Courtroom Drama (BH:D261)

April 21, 2012

It should have been along the lines of the bombastic, gripping, edge-of-the-couch intense court room dramas that pack American television channels. But then the reticent, soft-spoken, rarely speaking MMS is at the helm of affairs. Therefore

The Supreme Court: so we should let the ship go?

Govt Attorney: Yes, Your honor!

TSC: But two Indian citizens have been killed.

GA: In international waters, my Lord.

TSC: They seize to be Indian citizens once they are at sea?

GA: Our citizens are always at sea. Especially when they are on a boat more than 12 nautical miles from the nearest coast.

TSC: Is this the government's stance?

GA: Yes, that Italians are italians.

TSC: Meaning?

GA: Just like how we clarified earlier that gays are gays.

TSC: And Indians are Indians, we presume?

GA: Quite so. Except when they are of Italian origin.

TSC: And the Kerala Police was wrong to detain the Italian marines?

GA: Yes, they have been ordered to repent for 42 days.

TSC: Have the families of the victims been informed?

GA: They can read it in the papers. That's our preferred mode of communication successfully applied even on senior ISRO scientists.

TSC: Indeed. What does the PM say about the matter?

GA: The usual.

TSC: Silence?

GA: Deferred, reverential and thoughtful

TSC: Will it be broken?

GA: Hopefully in 2014.

TSC: Final argument...

GA: "Letting go" is the purest message since the time of Buddha. The armed forces have already been trained in Ahimsa with the supply of substandard equipment. 

TSC: But that message was law only during the Mauryan Empire.

GA: Your honor, and the Roman Empire ascended soon after. 

TSC: And it has reached the Indian shores?

GA: Precisely. The message should reverberate with the citizens. That they should have no attachment.

TSC: To their own lives?

GA: And property...unless of course, they are of Italian origin.

Degrees 2012 (BH:D260)

April 20, 2012

Though I passed by the arched gate of the Fine Arts College several times this week while shuttling to the accountant and bank, sadly didn't have the time to take a look at the Degrees 2012 exhibition till today. By 10:30 this morning, I was walking up the narrow, creaking, wooden stairs of the main building to the Painting section of the exhibition.

Four halls of the upper floor were dedicated to paintings in different mediums. A handful of very impressive oil and acrylic works. Loved that the photograph of the artist with contact information was provided next to each work. Since almost all of them have emails, it is easy to express our appreciation. Couple of artists like Sabin Das and Moona Krishna showcase captivating work. Sabin's forte is trompe o'leil type effect with which he specialises on heavy equipment for some reason. Moona's works are thought-provoking.

Absolute clutter of broken chairs, canvas stands, dried and squeezed out paint tubes and tins in the corridors outside the rooms. I suppose the college teaches that art must be revolutionary, disorderly and nonconformist. 

Fantastic statues, mostly busts in stone, bank the shady road that leads from the main building to the studios in the lower, farther end of the campus. Life like quality for a few. With his sunken manboobs and slightly protruding belly wrapped in a double tucked 'mundu', the statue of an aging, balding Malayalee immediately brings so many village uncles to mind.

The sculpture segment wasn't as great as the painting section, but that's just the personal opinion of an artless mind. The labyrinth made of cigaratte cases, the empty letter box in terracota and a small installation titled abortion featuring shiny screws drenched in red sindoor did hold my attention. 

In the last building, with its claustrophobic spiral stairway, the "applied arts" section. Catchy, classy, colorful final year projects that focus on complete brand building are on display here. The hilarious campaign for Beau elastic condoms and the simple elegant thermocol plate resembling a paw print for the "Save Tiger" campaign are worth mentioning. 

Carelessness with English left a bad aftertaste though. Its a pretty sorry state when an entire campaign with its posters, covers, websites, tshirts and brochures all advertise an "eletronic" wristband! Just the way Malayalees pronounce it!

Overall a good featuring of some very proming talent. As is said colloquially "faaviyum faavanayum olla pillaru" (Kids with future and good imagination). Even more encouraging was the steady stream of young visitors.

Walking back from the college took the road beside Public library with its second book shack. Picked up two Art Buchwald books for Rs. 60 from the very first stall. "Puthiya stock udane varum bhai" (New stock will come soon) promises the shack proprietor.

Unusual number of parked cars on that road. Cause is a wedding at the Bishop Periera Hall. A hoarding for the new movie "22 Female Kottayam" right outside the hall. Rather unfortunate placement for a movie that climaxes in violent Bobbitting to be outside a wedding venue. Melodious christian devotional song rises from the choir inside. May be that should help. Or may be not. "What would Jesus do?" isn't a good question to ask in the bedroom. 

Flipping through Buchwald's "Washington is leaking", I get to Kanakakunnu Palace. The gate has been decorated with a cutout and announcement of Rajaram Mohan Roy Library Foundation National Seminar, a Ministry of Culture initiative. The sun deters from checking it out. Mandatory seminar attendees, I presumed, all dressed in their best possible 'kasavu' sarees, green blouse and jasmine in their hair, were being herded into the venue by several buses. Turned out they were volunteers for the massive "Kerala Pulaya Maha Sabha" annual rally in the evening.

Back again at the Fine Arts exhibition in the evening with Saiju. With his architect's eye, he points out the boldness and finesse of a few color combinations that I was blissfully ignorant of in the morning. While leaving, we attempt to climb over a locked gate. We contemplate jumping off the wall. Three young men, college students hopefully, sitting on the wall, are pleasantly amused by the two hesistant middle aged souls. Luckily a lady lecturer pulls up her car at that back gate. Suddenly someone rushes to fetch the key to let her in. We squeeze out.

DIN (BH:D259)

April 20, 2012

Most of the week went in clawing myself into my cousin's company and getting its website going. To be in the director board of a firm in India, one needs to have a Director Identification Number. Like all other glorified numbers in India, to obtain this number one needs to submit other numbers. My PAN card number and UIN card number were used in the plea for the DIN number. I say plea though the application calls itself an application. May be it should be called a prayer. 

You kindly see, Dear Sir/Madam, that India has managed to carry over its entire lethargic, bureaucratic red-tapism into the cyber world. Visit any government website and most of us in our 30s will get a flashback of old school textbooks. Crammed with the most useless information, squeezed in illegible fonts all over the place and written in obscure, mind-numbing, flowery, bombastic, scholastic language that is rejected even by the esteemed Journals of Statistical Analysis of Most Boring Mesopotamian Tablets. If you are ever tripping from psychedelic drug, please logon to some ministry's (governmental not church) website and watch the drug retreat in shame. 

Among the numerous columns of texts of varying sizes, boldness and slant, there are snaking "feeds" and slideshows zooming past. As I grow dizzy, the accountant manages to find the small box for logging in. He is used to finding right slots among chaos. That's what he gets paid for. "With e-filing, things have actually become more costly," he reveals to my surprise.

We spent 15 minutes trying to get a digital signature to work. "They keep changing the format and now everyone is supposed to renew the digital signature every year at a cost of Rs. 500. There is a firm contracted by the government that does this." The pen drive provided by the firm doesn't work. We call them up fervently hoping that someone has made the mistaking of staying back in office after 5 pm. Lucky break. They promise to email the new signature in an unheard of format shortly.

Signature arrives. Application gets loaded. The site rejects it with a tantric message appearing in glaring red font. I am perplexed but the accountant is undeterred. "It does that a few times!". I admire the great Indian web designers who have managed to capture the arrogant, soul-less soul of the proverbial "desi-babu" into html format. The website behaves just like the disinterested, soporific clerk one used to run into any government office. Now the clerk has arrived on your desktop at home. 

"Don't worry about it. I will keep trying," the account reassures me. I stand terrified that any time now a hand will stick out of the cd drive, Ring-movie style, asking for a bribe to get the application through. 15 more attempts and a new mantra appears in green. 6pm, I leave his office.

Next day 6am, I find that an email with the holy grail number has arrived in my inbox at 4am. That is 10 hours of processing time for a single page application. It is better than 10 months anyways. And fortunately computer servers seem to be OK with working at nights...so far. Any day though, they might form a union!

Gandhian Moms (BH:D258)

April 19, 2012

Mathrubhumi weekly has published a cover story on the ongoing Kudankulam nuclear power plant protests. Haunting photographs of a few moms who are in the frontline of this battle. 

A battle fought in the purest Gandhian non-violent way. 

A battle that has been deliberately ignored by Indian media which is working as not watchdogs but hunting dogs of the government, both state and central. 

A battle that has risen above caste and religious barriers. 

The fight of a land....under the leadership of women...mothers, sisters, daughters...without facebook, orkut and twitter...but with speeches and poems in Tamil thundering from the dais...to inspire, to sustain.....for the right to live. 

The government has tried almost all the cheap tricks in the book against its own people in this matter. They tried dividing the people along caste lines infiltrating the camps with spies. Mullaperiyar dam issue was brought up to ensure that people of Kerala didn't join wholeheartedly in the protest though Thiruvananthapuram falls well within the range in case of a disaster at the plant. 

Promises of wealth under the guise of a 500 crore development package was made to the Panchayats. The local government leaders refused. Justice was more important to them than money. The politicians in Chennai and Delhi couldn't understand that attitude at all. How can anything be more important than money?! 

Rolling blackouts lasting 18 hours a day were imposed on the state to justify the need for a nuclear power plant. But poor people are not automatically idiots. That is just a capitalist delusion. When sustainable, renewable wind farms on either side of the proposed nuclear powerplant are already generating more electricity than the plant's capacity, only the amply greased palms will continue to write about the "need" of nuclear energy for the state's development.

The protestors, fighting for their life and livelihood, don't expect any sympathy or support from any political party. When the local elections was announced, Chief Minister Jayalalitha took a very friendly stance. But as soon as the voting ended, she order the arrest of over 200 of the agitation's leaders. And she is called "Amma"! She is anything but that...

Aamir Khan is launching a national TV show focused on the grass root problems and progress of the nation. I don't think poor, dark people, especially "Saala Madrasis" from south of Tamil Nadu will make good national TV. So Kudankulam won't be on his radar of "problems." After all, Abdul Kalam himself refused to meet the protestors but dutifully wrote a pseudoscientific center spread on The Hindu newspaper about the glories of nuclear energy. Taking of glamorous supporters, one would have thought superstar Rajnikanth would weigh in on the matter.If only his gurus showed him some divine vision.  

Incidentally, Rajnikanth is in Thiruvanathapuram busy doing motion capture shots for a song in his upcoming movie, Kochadiyan. Deepika Padukone is also in the Kazhakoottam studio. 

One would have thought that a protest like Kudankulam which has been forsaken by the Congress and the regional parties of Tamil Nadu is fertile ground for the Communitst party to jump in. Veteran leader, V. S. Achudanandan was ready to visit the site and participate. But the party in Kerala has forbidden him. You see, the nuclear plant is built by the Russians. Though communist party is ardently against belief systems, they strongly believe that in Russia everyone continues shits gold and pees honey even after the fall of the Soviet empire. So nothing must be done against a nuclear power plant with Russian technology even if it is built less than two kilometers away from a government housing colony and is commissioned without doing any safety mock exercises whatsoever. 

Talking for Russians, Siberian dance troupe Larisa performed in the city yesterday evening. Free tickets were available in advance at the Russian culture center. I had picked up two assuming that tickets meant limited seating. Much horror on reaching the venue yesterday. For a hall that can seat 600, 6000 tickets seam to have been sold. Those who had managed to find seats were left struggling to keep their faces away from the butts of those standing beside and craning their necks to see the stage over the heads of those standing in front. The photographs of the dancers rehearsing at the beach, published by the leading dailies yesterday, clearly worked. I would have assumed the organizers had better sense than give away so many extra tickets. They hadn't. I left before the show.

Inland (BH:D257)

April 18, 2012

An afternoon of traveling around southern Kerala with Saiju. As we head to the auspicious land marking ceremony of a new house around 50km from the city, the owner calls to say that he would like it done before "Rahu Kalam", the most inauspicious time of the day according to the Hindu astrological calendar starts. I chuckle about his being a time-watching Muslim while the other guys in the car quickly figure out when is Rahu Kalam on a Tuesday.

One of them remembers a mnemonic he was taught in high school. "Eleven boys had a good football coach," he says. The calculation is not as simple as mnemonics are meant to be. We start with Monday. The starting letter for "eleven", e is the 5th in English alphabet. We take 1.5 times 5 to get 7.5. On Mondays, Rahu Kalam is from 7:30am to 9am. They always last 90 minutes. Similarly for Tuesdays, 'boys' gives b which is 2. Taking 1.5 times 2, we get 3, thus 3pm to 4:30 pm.

With the letters b, f and c available to make a mnemonic, I though it was a rather clean to have boys, football and coach. A much more entertaining obscene mnemonic was quickly made. Obviously it won't be taught in school. At least not by a teacher in a classroom. 

Back home, I was told a much simpler mnemonic to remember Rahu Kalam is "Mother saw father with their two sons". The first letters of the words in this sentence represents the days of the week that start with it. Here, one needs to remember that on Mondays, the time is 7:30-9am. Now we keep marching forward in 90 minutes chunk and figure out which day that would be from the mnemonic. So the next chunk 9am-10:30am would be Rahu kalam on "saw"=Saturday. 'Their' is for Thursday and 'Two' stands for Tuesdays. Wholehearted apologies for sharing this absolutely useless knowledge.

A property has been brought to road level by removing tonnes of soil 20-25 ft high. The exposed soil walls stand on two sides of the land with a sacred, sacrifical mix of yellow, red and cream hues. At the far end, the culling has cut through a well, revealing its cross section down the entire depth. The split well stands like a gaping, festering wound on the earth beyond repair.

Another site has two houses and a small shrine in it. Total area of 1.5 acres. One of the house is ancient and the other is an old one. The people belong to a caste called "Ambalavasis" who are traditionally associated with temple duties. Hence the shrine and its importance. "We want a new two storey house here," said the wife standing in the front yard of the ancient house. She gave specifications of all the rooms she needed. "But the darshan (front view) should be towards the shrine. Our budget is strictly 25 lakhs. After this is done, we need to conduct our first daughter's wedding. You know, how much gold costs these days!" 

"We can do a single floor home for that budget, " suggests the architect.

"But we have two daughters!"

Since the shrine is present, dividing and selling a part of the property to raise some more funds is out of question. I stand around listening to the conversation amused about the "way of life" that involves 'rahu kalams', shrines, gold and marrying off daughters. Millions in this land pass by never getting a breather from their 'way of life' to admire the beautiful planet? Is it not gorgeous enough to give them pause, to rethink, to reconsider?

At another upcoming home, as the architect, mason and the owner get busy over measurements, a little white lamb chomps down on a leafy wild plant near the unpolished new compound wall. The movement of his jaws are lightning fast. He is the Bruce Lee of feeding. Leaves disappear into his mouth in an unbroken succession. Once in a while, as if to change taste and revitalize its appepite, he munches on a piece of banana that is lying on the ground. His mom bleats intermittently from her tethered circle around a Jackfruit tree in the neighboring house. 

I wonder how despite such nonstop eating, this little dude stays so lean. He quickly illustrates. In one vigorous leap, he is on the parapet. Then back on the ground and in five spirited gallops he is back with his mom. The speed, agility and incredibly energy expending motion packs all his life in every leap. We have only accumulated the voracious grazing habit and conveniently skipped the animated bouncing.

We shuttle from one home site to another continuously feeding an ever growing desire to drink tea. We get stuck at a level crossing. By the time the train has passed, "intelligent" Indian drivers with their great civic sense have managed to choke the roads on either side of the gate. Impossible impasse. Everyone wants to get ahead. So nobody goes anywhere. Blaring horns. Showering abuses. A hoarding by the roadside guarantees "Moksha" (salvation) with the viewing of 12 Jyothirlingas in a traveling exhibition. Free Entry. Sure why not! We already know what hell feels like.

We sublimate the desire for tea into a conversation. How did Malayalees become so addicted to tea that was apparently introduced in India only in the 17th century by Rober Fortune after tricking the Chinese out of its secret? Or could it be that Chinese sailors to the Kerala shores brought tea centuries ahead of the British? Why didn't coffee become as popular except that universally Malayalees refer to breakfast as 'Kaapi'? What was the common drink before tea and coffee?

We realize that a lot of folks in our generation don't drink tea. Their parents never encouraged that habit. Even fewer in the younger generations drink it. Colas and other powder drinks have risen in popularity. It must have been the same dynamic that led to the succumbing to the tea. 

Graduating to drinking tea instead of milk was a great right of passage for me. I used to be disappointed when all the grown ups around were drinking tea and I was offered sissy milk. Sipping on tea was entry into the adult club. I can relate to folks who carry this a little further and take up smoking. 

Driving by relatively deserted section of profoundly peaceful Varkala beach and the green rippling carpet of Anjuthengu lagoon. As the sun sets, we pull into a highway side tea shack. As Saiju is catching on emails on his smart phone, a boy comes over to our table.

"Is that a Galaxy Note?"

"Yes"

"My daddy also has one!" He runs over to his dad who is busy ordering and comes back with a white version of the phone. 

"What is your name?" I ask

"Alan"

Cold batter destined to an ephemeral split lives in toroidal 'Vada' avatar in the small, dirty glass shelf of the shack, meets hot oil with a silencing hiss.

NBS (BH:D256)

April 17, 2012

On Friday, while walking from the accountant to the bank, I had noticed the virtually unnoticeable National Book Stall squeezed between a hotel and a bank across from the gate of the old government Secretariat that is well known for the regular violent clashes between the police and the protesters.

Yesterday morning, after yet another and hopefully final visit to the bank to get a credit card, I went into this NBS shop.

The oldest proper books, as in not the illustrated comics kind, that I remember reading are from my paternal uncle's home library in our ancestral home. Almost all of them had the classy NBS swan logo with the B forming the wing and N the tail. I had read Malayalam translations of Edgar Rice Burrough's Tarzan. And forever that made Tarzan, Jane and the lovely apes, Malayalees for me. Uncle's collection also had translations of Bengali and Hindi detective pulp fiction. Stuff that opened with enticing lines like, "Bang....a gunshot!" 

Memories are a good thing to carry into the NBS book store. The place is dimly lit, cluttered, disordered and dusty. A 50-something lady who satisfied the quintessential small town government school headmistress image was busy writing on a huge ledger book at the front desk. It was the only unoccuped desk in the shop, beside the entrance to the left. Though I was the only customer, she took great pains in ignoring me. 

A mundu-clad younger man was busying himself carrying stacks of books from one room to the other. A much friendly toothy welcome smile from him. The shop is like a three layer dungeon. Thanks to the door and couple of glass windows, the front room is well lit. It holds the poetry session on a row of standing shelves, two desks and wall display panels. There is barely space for one person to move about between them. 

Light from the front room barely manages to filter into the second room through the straight arch opening. This is the beginning of the dust kingdom. Communist books to the left to start with. Relatively dust free ones on the upper shelves. Bending down, we come face to face with unopened stacks of thickly dust coated older books. Old gems still with the 1980s price tag in the Rs. 20-30 range with hardbound ones making it into the then expensive Rs. 50 category. The communism section seamlessly melts into the religion section. 

Found the first, third and fourth days of Nalacharitham Aattakatha in this section. The story of Nala, in Kathakali format, attributed to Unnayi Warrier, is performed traditional over four consecutive nights though they are called "days". I had found a copy of the "Second Day" on Friday at Bhasha Institute book shop. Blowing the dust away from these copies of the other days, heartening discovery that they were in the 20-30 range. 

Travelogues, spirituality, drama and children's books occupy rest of the shelves and obstructing desks in the room. Found N. P. Chellappan Nair's scathing political satire from 1960, "Ebileesukkalude Nattil" there.

The third room is straight out of some ghostly horror movie set. Cobwebs add drama to the eons of dust. Dust that has gathered dust. There are glass panes high on the side walls that once might have been meant as ventilators. Now buildings on either side, virtually sharing the wall, have reduced them to the role of noise filters. I guessed that some restaurant or tea stall kitchen operated next door. 

Despite the fear of dust allergy, I was drawn in by a handicapped "50% off" cardboard skeleton of a display that precariously hung from one of the shelves. I have always found collectible books under such reduced tags. The final cave of NBS did not disappoint. English translation of Kalidasa's RithuSamhara and Meghadutta for 50 bucks. Sweet!

Spent a good 10 minutes in that neglected cavern of forgotten literary pursuits. No idea what will the ultimate fate of these books be. The book shop, mostly because of the location, will manage to putter along for another decade for sure. The NBS publishing house continues to churn out outstanding works in Malayalam, so their future seems pretty safe. 

In the well-lit poetry section, I picked up "Pathittandinte Kavitha" (Poetry of the decade), an anthology of Malayalam poems in the last decade edited by the accomplished scholar and poet, Ezhachery Ramachandran. Fairly good haul for 300 bucks. Good use of the Vishu "Kaineettam" gift money! 

While preparing the bill, the woman at the counter slips in "NBS Bulletin", the thin magazine that contains reviews (glowing ones, of course) of recent NBS publications. Browsed through it on the bus on the way back home. One of the reviews of a new Children's literature work rues the impersonal, unattached, child-rearing practices of the Western world infiltrating Kerala. I wonder if the writer had ever been to the West and how many friends he has there whose child-rearing practises he has personally witnessed!

Ignorant xenophobic cliches are pathetically license-free in this land. 

The "Western" monster is the strawman to which Malayalees happily latch their insecurities, inhibitions, greed and jealousies.

Sexy Drinks (BH: D255)

April 16, 2012

Going by the Delhi Police's attitude, consuming alcohol is a direct cause of getting raped for women in India. Women might as well order a molestation or heavy duty gangrape at the bar. Those who are not into binge drinking can order a socially acceptable unasked for fondling. Bars and hotels should display a menu for assorted assaults possible. 

Delving deeper into Delhi police first information reports, matters become a tad more complex. Attire combination with alcohol influences the nature of the crime. Accordingly, women have the power, at least in the National Capital Region, to determine how exactly they want to get violated. Men are powerless. They are natural born rapists who can't help it as soon as a woman shows some skin or is seen drinking. 

It is very unfortunate that the product of such grand distillation, of both thought and grains and fruits, of the human civilization has had such a fall from grace. India was once the land of Soma, the intoxicant of the gods. Today it is the land of alcohol-justified rape.

Rape aside, one would think, alochol has a relationship with sex as old as culture itself. I remember something about "alcohol-fuelled marathon sex sessions" of William and Kate referred to in Sarah Lyall's 'The Anglo Files'. Apparently in Britain, alcohol is the equivalent of the Indian astrologer. It determines the perfection of the match after completely removing any thought or logic from the equation. 

In Tom Standages outstanding 'The history of the world in 6 glasses', it is not surprising that the first three fluids that course through the course of history happen to be the Egyptian and Mesopotamian beer, the Greco-Roman wine and the exploring European rum and brandy. It is only after Renaissance that we settled for coffee, tea and coke.

Two advertisements that I saw yesterday between the hugely entertaining IPL match tell me that no matter what the Delhi Police may think, non-alocholic drinks are also "mind-blastingly" sexy. Alcohol advertisement is still hush-hush in India. And it is usually macho men who advertise it as club soda. Accordingly, it is adventure and out of the box thinking that is fuelled in India by alcohol. Sex is, on the other hand (ahem!), lubricated by mango juice and cold coffee. 

Katrina Kaif, draped rather carelessly in a red flowing cloth and a cut piece from it banding over her breasts, dreams sitting on the window of what looks like a Rajput Palace. In the dream, extreme close up of her biting into juicy mangoes. We are given quick generous shots of her beauty. Suddenly she bolts out of the room, across the portico and out into the open yards. There we see the object of her quest. A mango tree that miraculously manages not to hold on to fully ripe golden mangoes on almost all its branches.

Ms. Kaif throws her flowing pallu to catch the mangoes. They conviently fall into the water tank splashing slow-motion water (which is the second most popular type of water in Bollywood after mineral water) on her pallu-less grace. The mangoes in the tank transmogrify into a glass bottle of Slice mango juice which Ms. Kaif sucks on and we are done. "Buttery nipple", "sex on the beach" and other evocative cocktails can't hold a candle to Katrina's slice!

Purab Kohli comes to presumably Deepika Padukone's apartment while Karan Johar is hanging out there. Or may be Karan and Deepika live together. I have no clue who Purab Kohli is. When I saw the ad I thought it was Farhan Akhtar. That is pretty much the level of my Bollywood awareness. Google told me about Purab. Anyways, Purab needs coffee shaken by Deepika. As she goes to the kitchen, he dreams about her doing the shake Shakira-style. 

This is Nescafe's cold coffee ad which is a long way away from the old coffee ads that involved the arranged marriage theme. Bru instant coffee used to be marketed as the coffee that could impress any prospective, anal retentive, south Indian mother-in-law. Now, the ad subscribes straight to Eddie Izzard's "coffee means sex" stand up routine. 

If this is how mango juice and cold coffee is getting marketed, I wonder what to expect once alcohol advertising becomes legal in India. May be porn legalization should precede.