Shanghai - Not a Movie Review

Shanghai is for adults only.

At this point I must clarify - though pornography etc are rated, apparently for adults only, they are majorly patronized by minors and sophomores. In all likelihood, they are made mainly for non-adults. The restriction is, I believe, just a marketing ploy.

Shanghai is adult in adult-like way. That's why, perhaps, kids might not be able to appreciate it. You don't have to challenge their sense of thrill or appeal to their juvenile curiosity by imposing fake restrictions. This film is not very filmy, and could taste rather bland to those who are used to spices. It's an ordinary movie in which, to the utter dismay of audience, nothing dramatic takes place. No revenge, no redemption, no catharsis, not even gunshots. Besides, Shanghai is a world without heroes; mere survival takes all. And there is no justice, no explanation, and no escape. Worse, there is no "The End" to it. The script ends but the story goes on; inside your mind, and outside the theater, the story goes on. It's not unlikely that the your own multiplex was part of the story. You couldn't muster courage to order popcorn in the interval.

Shanghai is a scary movie.

Again it's time to clarify - though horror flicks typically involve cartloads of ghosts and gore, they don't really scare. The better ones manage to shock or disgust. Others just bore. The fault lies in their premise - that death is inherently horrible, and there can be nothing more horrible than a horrible death. For starters, I doubt that death is inherently horrible. And I have no doubt that a horrible life is by no means less horrible than a horrible death. A horror movie ought to depict life in its gory details, without offering escape or even hope of escape. From that point of view, life itself seems horrible, and our existence terribly lonely and helplessly futile.

The individuals in Shanghai are horribly lonely. And why not? Their relationships, with anyone or anything, are fragmented, contractual, and often disposable. They are either uprooted or being uprooted, all of them. They are condemned to live with strangers. And they themselves live like strangers all through their lives. Meanwhile, world around them changes faster than they could get a hang of it. They run breathless only to find out the ground beneath their feet has turned into a treadmill. Life goes on humiliating the weak and outsmarting others, making one feel perpetually betrayed and cheaply traded. Even destruction is reduced to a mere job. Ironically, but not unusually, one is killed by the very people who one fights for.

Final Comments

To me, Shanghai was like an underground Fight Club, where I had gone to get punched in my gut. I did get punched, and it did hurt for a while. I enjoyed the pain too while it lasted, but the punch had landed at wrong place. And that left me a bit upset.  

In the final analysis, the movie fails in bringing home the horrors of mindless development. Instead, it strays into the easy path of showing how corrupt our politicians are. As if we didn't know!

As if we didn't know that it was inspired by Costa-Gavras' masterpiece 'Z', which is a classic political thriller. Unfortunately for Shanghai, Z is a film about systematic suppression of freedom of expression under junta-rule and not about wholesale destruction under the aegis of economic development. Dibakar Banerjee, one of the most intelligent film-makers of Hindi Cinema, manages to localize the story well, but fails to fit into perspective.
 

Memoir - Rajasthan I

I went till the remotest corner of the world; I went as far as I could go without falling off the cliff; far off from the mainland India, in an unknown desert hamlet called Khuri, Rajasthan happened to me, in the last month of last year. The January wish - Happy New Year - finally got realized in December.

And how!

Picture this - I walk alone, in the earliest of mornings, towards the dunes that glow in anticipation of their sun, and suddenly I see peacocks, many of them, walking around, and flying above. There is no other sight that could match the majesty of that sight. It was dreamy, that scene, that time, that place, and everything about it. I walk further, and I see herd of antlers towards my right. That sight was beautiful, this sight was awesome. I took my camera out, and put it back in no time. You can either feel or record, and blessings are not to be recorded.

On top of the dunes, with sun rising in background, I had had a cup of tea, and a plate of Maggi, which tasted like defeat, for Maggi was not to be eaten like that.

Last night, we had planned to carry out a madness - to cook Maggi on the dunes, and eat it out in the open, under the thousand twinkling stars of the rural sky. In the midnight, we set out to make that night unforgettable, and we did make that night unforgettable, not once but twice, both unsuccessfully. I had never imagined that I would see mirage in pitch-dark midnight. We just couldn't find the dunes!

Hours before, we were there, right on the top of the dunes, dancing to the tunes of a gypsy boy, who conjured up music, nay magic, out of nothing but four flat pieces of wood. Can I ever forget that? The setting sun, the gilded land, the camel shadows, the bright red-yellow turban, the charming smile, the tuk-tuk melody, the rhythm, the steps, the hoots, the laughter... oh I must have been drunk.

But Rajasthan is much more than sand and dunes. If I realized one thing, it was this. Rajasthan after a visit emerges as a very different, and much greener, landscape.

Bikaner, where we started from, is a bhujia bazaar. Junagarh Fort is good, may be great, but other forts have been sold out to those who run hotels. 

Have I said this before - that Bikaner is bhujia bazaar? That's what Bikaner is. Period. And yes, they don't serve Rajasthani in their restaurants. They serve chinese and pizzas and even south Indian, but not Rajasthani. If you want to try Rajasthani cuisine, better go to Jodhpur. 

Jodhpur, for me, means Nai Sadak, which is an interesting place for foodies and shoppers. I would not mind another visit there. The other attraction - Mehrangarh Fort - is awesome. 

But nowhere close to Jaisalmer Fort - which is a civilization bubbling inside a boundary. Yes, there are pests too, like Tibetan refugees, who sell "Free Tibet" T-shirts to white women, and expect them to fight for their freedom, but I will talk about these parasites later. Despite them, and pestering locals posing as guides, this fort is a place without parallel. Unlike all other forts that I've seen, this fort lives in present. It does have a past, but it's not a museum.

Jaisalmer sees itself as a desert town, with locals poaching tourists for Sam cottages and Camel Safari etc. But to me, Jaisalmer would mean Jaisalmer Fort, since you can find dunes elsewhere, but there is no place like Jaisalmer Fort anywhere else.

I can not explain why. Perhaps because of our experience - the folk singer we bumped into, as soon as we stepped out of some palace, which was good but monotonous. If music can move you, he would move you, nay stun you, freeze you, and hold you in trance. You can hardly move unless he allows you to, with a grand-fatherly smile on his royally wrinkled visage. In my mind, all hyperbole is taken care of by his "Padharo Mhare Des" alone. 

The topic of music takes me to that night in Osiyaan, where we spent the 31st, the last day of last year. This place is a resort. The folk music program had started and most of the guests had gathered at the venue. Far from there, I was sitting outside my cottage, laid back on a chair, gazing at the moon, reflecting on the moment claimed by both memories and hopes, sipping tea, and soaking the faint music.

The last memory of Rajasthan has to be the "Happy New Year" moment, when I did what I always thought I couldn't do - dance. I danced, and I danced well, meaning I enjoyed. The new year began with a new experience, and it continued for the whole day, since I did another unlikely thing - I went to the Dargah of Nizamuddin Auliya in Ajmer. Perhaps Jan 1st was prophetic; who knows?  

On Deepawali - and window shopping

Francios Gautier says that he is a Hindu, not by birth but by belief, since here is a religion that imposes no condition on its followers, demands no intellectual surrender as an entry-fee, and offers no ready-made answers to seriously complex questions. It has no holy book, and no final word on anything. In fact, for a Hindu, if I may say so, nothing is too holy and nothing is too final.

Hinduism is not a dogma, it's not a comprehensive manual of Dos and Don'ts, it's an attitude rather than a faith, and to repeat the platitude - it's a way of life; and it has an inalienable spirit of quest right at its core. That's why it is essentially sympathetic to the idea of pulrality of thought. That explains its inclusiveness and so-called tolerance, what it is best known for, despite so many external as well as internal forces acting against it for so long. In the end, a true Hindu is essentially a seeker, and the seeker is not only allowed but also encouraged to find his answers to his questions.

However, that is a white man's version, which is as much moral as aesthetic in nature. For others, there exists another aspect of Hinduism too, which involves what is worldly, which is cast in stone, and which is replete with suffocating superstitions and malpractices (ranging from as uncivilized and as repulsive as animal worship to animal sacrifice, and the hemartia - the caste system as-it-is). Also, this is one religion which has gradually but irreversibly tilted towards materialism, and subsequently shifted away from spirituality, so much so that an average Hindu can be pious without slightest spiritual disposition. Religion has been reduced to mere paraphernalia of religion, which at best consist of periodic and meaningless rituals, which make no real sense to anybody. Worse, the worst form of corruption is seen nowhere else but in the temples, where the degradation of religion has been almost complete, and can not worsen much. Our gods have been excluded from our lives, idealized in mind, and idolized in matter. Our prayers are thankless and demanding, and we are ever ready to make deals with the divinity, whosoever and wherever he/she is, if necessary.

This corruption and degradation is manifest in our festivals as well. For instance, Deepawali is a festival of light, but it's certainly no more about things that light symbolizes. It is more about what is to be bought, how much and how many, deals, discounts, and the worst of all - gambling, all in name of religion. A religious Hindu is, ironically, at his materialist worst on this day. He has little patience to stop, and refect on heavy ideas like inner darkness, inner light, and inner peace. He has little time to realize that the festival of light is meant to illuminate the inner self, and eliminate the inner darkness, as it were. However, Deepawali, as it stands, has unfortunately turned into a celebration of darkness, and everything that darkness stands for.

Hinduism is nothing without its beautiful, and equally powerful, language of symbols, which must be deciphered to begin the journey that every man must undertake. The seeker must wonder, must think, and must seek. He who opens his eyes, and looks, will see. Deepawali happens when God comes back to the place where he belongs, the place which can not be fought or defeated. Until then, this world will be shrouded in darkess, and Deepawali will remain just another day of deals, discounts, and shopping.

why do dogs cross roads?

1. Why do dogs cross roads?

I see Theater of the Absurd being played out when I see a dog crossing the road. Why, I wonder, it has to? Why can't it stay where it is? What lies there that is not here? How would crossing the road help?

That brings me to an existential question - why do we cross roads? Is our crossing roads any less futile? It came to my mind when I was driving to a nearby petrol pump.

2. What entertains me?

I liked that horrible movie - "Oldboy". Technically, however, it's a well-made movie. Plus it has everything that entertains a movie-buff like me - a distorted character (an ordinary guy who is a victim of circumstances), a contrived situation (with sufficient semblance to the reality that we know), some aesthetically shot scenes of sex (as per the demands of the script, of course), and some good old gore. That's what we watch movies for, isn't?

3. What do I think of Formula 1 (in India)?

I saw things like Tomatina and October Fest being brought to Hyderabad, to satisfy the growing appetite of Hyderabadi people for anything that is 'global'. They send their kids to global schools. They also celebrate beach parties on new year eve. It's another matter that the nearest beach happens to be about 300 kms away from Hyderabad.

But Hyderabad is still backward, and about 10 years behind cities like Bangalore. Hyderabad is Bangalore in making. Hyderabad is wannabe Bangalore. And Hyderabad is pretty upset to have lost the chance to host India's maiden F1 show to Noida, for a reason as pointless as Telangana!

Coming to F1, it is one of those global games, only more expensive, more exclusive, and more bourgeois. I don't mind F1, unless it thrust itself on my consciousness, which it does since F1 is all about ads, models, and logos. To me, F1 is an indulgance, not a sport. I won't analyze it any further. I don't feel like wasting my words on something as ridiculous as F1.

In the desi context, F1 reminds me of looking at a wedding album, in which the groom dons a suit and a tie, and flanked by his lesser relatives in chappals, looks rather out of place. In typical small town weather, in no time, the make-up gives in to the heat; the sweat washes away the foundation, smears the face, exposes the hidden complexion, and worse - the hidden complex.

Imitation - it's funny, it's awkward, and it's a profoundly sad thing to do. And of course it's demeaning. I am not sure if even French have Tomatina. Hyderabad has, as if we lack festivals!

On part of the middle-class metro-Indians, F1 is so desperate a pretense that it arouses pity. However, unlike the wedding photo, there is nothing innocent about it. Instead, it reeks of colossal callousness towards everything that should matter. Ironically, the F1 fanatics who are absolutely indifferent to fellow Indians claim to be proud of India (whatever that means), and the progress that their India (wherever that is) has made. And what's the index of that progress? HDI? No. Inclusive growth? No. Decreasing disparity? Decreasing deforestation? Rehabilitation of the dispossessed? No. None of them. What's it then? Well, perhaps progress of this India to these Indians means things like Tomatina, October Fest, and F1.

To those who can still think through rumors, F1 is nothing but a joke, and most of us find ourselves at the wrong side of it.

4. Mediocrity or Obsession?

That's the question. This is the dilemma of an IT coolie like me - to be or not to be the star. If one opts for the "Middle Path", which promises maximum happiness, or least unhappiness, mediocrity follows invariably. On the contrary, if one chooses to pursue excellence in something, he must be committed to the cause, and show off his passion whenever the camera faces him. Consequently, things like balance go for a toss. Keeping Jupiter aside, success is usually a by-product of persistent obsession.

If a life of obsession is success, what else is failure, one wonders. Is there a way to break away from this tug of war? What if one makes a bucket list, and do what he wants?

5. Anna verses Democracy

I agree with Arvind Kejriwal when he says that people are supreme, and they are above parliament. Parliamentarians are making a scandal out of it. But it's the other way round. It's nothing short of scandal to confine democracy to a periodic drill called election. Elected members, and more importantly, we the people, should understand this very clearly that democracy are election are not synonymous.

Besides, UK is a democracy. So is UP. As it is evident, democracy comes in different flavors. It's the flavor that matters. Just being a democracy is not enough, since democracy is not the ends in itself.

Anna is not an exception. From Aruna Roy to Arundhati Roy, people are losing confidence in Indian state. Status quo is no more an option, except for the beneficiaries of the status quo. We need reforms.

6. Steve Jobs

In "Over the Flames", I couldn't help noticing this young couple who was sitting in front of me. Both the man and the women were dipped in their respective phones. To me, that's the lasting legacy of Steve Jobs.

To me his iGadget is like one of many other toys, made for big boys and girls who are yet to grow up. And to me, Mr Jobs, no matter what media might say, was a maker of mental dildos, as it were, and that's how I see him. Still, I don't mind someone selling toys. But when someone starts selling myths, like Jobs was some sort of Edison, and some sort of transformer, then it gets funny. If Jobs was an innovator, damn such innovators, and damn such innovations. I am absolutely certain that the world would be rather better off without him or his likes.

Konkan - Monsoon - RE TBTS

Plan: to cover about 2830 kms in 9 days.

Route: Hyderabad -- Pune - Raigad Fort - Ganapatipule - Vijaydurg - Sindhudurg - Goa - Karwar - Gokarna - Murudeshwar - Jog Falls - Agumbe - Shringeri - Belur - Bangalore -- Hyderabad

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Day 0 (Aug 26): Hyderabad - Sholapur (300 kms)

The prelude set the tone for rest of the play. No mercy was shown from heavens for my maiden bike marathon. As we mounted our sacks, it was raining. It was raining when we kicked off, and it was to rain throughout, day and night, all the time. In no time I knew what we were up against, as all our stratagems to keep water out failed one by one. Soon it was apparent that the word - waterproof - is a joke. Before we could leave the town behind, rain was as much inside as it was outside.

And that was not the end of our problems. The highway had to offer a plenty. The visibility worsened after the dusk. The high beam would burst on the glass and leave you dazzled. When you lift the glass, the water needles would threaten to puncture your eyes. For a good deal of the road, riding was like making good guesses on the road.

The only respite was occasional cups of tea and steamy hot omlettes by road-side stalls. It was midnight when we decided to call it a day. By then, we were looking like a mess.

Day 1 (Aug 27): Sholapur - Baramati (200 kms)

A minor accident on the highway dented the course of our trip. After talking to locals in a repair shop, we dropped the idea of going to Pune. There was not much sense in riding on the highway with mud flying around everywhere. So we sneaked into the interior routes with a safer speed. Thankfully, we found that the state highways were in much better shape, and more pleasant to ride on, beneath the canopies of great banyan trees.

Meanwhile, it dawned on me that I was too ambitious in planning. Looking at the situation in hand - the non-stop downpour and an understandably demoralized co-traveler - I realized that it was high-time we rationalized our plan as per the practical realities. We stopped and talked over the lunch. And decided to take it easy and do whatever was possible.

All this while I could not stop wondering why would anyone want to ride in Monsoon.

Looking at the brighter side of the situation, despite (or because of) whatever we were looking like, we aroused lots of curiosity and awe wherever we passed by. People turned their heads, girls giggled, boys cheered, and adults asked questions. Traveling is incomplete without engaging with the locals. And it's impossible not to come across interesting people in such road trips. To our good luck, a veteran trekker bumped into us and helped us with useful information. Things were beginning to take a shape.

Day 3 (Aug 28): Baramati - Raigad (150 kms)

The journey through the Ghats was one of the things that I had in my mind when I had planned this trip. Just to remind again, it was pouring buckets all the time. The road (from Bhor, Pune to Mahad, Raigad) crawled like a snake through the forest. As far as I could see, it was lush green all around. The sound of the countless falls crashing, birds chirping, and wind whistling, left me absolutely mesmerized. As we rolled upwards, we were wrapped by clouds. We had arrived.

It's amazing that in a setting like these, even a simple thing like a cup of tea feels so very special. By a roadside dhaba on top of the hill, I enjoyed one of the most memorable cups of tea, along with steamy hot Vada Pao. Won't I ever come here again?, I asked myself. And that was the moment it occurred to me that I was rather wasting my time in Hyderabad, which is far from all the interesting places. At that moment, the microscopic details of urban existence seemed unnecessary in the larger scheme of life, which had lot better to offer to those who sought.

Indeed, biking in clouds is more than an experience. It's a perspective.

While coming down, I switched off the ignition. The bike rolled down the slopes on its own, leaving behind the clouds, and what followed was about 5-6 kms of absolute timelessness, in which oblivious to the whole world, I soaked the sound of nature, trying to store it somewhere in my memory, taking it back to where I need it the most.

Day 4 (Aug 29): Raigad - Guhagar (250 kms)

Konkan is the land of hills, beaches, forts, temples, and food. Apart from sea food, what it is well known for is Ratnagiri Hapus or Alphonso. We took the NH 17 and sped towards the land of famous Alphonso mangoes. From a place called Chiplun, we turned towards the state highway, which runs closer to the coastal line. And finally, we reached Guhagar in late afternoon.

Throughout this trip, we enjoyed riding more than anything else. The evenings were not happening enough, since there was not much to do outside with the rain playing spoilsport. And it was not fun to sit in a stuffy room watching your clothes not drying. I regretted not making a diversion to Pratapgad, which was just 25 kms away from the NH 17.

Anyway, we were in Guhagar. Apparently, it is one of the most gorgeous beaches in Konkan, though it is dangerous for swimmers. In Monsoon, it's insane to go inside water anyway, since the waves leap furiously and take away whatever they lay hands on. Moreover, the beaches are invariably dirty in rainy season. In any case, beaches were out of scope for us in his trip. I just wanted to see life in Konkan in an off-season.

This was another reason, apart from the sheer impossibility, for us to curtail the scope of our trip. The beaches deserved a better season, and it was a better idea to leave those places for another trip.

Day 5 (Aug 30): Guhagar - Ganapatipule (100 kms)

As recommended by our hospitable host, who painstakingly drew a detailed map of the whole coastal region for us, we decided to take an intimate route through the villages of the region. No wonder we could not travel much, but we saw a lot that day. Besides, it was a welcome diversion from a beautiful monotony of riding through vegetation. Thanks to Monsoon, we were allowed to do something different than wearing floral shirts and sipping lemonades at beaches.

Near Guhagar, there is a lesser known place called "Baman Ghal". It's a deep gorge in rocks, in which waves rush in and splash in air about 40-50 feet high. Standing there, it came to my mind that unless you have a two-wheeler, which approaches more, and makes you more approachable, you can not even think to explore a place as secluded as this. And that would be a huge loss.

We rode through habitations, and through places where there was no trace of man. There was nothing else but clouds, rains, and greenery. It was so isolated up there that one could even change clothes on road without been seen. But what would one do if his bike started acting up? That was a terrifying thought. At that moment I thanked the makers of the RE TBTS for making such a reliable piece of mechanical marvel.

By evening, we were in Ganapatipule. We strolled near the beach after dinner. In pitch dark, the sea looked menacing with the tides lashing and roaring. It was a sight to look at, and a sound to listen to. But we had to rush to our room since the drizzling was beginning to get heavier.

Day 6 (Aug 31): Ganapatipule - Goa via Vijaydurg, Sidhudurg (300 kms)

What could one say about the journey when hills are on your left side and sea is on the right? I was living the fantasy. As we rode along the coast, I saw nameless beaches, rocky shores, lagoons, and the life around the coast.

The first destination was Vijaydurg fort, which was in disrepair, and that left me disappointed. The second stop was Sindhudurg fort, which is build on an island. I couldn't see the fort from inside, since ferry service was not in operation. There was no point in going to Tarkarli beach. So we moved on, and reached Goa by night. We stopped by a dhaba for our regular cup of tea, but we were informed that no dhaba serves tea in Goa. All they offer was beer.

The road just before Goa was like a death-trap. It was late when we reached, and I was dead tired, and sick of water in any form. By the time we checked in, all I wanted was to go back home.

Day 7 (Sep 01): Goa

Though I am not one of the Goa fans, but I have to admit that there is no place like Goa. Even in rainy season, even on Ganesh Chaturthi, it was decently crowded, though the foreigners were not many. We used this day to relax, and bring back the spirit, which was dampened by rains, and stinking clothes.

In a shack, we talked to the shack owner, who had interesting things to talk about Indian tourists, especially Delhiites. I was amused to find out that they really had put "No Delhi People Allowed" board on their shacks, since these tourists were repeatedly found to be offensive and arrogant. Many of them were beaten up by the locals and even by foreigners. Sitting there in the shack, I saw a sample there and then.

- Don't take this drink near the beach. They'll fine you.
- How much?

Day 8 (Sep 02): Goa - Bijapur (350 kms)

The road till Belgaum was more challenging than I had imagined. After Ponda, as the forest area started, the road had veritable craters, and fog was dense, making it very difficult for us to ride. I had to turn into a mp3 player to distract my mind from the cold.

In a roadside dhaba, where we had taken shelter, the atmosphere was beautiful in a way. A bus was parked there, and the passengers were inside. There was no light inside, and the steam and smoke inside was mingling with the mist outside. I enjoyed a steaming hot, though bit spicy for my taste, lunch plate. And then we pushed off.

The state highway was like a dream, though the occasional bumpers were disorienting, and that allowed us to reach Bijapur on time. Meanwhile, I tested the limits of RE TBTS, which showed signs of swaying as I reached 100 km/h.

Day 9 (Sep 03): Bijapur - Hyderabad (350kms)

Bijapur is a town with rich cultural heritage. Relics are strewn on both sides of road. Though I had no intention to spend time in the town, I finally did since the places of interest were nearby, and they were picturesque. This was the first time when I could take out my camera and clicked few snaps.

By noon we left Bijapur. NH 218 was fun to ride on, and the bull touched its max - 110 km/h. By dusk we were having our dinner in a dhaba located at the outskirts of Hyderabad.

Overall, we did 2130 kms. I was happy to find out that the bikes and the riders were fine despite severe testing. Given another chance, I would do the same route again, with lighter packing though.

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There are two type of traveling. One could travel to heaven, enjoy, and remember the memories with fondness after coming back to the banalities of usual life. Conversely, one could travel to hell, suffer, and start appreciating one's normal life. My road trip was mix of both; it hurted and it healed, and that's why it's difficult for me to answer simplistic questions like how was the experience. The experience would have been worth nothing had it been a simple good or a simple bad.

One is supposed to look refreshed after coming back from a vacation. I guess I must be looking lost, and rather disoriented. The birds are still chirping in my mind. It will take me a while to adjust to the pace again. But as of now, this trance is my only payoff.

And finally, now I know why people make road trip to Konkan in Monsoon.

Realism: Meta Art

"Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way", said Tolstoy, and proceeded to write about a family he, being an artist, was wont to be interested in. The tragic fate of Anna Karenina not merely touched his sensitivity but it practically possessed him, consuming him over countless sleepless nights. Witnessing her travails would have been a cathartic experience for him, sometimes even amusing, but certainly not boring. That's how it is. Artists would rather brood over a dramatic failure - the orphan, the bastard - than toast a methodical success. Artists fail to appreciate anything poetic, or inspiring, in monotony of a happy family, which - as Tolstoy points out - are "all alike".

On the other extreme end, however, broken or complicated relationships arouse feelings more visceral than usual coffee-table stuff; and tales of impossible romance are immortal classics. Moreover, extraordinary situations foster extraordinary men (and women) - of compelling personalities - who, by sheer power of their character, rouse us and drag us out of our blankets. They challenge our understanding of the world we live in, and of the words we thoughtlessly speak. They expose us to ourselves, and liberate us from the platitudes of nine-to-five banalities, at least for a few awakened moments. These moments are poetic moments, and these men are the heroes worshiped by poets.

In every unhappy context, happiness is tortured in a different way, and it needs a elaborate supply of resources to look into the details. It's hard because the questions asked are typically confusing, and answers are never offered ready-made. It's like doing the sum without ever having a look at the examples. Worse, unlike in Math, reason doesn't help much in life. As every sensible man realizes sooner or later, rationality is but a state of mind - a mood - which is neither immutable nor unconditional. Reason, the keeper of laws and orders, works reasonably well within the band of "normal" situations - atmospheric pressure, room temperature etc. In other situations, however, the my-maximum-gain attitude can be transformed into his-maximum-loss attitude, with surprising ease. Madness is contagious, and often spreads like wildfire. In the heat of delirium, modern innovations - like reason - are charred to cinders, and collapse in the debris of their own remains.

As V rightly said in "V for Vendetta", the politicians lie to hide the truth, the artists tell lies to reveal it. So, a work of art is a lie told to reveal a truth. That truth is a greater truth, which involves pluralities of perspectives, and ironies of co-existing contrasts, realizing which demands more maturity than logic affords in isolation.

An artist explores the human nature by putting his characters to an abnormal situation - catch 22 or dilemma - where choices are not easy, yet they are to be made. He teases his characters, tempts them, tests them, and traps them in morally ambiguous situations. He situates them in the unhappy stories where emotions are denied, deprived, or worst of all - pit against each other, therefore burning with greater intensities. He digs into this debris to pick the parts that survive the fire, to find order in chaos, without trivializing any of these. He helps us realize that meaning can precede the word and word can transcend the scope of meaning. In his works, without trivializing relationships, he makes us see that feelings do exist external to relationships, but not always. Art subverts generalities, without intending to offer any of its own.

Does art holds mirror to reality? I don't think it does. And if it does, it shouldn't hold a plain mirror for sure, since a plain mirror can't correct the distortions inherent in reality. Art is not a superficial truth but an artful lie which helps us see the hidden truth. Art can't intend to be a mere mirror image of reality; it's a meta reality. Realism, the rather evolved but not necessarily better form of art, resembles life more but it depends on art rather than life itself. Ironically, a realist is farther from life than an artist, who seeks inspiration not from art, but from life itself.

And happy families hardly inspire any. That's a perversion artists live with.

a bull or an ox

Ox: I have fodder, shelter, a job in a big farm, and a company of beautiful cows. What do you have?

Bull: I have balls.

Most of us, ultimately, are what we choose to be. And regardless of what we possess, every Sunday evening reminds us that what matters the most is what we choose to be - a bull or an ox.

14th Feb - Goa

What could Goa mean to someone like me, whose vegetarian food preferences could turn the mouth-watering aroma of sea food into an all-pervading stink! That's what I was thinking while sitting in Republic of Noodles and flirting with their signature delicacy.

Let's ignore the ubiquitous stench, and guzzle on the famous Feni, one would suggest. Oops, I don't drink. And what more, I am not the party animal type who enjoys being in Tito's. What am I doing in Goa then?

Boring? May be. Bored? Never. Despite my rather superficial engagement with what all Goa offers, I came back satisfied. And equally dissatisfied, since three days are barely enough to explore even my fraction of Goa.

Ajanta Ellora

The murals and frescoes of Ajanta was "never meant to be seen", says Jonah Blank, a traveler and the auther of book I am reading - "Arrow of the blue skinned God." Speaking of Ellora, he says - "The caves I like most are ones that require the most work. there are five hermitages at Ellora that can be reached only by a crumbling path two feet wide, a track chiseled out of the mountain face, which drops thirty yards to bare rock pits below. The path looks more difficult that it actually is, so the family picnickers stay away. There the spirits of long-dead sadhus seem almost alive."

I understand and share the sentiments of the author. It's like going to watch a Satyajit Ray movie, and to find some front benchers whistling and howling and murdering the movie, and harassing the movie-goers. And you wonder - what on earth are they doing here? Do they even belong to this place? Those who run the world might have their reasons, but I feel that they are selling it cheap, in Rs 7.

Ajanta, however, is more accessible, and more vulnerable. Quoting the author again, "The path is wide and paved, so overdressed Bombay grande dames can ride up in wooden sedan-chairs, each hefted by four stoic bearers. At the cave mouth a servant holds an enormous mirror of polished tin, directing the sun's rays in to illuminate the chamber and slowly burn the frescoes into oblivion."

I didn't see mirror, but I did see numerous shutter-bugs throwing flashes, despite admonitions from guards, effecting the same effect to the precious paintings.

Those who created are dead. Those who protect are hardly ever seen, and those who destroy are omnipresent. They litter without guilt or shame, and leave their poly-traces to the corners that were "never meant to be seen". Hidden from the world for more than a thousand years, these caves lied unsullied in the custody of forest. But an accidental discovery changed everything. Hordes of monkeys ravage their steps and hoot in their halls.

What is left in Ajanta and Ellora is just a memory of a world that was out-of-the-world. With passage of eons, the colors have faded, and the shapes have dulled, and all we have is nothing but ruins. But here lies the magic - even the ruins are awesome! A look at Kailashnath Temple is enough to convince a sceptic.

But this marvel often dazzles and misleads. Being the gateway to Ellora, it gives the impression of the first cave, which it is not. Unless you are careful, or informed, you are likely to miss the Buddhist caves altogether. The arrangement for the tourists is abysmal. You are on your own.

Can I?

I need a comma, a round of confessional, to put a period to something that makes me look grotesque (without even making me look funny). I have realized that I cannot get away with "being myself" anymore. I can not afford the luxury of status quo any longer.

Time has moved on; and the young angry man of 70s has evolved. He is working his backside off, making lots of money and dreaming of Mediterranean. Meanwhile, the gender code has been changed. Anger is not manly anymore. Today's hero is Rocket Singh the salesman, who doesn't have to show his member to prove his manhood. He doesn't push around, and without arguing, he convinces us and makes us see that the expression of anger is medieval. It's a baggage-of-past we have to jettison to sail ahead.

The question is how. What follows is not an answer, but an attempt to find that.

1. Patience - a belief that some problems can be solved just by waiting. Let's say it again - just by waiting. If you try talking, you might end up prolonging the problem. One can not be agnostic about time almighty. One only has to learn how to pass the time while time is on job.

Take away point - it's wise, civilized, and manly, to listen out people and not cut them out. Wait for them to finish before you barge in. It's charming without being insincere.

2. Tolerance - a belief that imperfection is an existential condition. That implies even you will be wrong once in a while. And that makes forgiveness a mutual need, therefore a social contract in any civilized society. It helps to remember that what we deal with in everyday life is mood/state-of-mind and not people, and the former is often worse than the latter. In worst case, when nothing makes sense, you might like to thank your God not to make you like the next guy.

Take away point - the critic must introspect. He should smile more often. And he should take it easy unless it's a matter of life and death.

3. And the forgotten lesson - unless cornered, don't hit back, don't block, just dodge.

It's time for me to see and find out how young I still am.

Reluctant Fundamentalist

Today morning, as I was waking up, I discovered that in my bed I had been reduced into a black flag.

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All of a sudden, a verdict falls on mankind like a thunderbolt. Not for the first time and not for the last time. Court will pronounce peace and leave justice to the progeny! And historians and archeologists will be called upon to decide the matters of faith! Whether Lord Ram was born there or not! They might as well decide whether God exists or not.

That has never been just another place. And that is not just another case anymore. There lies a history in the background which gives a meaning to "whatever the hell is happening" today. It's a story of a haunted house. It's a burning emblem of a culture that needs to restore its vitality, its honor and its potency. The defeated needs to redeem himself. Tolerant he must be, but not unconditionally. His dignity he must not forfeit. And cowardly he must never feel. Forgiveness doesn't come for free; it has to be deserved and re-deserved. With the passage of time, peace will follow justice. But Justice must not be challenged again. Those who are fooled by the sight of olive branches must remember that there lies a gun in the right hand.

He has willed to come back, time and again. Had he been a man, one probably could have stopped him. Had he been a God, one possibly could have stopped him. But he is neither a man nor a God. He is an idea. And as learned men say, no army can stop an idea whose time has come.

What's happening is not new. His exile is yet another beginning of the old epic. He has always been betrayed by the throne. That has been his destiny. But the same destiny also marks the fall of evil, no matter how powerful, how assured. He will walk through the forests and the trees will bow. The clouds will scatter, the mountains will stand aside, and the seas will give way. His army will find him. Vain will be vanquished again. And he will again make his people believe in him. As history will be there to witness, the Ramayan will happen, yet again.

Monsoon Mess

NO city in India can stand 2 hrs of rainfall. "Civic Life" kneels down, and "civilians" are on all 4. While we negotiate our bikes/cars though the anarchy, through deepened trails (flanked by cakes of mud), pothole-lakes and gravel-hills, and while we issue noise-threats to all and sundry to give us our way, all we think of is "to get out of this mess". How often does it occur to us that we are part of the problem? How many of us feel that we are just too many? Because of over-supply, the value of life has fallen down to nothingless. We are not people, we are just market. We the Consumers have Harley-Davidson machines but alas! no roads to ride them. Individually, we order Aquafina in polished restaurants but collectively, we have no sense of sanitation! We live in a market, not society. How can we call ourselves civilized when we don't have a sewage system?

Ladakh 2010

Silence,
the echo of silence,
from far forests,
reverberating inside.





The Mahayana monestaries in Ladakh, speaking philosophically, would probably disappoint Buddha and his followers. But they still maintain an environment which is conducive to meditative mood. The experience that I had had there was not spiritual as such, but it was certainly therapeutic. The serenity of the place stays in your mind for long time. It seems you are sitting at the bottom of a lake, and the noise of world cannot disturb you. It's ineffable till it lasts. And incredible afterwards.


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Why I take pictures, I wondered.

There are two types of photos – one in which I am there, and other in which I am not. When I am there in a picture, I cannot turn blind eye to the one thing ugly in it. And since my appetite for self-ridicule is not unlimited, I would rather stay out of the frame. On the other hand, when I am not in a picture, it doesn’t interest me much. Even if there is any beauty in it, it is dead for me. The postcards and wallpapers don’t rouse memories. They don’t connect to moments or events. Besides, I know I am not the best postcard photographer alive. So, why click? And why travel, by the way? Why would one leave home, and all the comforts, and on top of all even pay for it?

Doubt, it seems, is a natural psychological response to physiological deficiency of Oxygen. And why not? After all, what do we travel far for, if not for some Oxygen? The questions are many, and one ponders out of breath while clicking in the meantime to capture pictures - the metaphors of experience.



Ladakh, however, looks like the pictorial representation of the word - Picturesque. The brown barren highlands canopied by the divine blue sky-scape with white Van Gogh-ish swirls makes you forget the travails of traveling - including sun-burns and frost-bites. Leh, the capital of Ladakh, has hitherto been a secluded haven for adventurers, trekkers and bikers (predominantly foreigners). It's only after the release of "3 Idiots", a Bollywood blockbuster, Ladakh caught the fancy of Indian youth. Result - the number of Indian tourists tripled this year.


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The map of world keeps changing. As of now, Jammu is Hindu, Kashmir is Muslim, and Ladakh is Buddhist. Thankfully, since it is difficult to misinterpret Buddhism beyond a point, Ladakh is peaceful. But with Kashmir in west and Tibet in east, with disturbances flowing in from both the sides, the prospects of peace looks precarious in future. Take this - our Kashmiri driver refused to take tea from our hosts in Leh, because they were Buddhists (as he confided to Farida, a friend and our trip organizer).

Ladakh is home to the thousands of refugees from Tibet, who make their living by selling "Free Tibet" T-shirt to the tourists. Their religious leader, His Honorable Dalai Lama, spends most of his time chit-chatting with white women and feeling great about it. His Ray-Ban photographs are worshipped in monasteries. He is second only to Buddha, or it may well be the other way round.

India's foreign policy is interesting. With natural enemies like Pakistan and Bangladesh around, they have to displease China by providing recognition to this phony coward and his so-called "government-in-exile". Tibet is a part of China, so is Aksai Chin*, and India can do nothing about it anyway. Going back in time, Mao was not the least unreasonable in rejecting the validity of McMahon Line, considering it a part of colonial legacy. 1962 happened because Nehru was blind to Reason. Still, despite winning the war, China didn't annex Ladakh, Sikkim, and Tawang, which are still part of Sino-India controversy. Today, when China is fighting against the ubiquitous Islamic separatist movement in Xianjing, and when India is emerging as the next Asian economic power, the motivation for their alliances is multifold and the potential benefits are immense. India simply cannot afford strained relation with China. But Delhi has its reasons that Reason cannot understand.

* China needed Aksai Chin to connect Xianjing to Tibet by Road.

Kashmir 2010

What I can write is nothing but a recollection of an impression. And if I were to be honest, even this impression is not mine. It’s borrowed. And I share it with countless others. Open your windows and you can smell it. It’s blowing in the wind.

But no perspective is superfluous, as long as it is unique, and more importantly, interesting. Since I can’t care for the uninterested, and I have no means to ascertain the uniqueness of my perspective, the worth of my effort, in my own eyes, is nothing if it is not completely and entirely mine. To the least, I can be honest with myself. I can hold to my memory which is fading every passing day. I can still close the windows to keep the wind out. If I have to smell the truth, I have to breathe in the stale air.





A rather prosaic way to talk about an experience which should be rather poetic, isn’t? Well, excuse me ladies, but romance is unseasonable in Kashmir these days. And poetry is clichéd if not entirely anachronistic; and if I were Kashmir, I would be tired of the dull talks of Dal and Shikara ride. Well, no milk for me, and no sugar please. Make it hard this time. Allow me to taste the reality.


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Some people dismiss reputation as nonsense. I don’t. I believe that no bias can stand without a base. Kashmiri Pundits are said to be the Jews of Valley – rich, and cunning. That might be true. However, that can not be a valid justification to target them, loot them, rape them, murder them, and scare them out of the valley. Almost all well-known Hindu temples are known to be full of filth, noise, corruption, and worst forms of materialism. A majority of Hindu pilgrims are known to be a mob of hooligan loafers. And many Hindu priests are known to be molesters and scamsters. But can these things justify a systematic attack on an entire civilization? After all, who is beyond reproach? Who will throw the first stone?

In Kashmir, however, everyone is throwing stones. In light-hearted mood, the locals call it “One Day Cricket”. Though forbidden in Islam, pelting stones is a latest strategy of Jehad, suggested by Lashkar and supervised by Hurriyat. Go out in mob and throw those beamers on Jawans. Make them play, which they eventually will, and then cry out loud that “innocents” have been targeted. Don’t hold a gun else you will be treated as a terrorist. Hold a stone and you remain one of the faceless nameless “innocent” protesters. Since December 2008, after Friday prayers, bowling games are played in the streets of Srinagar.

Before the army was deployed, these innocent people played the role of helpless neighbours when Pundits were targeted and ousted by the “terrorists”. Those were the days of JKLF, the local avatar of Lashkar, a gang of misdirected youth. They were popular then. And why not, the innocent neighbours were the direct beneficiaries of their gun-toting adventures. But soon the redistribution of wealth was over, and the JKLF goons were resented for their amorous ambitions. Now powerful, they were beginning to mess with the existing caste system. Understandably, since utility was exhausted, support was withdrawn. Yasin Malik, the reformed Robinhood, finally married a Pakistani and retired into oblivion after his "change of heart".

Lashkar & Co, on the other hand, found another ally in Hurriyat, a congress of Mullahs. Now when Kafirs were ousted, what remained were their footprints. Before they should trace their path back home, their footprints had to be erased for good. No home for Kafirs in Dar al-Islam. So Anantnag was rechristened as "Islamabad" in Kashmiri newspeak.

Throughout my stay, the Lal Chowk area of Srinagar was kelpt under curfew. Gilani, the Hurriyat mastermind, had issued a week’s program for the people. On Monday, while I was in Gulmarg, schoolchildren were to bunk schools and come out on the streets. Why should kids be involved in their political games, I asked a shopkeeper. What do they know about these things? Why should they be deprived of education, and a life that education provides? And after all, in Free Kashmir or in India, these kids will have to support a family when they grow up. Hurriyat mullahs are not likely to share the dough that they receive from their Lashkar masters. What I heard from him reminded me of the Nazi Germany. Jehad was on, and lack of enthusiastic cooperation would be interpreted as treason. Parents, principals, and students are expected to toe the line without questions, without doubt, and without fail. Hurriyat has no use of the likes of Dr Shah Faisal.

It's imporant to understand economics to understand politics. The economics of Lal Chowk is interesting. The economics of other parts of Srinagar is different. Tourists are not touched because they are useful. No wonder we could come out unscathed out of "the burning streets of Srinagar".


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Ordinary people believe ordinary ideas, like ignorance is a deadly sin; when coupled with complacence, it becomes deadlier, and stubbornness makes it the deadliest. Man must be wary of them. But Nehru was not ordinary. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. With that silver spoon, and the power that followed, he could afford a few sins. He was another Shahjehan, and so he could afford another Tajmahal. Being a dreamy-eyed poet, he could see whatever he wanted to. And let’s not forget, he was a gifted wizard. He could hypnotise, and show whatever he felt like. He could charm a lady. He could conjure up a rainbow in midnight. And he could even fancy secularism in an Islamic state. After all, to his intellectual eyes, invasion of one race on another was just like a geological event, a cute confluence of two rivers!

Time was on his side, the world was at his feet, and he carried on with his elite contempt towards common wisdom. Meanwhile, his destiny waited for his tryst with his nemesis. Thanks to Mao, Nehru died a wiser man, but by then he had already left a legacy of his schizophrenic idealism, his youthful romance, on his ordinary progeny. Before his sunset, perhaps he would have wanted to deliver a characteristically dramatic speech to share his coming-of-age realizations. But the blow was so hard, and so late, that he could not stand up on his legs. When the curtain fell, he was a man with broken legs and broken heart. Typical Greek Tragedy – Hubris, Hamartia, and Catharsis; he must have read it all. But reading and understanding are very different things; as different as Abhimanyu and Arjun, as different as death and life!

Talking of Kashmiri people, Peace and Justice they deserve. But freedom they do not, since freedom is usually synonymous with land, and land is not only theirs. They share their land with many others who they have forgotten. Also, before anything else, it should be understood that no political party in India would ever dare to support the secession of Kashmir. The maximum they can get from Delhi is sympathy.

But they deserve more than mere sympathy. India calls itself a secular state. This is a challenging undertaking and it takes tough character to take challenging undertakings. Delhi must act tough. The idea of India is on fire. Nehru’s lab – or Tajmahal - is on fire. What Kashmir needs is a team of fire-fighters – the men of characters like Beant Singh and a KPS Gill. And a green signal from Delhi to launch a crackdown on separatists. Pakistan was enough of nonsense. It’s an open secret that the demand for freedom of Kashmir is a veiled attempt to annex another piece of land by the Muslim extremists, who are well-funded by Pakistan. What they fail to realize is that the non-Muslim majority of India can’t be reasonably subjected to the ideology of secularism for long if the only state with Muslim majority rejects the same. Secularism cannot be a unilateral responsibility. The breach of contract from one side would encourage the same from another. The freedom of Kashmir would mean a death of secularism in India. Having said that, what was done to the Hindus in Kashmir cannot be done to the Muslims in India. Muslims can’t be ousted from India, and therefore Kashmir can’t be given away. Kashmir is where the idea of secularism and modern India must prevail. To save India, this lab must be saved.

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Finally, I will reflect upon a curious pattern that I have observed. All across the non-Muslim world, Muslims are increasingly known to be trouble-making “terrorists”. As I had previously said, I don’t dismiss reputations. At the same time, my personal experience suggests that a Muslim man is usually honest, soft-spoken, and warm individual. Better than an average Hindu any day, if you ask me. Collectively, however, Hindus are exceptionally hospitable and tolerant. Individually, Hindus win Olympic medals in all the martial games. Collectively, they are considered cowards by others. This irony is interesting. I will think about it.

On Naxalism

- Folks, today we will talk about Naxalism. Are you interested?

- Yes Sir.

- Fine. Let's start. In your opinion, what do you think Naxalism is?

- Naxalism is, apart from things that neither matter nor makes sense, killing obscure people in obscure places with a unique stamp of barbarity.

- What doesn't matter? What doesn't make sense?

- What they think doesn't matter and what they do doesn't make much sense. As a class struggle, Naxalism contradicts itself. Let me draw an interesting parallel.

A few months back Raj Thakare spawned venom against Biharis. Biharis in turn retaliated by vanadalizing railway tracks and trains coming from/going to Mumbai. What made this rather grim issue ridiculous is their failing to realize a simple fact - that only Biharis travel in these trains, Marathis don't.

- You mean to say that it is foolish to kill fellow proletariat to fight against bourgeoisie.

- Rather ridiculous, and pathetic.

- OK. In the wake of the Dantewada massacre, I am sure you will support the popular demand of launching the severest possible crackdown against the Naxalites.

- On the contrary.

- Why?

- Because effect must not be confused with cause; effect is not cause, it is effected by cause.

In this context, Naxalism is mere effect, not the cause. The cause is something else. It is naive to think that Naxalism will finish with the Naxalites. Clipping the leaves won't kill the plant.

- It did kill the plant in Punjab.

- Well, this plant is not ideological, it is rooted deeper in soil. Remember - there is no Naxalism in metros.

- I will take you point. Go ahead.

- To understand Naxalism, we have to be ready to change our vantage point to see the other version of the story. Also, we have to define the words that we use.

If Naxalism is seen as internal terrorism, it's simple. And simplistic.

But if it is seen as a war against the spirit of law, I have reasons to believe that what we call Naxalism is just one type of Naxalism - let's call it rural-Naxalism. There exists its binary opposite - urban-Naxalism, which is found in metros. However, the influential law-breakers sit in parliament, others are branded as Naxals.

Putting crudely, whereas the former is Jhatka, the latter is Halaal. Both kill, the difference is that the Halaal kills coldly and slowly, and it is permitted in books. Also, whereas the former is sensational and spectacular, the latter is subtle and sophisticated. Whereas the former's effectiveness lies in making noise, the latter's efficacy depends on maintaining a clinical silence. But in spirit, both are essentially the same. And as far as cause and effect is considered, I am sure that the latter is the cause. Delhi is the headquarter of Naxalism.

- That's extraordinary. You are saying that the real Naxalites sit in Delhi!

- Of course. And in other parts of India, which is a collection of discrete "comfortably numb" islands of swimming pools and "Rain Dance" in the vast desert of drought and thirst called Bharat.

- So, what do you think should be done?

- To begin with, Bisleri should be banned. Those who steal and subsequently sell people's property in market should be put behind bars. Selling water is understandable as unorganized crime but not as institutionalized business. After all, you do not grow water. It is a crime to systematically deprive people of their most fundamental right - natural resources. This whole thing reeks of connivance, and conspiracy against people.

The people should be given what they deserve as citizens - not as charity and welfare programs but as their long overdue fundamental right.

Bharat has been paying dearly for the games India play. Delhi spends more in cosmetics than entire North-East spends in education and health. Dams are built in villages and power is wired to cities for their "Rain Dance". And the dispossessed people of Bharat are left to stand in scorching sun begging on India's red-lights. This has to change.

- Because disparity causes discontent.

- Not just disparity, but the remorseless show-off of it. Why do you think farmers commit suicide in Andhra but not in neighboring Orissa?

- But does that vindicate violence?

- That is violence, though of halaal type. Thanks to jhatka we are even talking about the victims of violence. Though these idiots have been killing animals of their own type, the urgency of the matter is being realized.

Democracy is based on a possibility of rebellion. The ruling class must not be made to be complacent and indifferent to people. The earliest symbol of people's will - Guillotine - must be installed outside a parliament as a reminder.

- Instead, the parliament is planning to initiate an full-fledged assault on the Naxalite bastions. Perhaps armed forces will be deployed to counterstrike them.

- There has been a perpetual conflict between those who want Justice/change and those who want Peace/status quo. However, decisions like this would further vindicate the Naxalites' propaganda. The state will further alienate itself from people.

This is a sorry situation. First brand them all mad, and then shoot them all.

I will conclude with a these two lines -

पहले तो होश छीन लिए ज़ुल्म-ओ-सितम से,
दीवानगी का फिर हमें इलज़ाम दिया है

Multiplex Democracy

- Let's talk something.

- What should we talk about?

- What are people talking about?

- Well, I don't know about that. But the breaking news and headlines suggest that people are talking about IPL and My Name is Khan.

- I am not sure about people, but media is indeed talking about My Name is Khan. And they are talking about it non-stop day and night.

All we have on media nowadays is this movie, the making of this movie, interviews, clippings, bites, teasers, opinions, polls, and God knows what. It saturates you to the extent that it feels nauseating just to have a look at news. I am sure this is not the news our parents and teachers wanted us to watch.

- That's right. But media is trying to mobilize people to support this movie.

- But why on earth media would want to support a movie? Is this what media is supposed to do?

- Perhaps they think this is how we can defy the Sena effectively. And defying Sena is crucial for us if we value freedom.

- Defying Sena makes sense, because we do value freedom. And if they have brought us to a point where we have to defy them to move around, so be it. If they should be defied, they must be defied.

So far, so good.

But I maintain that media should understand its role and should restrict itself to the making up of national opinion and conscience. It is not supposed to usurp the responsibilities of other institutions, especially judiciary. It is there to ensure that they function properly. Also, media should learn from its mistakes - it had shown remarkable incompetence in the infamous Aarushi case when it had gone out of the way, conducted trials, passed judgments, and made the mess of everything, to the embarrassment of all.

Moreover, I wonder how can we make a political decision by making a commercial move? How can buying tickets of a movie be the best way of defying Sena?

- Why? Don't you buy gifts to express love?

There is a connection. Mahatma Gandhi knew this connection when he started his Swadeshi movement. This movie has become a symbolic ground of a war between those who value freedom and those who deny others their freedom.

- Sounds impressive. But still smells fishy.

- Why?

- Well, I have some doubts in my mind.

- Go on, I am listening.

- OK, then listen.

Media frequently shows that it has no sense of history. History, as I see it, is the memory we could not get rid of. History - unforgettable memory. These memories dominate our thoughts, and shape our prejudices. The idea is not to ignore history but to deal with it in an adult fashion. Media frequently feigns innocence, and naivety, while dealing with complex issues, particularly the India-Pakistan issue. The whole IPL and subsequently MNIK controversy has been engendered by people's sensitivity for this issue combined with media's penchant to allow itself to be abused by power-brokers.

Also, issues and symbols are in plenty around us. For starters, IPL and MNIK are non-issues. It is media which has chosen to make a movie a symbol of a holy war, because those who run these media houses might possibly have stakes in this movie, or showbiz in general. And these people might possibly like to take commercial advantage of a political situation.

- I have heard this before. What else?

- I feel that the disconnect between the sensibilities of the media and people is huge, and the gulf of mutual indifference is widening day by day. Men indulge themselves in news in same way as women indulge themselves in soaps, for distraction and "time-pass". The beginning of mutual contempt doesn't augur well for democracy.

I do not want to sound pessimistic. But what can I do - trying to sound optimistic is harder. Let me try to explain - when you wake up, take a good look at the map of India. Tell me which part do you think is free.

Look at the North-East, the seven step-sisters of the mainland India. You must have heard about the epic fast of Irom Sharmila. I hope the sight of those naked women parading with the banner reading "Rape Us" must still be fresh in your memory.

Now allow your attention to fall on this huge black Naxalite blot in the east. I am sure you must be aware of Salwa Judum, or of the conflicts that involve the likes of Binayak Sen and Himanshu Kumar and thousands others.

The east will be east, you might say. Oh don't say that. Don't be so condescending. Come North, please. You might have been living a Revlon life in Gurgaon for last ten years or so without ever having to hear about Khap, the local avatar of Taliban.

The worst is still to be seen but I will not detain you for long. Let's go straight to South. Come on.

- What are you coming at?

- I will tell you. We have just had a glimpse at the map of India. Could you please look at the map again, and locate the region that you consider free?

- I don't understand...

- Then why only Mumbai? And why only Sena and movie stars? When media is busy talking about stars and promoting their movies, who will talk about people? Who will talk about them, their lives and their freedom? Who will free them? Who will ask the answers to real questions involving (but not limited to) irrigation, public distribution system, land reforms, public health care, primary education, environment, gender ratio, inclusive growth, human rights, police act, naxalism, famines, droughts, floods etc?

On 13th Jan 2010, Satish Shetty was gunned down in broad daylight. Who was he, one might ask. Well, the answer lies in the question itself.

- Please don't talk in riddles.

- Satish Shetty was one of those rare men who we would need to enjoy what we do not deserve - a self-centered life of assured democracy. He was a whistle-blower who made enough noise to stop what starts to happen when all of us keep silence. He used the ultimate weapon we have been given - R.T.I. - and thwarted many anti-people projects. In his way he happened to frustrate those who could not defeat him by the rules of ring. Despite his humble background, he made himself important enough to get assassinated. Living by courage and integrity reminiscent of mythological characters, he has earned a place from where he can inspire. He is the type of man who we would like to support.

It is he who needs to be hailed as a hero. It is his story that needs to be talked about.

But the problem with media is - either they wont talk, or they talk ad nauseam. Vishal Bharadwaj is either an anonymous nobody, or a Tarantino. And till the time he is not a Tarantino, he is a nobody. There is no middle ground. They don't seem to realize that the language of hyperbole defeats its own purpose. You respect Vishal Bharadwaj for what he is till somebody compares him to Tarantino. There is another caveat to this - since they don't see enough dynamite in an ordinary Satish Shetty to blast ad nauseam, they wont even mention him.

- Instead, they will collect and distribute trivia of the cardboard heroes.

- You said it! Media is obsessed with limelight, and celebrity worship. When you urge people to cast their votes in multiplexes, you know what type of hero and what type of democracy you are making, and supporting. Over and out.

Pakistan a parody, a country-cum-comedy

Pakistan: betrayed by one league* and humiliated by the other; a useless experiment but a useful example, a tragedy of errors, a lesson learned belatedly.

Poor Pakistanis, trapped in Pakistan the inherited curse, the hole dug by their fathers! How they would like to correct the clock, and be a part of what's happening in their neighborhood, even for a brief while! Oh Jinnah, can you hear, and bear - your players want to play in India!

And why just them? Your singers come to sing in India. Your people are cooking "Indian food" in "Indian restaurants" all across Europe and America. India - the sun of your solar system, the land of your opportunities, especially for those who hate it the most. While Allah plays on their lips, it is India that plays on their minds.

India: a sobering reminder of the mistakes committed in passion; a tree that does not stop growing and bearing bitter fruits of envy, a brother whose god-damn seniority doesn't seem to diminish with years passing by.

China is, thankfully, bigger. China - Pakistan's consolation.

What's this fuss for? Pakistanis want to sell themselves but the Indians refuse to buy them. And that is an obvious violation of their national right. Can anyone ever deny Pakistanis their part of the Indian pie? They got it in 1947, they will get it again, peacefully or otherwise. India should not make mistake of dismissing Pakistan just because it is in tatters and walks begging around to anyone-who-cares to spare some change. Despite everything non-respectable, Pakistan should be respected for being a neighbor, and for its nuisance value.

Pakistan - the local eunuch you must be scared of.

Cricket commentators claim that cricket can cure. They believe that the cricketers are the white pigeons of peace. On the other hand the government** of Pakistan has condemned politics in cricket, and warned that this is not only insensitive but also retrogressive on India's part. Such irresponsible behavior is liable to aggravate situation in Kashmir and foment violence in Baluchistan. In that case, the government of Pakistan will not be able to do anything about 26/11.

Meanwhile, to deal with the national crisis, and to heal the emotional wound inflicted by the snobbish neighbor, the government feels obliged to ban the Indian movies and channels. This will, among other things, revive the careers of the actresses who had to resort to Mujra dance in private functions.

After Pokhran, Daddy Bhutto declared that people of Pakistan will eat grass but they will get atomic weapons. He did what he had said. It is hard to find grass in Pakistan anymore. Weapons, however, are everywhere. Time beckons the people of Pakistan to show the fire in their faith again. Let the Pakistani corporate (ahem) come ahead and buy their players at double the rate they would have got here. In case they need grass, others can oblige.

* Muslim League and Indian Premier League.
** whatever.

Infernal Spirituality

In the hell, as one would reasonably speculate, virtually everything is infernal. The inmates of the hell are perpetually possessed by the seven infernal ghosts. And when an infernal speaks, a gray lizard leaps out of mouth and spits dark venom fuming with an infernal hatred. In an infernal complicity, the nostrils would burst out black lathers of smoke, and the eyes would lash out infernal violence.

In the hell, ugly is not untrue. If it sounds terrible, so it is.

Perhaps worse than that, since hell is name of the Shawshank where even hope of redemption is mocked at. Even the God has been, so to say, infernalized. After being carved in gold and glittery, He has been given a kingdom, a virgin, a gun, and an absolute power to do whatever He would like to do with them. His sloth is salvation for Man. His gluttony is waited on, His pride is flattered, and His wrath is pacified. His phallus is washed by milk.

He was reportedly heard saying "yada yada... sambhavami yuge yuge". Perhaps Dharma has not decayed enough for Him to descend. Perhaps He is waiting for the Dharma to decay more enough, and meanwhile, He is getting His phallus washed.

On the other hand, oblivious to their sins, or incorrigibly impenitent, the inmates of hell cross their hearts and pray - "O almighty Lord! Please accept my humble offerings. And have mercy on me. I will come to your shrine on your next eleven birthdays if you bless me. Give her to me; if you can not, then kill her so that no one gets her. Amen."

To the infernal God - the God of gold and the God of gore - they bring their hard-stolen herd of cattle to sacrifice. They cross their hearts, make the bleeding obeisance, and cross their hearts again.

As Shaw would swear, hell is hell of an interesting place, where sacrifice is not only painless but also delicious. Hell has life, especially in night, with loud-speakers blaring on. With neon-light dinners more than making up, even fasting is fun. In hell, religion has work-arounds, and short-cuts. You just need to have the right resources.

Home and Home-Coming

Any sincere search of truth must begin with a confession. Let me confess - I am home, and I am feeling homesick.

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I lie down on my bed and wonder - What is home? Where is it? Was it home that I had left years ago? Was it home that I have lost in the years bygone? I guess so, no matter how strange it might seem to me now. I have left home multiple times, though leaving home was never easy for me. Taking that fearful step, the step from the perch into the vast depth of air was never easy. I dreaded it, and I took considerably long time to get used to it. But now when I am finally used to the vastness of air, I don't like sitting on the sticky perch anymore.

Till recently, home has never been a simple word in my dictionary, till I finally decided to simplify its meaning in order to get rid of an unworthy inconvenience sitting heavily on my back. Now, I have finally decided to choose brevity over the labyrinthine details of an irrelevant truth, for which no one, including me, had any patience.

To me, home is not a place any more, it's a memory - the home to all the home-towns. Every winter, sitting on a silent ray of a morning sun, or on a tiny droplet of a piano tune, my memories come to visit me. Lifting me in their white feathery arms, they would touch me tenderly, ruffle my hair, and make me feel like a child in the warmth of their embrace. Safe home, I would fall fast asleep.

But when I would wake up, I would be homeless again. When monsoon arrives, I would go home in search of my memories, looking for anything that could remind me of my lost past, but I wouldn't find anything familiar.

"...and that wherever they might be they always remember that the past was a lie, that memory has no return, that every spring gone by could never be recovered, and that the wildest and most tenacious love was an ephemeral truth in the end." - One Hundred Years of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)

When I would visit my foster home, people there would ask me, "where are you from?" And I wouldn't know what to say to that. In an imaginary nostalgia, I would look around to find the traces of my childhood, but I would see nothing. In the end, I would end up feeling like an outsider in my own home.

I have certainly experienced the sweet forgotten feeling of home-coming. But ironically, and miraculously, I have experienced home-coming only when I was exiled away. It's a rare, and a distinct feeling, which is vague but equally intense, and which I cherish in the innermost safe of my heart. When I have felt it, I have felt it in the air. I have felt it in my blood, on my skin, everywhere. Around 5 years back, on June 27th, the day I had set my foot in Pune, I had felt the same. I knew I was home, but I didn't know how.

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While I was in IIT Delhi, I had visited JNU by chance. And I had instantly felt that "this is the place to be". Away from the frenetic war-cries of our campus, where the rats burnt their youth running in a blind urgency to be yet another brick to fit in the wall, JNU was a forested haven, where the ceiling didn't seem to descend on your head to suffocate you, where air was less oppressive and breathing was easier, where mind was allowed the minimum peace and leisure to unfold itself. It felt like a home to me.

But I couldn't stay there since I had to return to the kiln.

After years of oblivion, I came back to JNU. Though Tapti could hardly afford the comforts I had corrupted myself with, I didn't mind and the discomfort didn't matter. For I had come back to a beloved's arms, after all. And I didn't feel like going anywhere else. While sitting under the black umbrella, on top of the rocks resonating string sounds, in the warmth of the hundred flames burning dimly all around, I knew I was home.

Life is a Marathon

"If you want to win something, run 100 meters; if you want to experience something, run a marathon." - Emil Zatopek

Last year, I had participated in the 10K marathon, which is conducted every year in Hyderabad. The spirit of Hyderabad was showing itself even before sunrise. At 5:30 on a Sunday morning, when the only place one would like to be is his bed, there was virtually no place to stand on the Necklace road. People of both the sexes and all ages had covered every inch of the road. The mood was festive and refreshing, and the atmosphere was enthusiastic - as it would probably have been on the 15th August, 1947.

I had completed that run without any problem. In fact, I completed that run with a sprint in the end. When I do that, I feel that the conquest was comprehensive.

This year, last Sunday, I participated in the half-marathon - 21.1 kms.

Like last year, I had made my own set of rules for the run - no water, no walk, and no rest in between. It might sound rather arrogant, but it was not so. Though I concede that it was a little ambitious. In any case, I kept my rules only to myself. To make this all possible, I allowed myself a little leniency - I chose to overlook my speed, or the lack of it. I decided to run, nay jog, slowly. In long distance run, I tactically maintain such a speed that I may not run out of breath. And in doing so, I allow others, including old men and women, to run past me. I don't take hurt usually. I don't feel defeated. In unusual times, I find a ready consolation in the severity of my rules.

As a matter of principle, I would rather keep competition away from the marathon track. Not because I am not competitive enough, which may or may not be relevant to the point, but because I believe that the nature of marathon is primarily introspective, in which the presence of others is merely incidental. Besides, unless I am excited, I do not put too much premium on winning anyway. Especially in marathon, in my opinion, speed shouldn't matter much. All that should matter is running with the spirit of marathon, and taking the pain in the marathon way.

Why do I run? As far as I am concerned, I run because I enjoy running. I love to sweat. If that doesn't sound literary enough, then I have alternative explanation - I run to soothe my curiosity. I run to seek an answer, to probe my perseverance in an optional crisis. I run to try my will and test my endurance - my response to pain, as it were.

As I have mentioned earlier, running is introspective in nature - like praying, or preening. It involves an interview with self. As far as others are concerned, if I ever feel anything for them, I feel a sense of pride. I feel proud of them because I witness each of them fighting his/her case hard against his/her own private prosecutor. At the same time I feel a sympathy for them because I look at them in terms of their pain, and their response to their pain. With fellow sufferers, there can be no rivalry.

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The event started at 5.30 sharp from KBR park main gate, and I started with my tried and tested plan. Just a matter of time, I assured myself. The sun was still behind the bushes. Though the sky was clear, and clouds were playing truant, it was a timely and therefore an auspicious start. I was not afraid of getting tired, but I was bit wary of getting bored. So I plugged my ears and played on the music. Don't crib and don't cry, I told my body as I pressed the play button, for I won't be able to listen to you. The finishing line beckoned me. Today was my day.

I jogged slowly through the Jubilee Hills area, without water, without walk, and without rest of course. Many lesser runners ran past me, and I forgave them thinking "Life is a Marathon" and hoping to set the records straight in the last laps with my "eye-opener" sprint. Apart from my plan, I found solace in my imagination.

I imagined myself as an unsung tail-ender who walked to the pitch with a will to save a test. He batted bravely, in an empty stadium, for a lost cause, with an intensity so unfamiliar that it seemed rather grotesque to the onlookers. But he was well aware of his rights, and he had willed to make them wait. He had willed to surprise the dressing room. This day was his day, a hero was about to be made.

Keep watching, people. Keep running, hero.

No matter how ridiculous it was, I was serious about it. I wanted her to be present at the finishing line to behold my post 21.1 kms sprint with eyes opened wide with awe and surprise. However, there was a little problem with that prospect. I didn't want to wake her up. And she had no means to know when she should reach there, unless she was called up and told. But I was determined not to stop for any call, any reason, any excuse, any temptation. "Keep Running", her sms had said.

Unlike last year, there were no rock bands flanking the track, and drumming and singing to boost our morale. But it was still a special event. The policemen were everywhere and the traffic was made to wait for us. On both sides of the road, as I passed the HiTech City, I saw people watching us with amused eyes, unless they got something to ogle at. And there was something to ogle at. I heard that people from many places, especially Bangalore and Bombay, had come only to take part in this event. There were vans and wagons passing by, carrying banners and cheering the runners. There was never so much fun in the run. I was delighted to get so much matter for my next post. Little did I know then that matter was no less tyrannical and no less rapacious than man. It could eat a man alive. I was running dangerously.

"Marathoning is like cutting yourself unexpectedly. You dip into the pain so gradually that the damage is done before you are aware of it. Unfortunately, when awareness comes, it is excruciating." - John Farrington

I wish I knew that earlier. But life is not known to offer any crash couse. In fact, it has a reputation of a strict teacher who tests first and teaches later. After 12+ kms of test, by the time I neared Novotel, I was able to listen to the cries of my knees despite the music plugged into my ears. I chastised myself for the hectic yesterday followed by the half-slept yesternight. To buoy up my spirit, I suspected that it was the crape-bandage that needed to be redone. I slowed but that didn't help me much. I had to stop. The pain was unbearable. I couldn't ignore it, and I couldn't respond to it in any other way. As I sat down to untie my bandage, my oath was broken.

Relax, every rule has its exception, I tried to rationalize. I untied the crape and tied it again, hoping change would make things better. But things were to be worsened further. My private prosecutor was hostile and his arguments were cogent. I could not refute my 5 years old ligament tear, which had returned to implicate me right in the middle of my half-marathon. My knees had kneeled me down.

I obeyed Khalil Gibran, rested a while in reason, and after having the situation reassessed, I was ready to compromise. I was anxious to negotiate a deal, but nobody answered the door when I knocked. My body denied ears to my cries. I could hardly walk, and I could not walk without a limp. The finishing line seemed too far to beckon me anymore. In 10-20 minutes, my case was lost.

Thankfully, though I had lost it, I was not looking like a loser to others. I was one of them, dawdling along with pedestrian expectations. However, when I looked into the mirror of my mind, I saw a miles long walk towards the pavilion. The tail-ender had failed again. The hero was spanked, lined up, and was made to wear his underwear over his trousers. It was humiliating. And it was surreal - neither tired, nor bored, and still not running. The despair, weighing heavy on my mind, demanded its logical conclusion; and the wise idea of giving it up crossed my mind. I called her up and confessed - I am walking.

Disappointed with the mirror, I looked elsewhere. And as it happens, the indiscriminate fell on the immediate - a woman who looked in her late thirties. With thick glasses over her eyes and a water-bottle in her right hand, she was a spectacle struggling her way despite all problems possible. "Only for ladies and handicapped", I reflected with a bitter cynicism. Real men were nowhere to be seen. Even the unreal ones had moved on. Only housewives and handicapped men like me were hanging around. I wasn't proud of my company anymore.

As I passed close to Whitefields, my home, I saw the marathon staff and policemen standing there and giving direction to the johnny walkers. I half wanted to leave, but couldn't gather enough shamelessness to break the line, run away and go home. Had I turned anywhere, I would have turned traitor. I had to walk straight. I could not fail my fellow sufferers. I had lost my pride, but I had to save my dignity, and others' too. The lady reminded me - the marathon was still on, and I couldn't fail its spirit. Even in my crippled capacity, I still had to do my best. There was no other choice. This was life. "Life is a Marathon" - I was beginning to understand it.