Things Taken For Granted

Everyone who is born in India, is brought up with words like karma, dharma, yoga, dhyan and many more, so frivolously, that we, of all people in the world, grow oblivious to their meanings. When a firang talks about yoga online, we step forward to take the credit, even though practically we may know nothing about it. When a firang goes crazy after Sadhus in Haridwar and Banaras, clicking pictures and meditating with them at the banks of Ganga, we chuckle at the sight, while most of the time we ourselves know nothing about meditation. This is the reason why most of the new age books on meditation and yoga and any other form of Eastern spirituality are all written by foreigners. In fact, I learnt about the Tantrik sect and practices of India from someone who had been schooled in the subject in the West.

This is our national version of a micro concept of "taking things for granted". We often overlook things that are attained with little efforts, be them admissions in dream colleges, jobs, relationships or even personal attributes. If the effort doesn't leave a lasting memory in your psychology, you tend to forget how important it once was for you. But the objective thus achieved, held in ignorance and disrespect develops a tendency to break free in many karmic ways. A disregarded creativity may never convert to substantial results. You might have heard this oft quoted statement, "His is a wasted talent." A discounted relationship may result in tussles and fights and low threshold points of irritation and misconduct. 

The answer or a solution to this situation is an easy one, i.e. if you are lucky to not have left a permanent mark. Stop taking things for granted any more. It sounds too simple to create any effects at all. But in all its honesty this is a foolproof and the only solution. Only if you give the due share of respect and attention to that neglected object, you'll see how situations take a U-turn, back to the desired, always wished for paths. This involves another simple logic of returning the karmic debts to that and those which and what have been taken for granted. If not anything else, this is your moral obligation to hold those things--- that sometimes made you feel good and special--- in top regard. As added brownie points to better situations, you will also feel a sense of immense satisfaction and happiness.

So much for Freedom of Press

Freedom of Press is a non linear, unwritten understanding that generally is not and must not be tempered with, either by the government or the media itself. A huge ruckus was raised over an Indian journalist, Ved Prakash Vaidik interviewing an international terrorist, Hafiz Saeed. The terrorist, recognized so by the UN has been held responsible for the notorious Mumbai attacks of 2008 and few even before that. His organization, Jama’at ud Da’wah was banned by India, the US, the UK, the EU, Russia and Australia following the Mumbai attacks. However, he is 
free to move in Pakistan without any restrictions. Vaidik’s fault was that he happened to have 
met him and ask some questions as a journalist.

The Congress, as in many cases in the past, was the first one to raise objections in a high 
pitched tone and trigger the news hungry media to step forward for a hatchet job. (Past references? The Babri Masjid demolishing, for one.) It was most disappointing to see Indian media 
question the freedom of press that a freelance journalist, Vaidik took the liberty of practicing. 
They built some stories on undisclosed sources and created a case against him. Vaidik, in turn appeared on as many news channels as he could to answer the same questions over and over.

Observation and Analysis

Two things were clear. First, the media wasn’t interested in knowing what had actually passed between the two (Vaidik and Saeed) in the interview. They only wanted Vaidik to accept that 
their versions of his interview were more authentic than any other.

Second, they were not happy that an Indian journalist had managed to get an interview of a 
state enemy. I don’t remember them holding a media trial against any of the people who have 
interviewed other terrorists in India before, or made statements in support of Kashmiri freedom (which by the way, the old man hasn’t, and his throat is sore from denying and re-quoting himself for the Indian press).

Now objectively, I don’t understand why would the media want to belittle something pretty 
huge! A terrorist’s interview involves certain risks. (Remember Daniel Pearl?) Don’t laud him 
if he hurts your ego. But as a freelance journalist he was not under an obligation to get a 
clearance from a media group or the Indian government, which was surprisingly supportive of 
the freedom of media more than the media itself. (Union Minister Venkaiah Naidu said: "It's a private affair. The government has nothing to do with it. He was neither authorised nor 
representing the government or the party. We have nothing to do with the meeting. This 
country is a free country. People are going to different places.")

The Congress, as a crooked party of the opposition, will obviously try every measure to take 
on the government, but what is with the media? Should this really be made mandatory to get a government clearance for every research that the media gets involved in? It’s funny that people have found an opportunity to earn oven hot brownie points with this issue. A hitherto 
unknown lawyer of Varanasi, K C Tripathy, has filed a case of sedition against Vaidik and has become a famous figure overnight. 

It’s common knowledge that the court case does not hold a chance. But the moral and 
intellectual decadence that it unwraps is scary. Is this really the future of Indian media? Where people will be tried for sedition and stupid stuff like that for reporting? Do we just need 
reporters who bring back interviews of easy cakes like politicians and film stars?

A Dilli Haat trip after ages!

Places like Dilli Haat never grow old, however you do. I went to the place with a friend today after a very long time and everything was still the same. The types of shops, the types of people, the types of stalls and the types of tourists roaming about...all were exactly the same. Walking there like a grown up was an interestingly melancholic feeling. Untill...certain things cheered my mood up.

Let me register them in the memory lane...

This funny little place did not exactly cheer me up, but re-established the belief that I had not lost all my patience after all. We went there for a small earthen ghatam that bore the words Aam Panna. Having already downed a sinisterly buttery vada pav and a dry sev puri at the Maharashtra food stall Aam Panna came to the rescue. But only visually. It was hot and humid even in the late evening and a fan was not a luxury but a necessity. The gentleman sitting at the counter refused to acknowledge his having heard our quintuple requests to switch the standing fan on that rested in peace at a corner. Nevermind. We decided to take a look at the menu only to locate the Aam Panna. But what we saw made up for all the discomfort we'd been cursing the godforsaken man for...

        They were serving 'Thails' and if that wasn't enough you could always go for some extra 'Greavey'. 

Next, my friend wanted to have some fresh coconut water, as the Aam Panna was a disaster. So we went to an interesting machine manned by one Jeetendra who somehow squeezed the water from a coconut by only placing it on top of it. The mechanism was cool and we drank the most water-like water from the insides of a coconut.

Then we caught some very colourful shops and products, and my disappointment on the friend's bahalf, as this was her first visit, that it was already night and she would have liked to see things in the day light, vanished.

                                    Beautiful lampshades, not made of paper, but specially made leather.

Proud owners of the leather-lampshades shop from Karnataka. Their shop did not just have lampshades but a lot many colourful products...all made of leather.

             A shop of  very beautiful handicrafts from Odisha...manned by the most disinterested guy around.

                                                                      A sample from Odisha

For the entire time my friend spent checking out things at the Odisha shop, this dude never changed his position even once. And no he wasn't a mannequin, nor did he think that I was a producer of low budget films...I just know that one!

She was the most chatty shopkeeper in the haat. From Manipur, the shop had special stone made utensils and artefacts. The black bowls and kettles are all made of a light weighing stone called "serpentinite", a type of metamorphic rock. I ended up buying a small box with a lid from here. Haven't thought of what I'll put in there yet. But her sad and probably bogus story that nobody had come to her shop since morning melted my heart a little.

                                             "Sands of Time"...this remained the star of the evening.

                                                 Things of beauty...products from the valley.

The most ingenious depiction of Mahavira I'd ever seen. I was about to ask the shopkeeper to get these on a table so that I could better photograph them, but just then he saw me clicking pictures and showed aversion to my doing so.

There had been too much walking and I was hungry again. I was just too happy to see my plate of momos arriving at the Sikkim food stall. My mug of chilled fruit beer had already left a pool of condensation around.

                                 Yes...and the momos were fried and greasy. Ah...still remember them!

Cherry on top was this poster as we walked out of the gates of Dilli Haat. Such amazing art. And the man who was selling these posters and boxes refused to remove the boxes from in front of the poster as he realized that I was only going to click a couple of shots and not buy anything. Still...very interesting.

So, this was the end of a neverland journey to an odd place, reeking of nostalgia for me. What followed was the everyday struggle with reality as we tried to convince stern auto wallahs to take us to our respective homes.

Who moved James Bond's gadgets?

Producers and film makers involved with the 007 projects over the past 50 years have come out in the open against the current James Bond Daniel Craig. He is charged with alleged manhandling of sophisticated Bond gadgets and causing them to break down right before the actual shooting starts. Ever since Quantum of Solace the popular gadgetry has been on the wane on the English sets of style studded James Bond movies. For a long time viewers were made to believe that this was arranged on purpose, but we now know the truth behind this anomaly. The innovative and future looking contraptions that the crew spends long hours and sweat working on often crack up at Craig’s hands while he’s trying them before the cameras even begin to roll. Not only has this clumsy attitude cost the production houses a lot of money, there has also been an unintentional personality shift in the character of James Bond himself.

Following the little accidents, Craig is generally embarrassed. Lately even the technicians have begun to take liberty of yelling at him in front of the entire crew. This leaves him in an obviously bad mood, hence we hardly ever see him smiling on screen. The open can has led quite a few worms to escape out in the open, one of which told us that the glitch free multi-touch size-of-a-table-screen in Quantum of Solace was actually the size of a wall that hung upside down. But Craig, who has a distance diploma in MS Office convinced the team that he could handle the gadget and would gladly show them how to play touch Mario on such a big screen. The screen had be to be chopped into a quarter of its original size after Mr. Bond lost it and began to hit the shell of the tortoise a little too hard causing the panel to crack at several places.

Martin Campbell, the director of Casino Royale calls himself lucky for having directed the first movie with Craig playing Bond. “He was shy back then. It was difficult for us to get him to touch any guns or cell phones even on screen. I kept my distance and managed to let the ice stay for the entire shooting span. But Marc (dir, Quantum of Solace) broke the ice and Daniel got a little too friendly on the sets, playing with gadgets, asking for advance payments, even sitting on his director’s chair when Marc would go to the men’s room. I saw this coming, but he just won’t listen,” recalls Campbell.

Having to send James Bond to his ancestral Scottish deserted property in Skyfall seems less puzzling and more out of necessity now; no matter what breaks, it’s all junk anyway. Director Sam Mendes was unavailable for a comment but we spoke to his neighbour Shyam Patel who took full responsibility for these words on Sam’s behalf, “Mendes was upset. He was upset about a lot of things. His original scriptwriter Peter Morgan left the project in the middle after he was asked to do minor changes every time Craig broke something. The laser beam stick had to be replaced by a rusted sword, and all. Finally they hired John Logan and a few more to write a rustic script that could make do with the most basic things. As a joke they didn’t even give Bond an automatic weapon in the final scenes, where he chops a double barrel off into a shotgun.”

It is hard to tell what future awaits Bond, but definite changes have seeped in. He smiles less, spends way less time with women, and takes forever to get his pursed lips apart for the want of any dialogues. He is more muscular than ever in order to thrash villains with his bare hands, as to gadgets he has proved to be not very friendly. It is also rumoured that M was not originally meant to die in Skyfall but was forcefully made to die on a persistent request by Judi Dench after she had a word with the producers about continuing with Daniel Craig in upcoming films.

[Don't judge me. I love the new James Bond.] 

All that Glitters...

The other morning while on my way to work I saw a beautiful Audi A4 Sedan pacing in my direction in an amazing speed; breathtakingly smooth with a reflection of green fields on its silver sides. As is the third world norm I tried to focus my eyes hard, allowing my pupils to dilate and contract to perfection, in order to gawk at the driver operating the beauty. He must have been in his mid twenties; both hands resting on the variable North axis of the steering wheel, one of which flaunted a black strapped sports watch, and eyes covered under a pair of tainted shades. I was about to enter the second stage of virtual hobnobbing by categorizing him as a young brat feeding on his father’s deluge of money when I noticed something tender and familiar at the back seat slightly tilting out at the window.

At the first wink of the eye I could make out rich blonde fur. It could have been a golden retriever or a golden lab or maybe even a beagle, but as the car came closer I saw strands of fair hair flowing in the air so I guessed maybe a cocker spaniel or a long haired dachshund; an Afghan hound was a remote possibility but you can never guess what these Audi owners narrow down their fancies to. Being a hard core dog lover I forgot all about the car and the driver and the middle class consciousness, and waited stiffly for the car to pass by me so that I could have a closer look. I was surprised to a stupor to discover what I saw and it took me some time to take it in. At the back of the seat the tender object was not a cute dog but a young lady with painted hair. Talking of deceptive appearances! But this was not the only turn off. She held a blue-white wrapper of an Oreo in her hand and let it flutter in the wind as they passed, subjecting the horns blazon environment to a funny plastic noise. I knew what was going to happen next yet I craned my neck backwards at the pacing vehicle to see her hand launch that mighty wrapper into the air, and close that open window with a manoeuvre of a finger.

Chance is a word void of sense, and by that nonsensical prospect I happened to meet the same batch of bountiful Audi legatees in a party the same evening. When the host introduced us I was sinfully aware that the discussion had been on Starbucks coffee, and I didn't want the subject to be somehow changed to academia or anything that they thought would suit my taste, so I took an excited plunge into the coffee beans that had been floating in the air before me. The buoyant young lady convinced me to Thank God not because it was Friday but for Starbucks were here; that this was the best thing that had happened so far this year, and that it was now hard to imagine how pathetically we were struggling to live in India that did not serve Starbucks coffee. I was also updated on the downmarket status of Mc Donald’s before we careened off to movies.

My spirits, raised to a tremendous high, were further promoted on hearing about The Great Gatsby. This was one of the favourite books during college and the second movie adaptation of a Fitzgerald classic that I had loved. We would have elaborate debates on the commodification of society and relationships back then. Eyes were opened by the young couple with a new standpoint that Gatsby was a stud and threw amazing parties, and that they wished they could host something like that. I was having the time of my life on the expense of their coquetry and light-headedness when the conversation came to an abrupt termination with the music of Pitbull in one of their phones. Their car was being towed somewhere outside the parking lot and the guy had to rush out. I wished them adieu for the night and returned dazzled.

I come from and speak for the same generation as these two, but my pidgin differs slightly from their vastly popular dialect of a polished countenance of surficial brilliance. Questions of morality and their utilitarian position in the society are being addressed with invariable indifference. The credit rests not on singular shoulders but remains balanced upon those of all generations that co-exist today. General directives that once used to be, “You must never tell a lie”, “You must never throw garbage on the road”, “You must help others”, “It is more important to participate than to win” are rapidly falling into a ditch with one tagline “Screw rest. Just get on the on top. MATERIALISTICALLY!” and to be on top you don’t need to feel guilty about maybe pushing some people down.

What is the harm, after all, in telling a student eating a Mc Aloo Tikki burger that he is eating ghetto food, while sipping chic Starbucks coffee yourself! I have undergone a change of heart and now deeply respect all those things that glitter, for they contain our future. A lot of such incidences had happened around me before but there is always one special one that manages to push you to the other side; it provided me with the escape velocity that freed me from the gravity I had maintained so far. If there were more converts like me our country could soon step out of its Third World status and walk around in full freedom; freedom from dogmas, traditions and shackling values of bygone morals. I have all my fingers and toes crossed in hope.

SLAM Khurshid

Everybody saw Salman Khurshid’s desperate picture shaking hands with Wang Yi, the Chinese counterpart of the Indian external Affairs Minister. That look of ‘satisfaction’ that he boasted off a little too much in his briefing with the media, later is alarming for the rest of the country. We have in our midst extremely articulate gentlemen who are capable of toying endlessly with words and making them sound bombastic and disarmingly impressive, holding key positions in the government. But a foreign government is hardly affected by the choice of words or however they are presented to their translators. Only the domestic population seeks to bow their heads down half in conformity, and a quarter each in shame and disappointment. I, unfortunately am trapped in the latter two quarters.

What is the job profile of an External Affairs Minister? I am sure it is more than that of a hospitality manager and host, or a tourist eager to please. The Indian idiom chhota mu badi bat stands enforced while I observe that a foreign minister represents his government in the international community, and that representation involves taking care of all the edges and nooks that need attention. The Brazilian constitutional lingo translates this ministerial position as Minister of External Relations; pardon my pedagogical vindication, but this is a man who, therefore is conscientious about what ‘affairs’ of a country must go on the table for discussion in an international forum. But alas, the Indian political system stinks pungently of religious appeasement drills aftermath, and the legacy is hard to not adhere to anymore, be that at home or elsewhere.

The incursion in Ladakh by the People’s Liberation Army was an act of blasphemy in terms of international relations and maintenance of status quo after the bloody war of 1962. Similar circumstances after the ultimate precipitation in ’62 have taken threatening forms but fortunately have never formalized ever since, nevertheless there is no assurance that they will not anymore. It is ironical that most often such incidents of frontal encounters have taken place around the time when Chinese delegates or ministers were on Indian visits. The latest confrontation at hand where the yellow forces set up tents in Indian Territory could have been discussed and seriously frowned upon over before Yi, but the occasion was allowed to pass as coldly as does any logical imagination.

Khurshid, that impudent mongoose (forget the folkloric qualities, severe offence intended), brazenly committed that he did not seek any explanation over the infiltration, while his meeting with the Chinese Foreign Minister. Both sides having already reached a peaceful resolve for the situation, where Indian bunkers, on Indian soil, had to be destroyed in order to calm the Chinese down, Salman thought it improper to raise a question or at least show some aversion to such unacceptable arm twisting. He also said that it was inappropriate at this stage to apportion blame at anybody and this would disturb the status of tremendous relief and satisfaction that the problem could be resolved in such little time.

Of course, when you bend down before a monster and promise to co-operate all through, and refuse to see this as a problem, there will be tremendous satisfaction at the end of such metaphorical Asian sodomy. India is in very unsafe hands, where ministers are not only timid but also keen on always placating the enemy.

Narcopolis...

If the book is to be defined in one word, then I would prefer to call it surreal. It is the safest blanket word for anything weird and dream like smitten with unexpected elements of surprise that, however, in the context of the novel do not hold absolutely true. Jeet Thayil appears, in a subtle way, inspired by Salman Rushdie; the way he sets in motion the story in retrospect as a dramatic monologue into each of our ears individually, one by one and we begin to get high on those heavy pot smoked-stoned words. The first few pages are a deliberate attempt on the technique of stream of consciousness. The words that the narrator blurts out as though said in a state of trance are thoroughly premeditated and unfortunately are not in line with the rest of the narration when we meet again Dom Ullis in the last page. Nonetheless Thayil deserves respect for he is not just a writer of these events but an active member in the story if not carved out as himself, but following his journey with drugs a bit of him may be observed in every character.

Reading this book is like going to a movie and coming out of the theatre without a major change in your expressions, you only grow a tad grim but would not like to discuss it with anyone. Words flow effortlessly like poetry and excellent imagery and dream like sequences of classic trance are witnessed. For me here lies the victory of the book; dreams are brutal, hallucinations are ruthless and sobriety is only paid occasional visits like one of the brothels in the book. In a way Narcopolis is a scary story, for the author never once smiles throughout the narration, even when he does it is only at the misery of the characters or rather his own self. It is a sadistic take on reality where characters are too real to forget smiling but in the midst of way too real situations to introduce any mirth.

One thought sprouts another under the influence of opium and dope and chemical and heroine and an entire array of narcotics. Gradually the narration moves ahead independently and acquires a less familiar shape and indulges in a strange kaleidoscopic pattern. The unfolding takes us from Shuklaji Street to China several decades ago and takes us forward to communal tensions in the 90s. Thayil often yields to egoistical tantrums that writers sometimes throw, through over involvement in the story that a storyteller must not be a victim of, sometimes even boasting the fact off that he knows more than the readers do.

So far, I have not said a word about the story of the book because a story has only been woven in order to highlight the dark crevices and webby niches of the glamorous Bombay. It does not sound like Bombay at all but at the same time there is no surprise. The dark demons of the night live in the wombs of gutters and alleys with illegitimate signboards, and every big city blows a sooty trumpet of such a corner. There are eunuchs and there is trade of the flesh and there are drags from chillums and imported China pipes yet there is heart and there are hopeless longings and there are sighs, but there are also castrations and pain and madness and shame. It is a filthy book but not without a fair amount of very natural emotions.

All in all, the book is a gripping one. I am not a good judge of a book but this one deserves to be read if not win a Booker Prize. Read it for the taste of that transcendental addiction to poetry that Thayil germinates within us.

The dream...

There was an amorphous quiet in the woods. Only crickets rubbed their feet together in serene patterns sometimes. If there were birds and wolves and monkeys in the jungle, they were all hushed and showed no signs of existence. Under the creepers growing on low monsoon trees overgrown with green, velvety moss and beautiful deadly mushrooms was a bend in the river. The water flew so gently that it gave an impression of a composed lake. It was an occasional glitter in this water, through the leafy mesh, that presented an evidence of daylight over the closed forest. Nature stood in its most intimate bearing, relaxed on the face of earth, shyly against the water, in a state of utter ecstasy where words lose their meanings and sounds appear a hindrance.

I must have spent a tenth of a second in this tranquil surrounding when the intrusion set in. A wild man with long knotted hair and as long a beard that looked like a lion’s mane came in. I cannot now recall where he stood; on the mossy ground or water. He looked everywhere like an animal, out of place; up in the roofed sky, into the crevices of trees, at the dressed branches, everywhere. Then he started looking at his arms and legs, and the black robe in tatters that came to his thighs, and the rope that was around his waist. He went from one object to another with his eyes with such slow movements that it all began to blend in the calm environment. Suddenly, with a sharp turn of his head he looked at me, pierced his razor eyes into mine and began to laugh, a mirthless, soundless snigger.

I often wake up when I thus meet myself in a dream--- too surreal to be ignored or forgotten in the dull routine that follows--- drenched in sweat, my veins beating loudly against my wrists. 

Diary of a dead man...

The evening is raw. There are birds of prey all around in the sky flying low in concentric circles, unnerved by a human presence below. They screech their high pitched songs into the moist air, which cut into my bones and send shivers down my spine. Appearing like mere silhouettes of their majestic tribe, they beckon the dusk and with each circumambulation it seems to reach closer and closer. The sky starts to close on me and soon I am surrounded by fluttering falcons, one of which tears a ligament right out of my shoulder.

How I loved to watch the sun go down and bathe in the warmth of its aftermath. Streaks of clouds changing shapes in the golden gloss, inches above the horizon hooked me tight until they turned grey and smudgy and I knew it was time to go back home, to the warmth of the hearth. I loved to walk on my feet and push the earth down with every step. I was in full control of things in and about my life. Sometimes I walked out of cafes with my arm around her and she loved to be held so. It was all at this hour, and it was all mine. Today I lay here still, arms and legs in full directional projection. They tear deeper into my arm.

When I was young I loved to jump into things and make mistakes only to hurt myself in the end. What lovely pain! There were fights and climbing and falls and recoveries from overtly confounded head rushes. There were people and stories and histories and lonely spells. There were no things I ever had regrets for, but only that they lasted for a very short time. Then there was growing up and the process of maturing that gave me opportunities for new mistakes and fights and falls and love and pain. There were moments when I was and some when I really was not proud of myself, but no regrets at living as I did. But was that a short life! One of them tethers its talons into my bare chest. Rest follow.

There were a thousand dreams and I lived them all one by one, but with each one a thousand more sprang like hydra and ran all around like little bunnies. I chased after them each day, caging them and caressing them, as I ran into her one of those evenings. She looked deeply into my eyes as I was busy digging up a hole, making some music of own. She snatched the shovel out of my hand and I knew my soul had met her twin. There were heartaches and rains and long strains of drizzling love. But all that ended all too soon.

And I am here now beneath four pairs of razor sharp beaks and talons. They rip out my heart and it hurts, even though it doesn’t. I must go far away now, even though I mustn’t. It all has to end up like this, but the journey was worth all its very while. Soon they will gouge out my eyes and I will be one with the earth, exposed to further deconstruction. My memories will however remain in the air, in every heart.

Random thoughts on a rainy afternoon

Imagine the magnanimity of the cosmic existence. Let’s face it, it’s a vague proposition. The human mind in its glorious limitations is unqualified to prepare an estimate of a borderless perimeter. If it has no foundation to build a hypothesis on, it struggles in the void like a ray of light: quite there yet touching nothing to show its presence, and totally unaware about it itself. Pure sciences are at an infantile stage of excavating the reality, and spiritual enthusiasts are looked down upon by astro-physicists and such other children of technology. The need for validation often spoils the splendour of a beautiful concept. I believe in what I believe.

Listen closely when the sky rumbles and pours gallons of water on the tin shed outside. Pluto need not be a part of the solar system to assure you an understanding of the universe. Vibrations that the flashes and claps of a thunder produce carve vivid scenes of the cosmic hall, echoing the stroke of an invisible stone on an ancient sheet of invisible leather, sending waves of fatal resonance down on us, tingling the mystic chords inside and subjecting us to an infinitesimal glimpse of the destruction coiled around creation. 

Sunday and Sitcoms

A Sunday during vacations can be tricky. On an ordinary week of an ordinary month it is a fresh recess from the commonly referred to, extremely subjective, often empirically stumbled upon drudgery of work. Not only does it provide the much needed break from monotony, it also relocates our belief in the theistic conception of a God, who according to Christianity needed this break on the seventh day of the week. Now, if God needed to take a day off, we mortals act only natural in following His league. This brings us much closer to Godhead and as a child of modern political India evokes in me an apparently innate and ‘ambedkarly’ rightful demand of reserving mortal privileges of a second holiday in the week to construct an opaque distinctive boundary line between Man and God. But we have digressed hugely from our original point. Let us get back to Sundays.

Ah Sunday, our saviour, the one we cherish for its enzymatic attribute of coaxing one into switching off the alarm on its eve and missing the rise of its pagan celestial namesake. Now, imagine a medicine as authoritatively potent as a Sunday being ripped off of its powers and thrown in together with hundreds of other capsules of multi-vitamins, reducing it into just another pill that will only be flushed out of the bowels the next morning with only a 50% chance of being absorbed by your body. From rags to riches, from a prince to a frog, from Manmohan Singh the FM to Manmohan Singh the PM, that’s the magnitude of the fall when a regular Sunday metamorphoses into a Sunday during vacations. It loses its edge and turns into a round ball of faded wool that even cats play with only when bored.

It is on such an impotent, incapable, just another day that happens to be a Sunday that I am writing today’s blog. As my Saturday was no different from my Sunday in any significant sense I woke up super late on both these days without an altered bubble of caustic composition popping in my gut. And here I am still awake at an hour that humanity has taken turns to call as ghastly, ghoulish, insanely late, nocturnal, or what people in the west call it much to us Indians’ amazement-- morning.

I was planning on deleting some stuff from my laptop and I bumped into three extremely popular sitcoms FRIENDS, How I Met Your Mother and The Big Bang Theory. I know this must be the side effect of the radiation from this once active now dormant conundrum of a lethargic Sunday that I got into thinking about them. I found that even though I watch each new episode of a new sitcom with an open mind without any prejudices, I still like FRIENDS the best followed by HIMYM and BBT the least even though it’s funny in a sadly smart way. My dizzying analysis shows that probably FRIENDS always tops the list because it touches a psychological chord of nostalgia, having stayed by my side through school and college and now in the professional sphere. But analytics dare this simple explanation.

An emotionless postmodernist analysis deconstructs the situation into yet simpler terms of what manages to seep into the subconscious state of my mind. It is beyond the people who play the roles or what the storyline is. It is the basic things like what sets are used and how is the lighting managed. We consciously hardly ever take notice of things like sets while watching something that’s more appealing owing to its actors or the plot or the script. But that is not true also with our unconscious self furthermore observing and storing each and everything we come across ever more piercingly than our eyes.

In FRIENDS more public places like the coffee house are used as settings where most of the action takes place, where many unrelated people come and go and add to the dynamics of the scene. When showing the indoors the walls are painted in more vibrant and lively colours, hosting cheerful posters and paintings. Monica’s flat in particular has windows and even a balcony making it much more appealing than Joeye’s flat across the hall that has hardly ever been shown with a window; very claustrophobic, something that my subconscious would never allow. But most of the action takes place elsewhere or there is a healthy (call it remedial) movement between Joeye’s apartment and the rest of the places.

Taking FRIENDS as an accepted standard setting margin, the rest of the two sitcoms appear smaller. HIMYM has most of the action taking place indoors, most of the time at night. Now let’s not go back and rewind on our basics why the sun often symbolizes happiness and cloudy or darkness is for sadness and depression. This plays heavily on my psychology and I always miss an opportunity to build a rapport with the sitcom, but right then the costumes come to rescue. With Marshall as the only exception, to which however he occasionally creates a counter exception thus becoming in line with the trend with no exceptions at all, all characters wear bright and happy colours, creating a vibrant atmosphere not with the painted walls but with the painted costumes. Barney’s character too leaves a positive impression in the mind for obvious reasons.

This brings us to the BBT. Like Barney, Sheldon is a talker who loves himself and likes to believe that he is always correct. Now, many people find him the best character in the sitcom, the sole reason why they watch the programme. This is indeed true. He is so irritating and we (read I) find him so annoying yet we want to see him and wait for his next move however irritating it be. Once again I am digressing from the main point. BBT offers a strict indoors setting in a house full of nerds proposing very little fun. There is hardly ever a glimpse of the outside world. This could have been happening well in an alien soil and so it loses the terrestrial touch, bringing it at the bottom of my preference among these three options.

Suddenly everything looks quite meaningless. This could mean only one thing, I am sleepy. I may do extreme things like write a blog like this which is nothing but a blot to my otherwise decent blog page, and even post it, but I can never compromise with sweet sleep, which on a worthless, futile Sunday is anyway hard to come. Goodnight.

Implications of a dark evening

            Strange things happen after dark. I had heard this being said a thousand times before, and had probably even experienced it on my own in a mild form, so far. But the dark evening of the 29th of January, 2012 brought me to the realm of the experienced ones, those who have legitimate and rightful reasons to preach this wisdom. Now that I have raised the bar of expectations high and exposed my story to the poor light of a possibly low climactic judgement, let me narrate it out loud to provoke some disappointment and lead the way to the lighter observations that came to me like the great flash of enlightenment, documenting which, by the way, was the main purpose of this blog tonight.



           While coming back from a friend’s house in Haldwani at the after dark phase of this Sunday evening, I could not find a rickshaw. Having waited for a few minutes I decided to walk my way to Kaladhungi Chauraha, a place where I could easily find a rickshaw back home. Soon enough I got bored of walking alone in the bustle of the crowded city and decided to talk to mother back in Almora. I dialled her number and started talking to her. She told me about this and that and so did I. Then I came to the topic which brings us quite close to the climax of this story. Before the climax a little background is of immediate requirement. I had got a phone last year from Surat and I had being meaning to buy myself a memory card ever since. Now that I had misplaced my iPod I decided to finally bring this plan to action and actually buy one. So I told Ma to send my phone earphones to me in Haldwani. She asked me where I had kept them. As I was about to tell her that they were in the front pocket of my small sports bag that contained my old history notes, I felt a cursory but firm slap on my hand that was at my right ear holding the phone. For a minute I was excited to think that some old friend was probably in town and wanted to surprise me like this. But I was also afraid that my phone might have fallen on the ground and had possibly broken as I could no longer feel it at my hand. But there was no sound of plastic meeting concrete.


            This, now, is the climax of the story; the main part. As I was looking at my left side for my phone I heard the familiar sound of an engine of Yamaha RX100 at my right, shifting forward with great speed. Busy as I was in the thoughts of my earphones and searching for the exact words to say to Ma in order to help her locate them, it took me a few seconds to realize that I had just been robbed. The biker had snatched my phone with an impressive dexterity and was now holding it between his teeth as he continued to increase the speed. For a second he turned his head back to check whether I was following, and I am sure I saw him smile with my phone in his mouth compelling him to turn that theft into a pleasant grinning experience, of course exclusively for him. I was too dumbstruck to run after him and in a second or two he had already disappeared. My immediate reaction is going to be considered a fake affectation for the sake of gaining some respect after thus losing my mobile, but I swear on all my lost contacts that it is true. I thought I had to buy a new one anyway. Even the vibrator in this one was not working properly. What followed was some formality in the police station et al, and is drag and boring, and moreover only a stupid ending to an exciting incident, so I am not writing about it.


            Later in the evening after dinner as I was watching some TV with Kucki da a funny thought came to me. How many adapters like mine are left all alone in the world without their respective mobile phones to attach themselves to? They might feel somewhat like the war-widows who were courageous enough to send their men to the war front with high hopes, but unfortunate to receive the news of them having being captured by the enemy with no hope of return. They, then, spend their lives always dangling from the switchboard, like split ended hair strands, waiting to be detached from the head one fine day. I felt pleasure at this sadistic comparison.


            They don’t end here, my observations. I missed a lump in the front pocket of my jeans that I continued to check after intervals, and every time I found it not there I got worried for a second and then relieved that it was actually stolen and that I hadn’t forgotten it anywhere. Few labels have been attached to me for some time now and only partly for the right reason; one, that I am always on phone and the other that I am very careless. I am on phone, but not always and who isn’t careless sometimes! Just that I am caught at the wrong place, at the wrong time. Anyway, today my phone took away both these customary accusations with it, though only for the time being. But I do have a reason to rejoice. No distractions and a temporary holiday from the albatross round my neck. I could concentrate more on the TV and once back in my room I could read some Turkish poetry in translation, something that had lately found it difficult for itself to squeeze some time out, because of a stupid but addictive game in the phone.


Thank you thief, however may you rot in hell!

What's going on!!!

Today, like many other days at home in the hills I woke up in the designed, fraudulent, deceitful morning of early January. There was no sun in the vicinity, despite it being a Sunday and the sky was covered in a sludge of dark clouds, so dark that the only light from the window in my room gave me an impression that there’d been a snowfall early in the morning. It was quiet; not even the birds chirped that chirped always, the stillness that only followed a snowfall. I threw my fur filled quilt at one side of my bed and jumped at the window, hoping to see the landscape outside covered in white moss: trees, mountains, flower pots, the old wooden bench, everything covered in pure pashmina. But as I ogled at it from the wiry mesh of my window I saw the old adulterated version of this fairy tale--- hills without snow!


So much frustration over a trifle, you must think, but my occasioning pain only doubles as I break to you that the undeserving, unchosen land of abject aesthetics, writhing under its confused etymology, Pathankot, has witnessed a snowfall last night. What is going on?!?

Arundhati Roy's take on the Anna Movement

Arundhati Roy is one of those journalists/writers/activists in India who have a high survival understanding in a field where a static absence means death. She keeps controversial topics close to her chest and very honestly (and unfeigningly) maintains the i-dont-care-what-you-think-of me facade. She often speaks against the wind so as to preserve her position at a distance from the rest of her lot and stay alive. Her style is that of over simplifying things that have more complex solutions and complicating the matters that may have easier resolutions. She frequently reminds me of some modern witch who likes to be called a psychic behind her eyes highlighted with kohl, and who likes it even more when people call her a little cranky.

She has been on my list of irritating good looking women ever since her over simplified version of the Indian Naxalite movement; then she graduated to a new level when she spoke the simple absurdities in/about Kashmir. And in between she has had random opinions on India’s nuclear policy post the Pokhran nuke test. The latest point where she opened her supple mouth to bring some misplaced venom out was at the anti corruption movement led by Anna Hazare. She is highly critical of not just the new bill but also of the man and the entire movement. Though not in clear words, she calls Anna a fake Gandhian.

It is difficult to understand what problems can an ‘intellectual’ have with this movement (other than the mentioned attempt at standing away from the rest of the bourgeoisie intellectuals) that is clearly in favour of fighting corruption. Here are a couple of things that according to my analysis are responsible for this.

1. Roy has always been very vocal about her abhorrence for Narendra Modi, and despite the 2002 stain on the Gujarat collar Anna Hazare praised Modi’s development model in Gujarat.

2. Anna Hazare has had an old association with the RSS.

3. Anna does not support the popular practice of caste based reservations, and not just talks but also has brought into practice the Gandhian model of self dependence based on equal distribution of work in his Ralegan Sidhi.

4. Anna’s movement and the ongoing campaign is being handled by people who are associated with NGOs that gather their funds from multinationals like Coca Cola and Lehman Brothers. She is clearly upset with Arvind Kejriwal and Sisodia's NGO ‘Kabir’ that has received a donation of $400,000 from the Ford Foundation in the last 3 years.

5. Arundhati Roy, at the bottom of everything else, is a leftist and pays her homage to Marx by opposing everything that has a stench of a robust Capitalism and a hint of decentralization.

She has always been wary of globalization and privatising government wings to corporations and NGOs. Her biggest concern is that such NGOs and corporations will be out of the Lokpal bill ambit and hence will be free to do corrupt practices themselves. But what she refuses to understand is that it will ultimately be the tax payers’ money that will run these NGOs and corporations and wherever that goes the periphery of the Lokpal jurisdiction will go.

But sadly, I do not expect any sense of rationality from her. Had she been in possession of the right senses she would have made far better use of her Booker Prize money than donate it in a movement to stop a Hydel Power Project in Gujarat.