It’s not every day that we get to spend time with those who like to think on their own and have a perspective that’s out of the box. And when one happens to run into such company it is too irresistible to let the opportunity go. They also serve as mothballs to keep the vulgar idiots away, and are a boon for petty hosts tired of laughing at perverted jokes and anecdotes. I happened to have been stuck in a pair of stilettos that didn’t even fit me, one evening—a knight in distress, when this mixed crowd of dames and dandies paid a visit. After a couple of shots of some harmless spirit we found ourselves involved in a hot exchange of opinions.
I spoke my face red and my voice hoarse on the present state of the country, and how Mother India was writhing in the talons of the government; and how the Congress had proved time and again only too efficient in licking foreign arses (to manage what the blind, sentimental and non-budging Indians had continually been holding out to them—the reigns of the nation); and how the only other option the BJP, or shall I say the NDA promised a muddled up instability in the wake of the non-secular firmament (read bullshit)that they had to wake up to every single morning; and how the Left irritated the one who might just otherwise work, like blood sucking mosquitoes, and rendered smooth working impossible (why wouldn’t they demand what they wanted straight away at the beginning and save us all the drama, and the news channels their precious time slots for televised adaptations of the apocalypse prophesied by hermits and crooks?); and how the rest of the political fraternity attacked the national carcass like hyenas when the mighty lords had had their fill. And I realized that all it did was raise the pressure I my arteries and disturb the rhythm that once was lub and dub. The government continued anyway to dance on a pagan ditty from Mount Etna, dressed in bold nothingness with sticks in hands and the nation for the beast in the barbecue at the centre. A young kid with spectacles touched the kill to check whether it was time, and giggled. The rest of them giggled in unison and reverence as a tribute to the great grandfather of the kid who was once their leader. Maybe it was the initiation that was so painful. Once the rudiments were settled things would get better. I lighted up a candle, having lost my prescription for natural optimism.
Someone suggested a refill, and we were on the highway again. In order to calm myself down I took some deep breaths that really helped. I wondered if soon deep breathing exercises and the pranayam would be coupled with the non secular bhagwa party, as Baba Ramdev had been, who had been endorsing it for a long time. After all Anna Hazare’s austere stage couldn’t escape the stains of mud that flung from the quicksand that gobbled up Babaji. And while Anna had years of positive only results at Ralegan Siddhi and elsewhere, poor Indian Yoga had made a return from the west without a passport with a tag of Tantric Sexuality attached to its ear. The government could blame it all on the impish Hindutva goblins, and declare it anti national as it might hurt the secular sentiment of the Indian Preamble like our notorious national song. I took a few more deep breaths, not only because I needed them but also because my elders had taught me to be law abiding, and I might as well do it when it was still legal.
The crammed up living room began to lose its citizenry as the speakers fell silent and a part that formed the dumb congregation sniffed a possible escape door opening. Someone demanded to forget it and look elsewhere. Some of the rising inmates sat back down and I played the fall guy by saying, “Ya... OK!” as if it was me who was offered the chalice from Lethe. We spoke about contemporary literature in India for some time and soon drifted to the dangerous precinct in the neighbourhood that was freedom of speech and expression. It started in a light colour with Sardars getting annoyed on sardar jokes, but the burning of Rohinton Mistry’s Such A Long Journey by Shiv Sainiks and the disappointing decision of Mumbai University to withdraw the book from the course curriculum proved the Enfield greased cartridges that we took rounds to bite into and set the rest of the night on fire.
Then came the ghosts of M F Hussain and Tasleema Nasreen and the students of the Fine Arts College of Baroda and Lucknow. History started yelling aloud from the top of the Kabah, and the pre Layla-al-qadr pagan daughters of Allah became the mouthpieces of Swedish caricatures. We turned into mediums and the spirits made us speak like Saraswati in Kumbhakaran’s tongue. Episodes glided before our eyes from texts of history and politics. The stream of our consciousness was on rampage. How the ancient tradition of India made us proud despite Thapars and Majumdars! The peaceful co-existence of 6 theistic and 3 atheistic schools of philosophy without the spilling of a drop of blood was hard to imagine. There was jeering and sneering at the Brahmanas; the writers of the Vedas were even called Donkeys by Charvak the sceptic, but at end of the day there was a tap on the heart and an unsaid word ‘respect’ in the eye. Today a handful of religions, all ahl-al kitab with clear distinction of duties, find it difficult to nod their heads in harmony. Independent acts of mischief are linked with a resilient religion in order to maintain the status quo at the Parliament.
We were still wondering what the discussion was all about in the beginning that had led us to feeling so aggravated and sick. Someone strummed on the guitar and we stepped out of that hypnotized state. The simple rhythm of the cheap acoustic box made us smile. These were the first set of smiles in the entire evening. The melody was simple and eased the pleats that had formed in our hearts. There was no piece of knowledge to counter it, no argument to object to it. I let out a sigh that had been in my ribs as a nascent breath of fire since forever. This was beautiful. We don’t need no education, I mumbled and the guitar picked my words and played the Pink Floyd number. We don’t need no thoughts control. For the first time the lyrics made more sense to me than ever before. The singing went on for an hour before we fell asleep like babies.
I spoke my face red and my voice hoarse on the present state of the country, and how Mother India was writhing in the talons of the government; and how the Congress had proved time and again only too efficient in licking foreign arses (to manage what the blind, sentimental and non-budging Indians had continually been holding out to them—the reigns of the nation); and how the only other option the BJP, or shall I say the NDA promised a muddled up instability in the wake of the non-secular firmament (read bullshit)that they had to wake up to every single morning; and how the Left irritated the one who might just otherwise work, like blood sucking mosquitoes, and rendered smooth working impossible (why wouldn’t they demand what they wanted straight away at the beginning and save us all the drama, and the news channels their precious time slots for televised adaptations of the apocalypse prophesied by hermits and crooks?); and how the rest of the political fraternity attacked the national carcass like hyenas when the mighty lords had had their fill. And I realized that all it did was raise the pressure I my arteries and disturb the rhythm that once was lub and dub. The government continued anyway to dance on a pagan ditty from Mount Etna, dressed in bold nothingness with sticks in hands and the nation for the beast in the barbecue at the centre. A young kid with spectacles touched the kill to check whether it was time, and giggled. The rest of them giggled in unison and reverence as a tribute to the great grandfather of the kid who was once their leader. Maybe it was the initiation that was so painful. Once the rudiments were settled things would get better. I lighted up a candle, having lost my prescription for natural optimism.
Someone suggested a refill, and we were on the highway again. In order to calm myself down I took some deep breaths that really helped. I wondered if soon deep breathing exercises and the pranayam would be coupled with the non secular bhagwa party, as Baba Ramdev had been, who had been endorsing it for a long time. After all Anna Hazare’s austere stage couldn’t escape the stains of mud that flung from the quicksand that gobbled up Babaji. And while Anna had years of positive only results at Ralegan Siddhi and elsewhere, poor Indian Yoga had made a return from the west without a passport with a tag of Tantric Sexuality attached to its ear. The government could blame it all on the impish Hindutva goblins, and declare it anti national as it might hurt the secular sentiment of the Indian Preamble like our notorious national song. I took a few more deep breaths, not only because I needed them but also because my elders had taught me to be law abiding, and I might as well do it when it was still legal.
The crammed up living room began to lose its citizenry as the speakers fell silent and a part that formed the dumb congregation sniffed a possible escape door opening. Someone demanded to forget it and look elsewhere. Some of the rising inmates sat back down and I played the fall guy by saying, “Ya... OK!” as if it was me who was offered the chalice from Lethe. We spoke about contemporary literature in India for some time and soon drifted to the dangerous precinct in the neighbourhood that was freedom of speech and expression. It started in a light colour with Sardars getting annoyed on sardar jokes, but the burning of Rohinton Mistry’s Such A Long Journey by Shiv Sainiks and the disappointing decision of Mumbai University to withdraw the book from the course curriculum proved the Enfield greased cartridges that we took rounds to bite into and set the rest of the night on fire.
Then came the ghosts of M F Hussain and Tasleema Nasreen and the students of the Fine Arts College of Baroda and Lucknow. History started yelling aloud from the top of the Kabah, and the pre Layla-al-qadr pagan daughters of Allah became the mouthpieces of Swedish caricatures. We turned into mediums and the spirits made us speak like Saraswati in Kumbhakaran’s tongue. Episodes glided before our eyes from texts of history and politics. The stream of our consciousness was on rampage. How the ancient tradition of India made us proud despite Thapars and Majumdars! The peaceful co-existence of 6 theistic and 3 atheistic schools of philosophy without the spilling of a drop of blood was hard to imagine. There was jeering and sneering at the Brahmanas; the writers of the Vedas were even called Donkeys by Charvak the sceptic, but at end of the day there was a tap on the heart and an unsaid word ‘respect’ in the eye. Today a handful of religions, all ahl-al kitab with clear distinction of duties, find it difficult to nod their heads in harmony. Independent acts of mischief are linked with a resilient religion in order to maintain the status quo at the Parliament.
We were still wondering what the discussion was all about in the beginning that had led us to feeling so aggravated and sick. Someone strummed on the guitar and we stepped out of that hypnotized state. The simple rhythm of the cheap acoustic box made us smile. These were the first set of smiles in the entire evening. The melody was simple and eased the pleats that had formed in our hearts. There was no piece of knowledge to counter it, no argument to object to it. I let out a sigh that had been in my ribs as a nascent breath of fire since forever. This was beautiful. We don’t need no education, I mumbled and the guitar picked my words and played the Pink Floyd number. We don’t need no thoughts control. For the first time the lyrics made more sense to me than ever before. The singing went on for an hour before we fell asleep like babies.
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