Sunday, October 08, 2006

The hidden side of the hills

PART 1 – The Prelude

Long long ago, I had read stories of the folks who lived in distant villages surrounded by high hills; of villages separated from the world by the ring of hills; and of the villagers who worked and played together under the vast canopy of bright blue sky and sneaked into their small houses when darkness fell.

In the winter nights, attired in a voluptuously white gown, the world would appear more confined than ever when the angels would unfurl the diamonds-studded blanket heavily over the hamlet, leaving the fringes loosely hanging over the other sides of the hills, towards the world unseen. And the horizon would seem to shine forth in the dazzling brilliance of the snow.

In a crystalline clean autumn morning, sun stretched his golden-orange arms and the molten diamonds dropped into the red open mouths of daisies and cracked open on the slanting palms of the plants. Under the glassy-golden shadow of the sun, a thousand stars would lay scattered, twinkling on the velvety-green carpet. The happy canary would hop at the branch and send forth melodies in air to wake the children up from their warm, fluffy beds. Soon the children would come out cheering and running towards the north hill, for the demon grand mother had warned about resided near the lake in the south.

Away from their noise, as if under the spell of the demon, young lovers would meet at the serene shores of the lake. Sitting for hours holding the hands of beloved in theirs, they would blush and smile, while the wind carried carts of cotton over the water, still since ages. The girl would gaze in the water and see how lovely they looked together with their faces floating on the blue mirror. And the boy would look amusingly at the sight of her ear-rings mating with her maiden-pink cheeks, and would fall in love again.

And far from the world of promises and their vanity, the children treaded their way up the hill through thorny bushes and dry leaves crackling beneath their feet. Unaware of the scratches on their hands, they climbed trees and sat on the branches. They chewed tender leaves and tasted unknown, unripe fruits, some bitter, some sour, but all tasty. And they plucked wild flowers and made garlands for little sisters. After wandering for some time, running after butterflies, and dipping their feet in the cold mountain spring, they would stroll back to their old spot and look up at the beehive and wonder if it had grown any larger. And then they would relax there and leave for home only after they hear the sound of the evening bells from the temple.


PART 2 – The Journey

A sudden jerk woke me up.

to be continued..

Friday, September 01, 2006

Rape

Disconcerted though I was by his ominous presence, the corner where I had to reach was hardly a minute away. And it was this teasing proximity that obfuscated my thoughts. It seemed ridiculously cowardly to go back from there; or perhaps the option of going back never occurred to me at all. I walked along the wall, keeping closely to it, and making sure not to make any noise that aroused the beast. From a distance, not sufficiently far but still the farthest possible from him, I saw his hairy, thickly tail sleeping on the floor.

On walking ahead a few earnest, bated steps, I began to get a sideward glance of his bulky belly, which heaved heavily with every breath he took. His formidable bulk had kept his head well-hidden behind it. I thanked God for keeping me out of his sight. I had forgotten that the beast didn’t need to see me to know I was there. I didn’t realize that no matter how sneakily I moved, he could hear my footsteps, he could smell my presence, and he could sense my fear as well.

All of a sudden my attention was seized by the sight of his ears waking up and standing alert on his head. My whole body shuddered with a dreadful anticipation and I found myself stuck to the wall. The beast turned his head to me and stood up. Rooted with fright, as it were, I averted his gaze and staggered ahead. He stood where he was, but turned his head towards me, keeping his gaze fixed on me. Under some unholy spell, perhaps out of panic and confusion, I diffidently stamped my foot on the floor to scare him off. The beast drew back with a start but didn’t take long to overcome the surprise. By looking at his expressions I soon realized that I had made a blunder. I had started it and now it could not be left unsettled. I hollered out the guard but got no response in return.

I looked around searchingly and got sight of a rod near the corner leaning against the wall. He noticed me looking at it and perhaps read my mind. He steadily followed me as I rushed towards the corner. I ran for my life, got hold of the rod and turned back in a frenzy. I looked back at my enemy and his sight left me gasping for breath. The infernal ferocity that sparkled in his eyes chilled my blood in my veins.

As per the last command of my doomed fate, I charged at him with my weapon. But it fell on him like a light thread! Betrayed, I cried with dismay when I looked at it again. It was a mere rope! I let it drop and helplessly, I looked at the wolf and waited for his reprisal. Many little curs had gathered there by then. They stood around him, in a hope the very thought of which was horrifying, wagging their thin rodent-like tails and cheering him for some heroic action.

He leaned back on his rear limbs to get a thrust and leapt with a fiendish force at me. I fell hard on the floor, with him on the top of my body. I struggled with all my collected strength to release myself but all my efforts went in vain, as my limbs were pressed hard on earth under his weight. He mirthfully allowed me to try as much as I could. He wanted the suffocating feeling of helplessness settle deep inside my mind. And he visibly enjoyed his victory. Defeated and exhausted, I gave up my futile battle. As if he had been waiting for this moment, he savagely pinned me down at the ground and flashed a trivializing smirk. Then his canine jaws opened wide and his tongue slithered out like a hideous snake. As I felt dizzied by the abominable stench of his hairy, slimy body, his saliva rained on my mouth and smeared my whole face. Tormented by the odious warmth of his breath and his flesh, which throbbed with wrathful lust and rubbed against me, I fainted after a while. In the background, the cheering and jeering continued endlessly.

When I woke up I found myself alone with an unbearable reek of my own body. I knew no soap, no sea could wash away those stains from my memory; no amount of tears could purge that shame from my eyes. As I lied flat on my back, I saw a thousand pieces of a broken mirror fastened to the purple-blue sky; and I saw myself being violated by a thousand pairs of eyes; my own scornful eyes!

And while my whole being revolted against the nightmare that happened, I felt my groin writhing with a loathsome longing.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Infidelity

He had vainly thought that he would never be able to forget her. But he did, sooner than he had expected. The fire of the time charred the statue, which he once admired and worshiped, to cinders and fanned away the dust in air. It happened quietly, without any ceremony, as if nothing significant happened.

Was his turn near too? Will he get the same mute death?  Will be forgotten by her, by all? Won't he be spared? No; sooner or later he will be dead forever, like footprints on seashore, forgotten, as if he never existed! He was revolted by this thought. Death is terrible because no matter how common it is, it is still unbelievable. He decided to resurrect her again. He closed his eyes and tried to draw her from the dark recesses of memories. He put both his palms on his ears and pressed hard not to get distracted by the noise of silence. He wanted to her her but her voice was lost. He kept on trying there till he grew tired of it. How long could one keep his hands pressed against his ears? Soon he gave up.

Life seldom gives a luxury to sit idle and revel in nostalgia. Having to dig deep in time to see her made it hard for him to do it often. Time had stolen the intense smell of the mustard long back, but till recently he was haunted by the echo of those promises that he had made in those melting moments. Now even her love-making whispers were sinking in silence. All that remained was a faint memory of the tortured nights that brought them together. Time was healing him, and infidelity looked to be inevitable.


Musical Mood - Kabhi tanhaaiyon mein (Hamaari yaad aayegi) - Mubarak Begum

Saturday, August 26, 2006

Of prose and poetry

"If I had a message to convey, why would I make a movie? I would have gone to post-office."

- Naseeruddin Shah to a journalist who asked what message he was trying to send in his new film Yun Hota To Kya Hota.

This, I think, was a very suitable reply to such a stupid question. I wonder how can a journalist dare to face an actor like Naseer with such a glaringly pathetic (mis)understanding of movies and art! And I pity people like Naseer who have to put up with such jackasses.

People with towering IQs are likely to conclude, logically and naively, that movies don't carry any messages. Isn't what Naseer is saying?

No. I believe Naseer is not saying that. What he precisely wants to say is that if he had any message to say in words, he would have said that in words. He would have written it and published it somewhere. He would not have done anything else in that case.
But he chose to make a movie because the matter he wanted to send across could be achieved in the best possible manner by the medium of cinema only. He wanted to give a cinematic experience to people and that can be accomplished by no other means but movies.

Artists know the fundamental fact that there must be a consistency between the content and the form in a work of art. Also, it is the content(what is to be said) that chooses the form(how it is said) for its best representation and not the other way round. (courtesy Akshaya)
They master a form or two of their preference but they don't have confusion about its inherent limitations. Ustad Bismillah Khan, being a maestro, must have been aware that there are moods that can not be created by the use of Shehnai.
They don't play the nonsense and snobbish 'let's write a Haiku' games. And if they do, they don't take themselves very seriously.
I think they know very well what to write in prose and what in poetry, when to make a play and when a movie. Of course there are people in world who say 'let's make a movie' and make it. But we are talking about artists here and not businessmen. And I also admit, though not unreservedly, that an artist can have a business perspective too. But that becomes another case.

Let's come back to the question. On what basis do you think Tagore decided whether he should write a novel or a poem, or he should make a painting, or he should compose a piece of music to give expression to his feelings and thoughts? Did he decide that arbitrarily? Quite unlikely a case as per my understanding. It would be like deciding a name for the kid before his/her gender is known. Tagore wrote Geetanjali to express a thought that was essentially poetic in nature. He couldn't choose any other form because only poetry can carry the beauty, with all its subtlety and fragility, without staining it, without robbing of its dignity. He didn't write Gora, for example, in verse. Similarly, Kant couldn't write Critique for Pure Reason in verse and Descartes couldn't expound his Cartesian Coordinate System through the ethereal media of poetry. Art doesn't tolerate reason. It's hands are too feathery to lift the weight of heavy thoughts. A treatise of philosophy can only be written in a well-structured prose. To make sense, the manner must mind the matter. You can't do anything in any way you fancy without being frivolous about it. And this goes even beyond the realm of art. Can you swear someone musically without looking ridiculous?

There might be some areas of intersection between forms and contents. I don't deny that. It does happen that sometimes listening to music endenders an array of pictures in our mind. And sometimes a painting seems to contain a story in it. Arguably, there exists a hierarchy of forms as well. But I don't intend to go into the technicalities here. Nor I want to feel pedantic or puritanical. I am not feeling stimulated enough to commit glaring claims without even having a conviction in them. But the fundamental remains the same.

Those who understood what I said above would surely understand this - If I like Lata Mangeshkar and feel that she is the best, and if someone challenges my opinion or taste, then I would never argue a single word in order to prove that she is the best . I will just keep on listening to her.

Also, I refuse to accept that somebody was a great musician because his music was so powerful that it mobilized the masses against war and consequently, at the face of such massive a protest, the government of USA had to withdraw its troops from Vietnam.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

song of life

Life is made up of little experiences. Sometimes insignificant things teach us memorable lessons and give us important insights. Small events sometimes create big waves in our mind. We hardly ever stop reading and learning, even when we are at leisure, even when we are traveling. We keep on reading places and people. But sometimes it also happens that we read everything entirely wrong.

There are thousands of people who travel by Mumbai local everyday for their bread and butter. Or for mere bread only. This post is about one of hapless them.

This man was not particularly remarkable. He was just ordinary, not even very ordinary. I would hardly ever notice people like him. Perhaps no one would. But he climbed on and stood in front of me in the compartment. I didn't even find him worth ignoring. With a cursory glance I scanned his frail figure. Short, thin, dark-complexioned, mid-aged, he looked emaciated and worn-out by ages of drudgery and hardships. He carried a black hand-bag, like thousands of those who earn Rs. 2500 per month carry with them. His collar-bones peeped out from his dirty cream-colored shirt. I guessed he was unbearably feeble. One push and he went flying down the train. I wondered why it was so difficult to respect people like him unless they do something to prove themselves, and keep doing so before we forget. Their physical appearance often evoke a sickening sense of superiority or indifference in you, or contempt in other circumstances. I tried to imagine how dreadful it was to be like him, poor and ugly; like being a miserable bug, a body filled with pulp of insignificance. The whole world would seem unimaginably depressing and indescribably hopeless. Suddenly he turned his head and caught me staring at him. His eyes seemed grotesquely large through the thick glasses he wore. I started looking elsewhere. Perhaps he saw my face that was contorted with revulsion. You can't look in someone's eyes while thinking that about him.

I kept on thinking about this man. I imagined what would happen after he reached his place. Many dismal, dreary pictures floated over my eyes. I saw him walking through smoke and stench, avoiding the sight of goats being skinned and hanged by hooks, and mongrels with hungry dark eyes loitering about, negotiating pigs in the narrow streets and then stepping on the broken ‘S’ of bricks outside his door to save his shoes from getting muddy. I saw his dark, gloomy, stuffy place, the dimly lit bulb overhead, and the continuous buzz of house-flies. A wailing reminder over the cup of tea to get the umbrella repaired before the impending onslaught of Monsoon. I wondered if she loved him. It was a queer thought. I was not sure. Had anyone ever loved him? May be. But he was too poor to be loved, and too ugly to ever charm anyone. It is not easy for anyone to see an ugly man’s love; and not to mention, it is slightly embarrassing too. Love would surely feel awkward to be associated with a guy like him. Imagine a love story with ugly characters. Amusing idea isnt? After all it hardly mattered. A poor man’s love is as good as his hatred. You don’t take any of these things very seriously.

I kept on brooding till I started to feel uneasy; choked by my own thoughts. In a very short time I had taken too deep a plunge in his world and it was high time I came out of it. It was horrible to be there. For the first time I felt a gnawing sense of pity growing inside me for the poor man. What a wretched life he was living! No joy, no grace; I realized that the cross he was carrying on his feeble shoulders was too heavy for him, perhaps heavier than that of many of us. And he was damned to carry the burden of his ridiculous life with utmost seriousness. For a moment my heart went out for him.

Not many people were left in the compartment by the time I looked around again. I started looking at the scene outside, at running trees and houses, at grey sky and brown rails, to distract my mind. I was pained by his thoughts. And all of a sudden I heard his voice. I turned and found him singing, not loudly but his voice was certainly louder than a timid humming. It might sound ridiculous but I admit I was amazed to see that. It took me some time to believe what I saw. He was singing for God’s sake! What the hell was happening! I never see anyone (except beggers of course) singing in train. And of all the people him! Did he have any reason, any right to sing in the setting his life had placed him in? Was he not afraid of those troubles that chased him and those that waited for him at the next corner? Amnesia? Insanity? Why that insolent defiance?

All these thoughts passed my mind in a flash. Oblivious of my state of surprise, he behaved as if he was alone there, as if no one was there to see him, as if he was away from the reach of all those troubles that were instead troubling me. I admit I found myself dumbfounded for a while. All my sullen and twisted thoughts and here was the truth, right before me, singing in cheerful abandonment. Perhaps too plain and simple for my imagination. Perhaps far beyond its range.

There have been moments in my life when I give up my pursuit of analysis and allow myself to revel in my sweet defeat. It feels nice to be wrong sometimes. How pleasant and delightful it was to see him singing, with all his joy and grace! I felt so pleased to see that. What a blissful sense of relief it was! As if someone suddenly acquited me of some unknown guilt, released me from a painful burden. For a forgettable but overwhelming second I felt like believing in God. I know that the ecstasy of dreams can not be shared with others. There is nothing to share as such. Nothing happened actually. Nothing had changed anywhere but suddenly everything seemed so refreshing. It was like reinventing the meaning of life. It was like realizing that the most beautiful and most invaluable things in life are amply scattered around us, to be felt and enjoyed, absolutely for free. And no one is as poor as we imagine. It was not that I didn't know all this before. I surely did. But it is very easy to forget things like that.

I felt a growing sense of gratitude in me for the man who made that tune, to all who make music, to all artists who spread and preserve what is human in us so diligently through years of hard work. I saw the magic of music, its reach, its power, perhaps more clearly than ever. For some time this realization hung heavy in my mind that everyone in this world is equally happy or unhappy. Most of the differences between us are illusory. All of us are tormented by similar Sisyphean troubles and rescued by the divine Veena of Saraswati.
.

Monday, August 07, 2006

a tiny boat in the stormy sea

I am beginning to see our lives as tiny boats tossing and turning in an infinitely stretched ocean in a dark, cloudy, stormy night. The mighty waves push and hurl our boats here and there and all that we are left to do is merely to come to terms with the vagaries of the wind and accept it as the reality of our lives. Why does reality have to throw us apart everytime it lets us meet? And why do we meet if we invariably have to be thrown apart by a sadistic stroke of reality? I helplessly see my boat being taken away. I look at my friend boats with longing eyes and slowly they become smaller and smaller in my eyes. Long before late they'd fade in the mist and vanish in the vastness of the ocean. Again I'd be left alone with the continually shrinking memory of past in the cold, dark, tempestuous future. Again I'll look for other boats in order to steal some moments of warmth in the eternity of icy isolation. And again I'll take out my two cold palms and rub them to get some warmth out of them.

Thursday, July 13, 2006

From the Pavilion End

Do read this one. It's hard not to laugh like crazy after reading this. :)

"Bomber" Wells, a spin bowler and great character, played for Gloucestershire and Nottinghamshire. He used to bat at No.11 since one couldn't bat any lower. Of him, they used to paraphrase Compton's famous words describing an equally inept runner, "When he shouts 'YES' for a run, it is merely the basis for further negotiations!"

Incidentally, Compton was no better. John Warr said, of Compton "He was the only person who would call you for a run and wish you luck at the same time."

Anyway, when Wells played for Gloucs, he had an equally horrendous runner as the No.10. During a county match, horror of horrors.......both got injured. Both opted for runners when it was their turn to bat. Bomber played a ball on the off, called for a run, forgot he had a runner and ran himself. Ditto at the other end. In the melee, someone decided that a second run was on. Now we had *all four* running. Due to the confusion and constant shouts of "YES" "NO", eventually, all of them ran to the same end. At this point in time, the entire ground is rolling on the floor laughing their behinds out. One of the fielders - brave lad - stops laughing for a minute, picks the ball and throws down the wicket at the other end. Umpire Alec Skelding looks very seriously at the four and calmly informs them "One of you buggers is out. I don't know which. You decide and inform the bloody scorers!".

(Incident described in "From the Pavilion End" by Harold "Dickie" Bird)

Monday, July 10, 2006

Escaping from the abhicentric world

Times are changing fast. Frighteningly fast! The whole landscape changed while I was gazing at the moon. Nothing is there anymore where it was. Everything moved. Everyone departed. I wake up from a deep slumber and I find myself here, the very place where I was years ago. Even those for whom I waited moved ahead. Those who once held my hand and walked with me pulled their hands back and went away. Dazed and stunned, I look around. But I see nothing familiar around me. All that is left with me is memory of a dream. It was a dream!

I feel that I am transfixed at the center. Static. Arrested by intertia. Paralysed. Condemned to but see everything in lively motion. Dead.

Saturday, July 08, 2006

That's how I'll portray you

This is my 100th post, a very special one for me. I present here an excerpt from 'Doctor Zhivago' by Boris Pasternak, a novel very close to my heart. Zhivago, the protagonist, who is also a poet, writes this for his beloved, Lara.

"I’ll stay with you a little, my unforgettable delight, for as long as my arms and my hands and my lips remember you. I’ll put my grief for you in a work that will endure and be worthy of you. I’ll write your memory into an image of aching tenderness and sorrow. I’ll stay here till this is done, then I too will go. This is how I’ll portray you. I’ll trace your features on paper as the sea, after a fearful storm has churned it up, traces the form of the greatest, farthest-reaching wave on the sand. Seaweed, shells, cork, pebble, the lightest, the most imponderable things that it could lift from its bed, are cast up in a broken, sinuous line on the sand. This line endlessly stretching into the distance in the frontier of the highest tide. That was how life’s storm cast you up on my shore, O my pride, that is how I’ll portray you."

koi ye kaise bataaye ke wo tanha kyooN hai

koi ye kaise bataaye ke wo tanha kyooN hai
wo jo apna thaa wahi aur kisi ka kyooN hai
yahi duniya hai to phir aisee ye duniya kyooN hai
yahi hota hai to aakhir yahi hota kyooN hai

ik zara haath baDha deN to pakaD le daaman
uske seene meiN sama jaaye hamari dhaDkan
itni kurbat hai to phir faaslaa itna kyooN hai

dil-e-barbaad se nikla nahiN ab tak koi
ik lute ghar pe diya karta hai dastak koi
aas jo TooT gayee phir se bandhaata kyooN hai

tum asarrat ka kahO ya ise gham ka rishta
kehte hain pyaar ka rishta hai janam ka rishta
hai janam ka jo ye rishta to badalta kyooN hai


Movie Name: Arth (1983)
Singer: Jagjit Singh
Music: Jagjit Singh
Lyrics: Kaifi Azmi

One of those songs that require a certain maturity to be appreciated. I go through a plethora of emotions while I listen to this song. Right now, I am feeling amused by the first line - koi ye kaise bataaye ke wo tanha kyooN hai. It's so ironical. With whom can I share my deepest loneliness? I get friends who help me forget my loneliness. But where do I get someone who could understand it?

Begaani shaadi mein Abdullah deewana

Last year I was in Germany thanks to the clumsy management of geometric and I had visited the newly built and very much talked-about stadium in Munich. To seize the moment (exclusively for public exhibition in years to follow) I flashed a smile keeping the phenomenal stadium in background and got myself shot. As Germany plays world cup soccer with considerable probability of winning and India doesn't even aspire seriously, I resolved to apply my emotional energy in the support of Germany as a mark of gratitude, coz they hadn't thrown me out of running train as I had feared.

If it won, I would win too. I would enjoy 'maine to pehle hi kaha tha' status. Else who minds if you support something for emotional reasons? Nobody can match me in all this petty business.

I was eagerly waiting for the world cup to come so that I could paste my Munich snap at orkut. But it is beyond me why others are so much excited about it? People of Kolkata with painted faces shouting slogans on TV and waving flags of Brazil look ludicrous to me. I fail to understand their passion. It looks a bit too much to me. Oh kitsch!

What is the nature of our passion? Are we passionate as sportsmen? Or as gamblers? Or as wanna-bes? Or as moviegoers? Think about it. I am rather sceptic about the first. Anything but that. We are not sportsmen. We don't play and we don't want our kids to play. We are those who believe in 'padhoge-likhoge to banoge nawaab, kheloge-koodoge to banoge kharab'. We play only as far as it helps us with our studies and above all with our CVs. We have become incapable to feel the spirit of sports. We have lost that. We have lost touch with the ground. If we didn't have power shortage, we wouldn't know the smell of sweat. No, I refuse to accept that. What explains this glaring inconsistency between our professed passion and our pathetic performance?

In actuality we are a nation of moviegoers. We want someone to do some heroic stuff to make us feel alive. We want someone to run and jump to titillate our fat bodies full of flatulence. We come out of cinema hall and rush to the railway reservation counter and reach their late coz of traffic hold-up. We spend half of our life standing in queues and we burn half of our blood in cursing the ubiquitous bollywood enthusiasts who think 'jahan hum khade ho, line wahin se shuru hoti hai'. We hardly get time to think beyond admission in schools and colleges. When you see the DU cut-off marks being displayed on TV and hear your parents wailing how they sacrificed whole of their life for your education, you are not left with nerves to kick a football. I find it hard to be optimistic about the future of sports in India under these conditions. I wish I am wrong.

So keep cheering while sitting in your wheel-chair. Who are you cheering for? France or Italy?

Monday, June 19, 2006

Blood of the Demon

Travelling by bus could be a traumatic experience in the age of Himesh Reshamiya. This time I took the government volvo to protect myself from movies like 'No Entry'. Watching this movie (or for that matter most of new Bollywood movies) is no less than a forced penance. You feel like fainting. Anyways, no 'No Entry' this time, thankfully.

But to my utter dismay, they started playing radio. How intolerable silence has become for us! God knows which channel it was, all the songs seemed alien to me. Not just alien but irritating and infinitely dumb with their monotonous beats, soulless rendition and nauseating lyrics. Even the hopelessly artificial enthusiasm of RJs couldn't out-dumb the dumbness of those songs. Well, there was absoluely no music at all. There was just a series of desperate attempts to avoid the horror of silence. Any class 10 year old can make such rubbish music. Melody is dead in bollywood. No wonder this Reshamiya guy is said to have composed some fifteen thousand tunes. I have heard that listening to the symphonies of Mozart improves your ability of recognize patterns. If this is true, then I am sure than listening to this Bollywood non-music is very much capable of making you a retard.

Listen to this -

a-aa-aashiqui mein teri
j-ja-jaayegi jaan meri


Ever heard that? I had not before my last bombay adventure. There are a few more, equally competent to make you feel like vomiting. Now I understand how did I fall sick just after coming back to Pune and couldn't raise myself for 2 days from my bed. Even now my head seems heavy.


Until recently, I used to live in a nuovo-bollywood-immunized environment. And I made sure that it remained like that. Whosoever came for accomodation at our place had to face an interview.

-do you have a TV?
-do you listen to rock?

If the answer to any of these question happened to be 'yes' then he was sent back without any further delay. Little I realized then that these indipop, remixes and punjabi crap are even more mediocre. It's strange that I never was consciously aware of that. But now I am, perhaps because one of my roomie is fond of only indipop and remixes and punjabi crap. Often I am made to hear someone howling a random jumble of words with a love that is worse than hatred. They don't even show minimal sincerity to what they say. They say words like 'fanaa' in the same tone as they utter words like 'mast'. Now I have to shut my door to keep those beats out and to write this post peacefully.

I see myriad of Himesh Reshamiya hate communities on Orkut. He surely is God's punishment to man. But he is successful and many more wanna-be music directors are more than happy to follow his way. I remember a story from Hindu mythology about this rakshas (demon; his name was Raktabeej) whose blood, if fell on earth, reproduced a clone of him. Goddess Kali beheaded him in the battle but his fallen blood gave birth to many other demons. He increased in number and it became very hard to defeat him. In order to kill him, Goddess Kali had to keep his blood from falling on the ground so she stored his flowing blood in a bowl and drank it. Only then he could be defeated. The tunes of Reshamiya have a similar effect. Wherever they fall, they make one more Reshamiya.

Monday, June 05, 2006

Reservation: some more thoughts

Philosophers have their say. Politicians have their way.

Read this article on reservation to know my views. I can't afford to be serious beyond a point about this issue. It's not because I am averse to debate but because I have huge problems in not considering the proponents of reservations incorrigibly asinine. At the cost of looking arrogant, I'll ask them to grow tails and live the arborial lives they deserve so much.

I had never expected Indian intelligentsia to be so profound and prudent. My mistake. But now I am proud of them. And I'm sure we have a bright future ahead. Look at the newspapers closely and then you'll find examples that'll convince you of their compelling talent.

Talent. Merit. Let's see what they have to say about it.

Merit can not be defined objectively. It has no value in isolation. It depends on many things, like time, context and circumstance. In Mahabharata age, having skills in archery was considered to be a symbol of merit. Draupadi was won by Arjun who hit the fish's eye by his arrow. But I'm not sure if modern day Draupadi would consider him even for 'a good friend'.

Like success, power, insanity etc, merit is also a social concept; a social construct. It has no meaning in isolation, for a man who is alone in world. It can not be defined in a one-man world. Society considered piercing fish's eye good then. Now it says cracking CAT is a token of talent. Tommorow something else will be considered as a mark of merit.

So Tendulkar should be thankful that there exists a game called Cricket. Else he would still be living in his old dwelling and would be driving a scooter instead of a Ferrari.

Oh my God! Keeping my erstwhile perception of the standard of Indian intelligentsia in mind, this idea seems to me simply SKYQUAKING! I am dizzyingly impressed!

Now they'll do what Bollywood directors do with the second half, the original part, of the movie they (re)make.

They say that as merit is a social construct, all the doctors and engineers therefore have to be grateful to the state for considering them talented. They are not talented per se, they are just considered talented, for some arbitrary reasons for which History must be implicated and hanged to death.

Enough is enough. Time to change. REVOLUTION! We cease to consider them talented from this very moment. As they are not talented, they have no right to be where they are. Vacate your places, you upper-caste bastards. When things are so mindbogglingly arbitrary, why not give turn to the other side - who are not talented as such but at the same time are talented too coz talent is a social construct. What will you do when all of us say that they are talented? When exams can not exactly measure what is valuable and worthwhile in a man then why not reward the failures and punish the exam itself! No it really makes sense. Who says that JEE selects right candidates for engineering? All of them fly away. So what's the harm in selecting those who score low, after all what do we lose? NOTHING!

What did you say? Reservation has not done what it was supposed to do in these decades? So what?

Preventive vaccination instead of humiliating crutches? Well, crutches cost less. And how many cripples bother to come all the way from their slums and villages to claim their crutches? Let us save some money for other things sir (smile).

I can not disagree that reservation is another form of injustice coz again it is not based on economic status but caste. But what of that? Caste comes handy my friend. Yes, I realize that nothing much will be achieved by this. Not a very insightful observation. But something must be done. Think about the coming elections. What do you think will save us from rising prices of petrol? If we keep on thinking about policies, who the hell will think about the elections?

What? How do we make sure that the benifits of this affirmative action reaches to the one who are oppressed and downtrodden and not to those rich guys who just belong to the caste that was oppressed and downtrodden? Well...arrr...that's none of your business. Next question please.

Justice? Now you expect justice from us? Where was your sense of justice then? What? Two wrongs dont make a thing right? See I am determined not to be fooled by words and rhetoric. I know you speak good. That's why I'm resolved not to talk over this. Why should I anyways?

What did you say? Nihilism? I don't understand what it is. I have no clue and I have no time either. I will support reservation in jobs and promotions and courts and olympics and everywhere, even at international level. I am not going to be deterred by logic and even by forwards on internet.

The SC/ST guys do pathetically in class. What? How come? But it is contrary to our social concept thing? Okay, that means the exams are politically motivated. We'll change the very nature of exams. Exams will be conducted properly in institutes. Subversive exams will be cancelled. Time for socialistic exams. All men are equal and no exam can suggest anything against this.

My friend's father belonged to a caste that has been scheduled. Wow! Neighbor's envy, owner's pride! He was selected in civil services. My friend, his son, also belongs to scheduled caste. Still he does! Isnt it cool? He got selected in IIT Delhi. He was our senior but he attended classes with us coz he was in the preparatory classes and then he was failed in a few courses too probably coz of some fascist profs. Recently I heard that he is going to IIMA. He wanted his snap with that red-brick building in background. Thanks to reservation, else his scheduled dream wouldve been very much like a dream and his scheduled heart wouldve been broken.

And why do you forget that these upper-class bastards flee to US for better prospects. Only our scheduled doctors serve the poor people of villages. What? They don't get chance? So you mean to say that they are less talented? You racist? But now we'll teach you a lesson. We'll redefine talent and this socialistic concept of talent will kick your brahmin asses bigtime. Just wait and watch.

And look here. Stop it. I am not interested in social justice as it has never been there except in books. I am interested in power. That was your time, this is ours. I am interested in this perrenial us verses them battle. Rest everything is, you know, shit. We carried your shit then. Now it's your turn. Don't waste my time and your words. You can not say anything that I don't know. Just do it. Do it or leave.

Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Remembering You

an sms...

Monsoon
First showers
Redolence of wet earth

Hot food
Steamy tea

Warm hugs
Insane moments

Lonely days
Restless nights

Memories of unfulfilled desires
Eternal nostalgia
Remembering you

Thursday, May 11, 2006

Woh shaam kuchh ajeeb thi...

[Woh shaam kuchh ajeeb thi, yeh shaam bhi ajeeb hai
Woh kal bhi paas paas thi woh aaj bhi kareeb hai] - 2
Woh shaam kuchh ajeeb thi...

Jhuki huyi nigaahon mein, kaheen mera khayaal tha
Dabii dabii hansee mein ik, haseen saa gulaal tha
Main sochta tha, mera naam gunguna rahi hai woh -2
Na jaane kyon laga mujhe, ke muskura rahi hai woh
Woh shaam kuchh ajeeb thi...

Mera khayaal hai abhi, jhuki hui nigaah mein
Khili huyi hansi bhi hai, dabi hui si chaah mein
Main jaanta hoon, mera naam gunguna rahi hai woh -2
Yahi khayaal hai mujhe, ke saath aa rahi hai woh

Woh shaam kuchh ajeeb thi, yeh shaam bhi ajeeb hai
Woh kal bhi paas paas thi woh aaj bhi kareeb hai
Woh shaam kuchh ajeeb thi...

Movie - Khamoshi
Music - Hemant Kumar
Lyrics - Gulzar
Singer - Kishore Kumar
Element - Kashish
Mood - Melancholic, Nostalgic, Poetic

Main sochta hoon, mera naam gunguna rahi hai woh
Na jaane kyon laga mujhe, ke muskura rahi hai woh

Ineffably beautiful, like love!

Saturday, May 06, 2006

Who is afraid of Arundhati Roy?

This is one woman I have great respect for, ever since I read her articles ('The Algebra of Infinite Justice' and 'War for Peace') on http://www.outlookindia.com/ about the USA invasion on Afganistan in the wake of WTC attack.

I love her for her saying this-
"To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never to forget."

Today I came across her interview on the issue of Sardar sarovar dam and NBA. The full interview can be read here. I will present exerpts that I particularly liked and would like to share with you. Read on.

At the last hearing on the 17th of April, the logical thing for the Supreme Court to do would have been to say “Stop construction of the dam. We know there’s a problem, let’s assess the problem before we go ahead.” Instead it did the opposite and the problem has been magnified. Every metre the dam goes up, an additional 1500 families come under the threat of submergence. This interim order is inconsistent with its own October 2000 and March 2005 Narmada judgments as well as the Narmada Water Dispute Tribunal Award, which state in no uncertain terms that displaced people must be resettled six months before submergence.

Recently, the real stakeholders were indiscreet enough to put their photographs in the huge, full-page advertisements that appeared in all the national dailies supporting the dam – religious leaders, politicians, and big industrialists. Where were the farmers? The people of Kutch and Saurashtra? A group of people in Kutch have filed a petition in the Supreme Court complaining that the Gujarat Government has reduced even that small allocation of water to Kutch and Saurashtra, in contravention of the Narmada Water Disputes Tribunal Award. The tragedy is that if they would only use more local, effective, rainwater harvesting schemes, for less than 10 per cent of the cost of the Sardar Sarovar, every single village in Kutch and Saurashtra could have drinking water. The Sardar Sarovar has never made sense, ecologically or economically.

But in politics there’s nothing as effective as a potential dam which promises paradise– it will soothe your sorrows, it will bring you breakfast in bed. The Sardar Sarovar has been the subject of frenzied political campaigning for every political party in Gujarat. And it’s all propaganda. Look at the recent spectacle we witnessed. Narendra Modi claiming to speak on behalf of poor farmers and the corporate cartel, sitting on a symbolic hunger-strike, a Gandhian satyagraha – and simultaneously issuing threats of violence. Incredibly, he went unchallenged by a single person in the UPA government. That’s how deep the mainstream political consensus is.

...in power distribution, India has amongst the highest transmission and distribution losses in the world. Across the country, avoidable losses add up to more power than is generated by dozens of big dams. So before we go building more big dams and destroying communities, forests, rivers and ecosystems, maybe we could do something about how much electricity and water we waste and misuse. It would make a serious, radical difference. Minimising waste would be revolutionary.

The situation is out of control. Every single development project – whether it’s an IT Park in Bangalore or a steel plant in Kalinganagar or the Pollavaram dam – the first move is to take land from the poor. People are being displaced at gunpoint. Cities like Delhi and Bombay are become cities of bulldozers and police. The spectre of the shooting of adivasis in Kalinganagar in January – some of whose bodies were returned by the police mutilated, with their arms and breasts chopped off – all this hung over the protest at Jantar Mantar. There is a fury building up across the country.

The whole argument against big dams has been submerged by the rising waters of the reservoir and narrowed down to the issue of rehabilitation. But even this vital, though narrow issue of rehabilitation which should be pretty straightforward, contains a universe of its own – of deceit, lies and utter callousness. To pay lip service to rehabilitation is easy – even Narendra Modi does that. The real issue, as the Soz report points out, is that there is a world of difference between what’s on paper and what’s on the ground.

One of the major tricks that is played on the poor and on the public understanding of what’s going on in these 'development' projects is that large numbers of the displaced do not even count as officially ‘Project Affected’. Very few of the tribals whose land was acquired for the steel factory in Kalinganagar counted as ‘Project Affected’. Most were called ‘encroachers’, uprooted and told to buzz off. Those who did qualify were given Rs 35,000 for land that was sold for Rs 3.5 lakh and whose market value was even higher. So you take from the poor, subsidise the rich, and then call it the Free Market.

There’s another problem: when communities are uprooted and given illegal cash compensation, the cash is given only to the men. Many have no idea how to deal with cash, and drink it away or go on spending sprees. Automatically the women are disempowered. Just because it is being made to appear as though it’s all inevitable, as though there’s no solution, should we forget that there ever was a problem? Should we leave the poorest and most vulnerable out of the ‘cost benefit’ analysis – and allow the myth of big dams to go on and on unchallenged?

As for those who are lucky enough to be counted as Project Affected, we know now they are being displaced without rehabilitation in utter violation of the Narmada Water Disputes Tribunal Award and the Supreme Court’s own verdicts, all of which specify that displaced families must be given land for land. The Madhya Pradesh government is trying to force people to accept what it calls SRP – Special Rehabilitation Package – which is cash compensation. That’s illegal. The technique is to show hundreds of families the same plot of uncultivable land, and when they refuse to take it, force cash compensation on them.

...our views paint us out of the small corner – the small, rich, glittering, influential corner. The corner with ‘the voice’. The corner that owns the guns and bombs and money and the media. I’d say our views cast us onto a vast, choppy, dark dangerous ocean where most of the world’s people float precariously. And from having drifted there a while, I’d say the mood is turning ugly.

There is an alternative vision. But it isn’t some grand Stalinist scheme that can be articulated in three sentences – no more than the ‘model’ of this existing world can be described in three sentences. You asked this question about an alternative very sweetly. It is usually asked in a sneering, combative way. Let me explain the way I look at it. The world we live in right now is an enormous accretion of an almost infinite number of decisions that have been made: economic decisions, ecological decisions, social, political, pedagogical, ideological. For each of those decisions that was made, there was an alternative. For every high dam that is being built there is an alternative. Maybe no dam, maybe a less high dam. For every corporate contract that is signed there is an alternative. There is an alternative to the Indo-US nuclear deal,...an alternative to the Armed Forces Special Powers Act. There is an alternative to the draconian Land Acquisition Act.

The fundamental issue is that 'a country is not a corporation,' as Paul Krugman says. It cannot be run like one. All policy cannot be guided by commercial interests and motivated by profit. Citizens are not employees to be hired and fired, governments are not employers. Newspapers and TV Channels are not supposed to be boardroom bulletins. Corporations like Monsanto and Walmart are not supposed to shape India’s policies. But signing over resources like forests and rivers and minerals to giant corporations in the name of ‘efficiency’ and GDP growth, only increases the efficiency of terrible exploitation of the majority and the indecent accumulation of wealth by a minority – leading to the yawning divide between the rich and the poor and the kind of social conflict we’re seeing.

The keystone of the alternative world would be that nothing can justify the violation of the fundamental rights of citizens. That comes first. The growth rate comes second. Otherwise democracy has no meaning. You cannot resort to algebra: You cannot say I’m taking away the livelihood of 200,000 to enhance the livelihood of 2 million. Imagine what would happen if the government were to take the wealth of 200,000 of India’s richest people and redistribute it amongst 2 million of India’s poorest? We would hear a lot about socialist appropriation and the death of democracy. Why should taking from the rich be called appropriation and taking from the poor be called development? This kind of development, as I’ve been saying again and again – is really pushing India to the edge of civil war – spearheaded by the Maoists who now control huge swathes of land in India which they have declared ‘liberated’.

Poverty is being conflated with terrorism. The Indian Government has learned nothing. It has tried the military solution in Kashmir, in Manipur, in Nagaland. It has got nowhere. Now it’s ready to turn its army on its own people, like a maddened tiger eating its own limbs. Though here in the big cities we call ourselves a democracy, in the countryside, all kinds of illiberal ordinances have been passed, thousands have been imprisoned, civil liberties are a distant dream. Villages are being evacuated and turned into police camps. The Chattisgarh government is fueling the situation by arming poor villagers to fight the Maoists. I don’t know why they can’t seem to understand that there can be no military solution to poverty. Or maybe I’m being stupid – maybe they’re trying to eliminate the poor, not poverty.

The real problem, as we’ve seen, is that whether a struggle is violent or not, the government’s reaction is instinctively repressive. The military solution has not worked in Kashmir or Manipur or Nagaland. It will not work in mainland India. It may not be that the masses will rise in disciplined revolutionary fervour. It may be that we will become a society convulsed with violence, political, criminal, and mercenary. But the fact remains that the problem is social injustice, the solution is social justice. Not bullets, not bulldozers, not prisons.

Monday, May 01, 2006

woh phir nahi aate

phool khilte hain, log milte hain magar

patjhad mein jo phool murjha jaate hain,
woh bahaaron ke aane ke khilte nahin;

kuchh log ek roz jo bichhad jaate hain,
woh hazaaron ke aane se milte nahi;

umr bhar chaahe koi pukaara kare unka naam,
woh phir nahi aate,
woh phir nahi aate.


They say that practice makes a man perfect. But I find saying Good Bye no less difficult today than what it was years ago, though I have seen myself doing that too many times, to too many people. Perhaps being alone is the only cure of loneliness. Only the void fills itself permanantly.

Obviously MBA

"Beta, bade hokar kya banoge?"

- system error: question irrelevant

"Beta, MBA kab karoge?"

Try this - Bird:Peacock::Profession:?

Think!

Ok, here is a hint - Peacock is the national bird of India.

MBA! Yeah, right answer.
No matter which route you choose, this is to be your destination. Now what is left to you is to choose the best route. Earlier market used to give you a multiple-choice question(bade hokar kya banoge?), select one career option out of given four. Now there is just one option, but you can take your own time(MBA kab karoge?).

Now the Indian youth can broadly be categoized into two type - MBA and wanna-be MBA.

The difference between these two is the difference between the extent to which they align their dreams to their professional aspirations. Successful managers adjust and keep on adjusting their dreams to real business-like situations. Others don't.

The other important factor is properly designed parenthood and pedagogy. Proactive parents and teachers must take initiative and help their kids/wards getting oriented to real business-like situations right from their primary level. Softwares and video games are available that simulate short-term and long-term market scenario. Small-town parents may even consider outsourcing guardianship to professional parents having sound corporate background to get leverage over others. Also, schools must not admit students before SWOT analysis of parents duly done.

The founder of 'Cradle of Leadership' and internatonally renouned inspirational speaker Dick Dickenson suggests that the teachers need to keep in mind the 4 magic D's - Discover, Develop, Direct, and Discipline. He stresses upon the importance of original thinking and suggests the corporate leaders never to forget his 3 C's and 5 E's while taking crutial decisions. He also emphasizes that the need of a nice CV can not be over-emphasized. He urges parents to attend his 'the CV-oriented lifeTM' sessions. Here is an excerpt from his best-seller '7 steps to outshine Einstein'.

"Remember, every man (and woman) is born with a blank CV. With intelligence and industry he makes it attractive enough to secure a seat in a B-school. The key to success is 'a CV-oriented life'. You must keep your CV in mind while you read or play, and even when you don't. An unorganized life may lead you to a B-grade B-school."

Sunday, April 30, 2006

Outsourcing Responsibility

What if someone gatecrashes your house and demands to sleep with your wife? What if after your resistance he asks to settle the issue by his generous 'just for weekends' offer? What if your neighbors also urge the 'two sides' to negotiate and strike a medium?

What a suffocating thought! Isnt? More than that, I expect a sane man to be appalled by its absurdity. But absurdity is everywhere. It was in Soviet regime and it will be, thanks to Manmohan Singh, in India before we realized it is not impossible.

Manmohan Singh (the helpless man, who is otherwise a genius, is forced to forget his concepts of economics coz the bad people have kidnapped his kids and they want his notes as ransom) has requested the 'socially responsible' corporate sector to 'think over' the issue and suggest an alternative. Suggest or perish! Suggest an alternative cunning enough to afford his party a comfortable next 5 years. Every 5 years, for the next 5 years!

Alas! As if life was not hard enough before this! As if booking a reservation in railways was easy, as if getting a green signal at crossroads was easy, as if anything was easy! As if we haven't had enough of this caste business! Now reservation, in premier institutes, in private companies, in selection, in promotion, in expectation, in reaction against corruption, in every sphere conceivable by any sick swine!

Who all this is for? L R Naik, the only Dalit member of the Mandal Commission, had refused to sign the Mandal recommendations. And read this - Quota for OBCs in higher education?

First of all it is a non-issue, like banning smoking on screen or banning dance bars in Mumbai. Creating an issue of a non-issue is a corruption of thought. Our politicians have convinced us that they are incapable of anything better than caste and vote based politics. Expecting vision and leadership from these jokers is a waste of expectation. They are groping for their roles in modern India after the collapse of system in virtually every field, be it foreign policy, law and order or anything else. Government has completely failed to coordinate infrastructural development with the industrial growth expedited by private sector. Cities look infernally chaotic and villages are apathetically left to their fate. But fortunately, economy is thriving despite them and their unbelievably incompetent ministers and beaurocrats. And they are there to grab the credit.

Secondly, it is NOT negotiable. Just as it was in Socialist Soviet Regime, government is sending homeless people to your house. Why? Because building house takes will and effort, and above all money. And because you are weak. Your consent is incidental to the choice they make. In case you protest, they make it an issue. Now as soon as something is made an issue, you will find people supporting and opposing it despite the merits of the arguments that make a conclusion reasonable. Then you are forced to negotiate and make a compromise that is acceptable to 'both the sides'. And these phonies try to look intellectual and civilized when they say - Baatcheet se hi har samasya ka samadhan ho sakta hai.

Thirdly, are we asking the right questions? Is this right to ask how much quota should be allowed in private sector? Is this not tacitly accepting the corrupt proposition that quota system should be allowed in private sector? Is this not taking the bait? Asking questions is an art. It expresses your assumptions and your values. Does government have any right to do what it is doing? Can government compel us to share our home with other people? Why would anyone build house for?

A person is being penalised not for his sloth but for his enterprise. If a man squanders his money in gambling then he is not made the quarry of governmental policies. On the other hand, if a man saves and invests, employs his resources and applies his skills, he is asked to pay for it. And he is robbed not not only of his eggs, but also of his chicken!

Where is the confusion? Corporate seeks profit and in pursuit of that it indirectly benifits the society. Welfare is not the direct duty of business. It never was. It never can be. Government must remember its rights and obligations. What is the government doing? Why this overlap of duties? How can it outsource its fundamental responsibilities to private sector without conceding its inability to govern?
This reservation is not for dalits, or OBC, or any poor Indian who needs some encouragement to honourably rise in life. It is actually a ploy to reserve power for Congress at center. Dalits are just the means, power is the ends.

God! Save India from her leaders.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Asking right questions

My memory goes back to my IITD days. A horrendous incident had shook Delhi to its roots. At least the newspapers reflected so (duly discounting the inherent 'spice quotient' of the 'story', or 'scoop').

Was rape a news anymore? Delhi, being the crime capital of India, had regularly witnessed such assaults on women. But the news of a medical student (details not required here) being dishonored in broad daylight was too uncomfortable to be ignored. This was not like watching 'Border' on TV. This was rather like a bullet brushing and burning our own skin. The shock was palpable. Fiction was beginning to intrude upon reality. All who were capable of feeling, felt the heat.

We were sharing our collective shame over the scattered pages of newspapers. Suddenly someone said, "But why at the first place she went through that deadly place? Didn't she realize it was dangerous?"

I don't know how would you feel after reading this line. But I felt a searing rage within me. I smothered my outburst with a violent restraint. Perhaps I overreacted, though invisibly. But even now, when I am emotionally calm, I think that that was an outrageous question.

On second thoughts, that question was not a question. It was rather a comment. It was a verdict. The verdict that pronounced the victim, at least partially, culpable for the crime and made her an accomplice. And this verdict was inspired not the least by a sense of justice but by a frustration engendered by impotent sympathy. The impotence that runs in the water of our rivers, that runs in the blood in our veins; the characteristically great Indian 'tolerance' that shows itself only when someone stronger is around. A pop-legend claims that British couldn't tolerate our collective tolerance and so they had to leave India. They were disgracefully out-tolerated by us. How easy it is for us to tolerate other's pain! We are expert in that. History witnesses that we not only tolerated but also celebrated 'Sutti', for years. Otherwise we are no less valiant than anyone. We have proved our valor time and again, in 1984, and recently in Gujarat.

But I realized that I shouldn't hold grudges against the guy as he simply articulated the hidden belief of our society. This is what we have been conditioned to believe. We pass judgments incriminating those who dare to trespass the conventional. We detest any sort of 'misadventures' and resent lack of fear in others. We feel a secret satisfaction when their defying boldness is 'disciplined' by a stray bully.

Some of us are not ridden by complex or cowardice, they are genuinely idiots. They fail to see that just because someone chooses to take a stroll in night, he doesn't deserve to be looted. They fail to see that a walk in night is not an offense in itself, it is at most unwise. And that is so because our judicial system has collapsed and is incapable of providing security and justice to poor and weak.

I believe that asking right question is vital. Right questions lead us to right destination. Wrong questions lead to wrong destination. And a wrong destination is no destination. I was offended by that question because it attempted to place the responsibility on the bruised shoulders of the victim. It was something like this - You are driving in your lane. A madman hits your car and runs away. You are left with your broken car and bleeding body. And now you are to share the guilt with the madman - because you must have done something. Nothing happens for nothing.

What a shameful logic!

Most of us don't believe in the existence of ghosts but some say they have seen them. They have seen the ghost of jungle hovering over our wonderful civilization. Time and again, we are made to realize that, in jungle, wisdom is superior to truth.

Thursday, March 23, 2006

At Hinjewadi Chowk

Today morning, as I was coming to office today, I saw an old man standing at my left side of the road. He wore thick glasses and was held by his arm by a young man. I guess he must be too old to be left alone. He must be too weak to be left without support. I figured that he wanted to cross the road. It was tough though. There was, as usual, a heavy traffic at the Hinjewadi chowk. Everyone seemed to me in a desperate haste. In a fear of being outmaneuvred by someone else I criss-crossed my way through the crowd of cars, buses and uncountable two-wheelers and rode off.

I sped ahead, but the sight of old man, however, continued to disturb me. It must have been difficult for him to stand there waiting for the road to clear up. In this sun! In this dust! And roads dont get cleared up soon enough nowadays. He would have to wait for long. And yes, By the way, I remember that Tata has promised to sell cars in Rs 100 K from next year perhaps. Bringing socialism in consumerism! Wow! Everyone will have a car of his own. Everyone will realize his dream of driving a car on the roads they show in the ads; the roads that are seen *only* in motor ads and nowhere else.

Public transport system? What is that? What an obsolete concept! How pathetically socialistic thought! Hush!! India is shining, especially near the red light. This part of red shine is brought to you by Tata Co. Relax and see the shine.

Phase II is ready. Hinjewadi Chowk is grudgingly ready to let pass few hundred vehicles more. After all this small sacrifice is nothing for the development of Pune. Pune also wants to be prosperous like Bangalore. Bangalore wanted to be like something else. After sometime every town will look like one another. You see one, you see all. I visited Gudgaon. Sometime later I visited Bangalore. I had almost a deja vu there. Same malls, same multiplexes. Similar men, similar women. Anyways, now I hear that phase III and phase IV are going to be developed soon in Hinjewadi. I shudder from the very thought of what will be the scenario on the road then? What will happen to the people who are not in IT industry? How long the old man would have to wait in sun and dust?

I will leave Pune by then. I love Pune as long as it is beautiful. I wouldnt like to live in a screwed up city. I will go somewhere else. May be abroad if get a chance. But I dont think that the old man would do the same. He will stay here. He will continue to live in the screwed-up city. Perhaps he loves Pune more than I do. But no one asks him anything. The destiny of the city is designed by those who seldom visit this place. By those who are here only because they didnt get a call from their heaven.

I hear some bad news. The villagers have decided to oppose this deveopment. Led by anger and frustration, they are said to having resorted to violent protests. They perhaps want the restoration of erstwhile days when crossing the road was less challenging. The government, their government has decided to give them a police treatment. At the top floor, in that air-conditioned room, someone is smiling, or faking a smile.

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Candlemakers' petition - Frédéric Bastiat

The following is an excerpt from the famous satirical "Peitition of the Candlemakers," by Frederic Bastiat, written in the middle of the 19th Century. Bastiat was an economist and a member of the French Parliament (the Chamber of Deputies).

A PETITION From the Manufacturers of Candles,... generally of Everything Connected with Lighting.


To the Honourable Members of the Chamber of Deputies. Gentlemen...

We are suffering from the ruinous competition of a rival who apparently works under conditions so far superior to our own for the production of light that he is flooding the domestic market with it at an incredibly low price; for the moment he appears, our sales cease, all the consumers turn to him, and a branch of French industry whose ramifications are innumerable is all at once reduced to complete stagnation. This rival, which is none other than the sun, is waging war on us so mercilessly we suspect he is being stirred up against us by perfidious Albion (excellent diplomacy nowadays!), particularly because he has for that haughty island a respect that he does not show for us[1].


We ask you to be so good as to pass a law requiring the closing of all windows, dormers, skylights, inside and outside shutters, curtains, casements, bull's-eyes, deadlights, and blinds -- in short, all openings, holes, chinks, and fissures through which the light of the sun is wont to enter houses, to the detriment of the fair industries with which, we are proud to say, we have endowed the country, a country that cannot, without betraying ingratitude, abandon us today to so unequal a combat.



Frederic Bastiat (1801-1850), Sophismes Èconomiques, 1845

[1] A reference to Britain's reputation as a foggy island.

the full petition can be read here.


Tuesday, February 21, 2006

The gravity of perversity

Perversity --> Deliberately (and obstinately) deviating from what is good (courtesy Webster) ; being perversely wicked



We are liable to confuse it with a relatively more known word -perversion.

Perversion --> 1. An aberrant sexual practice that is preferred to normal intercourse
2. The action of perverting something (turning it to a wrong use)
for instance - "it was a perversion of justice" (courtesy Webster)

I recognize that what I am going to say can not be said in prose without making the whole water turbid. Also, it can hardly be defended by arguments or substantiated by ready evidence. The thought is very subtle and its understanding presumes an observant, sensitive and sympathetic mind. Ideally this thought should have been expressed in verse. Only poetry could have carried its butterfly-like fragility with safety and dignity. Only poetry is capable to stir a pond without making the water turbid. But I am not a poet.

I am going to dive in the sea of thought in hope of some gems. Lets see what I come out with. We start with a question.

Have you ever thought of a duel in which the harder you hit, the harder you hurt yourself; the deeper you slash other's breast, the more copious your own heart bleeds?

I am sure all of us have. It can happen when you respect your opponent(whom you wound), when you consider him not exactly separate from yourself, when the distinction between him and yourself is deceptive, unreal and situational; when you can not slay him like 'the other' and sleep peacefully. Our literature is full of such complex conflicts. Remember Mahabharat.

It can happen only when you begin to get a sort of pleasure in pain. This pleasure is black in colour and sinister in nature. It breeds an array of repentant nights. We call it perverse pleasure. It contains the elements of sadomasochism, as a psychologist would perhaps like to say.

But then why would someone indulge in this ghastly business unless he/she is insane? Right, but we see that all of us have insane moments in the age of tired days and restless nights. And so much confusion around us. In those dark, destructive, insane moments we do lash our swords and cut the throats of our own friends. Later we lament over their dead bodies. Oh the futility of sleepless nights and moist pillows!

But we can do better, something less helpless. This post is an attempt to stimulate questions that prompt us to identify a pattern, a pattern of circumstances that are liable to trigger perverse behaviour in a normal person. It is a attempt committed to decode the mechanism and demystify the overpowering power of these insane moments. To defeat your enemy, you must know him.

I have seen this enemy more than once in my life. And I remember some of his prominent features that will help us draw his rough sketch. Whenever you sense his minotory proximity, run away. Or shoot him.

1. Perverse mood - When you secretly *long* for a situation that give you a chance to unleash your unenviable stock of words that sting infernally, you sense that you are in a perverse mood.

Often we actually prepare ourselves for the decisive battle, especially when something irritates us to the limit of our tolerance. Not appals or repels, just irritates. Like a buzz of a gadfly in your ear. Like dripping of water from your bathroom tap. Like bad breath or body odor. You just can not stand it. Nor can you justify the magnitude of your frustration by means of reason. Most of the relationships break not due to differences of opinions on India's foreign policy but due to an incorrigible and irritating habit, for instance, sending those nerve-wrecking forwards that threaten a doom if you don't forward them to your friends! As silly and as unreasonable(for some) as that!

But how you say something is often more important than what you say, especially in personal matters. We must watch our manner. A perverse mood makes us absolutely incapable of keeping any pleasant or even agreeable atmosphere around us. It's sort of mental acidity due to indigestion of some disturbing thoughts. So, when in a perverse mood, the golden rule is - save yourself from conversations and dont let discussions bother you. In short, postpone all the programmes of socialization. Cancel all dates. There are so many things to be done in isolation. When others are in that mode, waiting for an opportunity to trample on your nerves, again do the same. This is time-tested recipe. My experience substitutes for any further rationalization you might ask for.

Also, this mood is contagious in nature. And I have seen that a mistake has its own momentum, and has a snowball effect. It's hard to stop it. Once you are in the game, it's difficult to get out of it. It has a gravity that sucks you within it. Escape is not easy.

2. Shrinkage of egoes - The fission of we into you and I takes place sooner than we come to realize thanks to the perverse discussion. And then their egoes abandon themselves in a wild strife of meaningless recriminations (alternatively ominously invulnerable silence) and knowingly injure each other's precious pride with insensitive cruelty. Followed by vulgar mudwrestling and disgraceful wallowing in the each other's blood. The sad thing is - all this more due to inertia typical of perversity than any resentment!

Result-a wall is created between you and I. Time heals but the wall gets cemented by the pasaage of time. Why? Here come some simple but interesting observations.

a. Guilt: One who feels the pangs of a guilty conscience is more(!) likely to resent the thought of reconciliation. Saying 'sorry' sometime disturbs the political balance inherently and tacitly established in a relationship. Apology is a luxury that can be afforded only by those who are in a position to assume moral superiority. A guilt-ridden person is more prone to blindly recidivate to the easy refuge of biting bitterness and vicious cruelty. It delivers him of the uneasy situation where he has to act what he can not, for long. So he screams 'Let me be!' and flees to the place he belongs to. No one wants to come face to face with his inferiority complex. That requires a big, very big heart.

A sense of guilt rocks the base of one's moral position and clouds the ability to choose the right direction. It's like being left on a strange land without a map. It engenders chaos and panic in a conscientious mind. And then that god damned Murphy's law. Overwhelmed by an unsettling scruple, in order to get rid of the immediate cause of shame and torment, a man does wrong after wrong and each blunder presses him to commit the next. Someone who places an inordinately high value on virginity is very likely to go berserk if somehow stripped of it. Try to understand this point. Puritans think in terms of binary opposites and that's why very hard to handle.

"There are two kinds of men and only two. And that young man is one kind. He is high-minded. He is pure. He's the kind of man the world pretends to look up to, and in fact despises. He is the kind of man who breeds unhappiness, particularly in women. Do you understand?

I think you do. There's another kind. Not high-minded, not pure, but alive. Now, that your tastes at this time should incline towards the juvenile is understandable; but for you to marry that boy would be a disaster. Because there are two kinds of women. There are two kinds of women and you, as we well know, are not the first kind. You, my dear, are a slut
." - Komarovski (Doctor Zhivago)

A cruel man is often a pitiably confused man.

b. Pride: I am beginning to realize that maintaining a relationship is an art. It comes naturally to some. Others learn. You must know when and where to stop. You must not forget the inviolable sanctity of territorial boundaries. It is crutial.

There are times when you and I forgive each other in our hearts but do not say so. Why? Because of their egoes. In order to save their faces. Here I assume that our understanding of the concept of 'face' is sound enough. So unless one has something to save his face, he wouldnt come forward to patch up. Even when he comes to you and apologises, you might not be in a position to forgive and make up. Because though it is possible to live alone with bad memories, it is difficult to live together with them. It is embarassing to let the other fellow know that you can live with something that bad too. The fear of his taking you for granted in future precludes the possibilities of restoration of erstwhile chemistry. This is, I think, why girls tend to conceal their true feelings and hesitate to express themselves, in order not to look easy. It's all about the weight of your character, the perception of your social image and its management. It's about face-saving. And the social contract expects us to allow this bit of hypocrisy. But sometimes we deny every possible face-saving excuse, we consciously block every returning road in the heat of conflict. And most of the times we regret it, since many times the moments are insane not the man.

So we see that the perverse behaviour leads to shrinkage and creation of a wall between two individuals. Besides, it leads to a reversal to nature stereotypical to their surroundings. This process is deliberate, obstinate and essentially in reaction to something. Whatever is common is discarded. The bridges that join are blasted off. This is a way to distance oneself from the other and feel (and sometimes flaunt) a freshness of freedom. This pseudo-freedom is also perverse in nature. What is freedom when you are too much aware of it!

This is a complicated subject and offering a solution here would be too ambitious a task for me. So I would refrain from that. This post is by no means meant to be a conclusive article. Rather it is just a beginning to explore the deeper layers of human psychology and to understand our own behaviour in trying circumstances. The whole idea of this exercise is to identify that there is a bottomless abyss called perversity and there are certain signboards around it. Remember these signs to avoid a fall. Keeping this in mind becomes our point of departure.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Quizzing: How long? How far?


What is the difference between man and encyclopedia?

Ah! what a foolish question! This question *presupposes* certain similarities between the two. I hope you understand this argument. You look for differences only between those things that fall under the same category. I would not explain this further by citing examples lest I might end up hurting your ego. I trust your intellect. Lets go ahead.

We were looking for the similarities between man and encyclopedia. Is there any? Let's see.

Wikipedia defines an encyclopedia as 'a compendium of knowledge'. Well, I would say it is rather a compendium of information. This is because I consider knowledge to be a layer above the basic layer that consists of information. Roughly saying, the dead data constitute but the foundation of our cognitive super-structure.

A man is much more than just a compendium of raw data. Rather, a man is a man *only* when he has not only information and knowledge but also has what is essentially humanly, a proper understanding of the world, which enables him to take judicious decisions keeping in sight various possible implications of varying degree and scope.*

A man is useful for himself and for others not because of the gigabytes of data he stores in his mind. He is somebody only when he can afford something that Google or wikipedia can not. Can Google appreciate similarities between two seemingly dissimilar things and detect the subtle differences between two apparantly identical things? Can Wikipedia recognize an interesting pattern in descrete data? Can a software sort and arrange data? Can a computer program distinguish between relevant and irrelevant data? No. Never. But man must be able to do it. You can not mix up all the chemicals in a flask to make a medicine. Can you? You must be able to sense the quantitative as well as qualitative 'weight' of various data to come up with something sensible and valuable. All this can be done only by man, not by any robot, not by any software or search engine. Only man can do complex causal analysis, develope theories and design models, based on previous experiences and observations, in order to fortify the mankind from the treacheries of time.

How do we do that? For that we need to climb the stairs and reach the top floor where alive wisdom exists.

Education helps an individual to bring forth (to educe means to bring forth; look at the beauty here - the assumption is that the ultimate knowledge exists within us! where do we look to see the truth?) the hidden knowledge from the deep recesses of his own mind.

How different this is from loading data into a hard disc! Quizzing is nothing but a mechanism that effects uploading of information in a passive mind. It is a mechanical and a de-humanizing process. It is an act done on mind and not by mind! Technically speaking, your processor remains idle while your hard disc is acted upon. Hope I am being understood.

And may I tell you the most dangerous thing? Quizzing seems to be, oh my God!, a form of education!! What could be farther from reality! But no wonder, at surface they resemble so remarkably that sometimes most of us fail to see their very opposite nature. We fail to see how the persuit of quizzing impedes the very process of meaningful education, how it retards the very growth of higher faculties in a man, how it poisons the very spirit of enquiry. We fail to see that it prevents us from reaching at the top floor.

It detains us at the ground floor by its meretricious charms, by offering us petty success and trifle glory, till we lose our will and energy that is required to climb the stairs. Those who fall for it keep picking pebbles at earth. And they keep doing it forever because the pebbles are infinite in number and ever keep growing. Even a million life is not sufficient to complete the job!

It took me very long to realize the deceptive and dubious nature of success. I have seen that sometimes, more often than we suspect, a bigger failure is hidden in a success. I have articulated my feelings in 'the power of congratulations' also. Sometimes, it is not the failure but the success that is lamentable! It is better for some prayers to go unanswered. It is better for some proposals to be rejected. It hurts for a day or an year but it saves from life-long misery.

Well, I do understand the advantages of quizzing. But the law of diminishing returns can hardly be more suitably applicable to anything else. In school, I believe, the importance of data-collection can hardly be overemphasized. In fact, in schools, the very nature of pedagogy supports, and quite understandably, the introduction of a student to the 'general knowledge' of the world around him, which builds the foundation of his thought structure. And quizes provides a platform to the students to test themselves against one-another and pursue their activity.

But the cardinal question is : What do you do with the data?

But after a particular time, it is desirable for him to start climbing up as it is a necessary condition of attaining adulthood. It requires judgement to decide when to stop collecting pebbles in the bag and rush upwards. It is crutial because the heavier the bag, the harder it becomes to climb up. The ground floor has its own gravity.

After this particular time, I dont respect the blind collection of pebbles. For me, it is just a childish infatuation. And taking a pride in this is nothing but hopeless insanity. And guess what sponsers this insanity? Quiz. What else!

Quizzing, after a certain level, becomes a monster, a Frankestein. It turns into a vampire that sucks the blood of its victims to acquire its strength. The poor victim is seen to be cramming his mind with all types of crap - useless nouns and numbers without any sense of purpose - and sometimes stuffs his mind with something as ridiculous as logos of goddamn companies (pray tell me how does that matter anyway?) and the cast of unknown teleserials that had been telecasted somewhere sometime! And they invade your mind with their infantry of information. Hello boss! I will not let even one cell of my brain be wasted by keeping this shit in it. So spare me! And even you must be sane enough to decide what must be outrightly rejected without even giving a second thought.

I am sure my wise reader will find many such instances. Quizzing after intermediate is like a dangerous disease for people with decent academic background (in accordance to the law of diminishing returns). It becomes a pathological passion, an unhealthy obsession that leads to *indiscriminate* acquisition of data, just for the heck of it! After having known the knowables already, but further pressed by its competetive nature, a quiz-bitten man tries to collect more and more information about more and more. What good does that serve? I fail to understand that. It just delays the process of bringing forth the real character of an individual.

Quizzing becomes like an opium that keeps them away from the real issues of life. The footage and glamor given by media makes it even more irresistible. But it must be resisted. It must be shown its place.

A man must resist to be a quizzer who is nothing but a wanna-be encyclopedia an thus an ordained loser; a bonsai; a semi-human with no independent views and opinion, with no taste and understanding, with no education.

I repeat - Data are like raw material. Raw material is used to make something useful. It can not be treated as an end product. It has no value in itself. Only the necessary(that might be used in the formation of an idea) data should be kept in mind. Rest everything should be immediately jettisoned to keep the ship from sinking, to keep us able to climb up to the top floor.

*Given the nature and scope of Quizes, I will keep my arguments, to study the ill-effects of Quizzing, well within the intellectual domain only.

Monday, February 06, 2006

Remove judge to save justice

06.02.06 Peshawar

Sachin Tendulkar 100*
India 305/4 in 45 overs

The legend has carved yet another history at the timeless walls of time. A milestone has been achieved yet again, 39th time for record's sake. Those who understand the language of numbers have been assured of a well-established truth - the God is NOT dead. The heretics who blasphemously talked about 'the beginning of an end' are once again convinced of their all-rounded ignorance without a word spoken. Leaving the non-believers wallow in the embarrassment of their ignominy, the God gracefully stretches his formidable frame before his awe-struck devotees whose eyes, glued on TV sets, are virtually on a pilgrimage. Oh how would words describe the gigantic tides leaping in the bubbling sea of people surrounding the scene! The incessant noise of screeching trumpets and the relentless cheer of clamoring crowd! The flags and faces painted with the colours of cricket. The drumming hearts, the gawking eyes, the heavy sighs and the unfaithful breaths. The air laden with passion and apprehension. Life in one part of the world has come to a standstill. Art has once again defied time.

The world prepares itself for his post-century innings, though quite differently across the Redcliff line. He stoops to reverse-sweep a tentative delivery from a frustrated hand. The tired ball keeps low, hits the gloves and dies after touching the pad. An appeal, surely better than the bowling, accompanied with a blind cry from the world around. The umpire raises his finger indicating an anti-climactic end of a great and potentially greater inning. The cricket droops its head in utter disappointment. The umpire defeats the spirit of game once again. Sachin, with a grace only he can afford to have, returns to the pavilion.

Later on, the commentary and the repeated replays revealed that he was declared out when he was not. The ball was a no ball. But the decision was irrevocable.

Result: India 328/10 in 49.2 overs and finally loses the match by 7 runs.

What is the meaning of this result? If you conduct the game with arbitrary decisions then how does the result count anyway?

- Come on pal, take it easy. After all it's just a game.
- May be for you. But for many it's not just a game. And you know very-well that you are talking nonsense.
- Ok. What do you want then?
- It hardly matters what I want. What matters is the choice between the genuineness of cricket and the powers of umpire. They can't coexist in the age when sophisticated technology soon shows the replay and exposes the ineptitude of umpire. A human, no matter how much skillful he is, is liable to misjudge and it is therefore absolutely unnecessary to encumber the umpire with this huge and controversial responsibility of ruling a batsman out in the age of ultra-accurate camera.

It's not a once-in-a-lifetime incident. If happens frequently and it used to happen frequently too, but then it was not detected. Now it is detected and condemned. Now when we are in a position to bring about more transparency and more justice to the nature of the game then not doing it seems to me nothing but an absurd nostalgia to an erroneous past and an infatuation of a useless convention. And it seems quite incomprehensible to me how can cricket tolerates someone in the arena who is an obstruction in the enforcement of the rules that define and shape the game. How can law itself entertain the existence of a judge who is a living wall across the road to justice!

The course, if not result, of this match would have been different had the umpire counseled his sense rather than eyes and consulted the third umpire, the only umpire who should have the right to pronounce the 'life' sentence.

Saturday, February 04, 2006

Rang De Basanti. A generation awakens?















Director's Note: There are two primary choices in life - to accept conditions as they exist or accept responsibility for changing them. Rang De Basanti is about changing them.

To do or not to do, that's the question.

Let's look at the pleasant colours of the movie.

Story. Rang De Basanti has a story to tell. That alone makes it a considerably superior to the the other contemporary formula movies running in the theatres. This movie draws an interesting parallel between pre-independence India and the India we live in. It also seems to suggest a flattering possibility of the presence of a dormant super-hero in each one of us. O wow! Feels Good!

Performance. A good performance is the least what you expect from Aamir Khan. And he doesn't disappoint you at all. The rest of the cast is also nice. Surprisingly, Rang De Basanti is not an Aamir Khan movie per se. He shares the screen time almost equally with other actors who have done well too. Atul Kulkarni distinguishes himself by his passionate expressions and powerful dialogues delivery. Siddharta looks convincing in his role and Sharman Joshi tickles the audience with his Haryana-accented humor. Soha Ali Khan does better than what I had expected from her. I wish Madhavan had a longer role in the movie. He is always good to watch. And this girl, Sue, is good too. But great actors like Om Puri and Waheeda Rehmaan have been under-utilized and wasted. There is not much for them to do in this movie.

Songs. I get repelled by beats very easily. Rock has always been a noise to my ears. My taste of music is, I admit, anachronistic. But for a change Rehman makes it quite a 'youthful' experience this time. The songs celebrate the spirit of the movie and colours your mood. The title song sung by Daler Mehndi is just too good. The lyrics as well as the timing of Roo-ba-roo in the movie is very nice. Overall a good musical score.
*Akshaya has written a fascinating review of the movie, especially of the music. Read it here.

Theme. It's a nice attempt. Movies, believe it or not, influence our psyche more than anything else. Especially in India where people derive their values (!) from movies, however absurd it might seem to you, any attempt to show something meaningful is welcome. As I am not very unforgiving with the idea of moralizing and preaching, which is the latent fallout of movies based on a socio-political theme, I enjoyed in particular the dialogues and discussions in the movie.

Now I'll talk about what was not so good in the movie.

The treatment of script does justice neither with the spirit of the script nor with the choice of the script. Result: Rang De Basanti paints your mood with eye-dazzling fluorescent colours, which goes down the drain in the first shower you take.

Characters: To start with the characters don't look genuine at all. They look made-up and they behave as if they are acting, as if a camera is watching them, as if they are living for someone's entertainment! They remind me of a 10th class boy, who in order to make himself interesting to the girl he loves, makes a big fool of himself. They try too hard to impress the audience. They look good but they look fake; distastefully, artlessly and hopelessly fake. The Director uses them as puppets. They have a life but they don't have a life of their own. In second half they lose their whatever scanty identity they have had in first half. They are used as mere mouthpieces. They say what they are asked to say; they say things that are incoherent with the portrayal of their character. Very hastily and equally clumsily they are pushed into playing the roles that were ludicrous to their taste. And hence their effect doesnt last long. It dies with the day.

Transformation: Ostensibly the transformation of these fun-loving cool dudes into the worthy successors of our freedom fighters was the soul of the movie. Who says it is impossible? No, it is surely possible.

-to kya karein?
-maar daalo.
-kya???
-haan.maar daalo use.

The bereaved buddy *asks* them to kill the defence minister and lo! kaam ho gaya, madam.

Again, possible! Oh yes it is. But sorry, I am not convinced.

Nonsense is a group activity and most of the group activities are essentially nonsensical in nature. Hardly anything meaningful or productive ever takes place in a group. Even individuals capable of better things talk nothing of any intellectual or even emotional import in groups. Of course I do understand that there are exceptions when people of similar interests come together and make groups to learn and grow together. Even then, I have observed, the mediocrity prevails and ultimately the main purpose gets defeated by petty political conflicts. Or romantic affairs.

Whenever one feels an inner compulsion of doing something he believes in, he goes alone. Each one of us fights his/her own battle. Each one of us chooses his/her own battlefield. This is the greatest burden and the greatest privilege as well. At any rate, one can not do anything of any worth in a group where a high 'hypocricy-quotient' is of utmost necessity, for mere admission in the group. Havent you noticed how the same individual behaves in one-to-one interactions and how utterly differently he behaves in groups? Havent you noticed how you yourself behave in a group?

This is what makes Dil Chahta Hai superior to Rang De Basanti. The latter looks pedestrian in front of the former. The latter is fake and the former was genuine. The transformation, nay metamorphosis, of the whole cool gang at the same time by the same incident in the same way? May be possible. Sue finds all the actors for her dream project in the same gang! Possible. All of them turn out to be having hidden DNAs of great heroes! Possible. The same question assail their minds and they are rescued by the same answer. Possible. So many possibilities in a row? Possible. Okay. But this possibility is not any more possible than the possibility of my liking it. In Dil Chahta Hai, the friends laugh together and dance together but when their destinies call them, they go alone. This is how life is. Nature has its own aesthetic taste.

Stereotypes and Simulacrum: And a particular observation has started getting on my nerves. I wonder why all punjabis have to be alike in nature? Why each one of them has to burst out in a flurry of Bhangra at slightest provocation? Why should one talk more than that is needed and more loudly than that can be tolerated? Why can't one even pretend to be thoughtful, even to look different, even to attract a female, even for God's sake? Why this burden of 24*7 enthusiasm? I am tired of these stereotypical pan-chewing biharis and chak-de-fatte punjabis. The filmmakers portray punjabis as arrant fools capable of nothing better than nonsense dance, as if they have to dance in order to forget the perpetual itch in their arse. God! A man has to die to make them leave the dance floor! And how credulously we have accepted it all though we very-well know that it's far from the world we live in. It seems that these film-makers don't at all respect for our intelligence and our capacity to appreciate the subtleties and various nuances in a character. It's ludicrous that a villain must look like a villain. So much sterotypes and so much kitsch. But kitsch has a power to overshadow the reality. It has done it again. This movie is a triumph of kitsch over everything genuine.

I wonder what would a foreigner, who knows punjabis (or biharis, for that matter) only through popular hindi cinema, say if he/she meets a punjabi who happens to be in pensive mood.

- you said you were punjabi?
- yes.
- but how come you are not dancing?
- ?

I'm sure he/she would take our pensive punjabi as exceptional or abnormal or lesser punjabi. And if our poor chap happens to be not very rich then o my God! What kind of punjabi are you? This is what happens when perception differs widely from reality and separated by a deep ditch of confusion.

Baudrillard's simulacrum and hyper-reality suddenly seemed to have more meaning than I had previously understood. As DJ looks more punjabi than our pensive punjabi. Similarly the gang looks more young than youth itself. I wondered how? And I wondered how ridiculous these guys would look if not backed by this noisy background music? All the effect, all the noisy gaiety and vacuous machoism would vanish in a flash leaving them look like a bunch of jokers with painted-nose in a third-rate fancy-dress show. Their youth was supported by nothing but noise and would die with it. So dance, or die.

This movie pretends as if we have been oblivious of the corruption in our political system. It wants a credit for letting us see the similarity between our former and present rulers. And it claims that a generation awakens. Awakens? To what?

Let me digress a little. We are living in changing times. After independence, this is the time of biggest upheavals. And unlike 1947, this change has affected even the lower middle-class also. Then I don't think things concerning our everyday life changed so drastically. Our constitution remained the same and police continued to be a repressive force in the hands of those few who were in power. The administration continued to second-fiddle the politicians and the judiciary rather deteriorated after independence. Hardly anything changed. Yes, the elite class surely claimed their right to rule and they distributed power and wealth among themselves. Nothing much changed for we, the people.

But this change has much deeper penetration. This post-globalization economic and cultural change has swept the entire nation under its great wings. The big ship has landed into the river and all the boats are rocking by the giant waves thus created. Some are being tossed about and some have been capsized. Either you climb at the big ship or you drown. Everyone is groping for the rope. But it is not easy as your neighbour also wants it. And he can knock you down to get it. So better you knock him down before he does to you.

Our values are left in the boats we had deserted. We dont know what is right and what is wrong? We are culturally confused people. We have lost our memory. Who are we? What do we do? Where do we go? I think these are the questions to be answered. Urgently. The problem in our generation is this ever-widening economic disparity and this sudden realization of poverty (accentuated by the stark difference in lifestyle) in those who have been left behind in their boats rocking precariously in the turbulent river. I wont waste my words and your time anymore on it and will come back to Rang De Basanti.

I disagree to those who blame this movie to have endorsed violent means of political reformation. They must have forgotten the Q&A scene where Karan apologises for what he had done. Rang De Basanti has not recommended violence and it should not be criticized for doing what it has not done. Infact it doesnt offers any solution. It just asks us to do something about the problems around us instead of doing nothing. And I admire the movie for it. The movie has already suffered the nonsense of a dumb animal-lover who finds torture on animals only in movies and nowhere else. How helpless emotion looks in the embrace of sentimentality, especially when it is fake!

In the last, on a lighter note, I have known two types of movie, good movies and bad movies. Then I saw Rang De Basanti.

Go and watch this movie. With all its weaknesses it's worth a watch.