Memento

I can always count on TOI to give me stuff to write about. This morning’s edition carries an article headlined ‘It’s okay to copy!’ (I’m not surprised TOI would think so, but more on that another time.)

The first sentence reads:
“If Chandni Chowk to China was a rip-off from the animated series Kung Fu Panda, the Aamir Khan potboiler Ghajini was said to be copied from Momento.”

Momento? Surely you mean Memento.

A memento is a keepsake, something that serves as a reminder.
The OED defines memento thus:
• noun (pl. mementos or mementoes) an object kept as a reminder.
—    ORIGIN Latin, ‘remember!’

‘Momento’ is not a word at all. Not even in American English.

While it might be tempting to leave the boyfriend with a ‘momento’ (saying thank you for the moment, I guess), it’s just not English. So the next time around, leave him with a memento.

Or else, memento mori.

(Translated: Remember that you shall die.)

A Times-New-Roman World

I dislike the font Times New Roman. I dislike it enough to consider using the word ‘hate’ to describe the feeling, a word I seldom use.

Technically speaking, Times New Roman is for print what Verdana is for the web. It’s a clean font that prints well without much distortion.

In practice, it’s a font devoid of imagination. It’s default enough to appeal to those for whom choice is a challenge. If you’ve nervously scanned the menu at a restaurant for 20 minutes, and then – for the 159th time – ordered Con Carne Cajun, chances are you’ll leap at Times New Roman.

But before you do so the next time, consider this. Risk is an intrinsic part of breakthrough work. Times New Roman takes away the scope for risk, and thereby encourages mediocrity.

While that might seem an extreme prognosis, it’s established by a simple expedient. I’ve found that 90 per cent of CVs received in response to a job advert are mediocre. A quick check of CVs on my laptop revealed that 25 out of 37 were formatted in Times New Roman. That’s close to 70 per cent. Much of the world is a Times New Roman pageant.

Having said that, I would hesitate to classify the majority of the Times New Roman world as lacking in imagination. I know many thinking individuals who have in their weaker moments succumbed to Times New Roman. That just proves how tempting the safe path is.

The second most common font used (in CVs) was Arial, followed by Verdana. These accounted for 21 per cent. The remaining resumes were in Garamond, Bookman Old, Helvetica and even Comic Sans MS (ugh!).

Now about Arial or Verdana. I like these fonts not so much for what they proclaim about your personality, as for what they hide. Arial or Verdana are the font versions of that quintessential Indian garment, the saree. They’re no nonsense just like the saree, the kind you’d like to sport at work. Like the saree, they’re widely prevalent because they are versatile, suiting different shapes and sizes and figures. And again, like the saree, they hide much more than they reveal. Our office style guide, by the way, recommends the use of Arial for print and Verdana for the web.

Arial and Verdana, however, do not intrigue you like the saree does. They’re convenient, safe and versatile, but there’s no romance, no mystery, and not even a hint of interest. People who use Arial or Verdana are, likewise, professional and likely to set store by common sense. But they’re also forever running into the danger of being just like the Times-New-Roman crowd and taking the default option.

My favourite font in serif is Garamond, and in sans serif, Century Gothic. Both fonts are well-rounded and full, and convey the warmth of the words. They have enough drama to make them interesting, but not melodramatic. They’re balanced yet quirky. Warm yet professional. I do an a-ha when I see a document formatted in either of these fonts. They look great in print.

And finally, the Comic Sans MS users… What can I say? Uh-huh…

I guess some things are best left unsaid.

Vigilantes about, so be vigilant

2007 saw the release of a successful film called Shootout at Lokhandwala. I haven’t seen the film, but I do know it has a song that must rank as one of the most offensive I’ve heard in a while, “Ai Ganpat, chal daru la.” (Hey Ganpat, get the booze – for the uninitiated!)

Shootout… is based on a true incident involving a policeman called Aftaab Ahmad Khan, who headed the Anti-Terrorist Squad and who, as the story goes, took out a bunch of former Dawood Ibrahim aides who were allegedly counting their stash of Rs 70 lakh in the Lokhandwala complex. All the terrorists were summarily gunned down in an extra-judicial ‘encounter,’ but the money was never found, a bird tells me. Rumour was that Khan was only doing the bidding of Dawood, who wanted his former aides killed. Of course, nothing was ever proved.

Now, why am I writing about Khan in a blog about the English language and its abuse? Because post-retirement, Khan started a security services agency called Vigilante Security Services, headquartered in Mumbai but with branches in Bangalore and Pune. The Bangalore office is located near my home, and I pass it frequently enough for it to get my goat.

Vigilante /vijilanti/ means ‘a member of a self-appointed group of people who undertake law enforcement in their community without legal authority.’ In other words, they are people who illegally take the law into their own hands. (OED)

To be on the safe side, I consulted Merriam Webster to check the American usage. MW too tells me that a vigilante is a member of a volunteer committee organised to suppress and punish crime summarily (as when the processes of law are viewed as inadequate) or broadly, a self-appointed doer of justice.

The origin of the word is from the Latin vigilant, which means watchful.

These examples illustrate the difference.
- When there were several burglaries in my locality, I became more vigilant.
- When he did not get justice from the courts, he became a vigilante and went after his tormentor.

I’m sure Mr Khan wanted his staff to be vigilant or watchful but I doubt he would want them to turn into ‘vigilantes.’

However, given the rumours and conspiracy theories surrounding the real incident at Lokhandwala, could this be a Freudian slip?

Comma, please?

Thurber was asked by a correspondent: “Why did you have a comma in the sentence, ‘After dinner, the men went into the living-room’?”

And his answer was probably one of the loveliest things ever said about punctuation.

“This particular comma,” Thurber explained, “was Ross’s way of giving the men time to push back their chairs and stand up.”

Eats, Shoots and Leaves by Lynne Truss

Alternate/ alternative

Large sections of MG Road are blocked due to the construction of the Metro Rail. So, the traffic police has put up signs in the vicinity of MG Road, asking commuters to “Take Alternate Roads.” (Watch this space for a photo.) For the past eight months or so, I’ve resisted the temptation to pull out a permanent marker and make corrections. I’ve had a fairly clear record with the traffic police thus far, and I’d like to keep it that way. But, once and for all, here’s news for the Bangalore Traffic Police:

Alternate means ‘every other’. For example, I take tai-chi classes on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Ergo, I take tai-chi classes on alternate days.

Alternative means ‘option’ or ‘choice’. For example, the tai-chi classes are only held on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and so even if I wanted to take them on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I couldn’t. In other words, I have no alternative but to take tai-chi classes on Mon, Wed and Fri!

Another example:

I go in to the office on alternate days. But when MG Road is closed due to construction, I take an alternative route.

I’ve recently read that in the US, alternate is a legitimate substitute for alternative in some cases. Now, why am I not surprised?