I remember an occasion when my sister kept badgering one of my very successful cousins (working with Pfizer, originally a geneticist, don’t ask me why they picked him) with a single question:
Didi, what is a “gene”?
After all the years of learning and queer concentrated research she’d been doing, she was at a loss to answer that question in a manner that a eleven year old would understand. Therefore, Supriya, my cousin, had a very sweet answer:
Har insaan ke pet mein ek neembu hota hain. Use gene kehte hain.
I isolated several undiscovered genes within four days of that discovery.
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How do these great and new actors fortify their charm?
A question I faced as a part of the comprehension questions under an unseen passage in a recent English paper in a school test. For a long time I contemplated—which word should I take as significant—great or new? The word “great” makes the question unnecessary—great people always are charming. So naturally the examiner wanted me to tackle the word “new”. The answer (that I almost wrote) was pretty easy:
They hang their underwear on the director’s cap before posing in front of the camera.
Unless the director does not wear a cap—which is when you get an occasional “Black”… actors plus their underwear…
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The Review—An Analysis of Meaninglessness
Sometimes, meaninglessness has it’s own charm and it’s own appeal. It would be mighty idiotic if a six-month-old baby were to receive sermons on diaper independence from his/her mother in the process of changing one. A far better way to put it would be—
Jhee janda soo-soo kitoray!(Chee, ganda soo-soo kar di re!).
I remember—that was what my father used to say to me (you could overlook this part while commenting, of course).
And sometimes meaninglessness can have it’s own wit. I don’t think there was a better way to tell my sister that her question had an answer beyond her scope (or that Supriya couldn’t for nuts put the right things in the right words) other than her meaningless reply. I would, for instance, have considered “bakri” instead of “neembu” in everyone’s tummies. I reckon, a lot of voices could be explained that way (mine for instance… for details, refer MSians who’ve spoken to me).
Yet, most of the times meaninglessness is supremely exasperating. You and I know that, irrespective of what advertising professionals hold, advertisements can be pathetically the most irritating thing that flash on the television… I say so specially because most ads flash on TV when, either, Amitabh Bacchan is going to (or threatens to) breathe his last in a movie or when his mother is going to declare the real father of the betrayed hero. And suddenly, when emotions are high, you hear---
PIYO THANDAA, JIYO THANDAA!
(Thandaa teri maa…!)
NOW let us turn to what this commercial has to offer. Right in the beginning, we crash into what is the most obvious thing about this ad (analogous to the most obvious thing about Adnan Sami’s persona—which can be best observed from his back… think…). This commercial relies entirely on the glitter that Priety Zinta and Shah Rukh Khan promise to impart with their superstar image, not to mention the kind of appearance on Miss Zinta’s part that would have scored even without her superstar image (don’t quite get me started). But unfortunately, this is an ad where we can see a severe identity crisis. Priety Zinta has forgotten he is “the” Priety Zinta and Shah Rukh Khan has forgotten most of everything else…
… as well…
IF I WANT to be a little more precise, and a little brief in my description (you can’t be thinking of clothing each time you hear a synonymous word, monsieur), I will have to say—This ad is out of it’s mind. The typical gaudy and unintelligent humor that you find in most rustic village stand-up comedy shows appears to have become, I daresay, the principal punchline of this entire commercial. Of course, none of us really revered SRK for his humor skills, but--- Yamma Yamma hakka hakka as an impression of Arabic is just about as tolerable as me… (You don’t quite agree, do you?)!
SO, in addition to a very foolish impression of languages that could have been pretty easily copied (or so I think), you have another very crackpotish thing—which is the gaudy and rustic intonation behind it, which is loud, piercingly loud, irritatingly loud, disgustingly loud, unbecomingly loud… and in case I couldn’t convey it well, very loud. There we are, viewers arguably loyal to SRK, believing in his power to raise anything from mediocre to less mediocre, before the television, watching SRK behave as if he’d just been given an albeit piquing blow to his forehead, with something blunt yet hard, and Priety Zinta behaving in a manner I have not quite understood.
BUT that is just discussing the execution of the advertisement, as though it were a movie. An ad is supposed to have more than just good execution: it is supposed to have a point. This ad scores on that. The ad tells you very clearly that if you want to impress a girl but you can’t get two words straight, propose in a sunflower farm. It is a very successful matrimonial tip. And silly me—I kept thinking it was a car ad!
CONCLUSION
Why do I call the ad meaningless? Well, because, first, it is so badly made and, second, because it conveys nothing about the car, if you ask me. It’s all right if, once in a while, an amateur reviewer comes out with a review that has nothing about the subject. But when it comes to advertising: I guess a few rupees depend on them, don’t they?
Sorry Mr. Shah Rukh Khan. This is a coup disgrace!