnataka government has granted Iskcon some acres, but the group has gone ahead and bought more in the vicinity, and is now planning to build and sell housing and commercial complexes there.

But this grand dream has run into a roadblock. D K Shivakumar, the state Congress working president, is furious. He is saying it's not right for sadhus to dirty their hands with land dealings. The temple's saffron-clad administrators are doing everything possible, including meeting Shivakumar's mentor S M Krishna, to stop him from demolishing their plans.

There's quite a bit of showbiz involved in the spiritual business. Gurus buy TV time, address mass gatherings that resemble rock audiences, and hire PR agencies to proclaim their glories to the unenlightened world.

No one can deny the usefulness of gurus, especially in despairing times such as ours. But many things about them leave you uncomfortable: their aggressive PR, their desire for fame and influence, their contempt for the law, their greed for real estate and hard cash. And there's something else we overlook... their love of kitsch.

The amusements at the Swaminarayan Akshardham temple near Ahmedabad show what happens when you have lots of money and little taste. Ten years ago, I had occasion to visit the temple a day after I had been to Gandhi's ashram in Sabarmati. I can still remember the contrast. Sabarmati was sparse and unpretentious, hallowed by memories of a man who grappled with the British empire, his countrymen's failings, and his own ethical dilemmas.

The Swaminarayan temple's attractions were movie set-like, tacky, desperate to impress.

It's not clear yet who's right and who's wrong in the Iskcon vs Shivakumar row. But any chance we could be spared the kitsch and the Disney-style tamasha?

How the other half dies

Our paper has been reporting on Bangalore’s gangland murders these past couple of weeks. The murder of Narasimha Murthy, alleged don of what is known as the ‘coolie mafia’, was the most brazen of those crimes, and took place in busy Chamarajpet.

A dozen men, led by a burly film financier called Kapali Ananda, flashed their choppers and hacked Nararasimha Murthy to death in full view of the neighbourhood’s strollers. It was a bad gangster movie coming alive.

Looking at photos of Narasimha Murthy, you could well imagine how he must have terrorised the poor labourers at K R Market. He was tall, beefy, and wore a load of gold to proclaim to the world his riches (and ability to pay his way out of any police trouble). He and Kapali had been old rivals, and had vied for control of the money generated from K R Market, Bangalore’s oldest, busiest and filthiest wholesale market.

The death of Narasimha Murthy, whom the Tamil labourers called Poone (‘cat’, because he had cat’s eyes), came soon after the murder of another City Market gangster, Gate Ganesha. Ganesha had earned notoriety in the same squalid setting, making enough money to be able to contest elections in his native Tamil Nadu. A rival lured his men, and persuaded them to do him in.

What exactly is the coolie mafia? Hundreds of lorries arrive at K R Market through the day, bringing fruits and vegetables from all over Karnataka and adjoining states. Poor, powerless labourers do the unloading. A coolie gets Rs 5 for every gunny bag he moves into a shop. The mafia allows him to keep Rs 4, and pockets Rs 1. At least 30,000 bags are unloaded in a day, and the gang ruling the market collects Rs 30,000 from these labourers alone.

The don pays off his cronies, officiously called ‘supervisors’, and takes home a cool Rs 25,000 at the end of the day. That amounts to at least Rs 7 lakh a month, and Rs 8 million a year. The don also collects Rs 10 from each wayside vendor as protection money. With so much ready cash rolling in, the gangsters are tempted to get into what they call the ‘meter baddi’ business. ‘Baddi’ is Kannada for interest, and ‘meter baddi’ refers to interest that mounts fast, perhaps like the fare on a rigged autorickshaw meter. Some venture into financing films as well.

All this can’t thrive without the tacit support of the police, and whoever happens to be the politician reigning in the constituency. Narasimha Murthy reportedly owed allegiance to a Congress leader, a past master at selling hope to the miserable lot labouring away at the market.

Behind these murky stories are the more human stories. The women in Narasimha Murthy’s family told him it was inauspicious on that particular day to have a haircut, but he didn’t heed their words. They are distraught, and convinced he died because he defied their religious beliefs. Kapali, who killed him, got his name from working at Kapali Bar, and selling tickets in black at Kapali cinema. And the boys caught in the gang wars have their own tales of despair and bravado to tell.

The Kannada film industry keeps cribbing it has no good scripts, and pays a ransom each time it buys remake rights from a Tamil or Telugu producer. Any film-maker with any interest in human drama would find in K R Market enough material for a whole series of Godfather films. Or Slumdog Millionaire, if you please.

Pubs, prudes, dudes

Since we are discussing pub culture so hotly, and since we are so confused about whether it's good or bad, we could try answering an easier question: What's the opposite of pub culture?

Bar culture? Club culture? Lounge culture? Tavern culture? Ah, that's what the Page 3 sorts, with their grasp of the nuances of stylish drinking, would say.

Temple culture? Sadhu culture? Indian culture? That's what Yeddyurappa, Ashok Gehlot, Pramod Mutalik, and all those spiritually inclined patriots would say.

Arrack shop culture? Hmmm… that's the proletarian theorist for you.

Pranayama culture? Yoga culture? Yes, that should be the Sri Sris and Baba Ramdevs.

Sukh Sagar culture? Vidyarthi Bhavan culture? Darshini culture? Perhaps, if you were a middle class Bangalore convervative.

But what if you were none of the above?

Allow me my two-paisa's worth on this vehemently argued case.

Till after I finished my post-graduation, I had not tasted liquor. Today, I can sip some beer or vodka without feeling guilty. But I couldn't have done this ever in the presence of my father, who died ten years ago.

So have I grown from Basavangudi prude to Cantonment dude? Hardly.

Last week I was at Hampi, and friends scribbled an open invitation to musicians on the black board outside our cottage. At least half a dozen musicians trooped in, with the most amazing instruments, and matching skills.

An Israeli came in carrying a Persian violin, and we got a key flute player who became one of the lead players. Soon a guy with a cornet joined the gig, and a couple of drummers walked in with their djembes. The music had brought together complete strangers, and what ensued was sheer enchantment. Some in the audience were drinking, but not one misbehaved or turned unruly.

That must be the romance of the pub, and it is indescribably beautiful. Its warmth inspires the poetry of Omar Khayyam, Harvanshrai Bachchan, G P Rajaratnam. It brings forth song and music from aching hearts. It creates comfort in sharing.

I don't know in how many Bangalore pubs you can realise this ideal. We can be a money-minded, class-conscious and pretentious city, and spontaneity isn't one of our strengths. We have perverse laws that ban singing and dancing. And we can distort something that's natural into something ugly.

To desire good company is human. To want to drink with friends, if you are a drinker, is human. To want to sing and dance is human. Isn't it human then to want 'pub culture'?

But let me also tell you the other side of the story. Early last week, the honey-voiced bhavageete singer Raju Ananthaswamy died of a liver problem at 35. His addiction to 'drink culture', if not 'pub culture', did him in.

Two days later, a poet I know drank himself silly and decided to stage a suicide drama 350 km from Bangalore. His friends nearly fainted of exhaustion, trying through the night to get help across to him. And as you know, drunk drivers are killing far too many on this city's roads. That's what happens when 'pub culture' is misunderstood, that's what happens when 'pub culture' goes out of hand. Here's a bit of trivia: Marlowe, who wrote Dr Faustus, produced great drama with inspiration from pub culture, but did you know he died in a pub brawl?

A cure for cancer?

I reported on a potential cancer cure for our January 12 issue. Here is the report:

A maverick Bangalore scientist is ready to ship out the first 60 units of a cancer treatment device he has been perfecting over the last 20 years.

Cytotron machines, designed and developed by Dr Rajah Vijay Kumar (44), are going to hospitals across the world, besides to cities in India, through this year, starting April.

The device uses what he describes as "a hitherto unexplored method of altering cell dynamics", and offers new hope for cancer patients.

Vijay Kumar's work defies conventional oncology, which believes cancers can be treated only with surgery, radiation and chemotherapy. Modern clinical practice is convinced cancer can only be managed, not cured.

Terror analogy: "The problem is caused by rogue cells," Vijay Kumar told MiD DAY in the course of a two-hour interview at his research centre on Bangalore's outskirts. "And these cells are extremely smart."

Vijay Kumar gives the terrorist analogy to describe how cancer strikes: misguided cells infiltrate and penetrate vital organs, and cause severe destruction.

The electronics and communications engineer has spent over two decades developing a machine that uses mild radio waves, similar to those used by FM radio and mobile phones, to correct malfunctioning cells and restore patients to health.

But not everyone is convinced he has a breakthrough on his hands. Dr M S Belliappa, consultant surgical oncologist, Apollo Hospital, said, "Cancer is a group of more than 100 different diseases characterised by the uncontrolled, abnormal growth of cells. These new inventions just relieve you of pain and don't really do anything more."

But patients are ready to vouch for the effectiveness of Cytotron.

Success story: Dr Parthasarathy Rengarajan (57), an ENT surgeon fom Mettur in Tamil Nadu, was diagnosed with brain cancer four years ago. He was tired of conventional treatment, and approached Vijay Kumar. "Within a week, I was feeling better," he said.

Dr Rengarajan was given Cytotron treatment and monitored for six months. He now goes for MRI scans once in three months and believes his tumour is benign. Three other patients MiD DAY spoke to had encouraging, grateful things to say about Cytotron. (See panel at the bottom of this page).

Five-year milestone: Vijay Kumar is aware the medical establishment will have hard questions, but is convinced he is on the right track. "We've seen patients survive deadly tumours for four years," he said. "Once we cross the five-year mark, we can declare it a potential cure."

Vijay Kumar has also had stupendous success treating osteo-arthritis, a disease that affects the bones and makes mobility difficult.

Medical textbooks say cartilage tissue, or what the doctors call "a terminally differentiated cell type", can't re-grow, but his centre has treated at least 300 osteo-arthritis patients who can now walk without pain.

Cytotron resembles an MRI machine, and the Centre for Advanced Research at K R Puram, where Vijay Kumar works from, runs three units. MRI machines use magnetic waves to detect abnormalities, and are widely used as a diagnostic tool.

MRI calibration

"We first calibrate the proton density of the therapeutic radio waves with the help of a basic MRI scanner," said Vijay Kumar. Once the calculations are done, customised radio waves are beamed on to the affected area.

"If a patient has two tumours, the frequency and modulation are calibrated separately for each," he explained.

A session lasts an hour, when the patient lies down and receives the radio waves under the influence of a specific magnetic field.

Typically, 28 daily sessions make up a cycle of treatment. The cycle is repeated after a review, if the doctors feel the patient needs continued treatment.

Himalayan meeting: Dr Ranjit, an ex-Air Vice Marshal who graduated in medicine from Pune, plans and administers the therapy.

"Dr Vijay Kumar is an old friend, and we met at an altitude of 30,000 feet," he said. The friends share a passion for mountaineering, and were fellow-travellers on an aircraft somewhere above the Himalayas.

Dr B S Ajai Kumar, consultant radiation oncologist and chairman of Bangalore Institute of Oncology, said, "Cytotron could be a path-breaking technology but we don't exactly know if the malignant tumour is completely destroyed. Though conventional treatments are painful, they are effective. These days people come up with innovative ways to treat health problems, but they have side-effects."

The use of radio frequency to destroy tumours is not new. Radio frequency ablation (RFA), for instance, is used to destroy liver and lung tumours, and it is minimally invasive.

"Conventional radiotherapy uses ionising radiation at the high frequency end of the electromagnetic spectrum, and can cause collateral damage," Vijay Kumar said.

Cytotron, on the other hand, uses a more benign, non-ionising approach, and is said to have no side effect except fatigue. It does not require cutting of the body.

The Institutional Review Board and the Institution Ethical Committee have allowed the centre to conduct clinical trials only on terminally ill cancer patients.

"As of today, 62.2 per cent of terminally ill cancer patients treated are still alive, and 98 per cent have enjoyed a better quality of life," said Vijay Kumar. The centre has treated 130 cancer patients so far, all for free.

Dr Somashekar, consultant surgical oncologist, Manipal Hospital, sees only a limited role for Cytotron.

"There aren't many alternative therapies for cancer. Cytotron can be helpful in the initial stages but it can't help in serious cases. Radiation and chemotherapy are the only way to treat cancer at the moment. I'm not saying Cytotron is a failure; it can only be supportive," he said.

Scalene Cybernetics, which is funding the Cytotron efforts and of which Vijay Kumar is chairman, can currently produce 100 units a year.

Vijay Kumar's engineering solution to a medical problem brings promise to patients living out a dire prognosis.

The mild-mannered inventor believes word is spreading, and will spread faster once the 60 machines start showing results. Cytotron machines are going to hospitals in Europe, Australia, Saudi Arabia, Malaysia and Singapore this year.

(Additional reporting by Lavanya Srinivasan)

I had two lumps in my breast... Once treatment began, a lump shrank and became benign
Shashikala(45), who was diagnosed with cancer seven months ago

I feel fine, except for some weakness
Rashmi Priya (49), battling lung cancer, and under Cytotron treatment for a week

His left side was paralysed. He can now use his left hand
Chandrika, mother of Rohan Ganesh (4), brain cancer patient from Mysore


Indian Medical Association take

Dr Vishi Shanmuganathan, secretary of the Bangalore chapter of Indian Medical Association, told MiD DAY, "I've never heard about Cytotron... this is the first time I'm hearing about it. Without knowing details of how it works, I can't say much." He also said it was difficult to say whether cancer could be cured. "Even when people are undergoing treatment, it spreads. Cancer can be treated temporarily but there are chances it will come back somewhere else if not in the same place."


Who's Rajah Vijay Kumar?

Vijay Kumar graduated in electronics engineering from Bangalore University. In 1991, the University of Belfast awarded him a doctor of science degree in medical engineering. Vijay Kumar loves the arts, especially theatre. He acted as Mysore warrior-king Tipu Sultan's son in a school play, and is playing a serial killer in the Kannada film Ninagaagi Kaadiruve (I Wait for You), due for release in a month.

Vijay Kumar's success hasn't come easy. When he started independent research as a 24-year-old scientist, his peers thought he was crazy.

He first hypothesized he could heal broken bones with radio waves, but since there was no way he could conduct trials on real patients, he broke his leg on a crowbar.

"I could achieve total consolidation of the fractured bone in 15 days," he said. "Sometimes we have to experiment on ourselves to prove a point."

'Total consolidation' is a doctorly way of saying he was healed completely.

His prototype treated 12 other patients with confirmed non-healing fractures during 1987-88, and he presented the results at the Karnataka Orthopaedic Association.

That episode puts him in the league of doctors such as Dr Richard Bernstein, who have turned conventional medical wisdom on its head by experimenting on themselves. After years of trial and error, Dr Bernstein has arrived at a low-carb protocol, endorsed by many patients but considered controversial by mainstream doctors, for the treatment of diabetes.

Ford Ikon diesel: A review

Ford has just released a diesel version of its popular sedan Ikon. I test drove it for nearly two hours, first on Bannerghatta Road, and then on the Nice highway connecting it to Hosur Road.

If you've driven the Ford Ikon petrol, as I have on a couple of occasions when a friend gave me the wheel of his car, you will find no difference in the way the diesel is built. Everything's the same, including the 400-litre boot, sure to be useful when you go on long drives with huge suitcases, or drop your sister off at the international airport with all her Bangalore shopping. The diesel comes with nicely done beige interiors in fabric and rexine, and will appeal to those who like sobriety rather than flamboyance.

Diesels are known to start off a little sluggishly, and that was the first thing I noticed when I started out from congested J P Nagar intersections, but once the car was comfortably into the third gear, the acceleration felt as good as in a petrol car. The slow initial pull isn't so obvious with just two passengers in the car, but becomes noticeable when you have four (four plus driver is what it's designed for).

The Ikon diesel, like the petrol, has a 1.4 litre engine which made its debut on the Fiesta, and for stark comparison, its capacity can be matched against, say, that of the German-designed Opel Sail petrol, a car that spelt luxury to Indian motoring buffs just five years ago. But, as an auto buff-friend pointed out, a petrol typically puts out more bhp than a diesel, and so this comparison should only be used to see the petrol-versus-diesel argument in perspective.

The Ford diesel would be miles ahead of the Sail in economy, but such economy comes at the cost of power. The Sail feels more luxurious, but few in these trying times would want luxury at such a premium (and besides, General Motors has shut down the Opel range). At its very best, the Sail can achieve about 9 km a litre inside the city, while the Ford Ikon diesel, from what its executives say, can double that performance with 17 to 18 km.

Economy is going to be the main attraction of the Ikon diesel. If you're keen on an Ikon, you might want to weigh the merits of the petrol against the diesel before you make up your mind. The diesel is slightly noisier and more expensive by a lakh, but makes up with its everyday wallet-friendliness. So if you're regularly driving long distances and are cost-conscious, diesel could be what works for you.

On the Nice highway, I touched 130 km, and the car felt steady and fully under control. Kiran N Gupta, the knowledgeable sales consultant who accompanied me on the drive, said he had hit 160 without any hitch. I didn't want to push the car, and my luck in Formula-style racing, that far!

The Ikon is competing mainly with diesels such as the Swift Dzire and the Renault Logan, and perhaps to a smaller extent with petrol cars such as the Chevrolet Aveo. The economic slowdown doesn't seem to have dented the prospects of the Ikon diesel. Kiran told me several buyers contemplating Rs 8 lakh-plus cars were now going in for lower-priced Fords. The Ford diesel stands out for its frugality, but overall, when it comes to spare parts prices and service, the Suzukis score with their affordability and accessiblity.

The dashboard on the Ikon looks utilitarian, and the AC cooled well even with five passengers inside (but remember, a test drive won't do to judge long-term efficiency). On the safety question, you may be disappointed that the Ikon diesel does not offer airbags.

The Ikon diesel could be a good choice if you're doing frequent long distances, and are looking for a car that's slightly bigger than the Santro and the Wagon R, and not so expensive to run. The diesel is Rs 75,000 more expensive than the petrol. But before settling on the diesel, I'd think hard which side of the fence I'd like to be on: petrol or diesel. And I'd also spend some time weighing slightly noisy economy against quiet indulgence.

Tech review: iPod Nano 8 GB

The new generation iPod Nano, which Apple has just released in the Indian market, has many things to commend it. If you are, like me, familiar with the iPod classic, you will be pleased with the many new features that the Nano offers.

I was particularly impressed with its battery life. I listened to music off and on for a total of about nine hours over three days, and it remained at the half full mark.

The battery on my older 30 GB iPod would show low in three hours, and wouldn't last beyond four hours. As an enthusiastic early adopter of the iPod, I had found that very disappointing. I once took it on a train journey to Delhi, and was out of music even before the train left Karnataka! You can be sure the Nano won't leave you friendless on a long journey.

The Nano claims music playback time of 24 hours when fully charged. The 8 GB Nano can hold up to 2,000 songs or eight hours of video.

The Nano's scratch-resistant aluminum and glass build is another big plus. My classic had a beat-up look within days of purchase, but the Nano has stood up to some rough use. I carried it around in my pocket with the usual keys and coins. Remarkably, the screen still looks new.

The first iPods had no video and colour, but the Nano has both. You can also store pictures, which display nicely. Overall, the quality of graphics can stun you the first time you set eyes on the screen, and the album covers look crisp and stylish in miniature. But many users complain the battery drains out quickly if you play video. And 8 GB isn't really enough if you're planning to store a lot of video. The video playback claim on a full charge is four hours. If you're buying the Nano, buy it for the music, and consider the video just a little something thrown in to sweeten the deal.

The Nano excels, as all iPods do, in the sound department. I listened to some of my favourites, and found the acoustics satisfying. The Bhimsen Joshi thumri Piya milan ki aas has a vintage spooltape feel, which means the middle frequencies are prominent. I was pleasantly surprised to find that the Nano did not highlight the highs, as digital music players tend to.

I also heard the Kannada song Minchaagi neenu baralu (from the movie Gaalipata), which has a lovely string section of violins, violas and cellos. The Nano handled the dynamic range superbly, and the sound was full-bodied.

The Nano comes in nine colours, and the one I tested was gold, but I personally found the colours a bit toyish.

The bright colours could be Apple's way of reaching out to customers who'd like to match their accessories with their clothes, but I guess even rich brats will not be tempted to buy the entire chromatic range.

Another feature introduced with an eye on the young is what Apple calls the Accelerometer, which randomly shuffles your songs when you shake the Nano. The unpredictability of its choice is the fun part. Your photos and album cover art change from vertical to horizontal and back depending on how you hold the Nano. That's another of those nifty little things that add little to the iPod experience. But again, it could be something to boast about when one is with friends who own mp3 players from lesser companies!

I can talk about mp3 players with some authority as I have bought and used a Creative, a Transcend, and a Sony, besides a couple of nameless Chinese players. I would vouch for the Nano experience and rate it the best, but remember, it incorporates all the somewhat irritating anti-piracy features that Apple is known for. You can't transfer a song from the Nano onto another player or computer. This can be a bother if you'd like to move your music from your home to office, and perhaps share it around. Remember also that the Nano has no FM radio.

Another tip if you decide to go in for the Nano: the Apple stores won't budge on the list price (which is Rs 9,700 for an 8 GB), but you may be able to get a significant discount if you buy it from an electronics retailer.

Thumbs up
>>Full-bodied sound
>>Good battery life
>>Scratch-resistant aluminum and glass build
>>Accelerometer, which randomly shuffles your songs when you shake the Nano

Thumbs down
>>No FM radio
>>Toyish colours
>>No file sharing
>>Somewhat pricey

Care for some pups?

Iyengar bakeries predate Bangalore's darshinis and pizza outlets, but how the orthodox Brahmins learnt to make English stuff with yeast and eggs is an enduring mystery

Iyengar bakeries must be Karnataka's gift to the world. The Iyengars of Tamil Nadu don't run bakeries. The Iyengar bakeries in Chennai – a friend tells me that city has at least two dozen now – are called Bangalore Iyengar bakeries.

How this orthodox Tamil-speaking Brahmin sect got into the business of making English-style buns, puffs and biscuits is one the biggest puzzles in Karnataka's cultural history. A couple of bakery owners tell me they don't eat the cakes they make because they are vegetarian, and can't have eggs.

Among the Iyengars, only the Vadagalai sect is associated with the bakery business. All bakery owners hail from Hassan district, which has also produced a prime minister in H D Deve Gowda.

The Tamil spoken by Hassan Iyengars is Kannada-flavoured, and sounds suspect to the ears of their clansmen in Tamil Nadu. But if you were to hold a baking and confectionery contest between the two, the Kannadiga Iyengars would win hands down.

Every corner in southern Bangalore has an Iyengar bakery, although some newer enterprises, like Butter Sponge, have dropped the caste prefix. Most have names like L J (Lakshmi Janardana) and SLV (Sri Laksmi Venkateshwara).

For working couples and their children, the Iyengar bakeries were a godsend. Then the darshinis happened, Malayali Muslim bakeries arrived with their egg puffs, pizza outlets mushroomed, and Bangalore became, in the language of the metro supplements, hip and happening. The Iyengar bakeries haven't really vanished, but their '70s glory is gone.

Anil Kumble was reportedly fond of dilkhush and dilpasand, two sweets that most bakeries added to their menu in the late 1970s, when he was a student of National High School in Basavangudi. In an ad, the Test captain appears against a Mediterranean backdrop with a wine glass in his hand and some fancy dish on his plate. Mistaken branding! He would have been a more convincing brand ambassador for the Iyengar bakeries, with a veg puff and a glass of badam milk in his hand.

My bakery favourites are the special bread (called 'special' because it has sugar, as against 'ordinary' which is bland), the spicy khara bun, the unbearably sweet benne biscuit (butter cookie), and the sunflower yellow-coloured badam burfi (a V B Bakery speciality). I also used to like the apple cake, which I now understand is made from breadcrumbs and the previous days leftovers.

Iyengar bakeries offer good variety, but each item is a carb feast. The icing on their cakes, for instance, is too sugary. Their syrupy flavours are particularly attractive to the taste buds of school and college students, but many graduate to grilled sandwiches and gobi manchurian, which the Iyengar bakeries don't make.

The best time to eat bakery stuff is three in the afternoon, when the stuff comes hot out of the Iyengar ovens. The bakers would do most of their work manually, but machines have taken over now even for something as simple as slicing the loaves.

Growing up on bakery stuff is probably a nutritional disaster. I have frequented an Iyengar bakery since I was in school, giving them steady business for their breads, buns (sweet and stuffed) and what they call pups (puffs). The bakers, who won't eat what they make, remain young and fit, but I've greyed!

100 days of an airport

The Kingfisher Sports Lounge, with its wine-red interiors, is a stylish little nook inside the new airport. Albert Brunner, CEO of BIAL, chose it as the venue to make a presentation to about a dozen journalists yesterday.

The airport has just completed a hundred days. It can't be easy building an airport and getting it going, and Brunner, by his own admission, has lost a bit of hair trying to do so. He represents the Swiss-led consortium that took up and executed the project. The Indian government holds a stake in the airport.

Among the things that brought the airport a bad press was the lack of adequate toilets. Brunner said the number had increased by 70 per cent, and took us on a tour through the new additions. The toilets are spacious, and have sparkling new sanitaryware. Not many guests had anticipated such a walk through, but then, you never know where journalism can take you.

Our paper has been covering the campaign for the retention of HAL Airport, and we have a story today about a shocking clause in the BIAL concessionaire agreement that seems to question the very sovereignty of India.

Soon after the old airport was closed, we tried to find out whether it was indeed better to drive to Chennai than to take a plane. We sent two reporters, both starting from Koramangala, to Chennai, one by plane and the other by bus.

Savie, who flew, reached a destination in central Chennai just 40 minutes before Sanchita, who took the road. That experiment has settled a debate. If you are travelling to Chennai from southern Bangalore, you would save about Rs 4,500 by just taking a bus. And you wouldn't lose too much time either.

Our reporters have come up with stories that haven't always been sympathetic to BIAL, but that doesn't mean we blame Brunner and his team for all citizens' woes. When the government didn't take up work on the trumpet-shaped flyover that connects the highway to the airport, he took it upon himself to build it, and he completed it in seven months. That should shame officials and contractors in charge of our civic projects.

If you've ever tried to do something on your own that requires a licence or permit, you will have a fair idea of what Brunner must have been up against. Officials think you are fair game if you are an entrepreneur, and harass you to the point of exhaustion. In projects of BIAL's scale, politicians come in at every point and make life hell till their demands are met. One of the complaints against the new airport is that it doesn't have a special lounge for MLAs. BIAL is building one now.

So who is to blame if BIAL ignores local taxi drivers and gets into profitable deals with new cab firms? Whose job is it to ensure connectivity to the new airport? Who carelessly signed away India's sovereignty? Who ought to have got MSIL to gear up to handle cargo at the new airport? Who ignored the problems of short haul passengers? The answer to these questions isn’t BIAL, but people who represented us. Had they insisted on safeguarding citizens' interests, everyone would have been happier.

Luxury stores inside the airport are offering discounts. The revenue for BIAL in the last three months hasn’t been up to its board’s expectations. The global economy is slowing down. Airlines are bleeding. But Brunner is upbeat, and hopes to have a second express terminal ready by July 2009.

Hundred days is a landmark, even if it is a minor one. Let us congratulate BIAL,
and wish them luck.

Lessons from a shoot

If you have two weekends free, you can sign up for a filmmaking course. I did, and our batch of 22 students passed out on Sunday.

Of course no art can be learnt in two weekends. But what courses such as this one do is give you an introduction that you can build on. They also put you in touch with people with similar interests.

This particular course, which costs Rs 3,500, is favoured by software engineers, but our batch had a diverse mix of college students, animators, graphic designers, techies, sales and real estate executives, a human resource consultant, and a couple of NGO activists.

The course is conducted by ACTor Productions every couple of months. Siddharth, who has studied at Rajeev Menon's cinematography institute in Chennai, and Rabi Kisku, who has produced and directed a digital feature film, gave lectures. Both have an IIT background. They have now moved to full time filmmaking.

The boyish faculty was enthusiastic, and so were the students. Siddharth, with American campus gestures, spoke about lighting and camera angles, and quoted movie actress Suhasini who said cinematographers are often the smartest people on the sets. Rabi taught a couple of modules on direction and editing.

After two days of lectures, they divided our class into four groups. Each of us had to produce a three-minute film. After discussing a couple of other story ideas, our team decided to go with a song I had attempted to write and record. Our choice was a music video.

Baare sakhi, hoova kadiyuva (Come beloved, let's steal flowers!) had romantic nature images, and I suggested we should shoot it on a couple working in a city office. It would be ironic, I thought, to have them dream of stealing flowers, when in reality they would have to pay through their nose at a florist to get any. Similarly, they could sing grandly about crossing the seas when they couldn't even cross a puddle or a busy road.

We went and shot our film at a village called Raogodlu on Kanakapura Road. Inside Bangalore, we got some crowd scenes at Basavangudi and Jayanagar.

We learnt several things in the course of the shoot. The first was that an incompetent technician could undo everyone else's good work.

When our team played back the footage, it looked bleached and jerky. It turned out the camera guy assigned to us only knew how to shoot wedding videos.

That problem was solved when the organisers offered us a camera and a different cameraman for a reshoot. We drove up to the picturesque village a second time, and shot the film with a slightly different crew.

The lesson we learnt here was that we had to employ the same cast and get them to wear the same costumes if we wanted to mix and match footage from two shoots.

And we had to be wary of pretty frames. We tend to be impressed with almost everything we see through the lens, and end up capturing scenes that do little to tell our story. In the process, we lose precious time (and raw stock, if working with celluloid).

The most important lesson was that we had to do rigorous paperwork before we set out. On both days that we went to an outdoor location, we gave in to the temptation of composing and shooting scenes on the spot, forgetting altogether that we needed specific images to make our story go forward. Spontaneity helps, but if it isn't accompanied by planning, it can ruin a film.

And when we tell a story, we need our actors to do scenes that don't always show them in a flattering light. If everything turns out cheerful and pleasant, we end up creating something that either looks like an ad, or is too trite to hold anyone’s interest.

We also have to train ourselves to think in images and avoid the obvious. Matching our shots with the words makes the film hopelessly literal. (If the song talks of a horse, we don’t really need to show a horse on screen).

The student films were shown and critiqued on the last day. I liked the one about a day in the life of a telemarketer. Our music video wasn't disliked, but the irony hadn't come across sharply enough.

Thoda pyar, thoda logic

We at MiD DAY went out and watched Thoda Pyar Thoda Magic recently. The film is packed with tricks that its makers imagine would delight the kids.

I don't know about the kids, but most grown-ups who watched it with me thought it was cheesy.

Last week, thousands thronged to the house of a phenol manufacturer after he claimed a Sai Baba image had miraculously opened its left eye. Here was magic in real life.

Many of us who find an angelic Rani Mukherjee pedalling down from the heavens on a rainbow laughable can actually believe that a marble image can open its eyes, or a clay Ganesha sip milk, or a picture of Jesus start bleeding. We are, in fact, desperate for magic, which is why the house of A Babu has become a pilgrim spot since Wednesday, when the Shirdi seer reportedly gave his benediction.

The police always look for motive when they are called upon to investigate a murder. However strong our personal need for magic, we in journalism ask ourselves rational questions when confronted with stories such as this one. We wondered, "Who's the miracle helping?"

No one had reported instances of faith healing: the lame suddenly finding strength in their feet and walking, or the mute discovering words and talking. But one man was raking it in.

Babu was suddenly a hero, and we wanted to know more about him. We got the dope. He is a longtime resident of this south Bangalore neighbourhood. Some say he was a washerman who used to rob passers-by. Others say he is in heavy debt. He lives on a plot that belongs to a 500-year-old math. He is fighting a court order to stay put, and has roped in some 80 others to carry on the battle. Today, he is best described as an entrepreneur running a business selling a bathroom hygiene product.

Gavipuram is known for a 12th century Shiva temple. It is not posh and middle class like neighbouring Basavangudi. Its ups and downs and old trees remind you of a Bangalore emerging out of little village clusters. A little way up is a crematorium, and its expanses give this extension a macabre beauty. The perfect setting, you'd think, for wayside robbers.

When our chief reporter B V Shivashankar went to meet Babu, he found him an amiable conversationalist as long as they discussed the glories of Baba. The moment Shivashankar asked him questions about how much money he had collected, and what he intended to do with it, Babu became abusive.

A Marwadi businessman had placed bundles of Rs 500 at the deity's feet. Others had made smaller offerings. I don't know how many came out of despair, and how many out of greed. But we at MiD DAY thought it our duty to let you know that Babu's piousness vanishes the moment you ask him what he will do with the cash. You know he deals in phenol, but did you know that he spouts such disgusting filth you would want to use some of his hygiene product to clean out your ears?

Thoda Pyar and Thoda Magic was Mumbai trying its hand at a pop Christian, Hollywood-style parable. But who can dispute its message that we need a little love and a little magic? And in any case, we always have the Babus of the world to remind us that we need thoda pyar, thoda logic.