Silicon, scams, and a spy named solly
At the heart of the story is Metkem's bid to make and supply silicon all over the country and Seshadri's determination to stop them from doing so. Seshadri's audacious acts quite make the reader's jaw drop, even as the aforementioned reader is pretty sure that our Man in Delhi, Solly Nilla, will definitely throw a monkey wrench into Seshadri's work. The snark is delicious, as when we get a description of Seshadri admiring his profile just when a ray of sunlight crept in through the window and framed his reflection in a halo, and he felt a rush of messianic delight.
Or Pandey looking like a troubled character in a dimly lit Shakespearean tragedy asking himself, 'What's loyalty? Loyalty is such a shifting target, so elusive and so enigmatic.'
The question arises whether Seshadri is discrediting Metkem at the behest of a foreign power. But Seshadri's character is so well delineated that the reader fully understands the bloated sense of pride that drives the bombastic man to do what he does.
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Mint
31-07-2025
- Mint
A salute to Leslie Nielsen, the real Naked Gun
There's a moment in the 1980 comedy Airplane!—one of the funniest films of all-time, available to rent on Amazon Video—where a worried passenger says, 'Surely, you can't be serious," and Leslie Nielsen, as the doctor on board, retorts without the twitch of a muscle: 'I am serious. And don't call me Shirley." It's possibly the most quoted joke in spoof history, and the magic of the moment isn't in the line itself. It's in the look. That straight face. That poker-stiff voice. That impossibly grave delivery of a ridiculous line, uttered by a man with all the solemnity of Shakespearean tragedy. Leslie Nielsen didn't wink. That, dear reader, is precisely what made him hilarious. Nielsen passed away in 2010 after a hilarious career, highlighted by the Naked Gun films. As a Naked Gun reboot comes to theatres this week (with Oscar-winning actor Liam Neeson stepping into Nielsen's shoes) it's a good time to doff a cap to this high priest of absurdity. Nielsen's performances were riddled with misunderstandings, malapropisms, and magnificent misuse of metaphor, yet he never broke character. Nielsen acted like he was in 12 Angry Men even when he was drinking urine samples by mistake, or bumbling around in Dracula: Dead And Loving It. He didn't play funny. He was funnier because he didn't know he was funny. Before Airplane!, Nielsen played square-jawed leads in B-movies and solemn guest-stars on TV procedurals. If casting directors needed a stoic face, they called Nielsen. Which is precisely what Jerry Zucker, Jim Abrahams, and David Zucker did. In Airplane!, the ZAZ team (as they'd come to be known) set out to parody the overly sincere disaster films of the 1970s. Instead of hiring comedians, they recruited dramatic actors with reputations for seriousness. Nielsen, as the gravely concerned Dr. Rumack, delivered lines about "a passenger who had fish for dinner" with such terrifying urgency that you could be forgiven for thinking this was high-stakes drama. Airplane! was a tonal earthquake. The blockbuster reinvented spoof comedy, shifting the form from broad gags to rapid-fire absurdism layered so thick that repeat viewings were essential. And Nielsen was at the centre of it all, the knight who never let the court know he had mislaid his horse. He was 54 when he did Airplane!, and the rest of his career was about to get improbably, gloriously, silly. If Airplane! was a revelation, The Naked Gun trilogy was scripture. Spun off from a short-lived ZAZ television show called Police Squad!, the Naked Gun films (all three of which are streaming in India on Netflix) captured the Airplane! spirit, and merrily went overboard. Nielsen stars as Frank Drebin, an improbably all-conquering police lieutenant with the absurd idiocy of Inspector Clouseau. He was a man out of time, out of touch, and frequently out of pants. In the 1988 film The Naked Gun: From the Files of Police Squad!, Drebin attempts to comfort the widow of a colleague and says earnestly, 'Like a midget at a urinal, I was going to have to stay on my toes." It's a joke so wrong, so politically incorrect, and yet so perfectly aligned with the utter cluelessness of the character. Nielsen kills it. Like Shakespeare's Polonius, he's never in on the joke, and that's what makes it eternal. In The Naked Gun 2½: The Smell of Fear (1991), Drebin is part of this exchange: 'Now, Jane, what can you tell us about the man you saw last night?" Jane: 'He's Caucasian." Drebin: 'Caucasian??" Jane: 'Yeah, you know, a white guy. A moustache. About six-foot-three." Drebin: 'Awfully big moustache." The gag is in the rhythm, in the misunderstanding, in the blind confidence of a man who assumes nothing could ever be his fault. Nielsen doesn't break character for a second, even as the entire frame crumbles around him. In The Naked Gun 33⅓: The Final Insult (1994), he reminisces about lost love: 'She had a tear in her eye, a glint in her teeth, a bug up her nose, and a bee in her bustle." It's an absurd line that Nielsen recites with the gravitas of a poetry professor. The Naked Gun films are masterclasses in timing, in repetition, in throwing everything at the wall and letting Nielsen's gravity give it coherence. He was the axis around which the absurd revolved. And it wasn't just that Nielsen could land a line; he could underplay a pratfall, understate a catastrophe. His comedic superpower was restraint. What made Leslie Nielsen so unique was that he played not to the audience, but against them. While everyone else mugged and gurned, Nielsen remained resolute, the man who insisted this wasn't funny. The joy was in watching him flail so confidently that it looped around into triumph. He weaponised seriousness, making it his ultimate punchline. In today's meta-saturated landscape, where everyone is a little too self-aware, Nielsen's brand of humour feels almost radical. His characters weren't winking at us. They were begging to be taken seriously, even as they tumbled through pianos, exploded in labs, or accidentally mooned the Queen of England. Spoof, in its finest form, is a magic trick. Leslie Nielsen was the magician who never showed us the rabbit: only a very confused man who mistook the rabbit for a hat and offered it a cigarette. He was, surely and sincerely, sublime. Just don't call him Shirley. Streaming tip of the week: One of the best recent spoofs is Popstar: Never Stop Never Stopping, available for rent on Amazon Video. In this 2016 film the comedian Andy Samberg plays a wonderfully daft former-boyband star who has gone on to become solo. It's all a bit Spinal Tap, and sometimes the autotune even gets to eleven. Raja Sen is a screenwriter and critic. He has co-written Chup, a film about killing critics, and is now creating an absurd comedy series. He posts @rajasen.
Time of India
19-07-2025
- Time of India
Javed Akhtar: Can AI fall in love with someone?
Javed Akhtar believes AI cannot replicate the emotional depth of artists. He argues AI relies on existing data, often substandard. Real art stems from personal experiences and individual perception, which machines lack. Akhtar questions AI's ability to experience emotions necessary for creativity. He suggests AI can be helpful with facts and logic, but it cannot create masterpieces. Legendary lyricist-screenwriter Javed Akhtar believes that artificial intelligence will never surpass the emotional depth that artistes possess. He says, 'When it comes to creativity, AI will always go for data and will take out from whatever so-called creative things that are already existing. Most of the data that is readily available is below average or substandard, so AI will take stuff from that.' The writer emphasised that art requires individual perception, which machines lack. He adds, 'Real art, real creativity, is rare. Most of the art is emulative, copied and unoriginal. AI depends on previous data, but real art does not. It depends on life and very personal experiences.' He further explained, 'Creativity is a process. Can AI fall in love with someone? Can it get upset unnecessarily, can it be depressed for a while, can it be excited for no reason at all, can AI dislike somebody? It can't! You have to be equally unreasonable (to be creative) also because all creativity is a combination of reason and being unreasonable. It is a combination of a conscious mind and a subconscious mind. Is it possible or will it be possible in the near future for artificial intelligence to do that? For a machine all this is not possible, but our human mind does it. by Taboola by Taboola Sponsored Links Sponsored Links Promoted Links Promoted Links You May Like Why this MBA won't break the bank SRM Online Learn More Undo ' Akhtar feels that while AI may competently imitate styles and create serviceable works, it cannot create masterpieces like a Monalisa or a Shakespearean play. Urging balance, he signed off, 'Let's not get frightened of AI, because it can also be of great help, as long as there is logic and it is dealing with facts and reality.'
New Indian Express
17-07-2025
- New Indian Express
The Great Indian mother tongue tango: Pride, slaps and salty tea
In Mumbai's latest episode of "Speak Marathi or Else", early July, some traders found themselves slapped, not with fines they can manage, but greasy palms slammed on their faces at the speed of xenophobia. For what? For choosing Hindi over the local lingo. While language pride is laudable, turning it into a nasty contact sport has been India's national pastime since... well, since Jawaharlal Nehru's reluctance to divide the nation along linguistic lines was overruled. So, while the globe hyperventilates over 'language' in a different way with their LLMs—Large Language Models—churning out Shakespearean sonnets, we Indians deploy our impromptu street language audits or every Som, Danish and Harish. I know, because I have faced it myself. It is Bangalore, 2007, my first day in Karnataka. Fresh off the bus, feeling unwell, I drag myself to a pharmacy. What I receive isn't just Paracetamol, but also a hearty dose of Kannadiga pride, served up by a sweetly smiling elderly uncle. "Why don't you speak in Kannada?" he inquires, like he's offering me sweet nakul dana from the latest aarti in the nearest temple. "I will," I reply, "if I stay here longer! This is just my first hour in your magnificent city!" I think that truth plus city-pride-hyperbole would end the matter. Silly me. Uncle now deploys his own kamikaze logic drone. He beams, radiating the positivity of a thousand suns (Now, I am become Death?): "Then it's the perfect day to start!" My expression? Pure, unadulterated, "Dude. Seriously?" Thankfully, my pills arrive, rupees change hands, and below a bewildered headshake, my legs carry me back to the hotel at Olympic speed to escape this linguistic conversion. And you know the irony? That uncle's well-intentioned ambush backfired. It, and other incidents reported in the media since, left such a bad taste that I developed an involuntary reflex to avoid Karnataka. I've since ventured there only with the enthusiasm of a cat facing bath time. And the tragic, personal casualty? Hampi. That glorious miracle of the Vijayanagaran Empire is firmly in my global top-five must-sees. Yet, while I travel the world – doing slow-tourism of Varanasi (Hinduism HQ) and Rome (Christianity Central) just in the last year, Hampi eludes. All thanks to one retired gentleman with more time for linguistic gatekeeping than, following our scriptures, to, you know, leave for Sannyasa ashram. Since then, every news flash about someone getting thwacked in Maharashtra (where I've now lived half my years), Karnataka, or frankly anywhere for linguistic reasons, instantly teleports me back to that Bangalore pharmacy. That cocktail of anger and frustration bubbles right back up. If our aan, baan, shaan, and our naam, namak, nishaan, is our nation, India, why let hyper-local supra-pride manifest as public humiliation? Will insulting someone in the name of your 'mother' tongue make your mother proud, or serve as an advertisement for the "greatness" of your language and culture? And does it come with a brochure? A free phrasebook, with the address to the nearest night school that teaches your language? Nope? Just a stinging cheek followed by decades of resentment. Those of you branding me an anti-lingo or anti-national, hold your horses, cause the truth is the opposite! Genetically hailing from the Far East (Assam), raised in the Far West (Gujarat), and having loitered all over the country since, I've become a linguistic chameleon. Gujarati, Hindi, Assamese? Speak, read, write. Hindustani and Urdu? Proficient enough to order biryani with poetic flair (even began learning Farsi as a kid, till a new Maulvi proclaimed me Hindu and banished me). Bengali, Punjabi, Marathi? Understand fluently, speak like a charmingly broken robot. Nagamese, Oriya? I catch the drift, generally. The glorious dialects and languages under Hindi: Braj Bhasha, Bundeli, Haryanvi; Awadhi, Bagheli, and Chhattisgarhi; Maithili, Bhojpuri and Magahi? Perfect comprehension, passable spoken attempts. I'm basically a walking, talking poster for national integration, or in today's lingo, for 'Bharat Mata ke bhasha ki jay'. My Achilles' heel? Total blackout on the Tibeto-Burman tongues of the North-East. And shamefully, the magnificent four Southern languages. Though, while living in Hyderabad for a bit, I did dabble in Telugu, enough to land myself in hot water with a client after calling him "hantakudu" (murderer) instead of saying "andagadu" (handsome). Honestly, why wasn't learning one South Indian language compulsory in school? I believe it's a national tragedy. And shame. So yes, I live in the Land of Loving Languages. So, all you passionate Kannadiga warriors, champions of the Marathi manoos, Tamizh thaai devotees – here's my suggestion: Inspire, don't require! Instead of unleashing the Slap Brigade, how about unleashing the "Adopt-a-Non-Local" initiative? Get your people to gently take a clueless outsider under their wing and teach them your language, word by glorious word. And guess what: No one will object! Why? Because it's ridiculously useful! Exhibit A: My dear departed father. Fresh off the train from Assam to Gujarat in 1974 (he hadn't even heard of a dhokla before), his Hindi was Bollywood-basic, Gujarati non-existent. At his first Gujarati home visit, wanting sugar in tea, he requested "meethu." While "meethu" sounds like it means sugar, it actually means salt in Gujarati. The bewildered host, assuming salty tea was an Assamese delicacy, obliged. Not wanting to offend, dad drank. Decades later, we blamed this incident for his hypertension. Jokes aside, my point? Most long-term residents, like my dad, realize the immense benefit of the local lingo and want to learn. The burning question: Who's gonna teach them? The slapperatti? Here's a still better suggestion for all you Bharatiya language lovers. March down to your state's tech startup district and inspire (please, no slaps) someone to build the next big thing: a hyper-local Duolingo rival! Storm your AI companies! Instead of forcing LLMs (Lots of Language Modes) down throats, demand they build actual LLMs (Large Language Models) in your language! Get tech to do the heavy lifting of preservation and promotion! And the other thing you can actively do: sharpen your culture. Because, despite the Bangalore Pharmacy uncle's unintended effect, my aversion to Kannada has been chipped away gradually by you know what: Karnataka's music, art, culture and most importantly, cinema. Films like Thithi, Kantara, the sheer operatic madness of KGF... they make me wish for a Matrix-style instant Kannada download jack at the back of my head! Plug me in, Morpheus, I need to understand this awesomeness properly! And then came the Booker's nod to Banu Mushtaq's writing? I read one of her short stories in English and it wrecked me with its prose. Imagine its power in the original! That's the pull. Wherever you are in this glorious, noisy nation, if you want to promote your language and culture? Make your art irresistible. Make your language a magnet, not a mallet. Build a pull economy where people crave to learn, not a push economy where you shove it down reluctant mental throats. So, as a tribute to the linguistic assortment I adore (and the many more I aspire to master before I abandon this mortal coil), here's a little… let's generously call it a poetic interlude… in my four beloved tongues: नयी भाषा सीखो, नई दुनिया देखो। (Nayi bhasha seekho, nayi duniya dekho.) શબ્દો એટલે પુલ છે, અંતરને જોડે. (Shabdo atle pul che, antar ne jode.) शिकलेली भाषा आपल्याला जगात नेते. (Shikleli bhasha, aapalyala jagat nete.) আৰু এটা ভাষা, নতুন বন্ধুৰ আশা। (Aaru eeta bhakha, notun bondhur aakha.) For the linguistically challenged amongst us – a.k.a. most normal people – here's a translation: Learn a new language, see a new world. Words are bridges connecting hearts. A learned tongue carries you into the world. One more language, hope for new friends. Build bridges with words, stop constructing walls with slaps. Onward, linguistic India! But with a cultural hug, not a slap.
