The CSI Effect: The Ree(a)lity Bites

Suspect: You won't be able to prove a thing
Horatio Caine: That is a really dumb thing to say to a CSI.

Every time I watch the re-runs of the prime-time series like Crime Scene Investigation-CSI and its spin-offs like CSI- Miami and New York, Criminal Minds, Bones or Dexter, the much used ADIDAS catch-phrase flits across my mind.

These new-age fictional forensic investigators and experts are the modern day Gladiators who make Mr. Holmes look like an average sleuth with a fortuitous Kismet.

Unlike their age-old swashbuckling doppelgangers these “geeks” with their au courant technical know-how wielding expertise in areas like DNA testing, Finger-print analysis, Blood-stain splatter analysis, Forensic Anthropology, Fiber analysis et all, can practically crack any case wide open however Herculean the task may seem to be. The ease with which they make in-roads into their investigations and by-pass sticky corners and the precision with which the plots are depicted is perhaps their greatest selling point, which successfully captivates the imagination of an average TV viewer to sit through the 60 odd minute dramas with utter fascination and rapt attention.

The turn of the century saw an enormous increase of television series in the genre of “Legal Drama” “Detective Stories” “Cop Stories” and ilk, to the exclusion of other dramas. This has over the years proved that television viewing is predominated by these cult “geeks” who almost always put the “bad-guy” behind bars. It is perhaps an ingenious trick on the part of the television producers to show real life issues like law &order, crime &justice minus the tedium of time & place and the dreary legal nitty-gritty thus making these issues appeal to the popular TV culture across the globe.

”Crime Scene Investigation” made its debut in 2000. The series revolved around a motley group of forensic scientists who gathered forensic evidence from the scene of crime and used “hi-tech magic” to solve it. Unlike the much abused television protagonists with super-human abilities and off-the-charts IQ fighting against ‘evil’ of the world, from a decade earlier, appreciation for the CSI franchise and kind caught on like wild-fire amongst the audience over the globe. The reason perhaps was the extensively researched stories, hi-tech mumbo jumbo, detailing, the stress on science and its use to solve crime brought forth a new dimension to fighting crime.

It has been noted that over the years of telecasting these highly-acclaimed series, the exaggerated crime plots, ingenuous crime solving methods, sophisticated technology, highly specialized techniques and the inexactitude of legal procedure which form the basic tenet of these dramas has by and large deluded the perception of the public about real life crime & justice. The serious repercussion of these ‘glorified’ television drama on the reliability of a criminal trial was noticed especially amongst the jury members in the American Legal system.

Popularly dubbed as the “CSI Effect” after the CBS’s hit tv-series Crime Scene Investigation-CSI, it was alleged that the viewing of television dramas of this genre was affecting the jury’s observation and thought process heavily. It was asserted that the prodigious manner in which evidence was procured and the Shangri-laesque capabilities of the forensic experts had in fact led to skewed notions in the jurors’ mind about the present day abilities of the criminal justice system and policing techniques in America. Thereby their heightened expectations constantly diminished the value of circumstantial evidence. Moreover the demand for more and more forensic evidence in a criminal trial has led to undue pressure on the forensic labs and the available technical knowledge.

To understand the pressing consequences caused by the distorted and biased perception of the jury one has to understand the pre-eminence of the jury in the American Legal System. The jury system in America is the basic tenet of its legal framework. As quoted by an eminent jurist it is “No mere procedural formality, but a fundamental reservation of power of the constitutional structure”. Even though it is argued that the media influence tends distort the views of the jurors and make them biased on certain issues, to the extent that it influences their deliberations during a criminal prosecution, it is still held to be the fundamental aspect of the American legal system in order to deliver justice

The term “CSI effect” was first used in an article in the TIMES magazine in 2002. It essentially was coined to refer to the misguided perception of the public resulting from inaccurate and unreliable portrayal of forensic science and its uses in these television dramas. It was asserted that the ‘Effect’ mainly gave rise to two situations amongst the jury members. On one hand was that the jurors had started expecting more forensic evidence than what was necessary for the case at hand, thereby acquitting people for the lack of enough evidence in a number of cases. On the other, they started relying heavily on forensic evidence as a primary proof and negating the probative value of circumstantial evidence or even eyewitness reports to a large extent. This in turn led to an increase in conviction whenever there was forensic evidence present.

In a recent study conducted by a group of American Psychologists it was shown that the basic premise of such TV-series that “Science pervades all aspects of life and is the ultimate truth” was perhaps the fundamental reason for influencing the minds of millions of its viewers. Though arguably bias created by media influence was always an issue during the voir-dire, but the veracity of science and scientific techniques has always been an unquestioned fact for the common man. The stress laid on DNA testing and Finger-print analysis and other such devices to gather evidence in these programs has effortlessly created a deceptive impression on its audience about real life police techniques and legal methodology. The viewer easily forgets the distinct but thin divide between the real and reel crime solving, that though the use of scientific devices used is certainly advantageous but the reliability and accuracy of these techniques are still a major question in the scientific fraternity.

The CSI effect is not a novel phenomenon in the American Legal System. The “Perry Mason Syndrome” borne out of a cult TV-series “Perry Mason” in 1960s had also managed to create a tumult amongst the jury and defendants. Adapted from the best-seller author Earle Stanley Gardner’s detective novels, Perry Mason was a shrewd defense attorney who always managed to get a confession out of the criminal in full court. The simplicity of the proceedings depicted in these trials led to misconceived notions amongst the jury about the legal procedure of the court and defendants had started to underestimate their predicament in a number of ways.

What is glaringly evident from this situation is that the public generally lacks faith in the law and its procedures and that they are willing to trust ‘science’ unequivocally for justice to be delivered. One has to also understand that the amount of research the plots of these big productions undergo, one cannot help but palate the ensuing product as anything but authentic. And even though these programs might have a firm basis in reality, yet the assumption that all that they depict is cent percent accurate and reliable is perhaps the biggest folly committed by its audience.

So when the mysterious and unimpeachable Horatio Caine (protagonist of CSI: Miami) says it is down right foolhardy to believe that the CSI will not be able to crack a case at hand…vociferous fans of the show like me, do tend to give him the benefit, a tad bit more than is required! Alas! Real doesn’t always emulate the Reel.

The Bong-connection

Disclaimer- The Title of this post has violated a copyright or two

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Of my memories of Durga Puja at Calcutta, the first thing that comes to my mind is waking up, at an ungodly hour of four in the morning on Mahalaya, to the mesmeric voice of Birendra Kumar Bhadra’s' Mahishasura Mardini', playing in the background on the radio The goose-flesh that it never failed to bring, the eerie sense of calmness that overcame and the dawning realization that it was just seven days to the grandest festival of them all!

Durga Puja; a festival celebrating the Grande Dame’s home-coming from her heavenly abode. It lasts over the span of five glorious days and every Bengali the world over awaits it with bated breath. Though necessarily a religious affair, Durga Puja is actually a carnival of merrymaking amongst Calcuttans.

It is not easy to comprehend the fervor this festival brings to the average Calcuttan. It is Holi, Diwali, Valentine’s Day - all rolled into one. Even the Cricket and Football World Cups do not hold as much consequence for the Calcuttan as much as this five-day annual fiesta does.

For someone who’s never been a part of these festivities it is difficult to create an exact picture of the grandeur and for the person who has saw it even once…it is an experience of a lifetime.

It is not hard to identify the City with its oft quoted sobriquet during the extent of these days… Lapierre’s ‘City of Joy’ is in fact jubilant without bounds. Enjoyment is the uniform civil code.

From whichever corner you look at it, the city glows like the very clichéd bride. The incandescent bulbs adorning the buildings, the cascades of twinkling lights, the psychedelic roadside illumination, the myriad colored marquees locally called ‘pandals’, the painted faces of the striking idols, the resounding dhaks, the blaring microphones, the pulsating crowds, the bustling lanes, the pomp, the splendor, of the biggest spectacle of the year, is a vision to behold.

The first day of Puja (the sixth day of the Navratra) a multitude of crowd descends on the streets, hopping from one pandal to the other, marveling at its ingenious designs and sheer creativity of the artisans. While the larger part of the nation is fasting, the boulevards in Calcutta are filled with an invigorating smell, which wafts out of the make-shift food stalls.

With their DSLRs or their flash-enabled camera phones, in their new apparel of the season’s a la mode, comes out the cavalcade of men and women, to haunt the roads till the wee hours of the morning. There is the kurta- denim clad young fellow, the quintessential bhadrolok in his white dhoti and panjabi, the lady clad in her silk finest, the young belle in the latest Gudda or in a splendid knock-off from New Market and the children in their charming outfits. The city resembles a runway straight off a fashion week, where the young and old, the cosmopolitan and the rustic, the prosaic and the vibrant dish themselves out in a kaleidoscope of hues.

Come Durga Puja it is said, you can take a person out of Calcutta but not Calcutta out of a person. It is that time of the year when the exiled Calcuttan yearns to go home. When listening to Bengali music or even a lavish Bengali spread, at a Michelin Star restaurant is insufficient to drive away the heaviness in the heart.

With pujo round the corner I can’t help but stir up the sights and sounds of my city that have always bewitched me. The hubble-bubble of the crowd, the upbeat atmosphere, the cackle of nerves, the gaggle of friends, the racket of the paper horns, the gurgle of mirth, the rhythmic strain of the dhaks, the heady smell of dhuno, the coquettish looks, the appreciative glances, the never-ending queues in front of eateries, the night long sojourn down the winding lanes of North Calcutta, the aching feet and the adda at Maddox!

Otherwise quite the skeptic, the ‘Spirit of Puja’ brings out the fanatic in me. However many may I have been present for, ‘Asche bochor Abaar Hobe’ (Next year it shall happen again) always has a resounding ring to me.

So after a long wait in exile, I am homeward bound in a day’s time and only one thought flits across my mind, “Maa, I’m coming home!”

The Last Cigarette

The clanging metal

The searing psyche

Of orange ‘n red embers, burning inside

Held twixt my fingers, with every breath of life.

A silken touch on chapped lips

A heaving breathe of smoky whorls

The craving soul, the cackling nerves

A rush of the head and the thirst within.

The velvety dark sky, a mayhem inside.

The delight of the soul, a moment’s respite.

A moment of being,

A sense so sublime.

When everything ceases to be.

And life runs against time.

The day behind me, darkness to come

I gaze at my last cigarette and marvel how time flies!

We Solemnly Swear We Are Up To No Good!

It was a pack of cards and a 1.5 L. coke bottle which made me talk to her. I recall sitting on the ledge at OSM ‘bored out of my wits’; smirking at the kids around, when I happened to see the contents in her hands. No it wasn’t lowv at first sight...I was more interested to know if she could drink that whole thing by herself and if she would share!?

“Ma Kasam!” as they say…I had no clue whatsoever as to what I was in for and I have been living with the consequences ever since!

We are not Friends and neither are we Foes! Ours is what you call a “Belligerent Attachment”
We are a pair of recalcitrant, abusive, antagonistic, irrational, strong-willed individuals. We don’t share anything. Not our likes, dislikes, favorite food on the menu, cricketing teams, sport-persons, political views, movies, music… Not even the brand of cigarette! She is ‘Amoral’. I am ‘Immoral’. She is ‘Indifferent’. I am ‘Careless’. She is ‘Combative’. I am ‘Opinionated’.

We quibble more oft than we talk. I pine for her when she’s not around & curse her Down-under when she is! The longest we have ever gone without bickering is probably 15mins. We seldom let go of an opportunity to argue (Thank God! Its mostly verbal) I have used and abused every swear word in my vocabulary on her & have learnt quite a few in reciprocation. I have developed a habit of grinding my teeth together (regularly), out of exasperation. She has refined the knack of dozing off to avoid facing me. The non de plumes with which we anoint each other has probably obliterated our christened names from our lives. We do not greet each other politely or amiably like ‘normal’ friends do. We shout/cuss/abuse/snarl and give each other ‘Bear Hugs’. I call her the “Brain” behind my ‘Brawn”. She dubs me as her ‘Domestic’

The only time we join forces is when we gang up on clueless rickshaw-wallahs or oblivious fellows around us, when we need to poke fun at someone else or plain gossip& bitch. When one sees our heads together sitting calmly, we are surely contriving our next ploy/victim.

What do we live for, if it is not to make life more difficult for each other?
It speaks volumes of my fortitude that I am still around her. But on reconsideration I would not rather be elsewhere. It might not be a peaceful co-existence, but we share a perverse pleasure/privilege in plaguing each other. Not many understand us...we seldom do ourselves. And given a choice we’d be TOGETHER wreckin' HELL!!


Happy Birthday GUMMY( aka NUPUR SINGH)!

A Gentleman's Game! (?)

“PHAAAATTT…” the sound rang across the alley…it was the faded yellow ball hitting against the wood; a silence fell over everyone around. The one who had just delivered the ball was eyeing the flight of the ball over everyone’s head, the others went still, none spoke. It was like they were dreading the next moment. Within seconds came the ominous sound of the ball smacking the glass “CraaaaaaCKK”…
“Bhaaaaag!!!” some one yelled, it was the signal everyone was waiting for, before they ran for their lives!
And there I was…Seconds before, mighty pleased with myself for having successfully hit the ball at the first go but now left abandoned in that alley, lugging on to the heavy bat, with a Kapil Dev sticker on it.

I was 7 years old then (& not that tall), it had taken me ages to convince all the Bhaiyaas around to give me one chance to bat. I had been fielding for months and I had started hating it eventually. One shot they had promised. But, I had ruined it now. I stood there stranded, tears rolling down my cheeks! Dejected and dreading the possibilities of not being permitted to play cricket ever again!

It all began with the thud of the ball hitting hard against the bat; that I fell in love with. It was “Sound of Music” to my ears. It took days before my curiosity got the better of me; it was judgment day of sorts before I mustered courage to speak for my rights. So there I was standing square on my two lil’ feet trying desperately to pass on the idea to the chap everyone called “DADA”, that I wanted to play with them! I was dismissed of course. I was told to go play with my dolls, which was sad really, for all of them (the dolls) were already beheaded and castaway, to show my loyalty to the game! But I did not lose faith. I did not budge, with some good amount of pestering and wheedling, I pretty soon found myself privy to the fascinating sport!

Looking back from the first time I held the handle of the bat tightly in my bare palms, to the time when I was introduced to the game, when all the men; young and old, from the neighborhood used to gather around one television and hover around it for hours together. I used to peer over them to catch a glimpse of what was going on. The men in white, running and lunging around, the commentary in a foreign language, all that never made any sense to me, till the day I actually saw the game live in action in my alleyway. I was awed!

It wasn’t long before that I joined the huddle of men in front of the TV during the matches. It was the end of an era, where cricket dominated over cartoons
Over the years of my obsession, from Imran Khan, Wasim Akram, Steve Waugh, Sachin Tendulkar, Sourav Ganguly to MSD. I have rooted for all the wrong teams, gotten sniggered at for being on the losing side, taken the brunt of supporting the Pakistani team instead of showing some patriotic fervor! I have had field days laughing at the losing side, I have stuck to the chair like glue, in fear of getting someone out, by moving an inch, I have prayed to all the gods I could think of before a match. I have witnessed stupendous victories amongst hundreds and thousands of frenzied fans, I have hooted, screamed, sledged, placed bets, gave opinion on cricketers, as if I were a Team Selector on the Cricket Board, argued over advantages of Ganguly as a captain…guess I have come miles from where I began!

It has been 17 years or so since I have been following the game. I have graduated from fighting for my right to bat first, to being a full-fledged “gully cricketer”. From the TV set in my living room back in Calcutta to the TV set at the local coffee shop in Pune… Cricket has always given me plenty to talk, crib about and bond over. I have formed acquaintances, long lasting friendships, made enemies. It ceased being, yet another sport for me.
One thing remains unchanged though, whenever I bring up the topic of cricket first; in a conversation or rant about some intricacy (beyond sixes and fours) or mention my love of playing the game, “Men” in general look taken aback and baffled and the women think I’m generally demented. More so, “The Look” is worth a hundred bucks, when I differentiate a Yorker from a Googly!
No I’m not a kurta clad, bespectacled feminist fighting for rights of women in cricket or campaigning for abolishment of the much used title “Gentleman’s Game” as being a sexist designation. It’s just that I cannot help but notice the number of men who take it for granted that the woman is in all probability watching a cricket match for some unintelligible reason, like the cuteness factor of a certain Afridi or Dravid!
It’s hilarious actually, when you do find such people who watch a match for such obscure reasons, but I would only like to point out that there are a good many men as there are women in that category!
Alas! I’m 23 today and I still am required to prove my allegiance to the game!
It is indeed a cruel world!
...& as the wise men of the world say, “Form is temporary… Class is permanent”… I say, “Acknowledgment is temporary… Skepticism is permanent”…!!!

A rush of blood to the head

Its 17 degrees outside, the air is smoggy and I am breathing ringlets of smoke. I love these mornings…when I sit alone and look outside. Being a late riser, unlike my roommate, I hardly experience this solitude often.

The sun has not risen yet and the street lights are still on. It’s a sublime feeling to watch the city at this time of the day, with no horns honking or noise from the nearest construction site. The silence settles over me like a blanket. The empty streets beckon like an old friend. I can see a cat scurrying by and lone walker pass by, away from the cozy confines of his room and comfortable wraps of his quilt. Its difficult to look beyond the street light, as the road disappears into darkness, but more particularly because of my wretched myopic sight.

I have goose bumps on my arm, it’s not just the chill in the air that’s causing them but the surreal feeling that my surrounding gives me at this hour. It’s like all existence comes to a full stop.

It's been ages i have felt this calm. Not a single distracting thought flitting through my head. No strain of emotion, no wandering reflection on relations; past, present and future, no worries over ambitions, no regrets over the paths taken, things done or left undone, no competition to worry about, no one to dictate or appraise. My existence seems to boil down to the very famous Shakespearean dilemma …”To be or not to be”

Listening to the soulful rendition of a jilted lover…playing over my headphones. I look yonder and imagine, what would it be like not to exist? To fade away into the darkness …to walk away from all the worldly comforts with a backpack and very little money. To trudge the solitary path and not having to look back and wonder, what if?

I am jarred out of my waking trance, by the irate sound of the alarm from my room. It’s time for my roommate to wake up and perform her daily rituals before she heads to college. I know she’ll put the alarm on snooze at least once before she wakes up.

So, I take one last deep breath of the dank air and heave myself out of the chair. It’s time to hit the sack and delve into the abyss of my bizarre dreams, which perhaps even Freud would have a hard time deciphering!

To the Capital...

With a lil’ less than excess baggage on me I flew into the Delhi International Airport a week ago. I had a spark in my eyes and a spring in my step. Two whole weeks on my own in the city I have always dreamt of living… things couldn’t get better! As I heaved my baggage and headed to my temporary aboard, I reflected back in time, to the evenings I spent fighting with my folks over my wish to graduate from this city’s esteemed university. Hmmm..Its been five years since those crazy evenings, every moment of which I prayed and reasoned with my parents, but to no avail! The media was no ally of mine then, the number of reported incidents of molestation and rape were the foundation to my reverted plans of grads.

As the taxi made its way through the thoroughfares of India’s capital I smiled to myself for the nth time that day…quite frankly, work was the last thing on my mind. I was looking forward to gallivanting on the streets and a reunion of sort with my friends.
Though this was not my first trip to Delhi, it was the first where I’d see the city beyond my viewfinder!

In spite of belonging to a city with its own share of rich heritage, the Capital of India has its own charm. The multitude of regimented traffic on the wide roads, the innumerable number of white ambassadors with “Government of India” on their name plates, the frequent motorcade of the next important Mantri, the planned layout of the city in the new parts, the presence of policemen by numbers throughout, at any given time, CNG autos and buses, Phirangs in their Indian avatars by hoards, loudmouth jats, lecherous men, indifferent women…I would only repeat the sights of what men and women before me, have hailed the city for, over and over again!

Rosy as the picture may seem, I got to experience the murky side to the city swiftly. My work took me to Noida( which was made known to me, stands for New Okhla Industrial Development Authority) a 45 mins ride in the overcrowded State buses. Since, my experience with Mumbai local trains, I am pretty much confident about any form of transport. So I didn’t bat an eyelid when I climbed on to one of the buses the first day of my work. What I didn’t expect in the congested interiors was strange men making overt physical advances! An elderly man standing next to me, ordinarily whom I would have referred to as uncle, had a blatant lascivious look on his face and refused to move away in spite of being shoved constantly. I had heard of the perturbed and repressed sexual energy in men, but had never expected such an obvious show in public.

In spite of the overbearing auto-drivers of Pune, this trip to the capital has had me swear unto myself, that I shall never pick a fight over the fare. The absurdity with which the rickshawallahs charge the customers left me baffled. The minimum starting from Rs.20/-, these men had the nerve to ask for Rs.100/- for a distance of 4 kms. No wonder people choose private mode of transport here! I completely understood their plight! The first down payment for a Wagon R is probably lesser than the amount you spend on autos in a whole month!! The surprising part of this was every auto had a working meter which they refused to start.

The fact that I have spent larger part of my adulthood in a city like Pune, has had me accustomed to late nights on the streets, frequently. What left me stumped was that the streets here were deserted by 8 in the evening! A METROPOLITAN CITY five times larger than a city born out of a cantonment was stranded by its very own at such an ungodly hour!
I know two or three incidents do not count for forming a lasting impression nor is it a sufficient argument. But the fact that the Capital of India is nicknamed the “Rape Capital” has had me bewildered for that was in fact, not an exaggerated lie.
Where the Chief Minister of the State is a woman herself, the last thing that the city assures is safety of any kind for the women folk. Unlike my friends back in Calcutta or Pune or even the vast metropolis of Mumbai, my friends in Delhi are terrorized at the concept of walking on the streets any time after 8:30 pm!

I came to the city with hopes..conjured from my vivid imagination. What I came with, was far less than what I experienced. But, what I experienced is far less than what I imagined.

On my way back, as I sit and reflect on my stay, I feel a bad after-taste in my mouth.

The delights of Dilli are at galore, from the lighted India Gate at twilight, evening walks through the winded paths of Connaught Place, shopping at Janpath, haggling at Sarojini Market, the delectable milkshake at Keventer’s, the yummy pasta at Big Chill, the famed Dilli ki sardi, the oasis of intellect in JNU, the snob appeal of DU, the UN-pitted roads, the disciplined traffic that most of my fellow Indians would give their right hand for!
But the enchantment breaks when I reach out to experience the place beyond its touristy attractions.

I sign off with this thought in my mind, perhaps the impressions through my viewfinder were in fact illusions, for I suddenly feel Enlightened!