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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

Lazy Initialization

A well-dressed, rather well-fed kid with thick glasses on his eyes walking with his gray-haired, grand-fatherly father is becoming an increasingly common sight in our postmodern establishments and colonies. When I see them - the kid and his arthritic father - I feel more and more certain of the opinion that the generation gap is increasing with every generation. I wonder how often they talk, the kid and his old father. And how much they share, or understand, when they do.

On the other hand, at 30 something, SM - one of my good friends - is young enough to play football and dabble in photography, while surviving in an industry which is full of hopeless workaholics. For a man who is married and whose son is old enough to be in intermediate, his youth is a refreshing sight.

He got married when he was still in his teens; when he was still innocent and his wife was still charming. Today, when his innocence and her charm has depreciated, he says he regrets his marriage, but only to the extent any married man does. Not more, he smiles. Perfect marriage is a myth anyway, he says with his post-marriage wisdom, and it is idiotic to wait for the perfect match. Early marriages might be old-fashioned but at least they allowed the couples to adjust with each other before they are stiffened by rigor mortis.

He feels satisfied that he can connect to his son much easier than many fathers of his son's friends. After all, SM is still a young man! And he is hopeful that he will be able to take his passion - photography - more seriously once he gets rid of his fatherly responsibilities, in next 5-10 years. But what about the grand-fathers?

Late marriage leads to larger generation gap and adjustment nightmares. But that's not all.

Deprived of sex, men and women lock themselves in their private rooms, where they indulge in their sweet sex-thoughts. We corrupt ourselves with an abandon, fearing nothing but exposure. The civilization converts a man into a metaphor - we know what to show and what to hide. Under the aegis of a fetish called career, we abstain till we get sick with what we abstain from. But it's alright, since it's an individual choice - to be or not to be (a pervert). But unlike physical sickness, perversion is not completely individual - it has social consequences.

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

Nityanand, the IITK graduate and a GE engineer, who was caught last month by US police in case of cyber-pedophilia, might not be less conscientious than you and I. He was just less lucky than us - he got caught in his private room act. He did chase a child, but does that make him a child-chaser, a wolf? Was he an inveterate pervert who just happened to be good at Math? Perhaps not, perhaps he was a regular pervert like you and I, but got caught in his weak moment.

Whatever, he will be known forever as a child-chaser. He was chasing a child, wasn't he? But what was it that chased him? What was it that played tricks on his mind. What was it that took him near the edge, and in that weak moment, pushed him down, making him a random victim - when he was found fallen, his face looked distorted with lust. He looked like a deterrent.

The idea is not to go too close to the edge. The idea is to realize that if you deny drinking clean water when you are thirsty, you will end up drinking dirty water when the thirst becomes irrepressible. We have collectively chosen to deny clean water. That's why we are flooded by dirty water everywhere. Now the dirty water is leaking into our homes. What do we do now?

My 10 Favorite Monsoon Songs

I am one of those ordinary millions who can feel the beauty but can not express beauty beautifully. All I can express is my heartfelt gratitude to those who burned their nights and churned their hearts to discover beauty for us. This little list is a tribute to all such artists, even to those who have not got a mention here. I plead guilty of ignorance.

1. Ghata Ghanghor Bhor (Tansen, 1943)

Music - Khemchand Prakash
Lyrics - Rajender Kishen
Singer - Khursheed Bano

Which contemporary musician can even attempt to work on a musical, in which the protagonist is the mythology of classical music - Tansen! There is no one that I can think of.

Tansen was brought to life on silver screen, in all glory and opulence, amid the sound of temple bells tolling and Sitar resonating till the halls of heaven. In 1943 we had a man called Khemchand Prakash, who promised, and delivered us a credible Tansen.

Tansen showcases super-prowess of the legendary K L Saigal, in and as Tansen. And his reel consort - Khursheed Bano - matches him well. The prelude casts a spell on you as soon as you press 'play', and her earthy rendition keeps you mesmerized throughout. Unknown to the ordinary, this gem is an explorer's delight.


2. Hariyala Saawan Dhol Bajata Aaya (Do Beegha Zameen, 1953)

Music - Salil Chowdhury
Lyrics - Shailendra
Singers - Lata Mangeshkar, Manna De, and Chorus

Which feeling can be more liberating than feeling of relief? And who can feel more relieved by the promise of rains than the poor Indian farmer? Do Beegha Zameen is rooted deep into the soil, and so is its music. The way I look at it, this song is a musical translation of a rainy afternoon. When you play this song, monsoon plays vividly in your imagination. Every note is fragrant with rustic innocence, and though shehnai is sparingly used, it is lovable wherever it is used.


3. Kaare Kaare Baadra (Bhabhi, 1957)

Music - Chitragupt
Lyrics - Rajinder Kishan
Singer - Lata Mangeshkar

Whenever I relax my reverence for Lata Mangeshkar, she comes up with something like this! Vibrant, vivacious, and contagiously so. Pure joie de vivre! The mood of this melody is coquettish and cute at the same time. And for me, there is something more - nostalgia.


4. Kaali Ghata Chhaye (Sujata, 1959)

Music - S D Burman
Lyrics - Majrooh Sultanpuri
Singer - Asha Bhosle

Asha Bhosle, in her early days, sounded (tried to sound) very much like Geeta Dutt - mellifluous, as if she kept honey in her mouth while singing. Or is it love? For her voice is seductively lazy with a monsoon desire. While Senior Burman's compositions have always been distinguished by their compelling visual elements, this one goes further - and veritably fills your lungs with the petrichor of an Indian village.


5. O Sajna Barkha Bahaar Aayi (Parakh, 1060)

Music - Salil Chowdhury
Lyrics - Shailendra
Singers - Lata Mangeshkar

My opinion doesn't matter much. This song makes an appearance in Lata Mangeshkar's favorite-20 list. Need I say more?


6. Zindagi Bhar Nahi Bhoolegi (Barsaat Ki Raat, 1960)

Music - Roshan
Lyrics - Sahir Ludhianvi
Singers - Md Rafi

A beautiful confluence of a common fantasy and a sublime poetry. Unforgettable stuff! You can almost live through this night while you are into the song. Waking up can be heart-breaking. You wish this night to have really happened. But no night, real, surreal, or unreal, can be as fascinating as this one.


7. Tum Bin Sajan Barse Nayan (Gaban, 1966)

Music - Shankar Jaikishan
Lyrics - Shailendra
Singers - Lata Mangeshkar and Md Rafi

After K L Saigal, if anyone has shaped Hindi Film Music, it was this duo. Their success was phenomenal, and therefore inspired subsequent music directors.

In the later years of their career, they sometimes overdid what made them hit - orchestration. But this song is typically SJ stuff - hearty, melodious and simple. The simplicity is ensured by their choice of lyricists - they would hardly ever team up with a Gulzar or a Sahir.

Coming back to this song, this is the only sad song in my list of favorite monsoon songs. By the way, why do we hear sad songs? Why should a good sad song is better than a bad happy song?


8. Rimjhim Ke Geet Saawan Gaaye (Anjaana, 1969)

Music - Laxmikant Pyarelal
Lyrics - Anand Bakshi
Singers - Lata Mangeshkar and Md Rafi

Listening to this song is like sitting near a fire-place inside a quiet wooden house, on a cold dark winter night pouring and storming outside. Besides everything else, there is something vaguely claustrophobic about rains, which makes you feel enveloped in its embrace, and makes you feel drawn to the flame. This song is about this vague awareness, its charm, its dread, and a paradise lost. This song is a story of a beautiful dilemma - you hope it happens as much as you pray it doesn't.


9. Rimjhim Gire Saawan (Manzil, 1979)

Music - R D Burman
Lyrics - Yogesh
Singer - Kishore Kumar

Another gem from the Burmans, this time from the junior Burman. And how he shines in rain! Lata's version is a stillborn; although she is technically OK, she doesn't make up for her lack of passion, and I can't imagine a facile-hearted rain song in my favorite list. Thankfully, Kishore does justice to the tunes. You can raise your expectations as much as you can, this one will meet them all.


10. Rimjhim Rimjhim (1942 A Love Story, 1994)

Music - R D Burman
Lyrics- Javed Akhtar
Singers - Kavita Krishnamurthy, Kumar Sanu

The 80s were the worst years of Pancham's career, and coincidentally for Hindi Film Music as well. 1942 came at a time when melody was exiled out of fashion. With "Ek Ladki Ko Dekha" and "Kuchh Na Kaho", 1942 marked the return of melody to Hindi Film Industry.

With Javed Akhtar, Pancham composed one of the most romantic rain songs ever. Divine. Do they play this in heaven? They must.



the other side of page - I am lousy enough with descriptions. And this section made this post even more difficult for me. They almost made to the list.

11. Jhoole Ke Pawan Mein Aayi Bahar (Baiju Bawra, 1952)

Music - Naushad
Lyrics - Shakeel Badayuni
Singer - Lata Mangeshkar and Md Rafi

12. Thandi Hawa Kaali Ghata (Mr and Mrs 55, 1955)

Music - O P Nayyar
Lyrics - Neeraj
Singer - Geeta Dutt

13. Megha Chhaye Aadhi Raat (Sharmili, 1971)

Music - S D Burman
Lyrics - Neeraj
Singer - Lata Mangeshkar

14. Nahin Saamne Tu (Taal, 2000)

Music - A R Rehman
Lyrics - Anand Bakshi
Singer - Hariharan

and let's be honest...

15. Tip Tip Barsa Paani (Mohra, 1994)

Music - Viju Shah
Lyrics - Anand Bakshi
Singer - Alka Yagnik and Udit Narayan

Being Gay

Reverend Father, I want to make a confession - I find men attractive. I have always found them attractive.

Have you seen Sir Viv Richards? No, no, not his face. I mean have you seen Sir Viv Richards walking? Well, leave alone his batting, I find his swagger more attractive than any catwalk any day. Classic stuff!

Oh come on! Don't be prissy about it. You should know that it's not illegal anymore. While you were busy getting outraged, the caravan of mankind was progressing to the better side of Brokeback Mountain. Open your eyes father, and look at the vast valley of freedom stretched as far as your eyes can see.

Personally speaking, I don't care about this legal thing much. What difference does that make anyway? Do they keep an eyes on us in bathroom? I guess they don't. You can sing as you like when nobody is there - classical or punk. That's nobody's business. Why so much fuss then?

Some people are talking in drawing rooms about how Indian democracy has matured and how it has listened to the voice of minority. Since they are well-read people, there must be some sound reason behind all this fuss - one involves adoption rules. Perhaps homosexuals are now eligible for adoption. There is a big plus point there - kids will not be emotionally tormented by questions like who do you love more - mummy or papa?

Now the lovely little wars of favorite will be fought between papa1 and papa2. That sounds funny, but at the same time my heart goes out for the poor kid. Among other things, I don't see too much of shopping happening in this household. I would pray to God to give him faith.

I wonder if gay marriage can be reconciled with arranged marriage. Given the falling gender ratio, the rocketing school fees, and above all - the aversion of parents towards court marriages, it looks possible. I wish to see that happen in my lifetime. I am optimistic, for Linda Goodman says that we are living in an Aquarian age - the age of unisex. I am waiting to see description of a male bride in "Grooms Wanted" section - that will be real blend of tradition and modernity. Democracy will sing "Jai Ho" that day, not in bathroom but out in the open.

Drawing-Room Discourse

1. How do we counter soft power without using hard hands?

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

Suddenly her face twitched in anger. I couldn't guess why. We were sitting in Subway and munching our favorite sub-of-the-day and doing what we love to do - being with each other. And then all of a sudden! I was blank for a moment.

- What happened?
- Listen to the lyrics.

I do not like western music and my ears are not used to their lyrics. But even I couldn't miss that word - F***. In the song being played, the singer wanted to f*** the woman he was singing for.

Those who know me won't have any problem in guessing what must have happened after that. In no time I found myself standing up and snapping my left-hand fingers and ordering them to stop that nonsense "NOW".

They stopped that nonsense "now". But my peace of mind had gone by then.

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

A few days later, a visit to a Levi-Strauss showroom exposed me to another hyper-western atmosphere - which consisted of topless models on the wall posters, F-Tv models parading half-naked on the TVs, and maniquins with their nipples popping out of their clothes.

I fail to understand why somebody must open his fly to sell something as simple as jeans. Needless to say, I found that atmosphere vulgar and distasteful. But more than that, I found it ridiculously out-of-place. "Why these people - these models and these maniquins - have been brought to half-Muslim, and full-orthodox, Hyderabad?", I wondered.

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

The instances are multifold, but the question is singular- How do I confront soft power without resorting to rudeness/crudeness?

Though I hate the methods adopted by the fundamentalists like RSS and Sena, I do share their angst. It is easy to hate the fundamentalists since they are loud and crude. They make noise and wake you up. They alienate you from them and their cause. But not all our enemies are idiots like them. In fact, most of them are not - they lull us to sleep by soft hands and then...

To begin with, it's hard to see the soft power - the silent, the slow, the subtle, and the sophisticated power - the cultural power, and it's harder to hate it. Its apparent innocence and innocuousness only makes it more effective in its execution. The cultural weapons inflict cultural wounds (and cultural wounds don't even bleed) and the victims die a cultural death; a quiet, unconscious, cultural death.

"I have traveled across the length and breadth of India and I have not seen one person who is a beggar, who is a thief. Such wealth I have seen in this country, such high moral values, people of such calibre, that I do not think we would ever conquer this country, unless we break the very backbone of this nation, which is her spiritual and cultural heritage, and, therefore, I propose that we replace her old and ancient education system, her culture, for if the Indians think that all that is foreign and English is good and greater than their own, they will lose their self-esteem, their native self-culture and they will become what we want them, a truly dominated nation." - Lord Macaulay (British Parliament, 1835)

I do not want to sound paranoid and xenophobic. We have to be open and outgoing. But we can not allow ourselves to be driven by others. So hate we must no matter how hard it is to hate the soft power.

Or may be we can love ourselves rather than hating them. After all, cultural power can not be defeated by brute physical force.


2. Our daughter - a perfect blend of traditional and modern values.

That's a matrimony cliché - which amuses me often, and sometimes irritates me to no end. Worst - it reminds me of hypocrisy at its best - a hideous woman (in a hideous movie) wearing short skirt and singing "Om Jai Jagadish Hare" in front of the most hideous man who has ever walked on silver screen.

Let's skip that horrible experience. Let me ask you a few questions. Let us see if we even understand the meaning of the words that we speak beyond what is superficial and what is kitschy.

What does tradition mean for us? To what extent it pervades our thought, our behavior, our decision-making process in our everyday life? Or is it just another word, just another idea, just another ideal, which is only to be worshiped in temples but not to be welcomed in homes? How many of us know or even try to know what is tradition beyond wearing ethnic clothes and lighting candles on Diwali?

What makes modern modern? How many of us know (or even try to know) what is modernity beyond what they show in M-Tv? Is it just an urban phenomenon, or something more? Does it have values only? Or does it have anti-values as well? Is it an alternative or is it a socioeconomic imperative?

Both wage a war in our minds to occupy our mental space. Do we ever stop and think about the areas of conflict between tradition and modernity, if there exists any? Perhaps those who claim to have blended the two successfully might explain how they achieved the reconciliation. Or did that happen automatically, unconsciously?


3. We should try everything*.

And everything* typically consists of things they sell in discs and pubs. As far as I know, urban India is not famous for producing rock climbers. Correct me* if I am wrong, but I have been to many cities and I have not met too many rock climbers.

*Spare me if you are one of those suckers who believe that reality shows like M-Tv Roadies are really real.

What's all this fuss over trying? What's there to try anyway in doing something that doesn't need any effort? Do you see any effort involved in drinking? I do not. I see indulgence.

Well, all you dudes and dudettes, wake up and splash your face with cool water - and remember - there is nothing bold in shedding clothes, and there is nothing to try in gulping tequila shots. Any jerk can do that. And every jerk does that.

Perhaps taste would be a better word there - we should taste everything*, if only the lack of taste would not have been so evident in the context we are talking about.

Hampi - an unforgettable Romance

There is nothing I can say that has not already been said about Hampi (or anything else for that matter). The frequency of my posts should vindicate my conviction that keeping quiet is better than repeating, unless repetition is necessary.

Not much can be heard in noise anyway; and I suspect speech has been reduced to another form of salesmanship, to another type of promising investment for a careerist, to a vehicle that takes people places, and pollutes the air in the way.

Due to the excess that characterizes modernity, words have begun to arouse distrust as soon as they are spoken, precluding any possibility of meaningful communication, something which can not take place without basic credulity. The alternative of speech - silence - is also seen with suspicion, as it is traditionally considered as a mark of hubris if not malice. In this dilemma, language must be released from its appeal mania if any appeal were to be left in it. Meanwhile, till appeal is dethroned and meaning is restored to words, sense of futility must be countered with Sisyphean sense of duty, and honesty.


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

Tungabhadra might not have been blessed with mysterious Himalayan herbs or mythological favors, but she can also heal wounds; she can also wash away our sins as the sacred Ganges does. This secret was not known to me before I parked my bike, took a dip into the cool currents of the river and saw my memories (and with memories, sins too, for where else do they reside?) fading away in water. You just have to dip your head and lo! your brain is washed clean; and when you look around, the world looks beautiful once again.

That's precisely why we go to distant places - to forget the pains and banalities of the life we live, to get rid of the ghost - the Betaal - sitting on our back. Traveling is nothing if it doesn't involve forgetfulness, and elements of meditation. And that's why I see traveling as a pilgrimage in a truly spiritual sense.

When I came out of her waters, I came out clean; and when I started my bike to leave, I heard her parting message - "don't fear. if your freedom is limited by your needs, so is your bondage." While riding back, I realized that my needs have never been extravagant - more than anything else, I still needed clean air, clean water, a moon in the sky, and peace of mind to feel poetic about the moon. And they were all there in plenty, ironically for those who could not afford the fancy items that are sold in big malls.

It's hard not to meander when rivers flow in your mind. So let me disclose another secret before I meander with the flow - Hampi is green*, so much so that your eyes might acquire a lovely greenish tinge if you stay long enough on the right side of Tungabhadra. Unfortunately, we couldn't. But fortunately, Hampi was in best of her moods - an unseasonable drizzle on our very first night made our second day a veritable romance to remember. Being there, enveloped by that earthy fragrance was delightful enough, but with those banana and coconut trees around wherever you go, biking in Hampi was something dreams are made of.

And so is sleeping on a rock after a tiring day. It was a joy to sit at the top of hill and see the sun sinking in silence of the forest. Looking at the sunset, I got the impression of Holi - the festival of colors - being played in sky. It was such a beauty to behold! I was so mesmerized that I do not remember when I fell asleep there.

With the night-fall my friend and I used to climb up the stairs of ''Roof Top Cafe'', where we dined as long as we stayed there. After a series of bitter disappointments with Idlis and Vadas, we had come to a conclusion that North Karnataka can not offer eatable South Indian food to save its grace. The celebrated ''Mango Tree Restaurant'' was good for lunch because of its lovable ambiance, but it was the cafe that served dinner at its exotic best. In three nights, I had had Arabian Thali which contained mainly Israeli items (Humus, Pita, and Falafel), an Italian delicacy called Lasagne, and finally a Nepali Thali in honor of our hosts. I admit that if I feel like going to Hampi again, it is primarily because of this cafe.

Does that mean that Hampi can not engage us? The truth can not be farther from it. Hampi might not entertain our multiplex generation, but it does have a potential to engage us at many levels - archeology, architecture, epics and mythology, photography, and the list goes on. The more important question is how deeply we can engage with Hampi. A weekend is sufficient to see this place with reasonable satisfaction. But when you come back, you know that you have only been picking shells at the shore; you know that the pearls are still lying on the bed, down in the depths of a world you never cared to explore, a world that is respected even by its destroyer - Time, the hand of Shiva.

*the recommended time to visit Hampi is from November to March.

The photos can be seen here.

The Walkway

The narrowing strip of land on which we were walking, if seen from sky, looked like a church fallen flat on the blue bed of water, with its long tapering spire thrust deep into the stomach of the sea, spilling a sea of blue blood.

However, if you looked above, from down, from the sea, you could hardly see the walk-way from there. From there, you could only see a flat face of one of the two mountainous walls, or their joining edge towering into the clouds.

The waves of the sea leaped and crashed furiously at the foot of the walls. At the top, almost a thousand feet above the sea, we were walking oblivious to the noise. The sound of sea could hardly climb up to us. There was a humming silence in the air, and a serenity typical of the seaside nights, embracing us all over. A gentle breeze blew carrying the cool freshness of the sea, caressing our faces, casting spell on our mind. That walk was like a dream.

We had come far from the city lights. We had walked past the sinking sun, and then the last of lamp-posts, and now the light faded behind us. In the light of day, we wouldn't possibly have taken that way. In the darkness, we were not able to see where the road led. The sides were appearing to come closer. They had to meet somewhere ahead. It was just a matter of distance.

Above us, the night was pitch dark, and it stretched as far as our eyes could see. The stars sparkled as they sometimes do. It seemed that they had descended a few stairs. They seemed nearer than ever.

The narrowing road was pushing us closer. It was increasingly hard for us to maintain a safe distance.

- Didn't I say you'll love it?
- Yes, I'm loving it.
- Hmm... but it's getting late. Look, the stars are out. I think we should go back now.
- Yes, the stars are out. And the night is lovely. I wonder if we could walk a little further.

It was getting narrower. And she was beginning to get worried about safety. She was beginning to get worried about fall. She was looking down at the sea. On my part, I was looking up at the stars. And at her.

While she was thinking, I was wondering.

I had no idea that something had gotten into her mind.

- I think we should stop now. We'll fall if we walk further.
- Let's hold each other. We'll not fall then.
- We'll surely fall then.

She smiled the way she smiles, beautifully, and meaningfully. I acknowledged the beauty but pretended not to understand the meaning. I pretended innocence. I wanted the life to go on like that. I didn't want anything to change.

That something had started to work on her mind, and on my unsuspecting happiness.

- I am loving it. But I'm afraid we'll get drowned.
- How come? We are among clouds. Water is nowhere near.

I was too happy to think too much about anything. And I didn't want her to think too much either. We were walking together, we were happy, and nothing else mattered.

Life went on like dream, for a few more dreamy minutes, till that happened. One of the stones she had stepped on lost its ground and fell into the deep reality of sea. The fall was as silent as death, and it was sinister in its premonition. It was just a fall, but there was something surreal about it.

Feelings began to get clouded by Fear. The change began to take place. To mark the beginning, the clouds of fear issued forth a frightful thunderbolt.

- I am sorry I came.

She steadied herself and turned back, her face hardened with a determination to go back to the lamp-posts. She was not the same person anymore. She was still with me, but I had already started to miss her. I was left alone with a stranger who wanted to leave, who wanted to leave stars for lamp-posts! My starry dream was turning into a lamp-post reality! And I could do nothing about it. To my dismay, it occurred to me that what I wanted to do didn't carry much weight in the larger scheme of things.

I was standing deserted like a fool, losing my respect, losing my fundamental rights. In no time, the simplest of things became complicated and difficult for me. I wanted to look back. But I couldn't. I wanted to say something to her. But I couldn't. My voice had lost its dignity, its power!

I was burning in shame. I wanted to break my frustrated heart. That was easy. I could do that. And I did that. I looked ahead - the road was still wide enough for solo walk. In my despair, in my desperation, in my self-hatred, I kept on walking, unable to forget my irrelevance, unable to forgive my disgraceful irrelevance in my own life.

I kept on walking alone, in a desperate need to restore my relevance to myself. I had to walk though the night didn't look lovely anymore. The loveliness had walked away to the lamp-posts. And the stars had gone back. What lied ahead was just a dark night, a solitary walk, and a silent fall. But I was not afraid of fall. I had to keep on walking, in order to keep myself from falling in my own eyes.

Let's Go Party

Man has selected a point on Earth's elliptical trajectory, randomly, but seriously. As soon as the earth reaches that random point, he bursts out in a serious celebration - the annual calendar changing ceremony.

Thousands of people wait for that moment. The moment that is unbearably banal, yet special. The moment that brings no surprise, but oddly - lots of sensation. The moment that changes nothing but mood. The suspension-of-logic moment. The mob-mentality moment. However, the ruling moment, the lucky moment, the princely moment, for which countless other moments wait on, hands tied to their back. The moment the hands of clocks hit that moment, all of them jump with a boundless joy - Happy New Year - believing that their joyful jump will bring them more joy in the new year.

Common man's superstition standing cheerfully on Copernicus' science.

For the whole 24 hours, as the earth turns, the hands of clock keep on hitting at 12, and people keep on jumping with joy, as it happens. A gigantic jump-wave rises from Japan (land of rising jump) and travels west-ward... till it comes round and reaches the east-most shores. In the meanwhile, world ubiquitously witnesses a curious synchronization of jumping-with-joy with ticking-of-clock!

A spectacular show for the aliens.

Thinking of it, mankind has an amazing ability to be happy on pre-determined occasions - on "Happy Days" - on Festivals, which have only mythological relevance, and little personal relevance. However, fun is the dress code for all on festivals, and "Have Fun" is the categorical imperative. Wily or Nilly, all of us "have fun" on festivals. Those who don't feel any particular joy on festivals must feign it. There is no escape from fun but one - and that leads to isolation.

Feigning is still fine with me. That's civilization.

And what's more? Go get a life.

In the rage of happiness, man-kind wrecks the most unkind vengeance on poor animal-kind. Customarily, whenever man gets happy, he takes out his dagger, goes out and comes back happily with mutilated body of an animal dangling dead in his blood-stained hand. In no time, the body is skinned and chopped in hundred happy pieces. With the blood of killed animal, he happily red-washes his Happy Day. Red has been the traditional color of every human festival.

The next standard item in the standard festival protocol is getting drunk, which is usually followed by a wild boogie-woogie - besotted bodies rocking and rolling and banging heads on deafeningly loud beats of drums, till they abandon their senses for the Devil to take. In the steam rising from the dance floor, bodies get warmed up for the heat of last rites. Bodies running around fire, fire running around bodies. Fire dancing on bodies, bodies dancing on fire. Smell of smoke filling the air. Sound of hysteria filling the soul.

Bang Bang Boom Boom.

By the time the dythramb reaches its crescendo, the demon-men and demon-women, with horns grown on their heads, fail to hear anything, except the infernal signals received by their horn-radars, to ultimate pleasure of Dionysus.

Success = Failure

Success = Failure

The difference between success and failure lies only in what is seen and what is hidden. We see all the pros of success, but not its cons. And we see all the cons of failure, but not its pros. And we conclude that cons of success and pros of failure do not exist.

But they do. They are not seen. But they do exist. And if looked properly, they can be seen also.

Does that make failure any more pleasant? No. I am not saying that. There is no doubt that failure is unpleasant. But it is not always as bad as it is considered. And success is not always that good. This sounds odd. But this is not as odd as it sounds.

Life is not that straight-forward as we take it to be. It take unexpected turns, and what wait at those turns - surprises!

Those who fail may not immediately appreciate the hidden pros of failure. But those who succeed do realize the hidden cons of success, the nuggets of failure stuffed in success - they call it cost of success. Often the price that they pay is too much for what they get, and perhaps that's why they are not as happy as we expect them to be. Look around yourself and you'd know what I am talking about. Or better, look inside.

From happiness point of view, there is not much difference between success and failure.

Even from freedom point of view, the equation holds. You may not know what it means to walk unobserved on the street with your girl-friend. Sachin Tendulkar does know it. Ask him how much can he pay to be a common man for a day, to be able to sit at Chaupati without getting bogged-down by demands of autographs and photographs.

Open your eyes and look around - few things can be more cruel to a man than his success. I was watching Fashion, and the equation flashed before my eyes : Success = Failure.

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

If you kill one, you are a killer. If you kill thousand, you are Alexander.

I wonder why do we respect success. What makes success respectable?

We respect what we consider good. But there is nothing inherently good or bad in success. Success has little to do with Good and Bad, with Morality. Someone can successfully kill someone, and someone can successfully save someone - and both can be successful in their respective goals. Success is all about execution, not about intention, not about goal. Consequently, Hitler is no less successful than Gandhi! You must have heard - nothing succeeds like success!

Success involves interplay of acquisition (in foreground) and sacrifice (in background). What you sacrifice and what you acquire don't matter. 'What' doesn't matter. 'How much' matters. You can sacrifice peace to acquire wealth. Or vice versa. You can do either successfully, since success is amoral.

And since success is amoral, we disregard morality when we respect success. And that should come as a surprise to any conscientious society. The take away point - Context is important.

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

Management Mantra:- Convince. Confuse. Corrupt.

Carrot and Stick - Success is beyond Good and Bad. But every system super-imposes Good and Bad on success to manage people smoothly and run itself successfully. That's why good success is awarded and encouraged. Good success is as good as success and Bad success is as bad as failure, which brings disapproval and shame.

Every system think for its own - economic system or family system. So we must think on our own. We must not be confused. Words are treacherous, so we must be cautious.

Growth involves 'being'. And success involves 'doing' and 'having'. So success has more to do with efficiency and possession than with growth. But don't we usually confuse efficiency with intelligence, and possession with growth? We must realize that efficiency does not mean intelligence, and possession does not mean growth.

Moreover, since efficiency is mechanical in nature, the pursuit of efficiency is likely to impede the growth of intelligence, which is anything but mechanical. Similarly, and more often than not, the pursuit of possession impedes growth.

An ass in an ass, in Birthday suit or in Armani suit. And a man is a man.

Man is made complete. He grows with time, and growth is natural, inevitable, and individual. He doesn't have to grow like someone else to feel good about himself. But often he is made to feel otherwise - "beta, bade hoke kya banoge?" How does one answer a question like that? How does one know that in advance? How does a bud know how it will look like after it will have bloomed into a flower? This attitude prefers certainties of past over mysteries of future. This attitude is mechanical to the core, and tries to engineer life - to plan and program life because it allows a better control over life. But isn't it foolish, and futile, to control something as random as life? And isn't a controlled life a lifeless life?

How does it matter if it is successful or not?

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

Success: Meaning? Immortality?
Man can not digest meaninglessness. He can not believe that his existence is merely incidental. His being rebels against this thought. He seeks meaning in meaninglessness, order in disorder, constantly, desperately.

Man dreads death. He longs to live forever. But since death is the only certainty in life, he seeks to live in something - in somebody or in something. He writes his name on stones. He likes to read his name in magazines. He fathers children, and he likes to father companies.

The two roads meet at a point - meaning in immortality. The old History book is the place to be - that's success!

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

Survival of the fittest.
But History has limited seats in its room - birth of Competition. Envy. Rivalry. Survival of the fittest. Survival not on earth, but in the pages of old History book. remember - that's the place to be!

Now many have to lose if one has to win. Many have to die if one has to survive.

"Macedonia is too small for you", Phillip said. And Alexander the Great began his great journey to get rid of his unbearably claustrophobic country.

"Europe is a mole-hill", lamented Napoleon and set out on his odyssey to arid deserts of Africa, and then to ice-cold hills of Alps.

One died young in Babylon; other died defeated, and was buried in unmarked tomb in Helena.

However, they got their seats in History room. We know their names. Nothing else matters. Alexander was incredibly good at killing people, and he didn't want to waste his talent. After all talent is talent, and it must be acknowledged. Why should we always seek value in talent? Don't we keep books of records - who spits farthest, who eats how many lizards etc?

Napoleon was a great emperor, whose fiery ambition was fueled by his shame for his common background. Looking at him it seems that ambition essentially stems from a sense of smallness, a shame, a complex. Ambition - one's desire to be someone who one is not. Ambition - self hate. What else? Why would he wander to places he neither loved not hated? Why would he go uninvited, unwanted? And why would he win when he didn't know what to be done after winning? Did he need all that? Ambition - first cousin of Greed the Deadly Sin. Ambition, I believe, is an unfortunate disease, which can not be cured by any medicine, any achievement, any conquest. Those who live with it die with it. Ask Josephine. Didn't Napoleon leave her - his first and last red-blooded love - to marry another woman, only to be accepted by the blue-blooded nobility. The poor commoner emperor! Though he lived in riches, his penury lived inside him.

Instead of finding happiness in ordinariness, man strives for extra-ordinariness. And in vain. This quest of extra-ordinariness is the cause of all human strife. And if taken to its logical conclusion - it ends with Nietzsche's Superman and Eugenics and Hitler's purity of race and ethnic cleansing.

For those who are punished for their ordinariness, Success is Revenge. Rich man's peace gives way to poor man's Justice.

Good old Edmond Dantes, an ordinary man who didn't demand too much from life, who occupied a very small space in the world, and who minded his own business, till all that happened, decided to slough his ordinariness, to expand himself, and to assert himself on the world.

He avenged his ordinariness. Success, like Revenge, is about expansion, and penetration. Like Revenge, Success is disgustingly masculine.

However, the wheel of success rolls on, making infinite vicious circles of failure.

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

Micro Success versus Macro Success.

My organization needs innovation for success. My question is - does mankind need innovation? My answer is - No. I believe that the technology that we already have is good enough for us. We don't need any more of it. All we need is more efficient application of available technology - we need better management and better governance.

Let's list down top 5 contemporary problems of mankind and let's see if they can be resolved by innovation.

1. Loneliness
2. Death and Disease
3. Disparity
4. Pollution
5. War and Terrorism

I'm afraid some of these problems are rather aggravated by technology. Was Hiroshima or 9/11 possible without technology? Can porn industry survive without technology? Mankind is still nursing the wounds of modernity, and mass production. We don't want any more of it.

But then the success of my organization depends on innovation.


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

The idea is to redefine success, so that it is better than failure, not just nominally, but in real terms. The idea is to redefine successful, so that he is any different from what he is today - a pathetic loser.

The essence of work is growth, and leisure. If Man doesn't have leisure, he would not be able to wonder. He would not be able to realize his potential as a human being.

And he would not be able to play with his kids.

Responsibility

I have noted that Responsibility is used in following contexts :-

1. Existential - A man is responsible for his actions.

A man is (condemned to be) free. He has choices, and he has freedom to take decisions. He has to take decisions. And he is responsible for the consequences of his decisions.

2. Moral -

a) Duty - "This is your responsibility to see to it that none of them crosses the bridge alive. May God bless you."

When used in a right tone, this word can set wrongs right. This word can legitimatize things that can not be legitimatized otherwise.

When you entrust someone with responsibility, he feels grown-up, and important. It is not hard to manage them then.

b) Privilege - "We are happy with your dedication. You'll be given additional responsibility."

Instead of a task, this becomes an award. Farming itself becomes harvest. A farmer is given a responsibility of farming, and he happily accepts it in hope of a harvest. In his mind, farming is no different than harvest.

Maya

Art Gallary:-

First painting - showing a woman with a huge pair of melons.

Second painting - showing a headless woman with three melons, the third one is seen in place of the missing head.

Third painting - showing a man with a cannon between his thighs, and other men looking at him with awe.

Fourth painting - showing a woman with a globe rolling inside the dark hollow between her outstretched thighs.

STOP IT. STOP IT. IT'S GROSS. GROSS. GROSS.

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

Plato had said that art imitates nature. I am not sure about that, or the reverse of that, but art does attempt to capture the elusive, the mysterious, the indescribable, and the unspeakable.

It is often politically incorrect to speak the unspeakable. It is often indiscreet to hold mirror to an ugly face, especially when the face is pally with a pair of punch-happy hands. In the mentioned case, with or without vulgarity, our artist is accused of depicting human bodies in a distorted fashion. But he was not depicting human bodies as they are made, but as they are seen, and as they exist in our collective consciousness. Can you dare to differ? Is human attention evenly distributed over a human body? Don't we make a fetish of female breasts, and don't we worship male members? The truth is that the distortion happens in our mind first, and only then in an artist's works.

When we convict him of 'sickness', we should remember that out-of-proportion involvement with anything is a sickness, which distorts our vision, our understanding, and our judgment. And this holds true for anything and everything.

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

That - distortion of vision, understanding, and judgment - is called Maya - one of the million ordinary words of our colloquial language which contains extraordinary depths of philosophy within. There are other connotations of this word, but those are beyond the scope of present discussion.

In my limited understanding, Maya is caused by the following -

1. Ignorance -- Watch Matrix to understand this.

Our mind is narrowed by the immediate and the instant. A holds the tail of an elephant and gets convinced that it is a rope. B claims that it is a pillar. C believes that it is a wall. They don't listen to one another. And they conclude wrongly.

Even listening to other doesn't help. In a Panchatantra tale, a farmer listens to thugs and gets persuaded that the goat that he is carrying on his shoulder is a dog. In the end, he loses his goat to the thugs.

We are ignorant, and we pay for our ignorance throughout our life. But we hardly think. We defend our sloth and attend to the most immediate practicality. Few 'impractical' daredevils told us that earth was not flat, and they told us that it was earth that revolved around the sun and not the other way round.

See! What we see is still the same, but our sight is lighted by knowledge. We grope in darkness and make ourselves miserable. And suddenly a flash of light shows us the truth - that it is an elephant and not a rope, a pillar, or a wall.

2. Attachment -- In Geeta, Krishna warns us of two things - A. Ego (sense of agency), and B. Attachment. It is attachment which is source of anxiety and fear and then anger, which clouds our judgment.

How ironical it is - we place value in things, and then the same things start to control and dominate us!

I'd read the line written above once again - we place value in things, and then the same things start to control and dominate us!

Most of the things we think we need are the things we don't need. We run after those things that are wanted by people around us - gadgets etc. Similarly, we don't give up something that we don't want because we fear that someone else might pick that up and run away, making us stand like a fool. But we make a fool of ourselves by running after things we hardly care for, and holding something we would rather be dispensed of. Without being unselfish, we live for others. Well not for others, just keeping others in mind. How many things we do are things that we would do without letting others know?

Our crowd mentality is further aggravated by comparisons and competitiveness. The award system and myth of something called success further confuse, and control, our already scattered thoughts.

It is important to realize that success is not a condition for happiness. From pure happiness point of view, success is not always better than failure. Sometimes, it is worse than failure. The pursuit of success leaves the senses paralyzed. No wonder a successful man is a miserable man, because the ambition needed for success is nothing but a deep-seated feeling of inadequacy.

This feeling of inadequacy makes up one's ego, which needs to achieve a goal to feel adequate - therefore attachment - therefore Maya, and misery.

Have Fun

The wait is over - this Friday is FunGaMa day. (Applause)

It's good to have fun, and John wants you to have fun. So all of us will have fun. (Applause)

OK. Let's discuss the plan now. The fungama will begin at 9.00 AM sharp. I want everybody to be in the campus by then. Don't be late, and Don't be absent. John himself is coming with us and he will be there with us for the whole day. (Applause) Managers will make the roll call and make sure that their team is present, and present on time. I don't want to hear any excuse.

The dress code for fungama will be ... (pause) ... a Smile. (Applause) Make sure you wear a smile on your face. That's mandatory. (smile) If we catch any of you without smile, we will make him or her dance. Dancers don't have to be happy, they will have to sing. If any of you find anyone without a smile, report to the fun team. The fun team will make sure you dance and sing throughout the day.

I would like to congratulate the fun team for their tremendous effort. (Applause) You can see the fun schedule on the home page. There are many fun events, and your participation is mandatory. There are exciting prizes for winners. John himself will give away the prizes. Let's see who takes away the titles of Mr Funny and Miss Funny this time. No, you can not get both, can you? (smile) Losers? Well, they will have to do what winners want them to.

The fun team has laid out a funny rule this time, which we will follow. As soon as you hear the command - Have Fun!, you have to start having fun. But before you start having fun, you have to wait for the command. Nobody will have fun before hearing the command. You can not have fun in your own funny way.

The Sense of Nonsense

A friendship of childhood is enduring friendship. Only children make good friends, adults make networks. If that's true, what to do to make friends? It's simple - be a child.

I agree that mutual respect is the root of every human relationship (ignore commercial or political alliances for a while). No relation can survive without respect. But being touchy about it hardly helps. We must not confuse criticism with disrespect. We often do that, don't we? And we must not judge after passing the judgment. Once a person wins our respect, we should relax and let the person relax. After all, none of us is infallible, and all of us need to be forgiven.

I often think that we get mature without knowing what maturity is. Maturity can not possibly mean doing non-serious things seriously. Growing up can not possibly mean being petty and selfish. If it is like that, then what's so mature about it? Also, we forget that we are ageless; adulthood is only a state of mind, which can be (and must be) suspended for a while. We must allow ourselves a parole, to go out of our cells and handshake with other inmates.

I have realized that there is lot of sense in nonsense. At least it makes sense in friendship. Two people make good friends only when they do lot of nonsense together. No wonder we make good pals in our graduation and fail to do the same in our post graduation.

On Dating

Three things torment people who are otherwise not tormented - 1. Boredom, 2. Loneliness, and 3. Memories.

If we take care of the first two, the last one takes care of itself. You forget nothing, but you learn to live with it.

Boredom is a petty emotion. It is a sign of sloth, mental as well as physical. And sloth is a sickness that can not be cured by bed rest. It is cured only by activity, which is followed by an interest (in that activity) and enthusiasm, the antithesis of boredom.

A bored person is an empty person who craves for something to fill his emptiness, someone to entertain him. He lacks imagination. A bored person feels lonely (as long as he is alone*) and desperate. So 'something' could be anything, and 'someone' could be anyone. Boredom is promiscuous; it lacks character.

On the other hand, a lonely person feels lonely, but not bored. He sometimes gets bored only in company of boring people, but not in isolation, not in his own company. Loneliness is not empty; on the contrary, loneliness is a longing to share. It is a longing to share all that have been earned in long lonely nights - the stuff poetry is made of. It is a longing to share bright thoughts and stupid dreams with someone who can understand. It is a painful longing to express, to be understood, to love, and to be loved.

Loneliness is the stinging tail of solitude. It is painful, but it has passion, it has patience, and it has character. It is a choice that few deserve and fewer make.

But, after all, being lonely hurts. And there is nothing noble in it.

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

Loneliness is a congenital problem, but it has been further aggravated by modern lifestyle. How?

With the number of channels on TV, and the types of personalities have multiplied manifold in recent times. We are what we see. We are what we choose. Among so many options kept on shelves, we choose some at the cost of many others, knowingly or otherwise. And we know little about the options we don't choose, and we know little about the people who choose them. In case we do know, we look down on them. And in case we look up to them, we hold a grudge against them because we have to look up to them. They are either strangers to us, or adversaries.

It sounds complicated, because it is complicated. We are living in complicated times. The profusion of options in market has brought the finer elements of our personalities on fore. And we link our ego with the things we consume. We have bar-coded ourselves. We talk about Identity. We talk about Taste. And these things matter to us like never before.

I have already talked about Identity in my earlier posts. The pursuit of identity ends in a frozen isolation. And taste takes a toll on our tolerance. Taste comes in pair, the other being distaste. Taste means judgment, and discrimination. I have a taste for old Hindi film melodies, and I can not stand rock at all. My hatred to noise is uncompromising, and unconditional. Worse, I am helpless in my hatred. And that hardly makes me very friendly to my friends.

I mean to say that no matter how cosmopolitan we may be, our personalities are more defined, and more confined, than those of our parents. And that makes us lonelier than they were. This situation is not helped by other things, like cut-throat competition, aggression, ambition, and our all-consuming working hours. We stay away from our family, we never see our neighbors except in morning (in the parking lot), and our interaction with our colleagues is strained by professional discretion.

And then nights come with a darkness stretched all over. Never mind the networking, but when we want to talk, we hardly find anyone in our entire contacts list. I have seen myself browsing through my list and then tossing the phone on bed in frustration. I have realized that cell phone is useless when we really feel like talking.

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

Since modernity is inescapable, the antithesis of loneliness can only be found within the same set of premises.

I will come directly to the point. It's late and I've to sleep to wake up to go to office.

A few days back the topic of dating popped up, and it was met with disapproval. I wondered what's wrong in it?

Dating is a western concept, isn't?

True, it is. But then so many things are. So much so that it is hard to say what is ours and what is not. In a mixed (and messed-up) culture like ours, what is ours anyway? Considering our work-style, fun-style, and the whole lifestyle, the argument against foreign doesn't hold too much of a relevance.

At the same time that does not mean that we should run after everything exotic. That would be equally idiotic. The point is - that is not relevant here.

The point is - things change with time, and values that are incompatible with lifestyle will be idealized, and idolized, but will not be adopted. Suppressed by society, individuals will resort to corruption, deceit, hypocrisy, and perversion. Don't we see this happening everywhere?

Dating - hunting women, isn't?

That's not the right word. It can not be denied that there is some youthful playfulness in dating, but youth can be playful without being disgusting and malicious. Besides, youthful playfulness is better than middle-age perversion. It is better than post-marriage regret and breaking-up of family. And for us Indians, nothing can be more disastrous than that.

Dating just means meeting a person of opposite sex to see if it can work out. Since we are different people, with different values, taste, and aspirations, it is not easy for us to bump into equally different person, especially in our busy everyday life. And so it is not easy for us to step into a committed relationship, which requires certain compatibility to keep two people together in this crazy age of liberation. Result -- loneliness.

It's time dating is taken seriously by young urban India, and by their parents. It's time it is not just tolerated, but understood. It's time it is allowed, encouraged, and institutionalized by our society. Let's not be sneaky about our most compelling desire - the desire for a human touch. Dating can solve some of our problems if it is carried out properly. I think its time has arrived.



* which means he does not feel lonely. A bored person confuses boredom with loneliness.

Sajjad Hussain - The Mystery Musician

Sajjad Husain was one of the most interesting music director in the Indian Cinema. His contemporaries agreed that he was the best of the best! So great was he that even Madan Mohan lifted a tune from Husain's old song, and that Madan Mohan song went onto to become a great hit!

He was no ordinary talent. Such people come rarely and show flashes of genius before they become victims of their own eccentricity. Ghulam Mohammad, Pakeezah's Music Director was another. The text below is taken from this page, with a view to popularize the story and the genius of Sajjad Husain - the only Original music director that Hindi Cinema ever saw!!

Two incidents which best explain Husain's personality and genius:

One: how, during a recording, he called out tartly to Lata Mangeshkar struggling at the mike with one of his intricate compositions, "Yeh Naushad miyan ka gaana nahin hai, aap ko mehnat karni padegi."

Two: how at a music directors' meet, eschewing the customary diplomacy of that era, he walked up to Madan Mohan and demanded belligerently, "What do you mean by stealing my song ?" ("Yeh hawa yeh raat yeh chandani" from his 'Sangdil' had just found a new avatar as "Tujhe kya sunaoon main dilruba" in Madan Mohan's 'Aakhri Dao'.)

These two hallmarks of Sajjad's identity -- his penchant for complex, many-layered compositions and his singularly forthright nature -- stuck to him like a second skin throughout his life. And they combined in a rather unfortunate manner to diminish the potential brilliance of a career that could have ranked among the most celebrated.

It was not the intricacy of his compositions that put Sajjad at a disadvantage -- he worked, after all, in an era that belonged to music directors with erudition and firm classical foundations. Where he lost out was in his handling of producers and directors, sometimes musical illiterates, who sought to simplify or alter his tunes -- his contemporaries dealt with such "suggestions" rather more tactfully than Sajjad, who would immediately [get] up and walk out of the film.

"He was an extremely talented man, very knowledgeable about music, but his temperament was his undoing," says Naushad. "Even if someone made a minor suggestion, he'd turn on him and say, 'What do you know about music ?' He fought with almost everyone. Because of this, he sat at home most of his life and wasted his talent. But the body of work he has produced, small as it might be, ranks among the best in Hindi film music."

Music historian Raju Bharatan, whose interaction with Sajjad goes back a long way, has a somewhat different insight into the man. "It's true he wouldn't let musically unqualified people interfere with his work,but the popular perception of him being stubborn is not right," he says. "Sajjad had a rational explanation for every action of his. You had to know him to recognise his tremendous erudition, the fact that he was far superior to every other music director in the industry."

This erudition, the cornerstone of Sajjad's work, is recalled affectionately by Naushad.

"He took pride in his ustaadi," he says. "He'd tell the producer, 'I've created a tune which even Lata can't sing.' And the producer would say, 'If Lata can't sing it, how do you expect the common man to sing it ?' But at the same time he did create simple, yet extraordinary, compositions -- for example, "Yeh kaisi ajab daastaan ho gayi hai" from 'Rustam Sohrab'."

Indeed, as far as Sajjad's formidable talent goes, there are no two opinions. Madan Mohan, when confronted with the charge of plagiarism, reportedly told him, "I take pride in the fact that I lifted your tune, not that of some second- or third-rater." Anil Biswas, himself hailed as a creative genius, declared in an interview that Sajjad was the only original composer in Hindi films. "All of us, including myself, turned to some source for inspiration," he said. "This, Sajjad never needed to do. Each note of the music he composed was his own." If Sajjad was known primarily for his film scores, there was also another facet to his art -- he was an accomplished albeit self-taught mandolin player who could stun even purists with his ability to play Hindustani classical music on this rather uninspiring western instrument.

His performances at concerts alongside the biggest names in classical music spurred rave reviews, and connoisseurs would be agog at his ability to coax the meend, for instance, out of the instrument of play entire ragas with the help of the tuning key. "In the hands of Ustad Sajjad Husain," said a review of a Madras concert in 1982, "the mandolin bore the halo of a Ravi Shankar sitar or [an] Ali Akbar sarod. His playing is that of a mighty maestro."

On July 21, the 79-year-old composer breathed his last. The leitmotif of his lifetime, isolation, cast its shadow over his death too, when, with the notable exception of Khayyam and Pankaj Udhas, nobody else from the film industry bothered to turn up to pay him their last respects. "It hurt," admits his son, "but what is far more important is that to the last day of his life, my father was happy. There was no bitterness, no regrets. He could have been hugely successful, made piles of money, but the only thing he wanted was to be acknowledged as a great musician, and to live life on his own terms. And I think he achieved that."

Read more about Sajjad Hussain here. And read what Lata Mangeshkar says about him here.