mirror mirror on the wall

Read this. They are all praise for some South Indian movie - "Kannathil Muthamittal". South Indian eh!

Rob Chester says, "Shame on India for not sending this movie as their official Oscar entry. I have seen this movie and it has clearly revealed to me the maturity Tamil cinema has in its screenplay and narrative which bollywood better catch up with. By the way to all we westerners, Tamil Cinema is more qualitative and very different from Bollywood which is all about good looks, glamour and promotion."

Looks, glamour and promotion! That's all isn't? Mr Rob, do you have any idea how deeply John Abraham is rooted to his middle-class background? If you don't, please shut up. You know nothing about Bollywood. Go see his girl-friend and you'll know that - how deeply he is rooted to his middle-class background. Now leave us alone. We have enough problems to deal with.

For all of us Bollywood lovers, watching Bachchan Jr. and family at Cannes was a tragi-c**** experience. We were so sorry to see the newly-wed star couple being ignored by the very people they so eagerly wanted to talk to, and pose with.

Ignored! How rude of you! When you come to us, we pose with you. But when we came to you, you ignored us! How unfair! Were you being funny? Let me tell you that it was not funny. Didn't you know how much effort and headache had gone into all that - selection of costume designers, press release etc etc. Didn't you know how excited he was - Beta B? He was playing more pranks than he ever did, so happy he was all the time. "Marriage is a sacred institution" he said to us, and the twinkle in his eyes whispered, "especially when it gives you a passport to Riviera." Oh who could have expected such an anti-climax! If only Papa B would be there! But he couldn't go as the organisers wouldn't permit Amar Uncle for some crazy reason.

But what the hell was our media doing then? Why did they leave Beta B alone in an alien land, amid hostile people? How could media allow Beta and Bahu B to be snubbed by all those inward-looking racists? Why didnt they rush and tell others how adorable a son Beta B is, who always makes shooting such a cool fun! The whole unit feel like a family, more than usual, when he is around! Especially in movies like Umraojaan and Guru. Never heard of them!! Jhoom Barabar Jhoom? No? His old classics? No! Never mind. It doesnt matter. We bollywood lovers don't care for your opinion. Why should we?

At last, after the damage was done, media approached Papa B to know his reaction. But he avoided the question with his characteristic humility and said, "I feel fortunate to work with actors like Himesh Reshamiya and Mallika Sheravat." After we pressed him to corner, he only said that he was just an ordinary farmer and what could he say about these matters.

sunrise game

Yesterday's game was fabulous. We played with another team, which was better than us in all aspects thinkable. They were seasoned players, and their superb coordination made them simply too much for us to handle. All tired and sweaty, I was filled with admiration for my rivals who were still kicking. They were all in their 40s, except for one who was of about my age. She was not exactly bending like Beckham but she managed to keep me turned-on for the whole day.

True spirit, in all its forms, is sexy!

Or was it something else? Whatever, I can't wait for the next game.

Amar, Akbar, Anthony

Amar: The idea of Development at first sprouted in his mind by the ubiquitous pictures of the developed world - the West. In movies, in news, even in books he saw those mighty skyscrapers, soaring proudly in the sky as if challenging every possible limitation. He was told, in different languages, "Look, this is how development looks like."

Amazed and awed by the magnificence of those buildings, and by the tales of prosperity, he felt in his heart the need to rise, to run, and to become like them. The march of man towards a world free of misery thrilled him. He forgot to look carefully at them who walked in the corridors of those buildings. Early in his childhood, he was exposed to the vision of a Modern India. Years passed by and he grew up into an adult, self-absorbed and confident, and those pictures of development always lingered before his eyes. He still feels that New Delhi is nothing but a poor parody of New York. He has miles to go.

Akbar: Meanwhile, the great-grandfathers gave up their old devotion for Arabic and Persian and made sure that the little ones do well in English and Mathematics. Some of them, including Akbar, were captivated by the charm of oil-lamps. He slammed the windows to keep out the winds (from West). With a pride akin to a loyal subject who gives shelter to a dethroned king, he kept on fighting for the lost cause. Hde idn't allow kids to keep dogs in house and made them watch the Mushayara channel. To others, his tenacity was futile and pitiable, like that of an animal which was being dragged to the slaughterhouse.

Anthony: Standing in front of the memorial, he sighed. They made it to last, those Portugese, he wondered. And now, all he can see is*...

*this post is incomplete.

Vote for Taj!

Yesterday I recieved a forward mail with an appeal to my patriotism - Vote for Taj!

The mail was deleted without any loss of time, but the topic stayed for some time for its irritation-value. The only thought that came to my mind was in form of a picture, a picture of a man taking his wife with him and asking every passer-by, "Isnt my wife beautiful?"

Tajmahal can stand on its own foundation, it doesn't need any support. And Beauty is not a mandate, it doesn't need unanimity. It is not a commodity that needs marketing and market survey. But my fellow Indians have embraced the culture of shopkeepers rather well. Today we see them canvassing for their motherland, tomorrow they may be seen on streets standing with their mothers, "Please taste this. My mom is one of the world's top 7 cooks."

In evening, they will go home and order pizza.

Note: I wonder if someone blunt asks them how many dishes have they really tasted before telling others that it is their mom who cooks the best. Others too love their mothers, don't they?

Artistic Freedom and all that jazz

Caligula: Do you really believe in the gods, Scipio?
Scipio: No.
Caligula: Then I fail to follow. If you don’t believe, why be so keen to scent out blasphemy?
Scipio: One may deny something without feeling called on to besmirch it, or to deprive others to the right of believing in it.

****************************

So much has happened in last few days! I can only imagine how terribly dizzy you must be feeling, dear artist. Everyone is talking about you, and your work – people you know, and people you don’t know.

Your unfortunate detention has caught the attention of the national loudspeakers. Learned men and women have strongly condemned ‘yet another attack on artistic freedom’, administered by the right wing forces ruling in Gujarat. The editorials of prestigious dailies and the discussion forums of TV channels are burning with protests against this ‘flagrant violation of the fundamental right of expression’.

About half of the space of The Hindu's 'Letters to Editor' is seen to be used by its progressive readers to voice their outrage against ‘the return of the Stake’. You’ll surely be delighted to see the awareness of our people and their zeal for modern ideas and values like "Freedom" and "Democracy".

It should be noted though, that the same liberal people hardly felt what they often feel on such occasion – outrage, when works of writers like Salman Rushdie or Tasleema Nasreen were banned in a secular nation. Secular! The same people shed copious tears when the pious 'secular' sentiments were wounded by the mischief of a Danish cartoonist, and even went to the extent of making nation-wide demonstrations against the conviction of a cold-blooded dictator, in a democratic republic! That’s our 'right-handed' left* for you with all their kitsch of modernity!

My convictions are, however, irritated by some other doubts. And I think you are the best person who can help me to find the answers to the questions that disturb my thoughts, as far as your case is concerned. I'll spare you all the rhetorics and all the etiquettes that make disagreements look more awkward than they really are, and talk straight to the point. I have made some effort to acquire an understanding of Social Contract - the framework in which the modern political ideas had been developed (by 18th century French philosophers like Rousseau and Voltaire and many others since then). At the risk of sounding pedantic, I would assert that these ideas, outside this framework, not only make little sense but also deceive and corrupt our thoughts.

Please don't panic. Let’s take a simple case - if I refuse to give up my freedom to swing my hand freely around me, regardless of the fact that it happens to slap the gentleman standing nearby, and if my two free eyes choose to gaze in a manner that offends the shame of his lady, I wonder why should they be reminded of my right of being treated with courtesy when they, in turn, like to exercise their freedom of denying me that (Didn’t I step over their right of dignity first? Was it not I who first broke the social contract between us?).

In the framework of social contract, as we know, a Right is always accompanied by a set of responsibilities; and a right is allowed to an individual only if he agrees to forfeit a part of his freedom, which might be (mis)used, to the extent of his/her capacity, to the detriment of society.

This implies that if I behave with a sense of responsibility then it becomes a duty of the civilized society to ensure me my rights. This is perhaps what they mean by social contract – mutual respect and a sense of responsibility on part of both individual as well as society.

Artistic freedom, I think, is no exception, and an artist has every right to express himself, as long as he doesn’t forsake his responsibilities. Now the next question is – What is the responsibility of an artist?

Well, I am afraid I have no idea of that. I think this is for the intellectuals to ponder upon or for you artists to feel in your heart. But I am sure that there must be some sense of responsibility on part of an artist to deserve artistic freedom. I repeat - there is hardly anything to said and proved here. Rather there is only something to be heard in your heart, when you are alone with yourself.

The letter has become more tedious than I intended. So I’ll wrap it up now. My only concern here is that any irresponsible act on the part of artists like you only helps them - the scavengers - the right and right-handed left, run their business. Both, wanna-be artists and activists of various camps get their share of limelight at the cost of people’s sentiments.

Don’t take me otherwise. I am not one of those whose faith is made and broken by others’ conviction in that; and I am not paranoid about cultural invasion either. I don't have to be. You can hardly better Kamasutra and Khajuraho that way. If you think you have to say something good, go ahead, and say it artistically. But please decide your responsibilities and bear them in mind, for freedom is nobody's birthright.

*No reference to any political party.

The Fetish of Results, Ranks and Remunerations

I wonder why I have never written anything on this topic, as it is so close to my heart. Read on, the sentiment is mine, and the words are of the principal of Doon School - Kanti Bajpai.

This is a right time to write about 'the economics of propaganda' feeding on the middle-class superstition and insecurity, which makes a fetish of education, results and so-called ranks of students (and institutes). After the maddening chaos of boards results and the marketing of minimum cut-offs, we see the magazine stalls littered with annual surveys of Top 10 institutes of India, which believe me is absolute nonsense. Read on.

Why do top results -- in boards, JEE or UPSC -- matter to us so much?

Judging by the hoopla surrounding the board examination results, Indian school education is in decline. What we are witnessing is a kind of decadence. The media is only helping construct this decadence. It has little or no understanding of education, focuses on the most sensational and trivial aspects of school life, and is fetishising learning. Unfortunately, it is not just the media. The government, the examining boards, school managements, teachers, and, yes, parents have combined to bring Indian education to this pass.

We think that Indian schools are world-class institutions in the making, that our science and mathematics are the envy of others, and that Indian students are smarter and harder working than anyone else. None of this is true. Indian schools are in a shambles; our science and mathematics teaching are appalling; and our students, while intelligent and diligent, are of the same genetic material as other human beings and, given the burden of our curriculum, are in danger of losing their creativity and energy by the time they "succeed" in school examinations.

Our annual board results, IIT results and civil service examination results are feeding the frenzy over the search for the smartest and the most likely to succeed. This year, the frenzy over who "topped" the exams, which school produced the best results, how many students got into engineering colleges or got the best SAT results (the US college entrance test which is a 10th standard exam, at best!), and who headed the IIT entrance lists has been worse than ever.

The question is: how can it possibly be interesting educationally that student X got 95.6 per cent and was at the top of an examination list when it is likely that the next person, who never features in the public adulation, got 95.5 per cent? Does anyone seriously think that there can be any difference intellectually and in terms of life chances and attainments based on these infinitesimal differences? Indeed, is there much difference between someone who scored 95 per cent and 89 per cent? Has anyone bothered to track all these "toppers"? Where do they end up on the scales of life—income, professional satisfaction, social status, personal happiness? What do they contribute to the good of society around them?

This is not to denigrate those who have topped. It is to ask what this frenzy of interest is about. It is not about education, whatever else it is about. It is a circus, without a circus master. Each of us helps make this spectacle, though some are more responsible than others. For instance, why does the CBSE, the most reported board, splash the name of the toppers around and feed media comparisons relating to this year's average as against last year's, how many passed and how many did not, and so on? Why do school principals like me and school managements tell the media who amongst our students topped the results and what our averages are? Why do school managements base their judgement of their school's success so massively on the board results? Why do parents, most of whom did not do particularly well themselves in the board examination in their own day, and who know that school examination results do not count for much in the game of life, become so drunken over the results, losing all sense of proportion?

One reason for this fetish relating to marks and averages is scarcity. In a country of scarcities, even a marginal difference, we conclude, can make an enormous difference to our children: that extra mark will mean extra consideration when colleges admit (somewhat true, at least in India) and when employers hire (largely not true).

Another reason for the fetish of results is our paranoia. We are convinced that people out there are conspiring to deny our meritorious children what they rightly deserve.What can stop them from doing so except a marksheet in front of them? After all, who can quarrel with the numbers? It is another matter that the numbers we fetishise are only one indication of the quality of a student's mind, and no one, with any sense, would go only by numbers, at least for the purpose of hiring.

Finally, we urban, "educated", middle-class Indians have made the board results into a fetish because we need a clear, simple and apparently unassailable index of success. So much in India seems second-rate and bleak (it is not, but we have persuaded ourselves that our country is a collective failure) that we must have some golden eggs. It does not matter that the eggs are in someone else's basket, that someone else's son or daughter has topped. We hunger for an affirmation that there are "successes" amongst us capable of transcending the "mediocrity" around. We are in search of supermen so that we can feel better.

A Streetcar Named Desire

Big boys play with big toys.

Happy days are not away. Tata uncle is going to present all the big boys (and big girls) his dream car, in just 100 thousand bucks! Now everyone will have his own car. Papa has his car and mamma has her car as well. Now I too am going to have my car. I will not have to wake up early in the morning to catch the bus. Oh how eagerly (more than for new Harry Potter!) I have been waiting for the day when I will break open my piggy bank and rush to the city center to buy it!

Wow! What a great fun it will be! I’ll drive, like Shahrukh (in that ad with Preity), looking all cool, burning the tires and zooming past all others on the surprised road. Yippee! I wonder how it feels like – to hold the control with soft hands and to turn the little wonder gently on corner, and to feel its tender hum with the touch of foot! Moon! Music! Oh God! It’s splendid! I will ask Neha for a drive, and we’ll go to ‘Temptations’, she and I. Hope that creepy thing - Rahul doesn’t poke his long nose, coz even he was talking about his piggy bank and his plans.

So even he will get a gift, not just I! And like he and I, everyone else! What nonsense!

But then how will I enjoy? Our town is already so crowded, and God knows how many red-lights are there, with those sneaky policemen around. And it is terrible to get stuck in one of those traffic hold-ups! I hate it - people mindlessly honking, and dust and smoke, and our sitting helplessly, sweating and waiting. TURN ON THE AC! What a terrible pain! What is car for if you are made to crawl it behind a rickshaw? It’s all useless junk, any model, any color!

I wish we were in Shahrukh’s town, where we could drive fast on broad clean roads with trees on both the sides, swaying with breeze as they show in TV. Our town is not that good for driving. Hope we shift to Shahrukh’s town some day. Last Friday mamma got so awfully hurt; some jerk had hit her car outside the parking. Now she leaves early for office so that she could reach safely and get a nice place to park her car. I guess traffic wouldn’t be that bad in the morning.

Oh no! Again I’ll have to wake up early!

Well, it’s a good idea to wake early if you could drive fast, at least drive without getting hurt. But with creeps like Rahul around, it’s foolish to suppose that they wouldn’t get this idea. And then it’ll be all the same. I’ll have to wake up even earlier.

Why doesn’t Tata uncle make some roads for us? I wonder how many roads he will have to make, and where! Perhaps it will be too hard on him. But then he should not sell his cars in our town if he, or anyone else for that matter, can not make roads here, the roads that we need to drive our cars without getting late or hurt. Why doesn't he see this? It is so plain and simple. Or may be he does!

Let me think.

I guess I don't need his gift. My bus is alright for me, with Neha sitting next to me. :)

Reliance Fresh

I have always loved Ranchi, and now I am proud of it. I feel unpardonably ecstatic that it has happened, and that it has happened there. I wish I were there! Standing with those ‘petty traders and vegetable vendors (courtesy Rediff.com)’ with an iron rod in my hands and smashing those ‘Reliance Fresh’ outlets!

I think I have a fair understanding of the significance of ‘Free Market’, perhaps better than many who, without applying their own minds, glibly invoke fashionable phrases in order to feel intelligent, and in turn, to rationalize any atrocity in name of business and GDP. Blind to the world around them, they fail to see the possibility of corruption inherent in these ideas, if accepted at face value without careful examination. But ignorance of many is not important. What is important is that those who know should not be contented so early and so easily, coz many such establishments are yet to be demolished.

Unfortunately, all of them can not be demolished by iron rods, because they are not made up of glass walls. They are ideas, or rather obfuscation of ideas, constructed of words carefully kept one over another with cold precision, and consecrated in our minds in order to achieve not only profit but also approval and applause (for having achieved profit!). And these ideas rely, for their prosperity, on the mechanism of continuous exposure to flashy neon-signs that sensitizes unknown vulnerabilities in man and then evokes the worst in all of us; they rely on all-pervading ads that whet our appetite to the limits of disgraceful gluttony. But this greed and this gluttony are ours and we have to own this.

Every word comes with an expiry date. Worn out words and phrases - clichés - not only eclipse the very thoughts they are supposed to contain, but also ridicule and trivialize its meaning, especially when used glibly in lowly context – the monk who sold his Ferrari – no correlation between words and state of mind at all! But then who will bother to climb mountains just to eats the apples?

But these stale, rotten apples gradually poison the mouth, and become instrument of deception and intimidation in the hands of the clever – the more respected a word, the more prone it is to be corrupted. And before they get tried and convicted, the priests make people commit all type of ungodly acts in His name – so to have a few (un)chosen ones, the scapegoats, sacrificed is okay for the noble purpose of growth; and often such measures of growth, in reality, stunt what is meant by growth. Now which rod can touch these words, and this ubiquitous gluttony?

Besides, the propagators and supporters of these ideas and these institutions are not only powerful, but supremely cunning as well, who very well know how to manage everything smoothly. These people are smart and trained professionals, smart enough to secure judicial protection from their ‘ridiculously tactless’ victims – those who are first rendered unemployed by capital vandalism, and then branded ‘petty’ and accused of ‘vandalism (!)’ by the corporate sponsored urban media, whose loyalty has always been towards balance sheet and stakeholders. It has done little to deserve our, the people’s trust. Truth is more than just a product laid out for sale, much more than something that provides intellectual entertainment to the unintellectuals.

Who needs Reliance Fresh in Ranchi? I never needed them. These outlets will spoil the aesthetics of the small hilly town without adding any economic value to it. It will not generate jobs but will surely leave a lot many people without jobs. In places like Ranchi, there is (or used to be) something called haat where villagers, men and women, even kids, I remember, gather in the vast field beside temple and sit under the shadow of trees, once or twice in a week, to sell their goods and grocery. Amid the clamor and noise of babu, bhaiya, sir etc there would be a cheerful atmosphere of festivity around. People not only go and buy vegetables but also haggle and talk and enjoy the whole outing. Villagers would greet their old patrons with smiles on their faces, and offer discounts and urge them to buy more. On one side there would be stalls of household items and on the other side the bright colored clothes hanging for display would attract your eyes. Children would eagerly wait for their turn to gorge on jalebis, golgappas and chaat after their parents are done with shopping. I remember myself visiting haats with my parents and our helpers. I have seen old women, who don’t know how to count, and who can’t tell between notes of Rs 10 and 100, carry on their trade simply on trust. Such simplicity and such innocent charm are unimaginable in cities. I don’t see even trace of such warmth in Pizza Huts and Crosswords, not even fake. Well, at dusk, they would roll their mat, pack the unsold grocery and leave for their homes with whatever they had earned for their toil from seeding to selling.

Now Mr Ambani decides to go and snatch a Rs 10 note from each one of them, of course not by disreputable old gun but by his honorable ‘Wharton’ enterprise. While someone loses his all, all that he can manage to get is but trifling small! And those who grow food for us have to sleep with their hunger wailing inconsolably whole night beside their beds. Perhaps I am getting sentimental, perhaps unreasonable as well, but only a blind can see something that deprives those poor farmers of their Rs 10 in positive light. And I don’t even find positive answers of many 'practical' questions that arise in my mind. Does he think he’d stay in market because he hopes to grow better fruits and vegetables? Will he make agriculture more efficient, of course, without snatching lands (even lands!) from poor farmers in name of SEZ and sacrosanct ‘growth’? Will this ‘industry’ generate jobs for people?

Actually this is a march of naked hubris and power. Mr. Ambani too, without doubt, keeps an unconcealed (and insatiable) desire for power without, it seems, having commensurate enterprise and risk-taking ability. Opening grocery outlets by Reliance is like a fake Ashwamedha Yagya by a coward king who has had the ashwa (horse) led in the direction of a desolate dessert where no potent rival could challenge him for a battle. With all the cash and confidence he possesses in the market, he could have ventured in the rough terrains of hardware products, or bio-chemicals, or even cola for that matter. That would have been a war worthy of the strength he has inherited and also of the title of ‘youth icon’ this urban media has cheerfully bestowed upon him. But the businessman contained himself in the trade of vegetables! He eyes profit no matter how many farmers starve and how many of them commit suicide. Given his character and (lack of) enterprise, the next sector for him seems to be drug trafficking and prostitution, if he is already not into it.

All of us live by the choices and decisions we make, and I have made mine – I can’t prevent them from hoarding their profits but certainly I will not allow them glory for doing that. Since when have we started respecting people for their ability to acquire, for their greed and gluttony? And I have always failed to see any value in acquisition though I admit that doing that ‘successfully’ is difficult. But an act is not worthy just for being difficult. And without any value these acts are nothing but gross and even criminal.

This country is invaded by her own sons – home-made Mehmoods whose only ambition is to loot as much as possible and take away to their Ghaznis. They don’t hold swords in their hands, and they sit in cubicles with their laptops, so that others could not recognize them. And they make us believe that what they do is what should be done thanks to Ayn Rand School of Morality. Money becomes its own justification, as it is material manifestation of virtue! Market will keep on supplying more and they will keep on looting and hoarding. And above all, they think they deserve respect for this!

Let them be powerful and strong. It is not easy to stop the juggernaut of Reliance Fresh, which is fuelled by the brazenly arrogant force of capital and monstrous greed. But we must resist and we must be man enough to say a resounding No to phallus worship in all forms! Fool devotees give birth to evil Gods. We will worship Christ because he taught us love and humility but not because he was son of some God. Each one of us must fight to his capacity, with iron rods or with pens or with both if needed.

Dil Se...

According to ancient Arabic literature, love is classified into seven different shades (or stages, I would say).

1. HUB - Attraction

2. UNS - Infatuation

3. ISHQ - Love

4. AQUIDAT - Reverence

5. IBAADAT - Worship

6. JUNOON - Obsession

7. FANAA ~ Annihilation, Atonement

As we move from tangible to intangible, from prosaic to poetic, and from worldly to spiritual, translation becomes impossibly challenging and the meaning of an expression relies increasingly on the attitude (frame of mind and mood) of the listener, given his/her intellectual and emotional aptitude.

Every mrityu is not 'Nirvana' and similarly 'Fanaa' is not just maut, even if Gulzar (aptly) chooses to say mujhe maut ki god mein sone de to describe this stage of love. What a beauty - lap of death! Gham-e-hasti ka asad kis se ho juj-marg ilaaj... Yes I do realize that I am beginning to deviate here. But while wandering I found a connection here. Ghalib talks (only) about release from a negativity, from existential angst (gham-e-hasti). But here the lover doesn't just want to run away from scorching sun to the shadow of death. But he, being a lover, is positively in love with it. He finds a rest, a solace, and a ceaseless joy, Nirvana, in its lap. So fanaa is maut only if and as long as it has a lap and it offers you an unperturbable sleep in its lap.

Philosophical musing - Did Sufis thought about, and do they believe in the cycle of life and death? And does Nirvana emphasize on the bliss of the state of nothingness, or is it just an escape from sufferings of life and its cycle?

Mea Culpa

I wanted to talk to someone about it. I wanted to get it off my chest. I took my phone out of my pocket and went through the entire friend’s list, twice, but couldn't find a single one to talk to. It was entirely my burden, my cross, I realized, and it couldn't be shared with anyone. It could only be multiplied, in my consciousness. Such a thing is shame.

Living a life like I do, we men sometimes tend to forget that there exists a creature in world called woman. And in the world of men, woman is only an abstract idea who is used to flaunt our manhood, often, I admit, in a perverse manner. Yes, I do talk to girls of my age but that is different. They are friends and they don't mind, if they are not positively amused by, our occasional indiscipline in speech. But women are different, especially when they are around in flesh and blood.

Today I was talking with my friend on office messenger, about someone else. And just then my team lead pinged me. And I wrote the following, by mistake, in her window –

“I hate that fat hag. I would have paraded naked in house if I could muster enough shamelessness, in order to scare her away.”

Even now I can't help but shudder as I write these lines. I felt a hard blow in my head when I realized my blunder. Tortured with confusion and frenzy, I ran to my friend to tell him about the disaster. Till now it was only a blunder. The worse was still to follow. Soon the deeper layers hidden in this episode presented themselves to me as I sat together in interview with my smart crime.

I was not scared of any consequence. In fact, I wrote a mail seeking apology with full awareness of the fact that it was a written confession, which could be produced in my appraisal or before that as well, depending on her sensitivity. But it was not about her, but me alone, and perhaps about the smile which she always flashed when she saw me. There are times when the person who could be most ruthless with you is none other than you yourself. There are times when you walk miles and seek punishment. And impulsive as I am, I have done such things and felt such moments earlier in my life as well. Knowing her nature, I was sure she would forgive me and forget this issue after a day or two. And I know that I have to pretend the same forgetfulness to let the awkwardness go. Oh how desperately do we sometimes need forgiving people around us! However, I do forgive but hardly forget things. And I take a few things very seriously. It is a morbid compulsion with me.

Anyways, practically I was safe. But what about the higher judge?

Guilty and shameful in my heart, I recalled my school days when I was considered an epitome of decency. And I was so, though it is hard for me to believe that now, and harder to write here. I looked at him who was I, but found him too away. I remembered the incident when a girl (who was his classmate, a close friend, and one of the most desirable girls of his batch) tried to get cozy with him in her bedroom and then playfully ‘warned’ him that she'd shout if he did anything naughty with her. And he said calmly with a proud smile, ‘Do it if you want. But no one will believe you.’ And the girl knew that he was right. Idealistic and upright, he used to say, ‘In moments of crisis, a man should not speak a word in his defense. His character alone should be able enough to defend him.’

A few years later, I remember, he used to shut his door and sit close to the TV to watch ‘tip-tip barsa paani’ keeping lowest possible volume so as not to wake his parents sleeping at the other floor. Poor guy! I remember how badly his whole being used to shake, in apprehension as well as in lusty excitement, raising each other to maddening heights. What would he do to hide that excitement if someone came? No, it couldn’t be hidden, nor could be rationalized. Like a thief, he used to hear the footsteps that were never there.

Still I cannot recall those nights without feeling something tingling beneath my skin. Was it wrong to wake late in nights in a breathless wait to see ‘something’ in those ‘18’ movies shown then in star TV? Perhaps not. But then imagine, God it’s scary, to get caught by your mother while doing that what you know is not wrong if not seen by your mother. And what about sex? Legal. Is that also wrong? Oh they behave unreasonably, you might say. Well, it’s a bit complicated. Perhaps we are at the wrong track; it’s not an issue of right and wrong. It’s not wrong but just embarrassing.

So everything that is embarrassing is not wrong. What if I had typed the same stuff in the right window? Everything would have been right, isn’t? So it was not immoral to write that about a woman, but only a blunder to write that in a woman’s window. All my guilt and shame were misplaced!

But somehow I am not convinced.

India Poised

What for?

2007 = 2006 + (1)

Many new stories knocked at my door in the last few months but I ignored them all for the sake of an unfinished story. There was a time when this story occupied my heart but now I am unable to feel its touch and see it happening inside me. The memories of its magic and its strength, with which it ruled my thoughts in those nights, are still vivid. But it lies pale and cold, somewhat dead, on the floor. So I'd, rather with something heavy there, leave this thread loose in the hands of time and walk towards the door.

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..

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.

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

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.

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.
.

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.

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)

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.

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?

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.

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.

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

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!

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.

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."

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.

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.