Just as I was writing the title to this post, I realised that if I had any musical talent, I would definitely get a band going under this name. But this post is not about anything musical. It is about Anna Hazare's suggestions to deal with the menace of alcoholism, and also some responses to it.
In a refreshingly novel approach, he suggests that a drunkard creating trouble should just be warned the first three times he is caught, and also given a small lecture on why drinking is bad. And now I quote "But even after warning him thrice if he again drinks then we will take him to temple and he has to swear by God that he won't drink in future. And even after all this he drinks then we will tie him up to the electric pole in front of the temple and then beat him up so that he gets scared."
Bringing glory to rural India, he says he devised this method to cure alcoholics back in his village. Truly a Gandhian, eh? Sitting on a fast with a Gandhi topi one time, and flogging alcoholics publicly another. A hypocrite, but still a Gandhian I guess. He also says that reformed alcoholics have told him that they would have lost everything in their lives were it not for those public beatings. And here I was, thinking that S&M is not really all that big in this great country of mine.
While I don't refute the use of violence per se, I certainly don't agree with this suggestion by this man whose hypocritical ways don't let me have much respect for him anyway. But to be fair to him, a lot of people have spoken against this comment of his, saying he is no one to talk about something like this since the choice to drink or smoke is a personal one. What these idiots seem to not realise is that he is talking about alcoholics and those who get drunk and stir up trouble. Not everyone who drinks falls under either of those two categories. If you are a trouble maker and alcohol is your alibi, then well, I wouldn't mind landing you a punch or two myself. Unless of course, you get drunk and kill yourself by mistake. :)
Anyway, like a shrewd businessman, is he just trying to broaden his portfolio or taking his local global? Or is he just getting bored of his fight against corruption?
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Children, Nazis and the Government
I have written earlier about how I don't understand why some people totally denounce parents hitting their children occasionally to teach them a lesson or two. I don't buy the 'it leaves the child scarred for life' argument, since the scarring can only happen for two reasons. One, the parents simply abused the violence, thwacking the kid around as and when for no reason whatsoever. Two, the public opinion (not necessarily the public's opinion, just the opinion displayed in public) that creates an environment where a child will feel scarred if its parents hit it.
Either way, where does the government come in to this? When does the government start telling people what they can or cannot do with their children's upbringing? There are laws in many countries where the state can take children away from their parents, presumably for their own safety. Foster homes can be a god-sent for some, but I am sure that they are also hell-holes for others.
But leaving aside this matter of beating your children, which I am a supporter of, I want to talk about other parenting type affairs the government meddles in.
Heath and Deborah Campbell, US citizens, over the years, have named their four children Adolf Hitler, JoyceLynn Aryan Nation, Honszlynn Hinler, and the latest, Hons. Hons was taken away by officials from child welfare services from the hospital he was born only a few hours after arriving on the planet. The others were taken away in 2009, soon after Adolf's third birthday when they had a tough time finding a cake shop that would write "Happy Birthday Adolf Hitler" on the kid's cake.
Like Moon Unit or Diva Thin Muffin Pigeen, they are not the most regular names, at least not in the US. They are probably not very popular too, ever since the Germans got their arses trampled upon in World War II. But what does any of it have to do with the couple as parents? Should those children really be in foster care instead of being at home with their own parents, just because of their names?
This pisses me off doubly because of the Nazi association that is made by default. There is a senior politician from Tamil Nadu called Stalin. Were he in the US, would he have never been allowed to contest elections because of his name? What about the thousands of Saddam Husseins in the world? And the Austria-Germany region is littered with variations of the spelling of Hitler. It is only a fucking name, not a declaration of intent to gas Jews.
Roses and shit, by any other names, would still smell the way they do.
Either way, where does the government come in to this? When does the government start telling people what they can or cannot do with their children's upbringing? There are laws in many countries where the state can take children away from their parents, presumably for their own safety. Foster homes can be a god-sent for some, but I am sure that they are also hell-holes for others.
But leaving aside this matter of beating your children, which I am a supporter of, I want to talk about other parenting type affairs the government meddles in.
Heath and Deborah Campbell, US citizens, over the years, have named their four children Adolf Hitler, JoyceLynn Aryan Nation, Honszlynn Hinler, and the latest, Hons. Hons was taken away by officials from child welfare services from the hospital he was born only a few hours after arriving on the planet. The others were taken away in 2009, soon after Adolf's third birthday when they had a tough time finding a cake shop that would write "Happy Birthday Adolf Hitler" on the kid's cake.
Like Moon Unit or Diva Thin Muffin Pigeen, they are not the most regular names, at least not in the US. They are probably not very popular too, ever since the Germans got their arses trampled upon in World War II. But what does any of it have to do with the couple as parents? Should those children really be in foster care instead of being at home with their own parents, just because of their names?
This pisses me off doubly because of the Nazi association that is made by default. There is a senior politician from Tamil Nadu called Stalin. Were he in the US, would he have never been allowed to contest elections because of his name? What about the thousands of Saddam Husseins in the world? And the Austria-Germany region is littered with variations of the spelling of Hitler. It is only a fucking name, not a declaration of intent to gas Jews.
Roses and shit, by any other names, would still smell the way they do.
Tuesday, November 08, 2011
For the Love of the Dead
Whoever came up with the concept of burials in consecrated grounds had obviously never expected the human population to swell to its current numbers. I mean, I know of ossuaries, have been among the thousands of rows of skulls and bones in the Paris catacombs and missed the Bone Church by a few minutes. And I have always thought there was something morbid about the Christian obsession with human remains. Not that I mind, but it seems like it has started causing practical issues.
Zaragoza in Spain is putting up stickers on graves asking living descendents of the dead to renew leases for the space six feet under that is occupied by their ancestors' bones and maggots. The dead seem to be having serious problems of space, what with being cramped inside coffins all the damned time. Failure of payment will lead to those remains being moved to the common burial ground. Nice to see class differentiation even long after death. Bravo.
However, the more interesting bit of news comes from Russia, about a historian who loved to rummage through cemeteries and study gravestones to uncover stories behind them. Quite eccentric for some, adorable to others perhaps, but surely necromanic, undoubtedly. And so the police discovered one day. How they found out, they do not say, but they did.
He had, while rummaging, also dug a little. Not much, just a little, enough to get back home 29 bodies. And yes, the study of gravestones was very rewarding too, since he always chose remains of young women. So did he have sex with them once home? Don't know, but he did make for himself 29 life-size life-like dolls, dressing them up in dresses and headscarves and wrapping their heads and hands in cloth. Well, a cross between a doll and a mummy will be a more accurate description.
Again, did he have sex with them? Don't know. Neither do his parents, with who he shares the apartment he made in to his own macabre museum of sorts. They didn't even know that the bodies were all there! But what we do know is what set him down this path. He claims his interest in necrology began when he was 12 and came across the funeral procession of an 11-year old girl. In his own words, 'An adult pushed my face down to the waxy forehead of the girl in an embroidered cap, and there was nothing I could do but kiss her as ordered.' In other words, mmmm... tasty!
Zaragoza in Spain is putting up stickers on graves asking living descendents of the dead to renew leases for the space six feet under that is occupied by their ancestors' bones and maggots. The dead seem to be having serious problems of space, what with being cramped inside coffins all the damned time. Failure of payment will lead to those remains being moved to the common burial ground. Nice to see class differentiation even long after death. Bravo.
However, the more interesting bit of news comes from Russia, about a historian who loved to rummage through cemeteries and study gravestones to uncover stories behind them. Quite eccentric for some, adorable to others perhaps, but surely necromanic, undoubtedly. And so the police discovered one day. How they found out, they do not say, but they did.
He had, while rummaging, also dug a little. Not much, just a little, enough to get back home 29 bodies. And yes, the study of gravestones was very rewarding too, since he always chose remains of young women. So did he have sex with them once home? Don't know, but he did make for himself 29 life-size life-like dolls, dressing them up in dresses and headscarves and wrapping their heads and hands in cloth. Well, a cross between a doll and a mummy will be a more accurate description.
Again, did he have sex with them? Don't know. Neither do his parents, with who he shares the apartment he made in to his own macabre museum of sorts. They didn't even know that the bodies were all there! But what we do know is what set him down this path. He claims his interest in necrology began when he was 12 and came across the funeral procession of an 11-year old girl. In his own words, 'An adult pushed my face down to the waxy forehead of the girl in an embroidered cap, and there was nothing I could do but kiss her as ordered.' In other words, mmmm... tasty!
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Gaddafi Gone
Only a matter of time, wasn't it? Poetic justice, some would say. Not nearly as bad as he deserved, others may say. Another blatant violation of sovereignty, is all I see. But all the same, Gaddafi is dead. And while I am no supporter of his domestic politics (even though I really don't care much for dead humans, at least no less than most humans care about the death of animals. How many of you are even aware that a whole bunch of tigers, lions and what-not were shot a couple of days ago by cops in Ohio in the Unbelievable States of Arseholes?), I did admire the man for the same reasons as I had for Saddam: sticking to his guns (literally too, to some extent) and opposing Western imperialist designs even in the face of much adversity.
But what is done is done, and I am not about to tear my hair out over something that, frankly, doesn't even affect me remotely. I would rather that the man was still alive and kicking, and that he kept showing the proverbial middle finger to whoever he felt like. But I am no Jesus Christ, and he no Lazarus. It struck me as comical though, the fact that he was finally found in a drain pipe. Seems like these tyrant-type rulers have a thing for pipes and holes as they draw close to their final moments.
What I find especially irritating is these fucking rebels who take the claim for having brought Gaddafi down. From the start to the finish, they would have been able to do all of diddly squat, had it not been for the US and NATO bombing the shit out of the government forces. Even this last battle was decided by the NATO airstrike on the convoy in which Gaddafi was trying to flee Sirte.
And oh, here is a picture for thought. Kids celebrating the fall of Gaddafi. Yes, it is a real gun. Ask the AP photographer if you must.
But what is done is done, and I am not about to tear my hair out over something that, frankly, doesn't even affect me remotely. I would rather that the man was still alive and kicking, and that he kept showing the proverbial middle finger to whoever he felt like. But I am no Jesus Christ, and he no Lazarus. It struck me as comical though, the fact that he was finally found in a drain pipe. Seems like these tyrant-type rulers have a thing for pipes and holes as they draw close to their final moments.
What I find especially irritating is these fucking rebels who take the claim for having brought Gaddafi down. From the start to the finish, they would have been able to do all of diddly squat, had it not been for the US and NATO bombing the shit out of the government forces. Even this last battle was decided by the NATO airstrike on the convoy in which Gaddafi was trying to flee Sirte.
And oh, here is a picture for thought. Kids celebrating the fall of Gaddafi. Yes, it is a real gun. Ask the AP photographer if you must.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Liberty and Looting in Libya
Couldn't resist that title. Alliteration has its own charm.
The rebels have made their way across most of the country, and Gaddafi is nowhere to be found. What they did find, however, was his hometown, dominated by members of the tribe he belongs to. And these rebellious liberators wasted no time in looting it and burning portions that caught their fancy. A bit like what happened in Iraq after Saddam's ouster, you know, what with museums being looted and such. Of course, no TV cameras to show it to the world this time.
The few media reports I read about it, they first went on about how this town was being a pain in the collective arse of the rebels by holding out for very long. And then, once it had been 'liberated' too, one report about Red Cross trying to move in to help the many women and children who had been, to put it politely, fucked over by liberators in the process of liberation. A necessary evil fallout, I am sure.
Before any of this happened, there is also the amusing story about stockpiles of Libyan weapons that were lying around for whoever wanted to take them. Shame I wasn't around, else I would have got myself a hand-held surface-to-air rocket launcher, at the very least. That would have been that for all those pesky aeroplanes that keep flying over my house at all hours, never letting me sleep. But seriously, that's how it went down. Anyone walking by the ruins left behind by NATO bombings (which selectively targeted locations like ammunition depots) could easily walk over to and get their hands on all sorts of weapons that we usually get to see only in films. And that is precisely what people were doing. There are ample reports of people driving up in trucks of varying sizes, filling them up with weapons of choice, thanking the NATO forces for helping them out with this little bonanza, test-firing a rocket or two into some wilderness and being on their way.
Way to go, you stupid interfering fucks. Just what we need. Hi-tech weapons up for grabs for anyone who wants them, for whatever reason he wants them. And I doubt those reasons will be 'hunting'. Unless, of course, we are talking hunting in an urban jungle, a la Eli Roth's Hostel.
The rebels have made their way across most of the country, and Gaddafi is nowhere to be found. What they did find, however, was his hometown, dominated by members of the tribe he belongs to. And these rebellious liberators wasted no time in looting it and burning portions that caught their fancy. A bit like what happened in Iraq after Saddam's ouster, you know, what with museums being looted and such. Of course, no TV cameras to show it to the world this time.
The few media reports I read about it, they first went on about how this town was being a pain in the collective arse of the rebels by holding out for very long. And then, once it had been 'liberated' too, one report about Red Cross trying to move in to help the many women and children who had been, to put it politely, fucked over by liberators in the process of liberation. A necessary evil fallout, I am sure.
Before any of this happened, there is also the amusing story about stockpiles of Libyan weapons that were lying around for whoever wanted to take them. Shame I wasn't around, else I would have got myself a hand-held surface-to-air rocket launcher, at the very least. That would have been that for all those pesky aeroplanes that keep flying over my house at all hours, never letting me sleep. But seriously, that's how it went down. Anyone walking by the ruins left behind by NATO bombings (which selectively targeted locations like ammunition depots) could easily walk over to and get their hands on all sorts of weapons that we usually get to see only in films. And that is precisely what people were doing. There are ample reports of people driving up in trucks of varying sizes, filling them up with weapons of choice, thanking the NATO forces for helping them out with this little bonanza, test-firing a rocket or two into some wilderness and being on their way.
Way to go, you stupid interfering fucks. Just what we need. Hi-tech weapons up for grabs for anyone who wants them, for whatever reason he wants them. And I doubt those reasons will be 'hunting'. Unless, of course, we are talking hunting in an urban jungle, a la Eli Roth's Hostel.
Saturday, October 01, 2011
Breaking the Speed Barrier
Call it a whim or whatever you will, but there are some scientific nitty-gritty kind of coclusions that totally piss me off. For instance, the demotion of Pluto from a planet to a whatever they call it now. But this neutrino business is most interesting. Einstein's grave may be disturbed from within as his bones do a mad jig at the news that one of his fundamental principles behind establishing modern physics may be not how he theorised it to be.
This neutrino (doesn't matter if you don't know what exactly it is, enough to know that it is one of the many sub-atomic particles) apparently travels faster than light. If that be the case, then E=mc2 loses meaning, since c is no more the ultimate speed. Admittedly, the difference in the speed of light and this neutrino particle is quite a small one, to the order of about 50 nanoseconds, too small for any of us humans to ever register, but the fact remains that it exists.
Of course, this is only the second experiment, and the first proper one, that has shown such results. And the scientific community is not taking this lying down. So I suppose there will still be a wait before this is actually proven, inasmuch as anything sub-atomic and particle physics related can be proven, keeping in mind always Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle.
But the jury is already out about what difference, if any, it makes to our everyday lives. Is there any reason to be alarmed or to celebrate? Who knows, but most likely, no. And I suppose much the same can be said about Pluto.
This neutrino (doesn't matter if you don't know what exactly it is, enough to know that it is one of the many sub-atomic particles) apparently travels faster than light. If that be the case, then E=mc2 loses meaning, since c is no more the ultimate speed. Admittedly, the difference in the speed of light and this neutrino particle is quite a small one, to the order of about 50 nanoseconds, too small for any of us humans to ever register, but the fact remains that it exists.
Of course, this is only the second experiment, and the first proper one, that has shown such results. And the scientific community is not taking this lying down. So I suppose there will still be a wait before this is actually proven, inasmuch as anything sub-atomic and particle physics related can be proven, keeping in mind always Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle.
But the jury is already out about what difference, if any, it makes to our everyday lives. Is there any reason to be alarmed or to celebrate? Who knows, but most likely, no. And I suppose much the same can be said about Pluto.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
The Now Quietened Din to Root Out Corruption
First it was Baba Ramdev who escaped in the garb of a woman as police lathicharged and teargassed his supporters in his demand for clean governance. And then, it was Anna Hazare, the self-proclaimed Gandhian and darling of the media, who went on a fast, got arrested, continued fasting to relent only after the Parliament spent 3 full days discussing exactly how to put an end to corruption that is present in almost all aspects of life in this glorious country.
For one, I would much rather not have had this whole Anna drama, because it wasted too many days of the Parliament as the Opposition stalled the workings of the Houses, all at a cost to taxpayers like me. Two, much money was also spent on mobilising security for that fasting so-called Gandhian, or rather, in anticipation of all the trouble it could cause. Once again, coming from government coffers that are filled up by taxpayers. And I am sure that at his age, Mr Hazare does not pay any taxes. Come to think of it, has he even held any job since he left the Army decades ago? Or is he a full-time Gandhian?
For two, I am no fan of corruption. But let us think about what corruption is. Is it when the clerk in some government office demands some under-the-table money to push forward a file, which is actually his precise job? Is it giving an officer somewhere some money to win a contract? Does it include you when you pay a traffic policeman something for his wallet rather than the actual, higher penalty for jumping a traffic light? Or when you get in to a reserved compartment in a train without a valid ticket and then indulge in "setting" with the TTE?
Except those who are too scared to try bribing a traffic cop, everyone has done it at some point or the other. Or at least tried to. When you have to take the train, you have to take it and if you can get a seat, why not get it? If it is cheaper for you to pay the TTE or the traffic cop for their personal gain rather that pay the actual fare or fine, and the end-result for you is the same for all practical purposes, it could be said that you are making the rational choice. And you are also indulging in corruption.
I am not trying to justify such behaviour. I am merely pointing out with these examples the reality of life, and how most people are extremely used to it. Like most other things in life, we like to indulge in corruption ourselves when it is convenient for us, and scream and rant against it when it affects us adversely. I only chose two random examples that first sprang to mind, but you can think of others too, I am sure. It percolates our own lives, by our own volition, quite thoroughly, and if we want to end it, it is as they say: charity begins at home.
What the above mentioned gentlemen were campaigning for is something different. They demand an end to corruption at all levels, with the main thrust being on things such as the big-ticket multi-crore scams that have come to light in the last few months. Basically, they want the big fish to be in the net, fish that currently escape the net since it is those very fish who pull the strings. Sure. The monies involved are beyond what I can realistically imagine, and yes, it is also money from taxpayers like me. That money could well be used to at least partially solve some of the problems that plague the country. And there is no reason why some already fat political cat should make their stash bigger with money that has many better uses.
But you can never have a clean system when the individuals both in and outside it are not clean themselves. We, the common people, indulge in corruption in our own small common ways. But the mindset is the same as the fat-cats. They have bigger opportunities, so they play for bigger stakes. Put them behind bars, and one of us takes their place, and the cycle repeats itself. So if you must be a part of the moral brigade on this one, first turn the moral police eye on yourself. Then comes the world.
In my personal opinion, campaigning for maximum transparency in government actions is a far better aim. It will achieve an end to big-ticket corruption as a side-effect, along with various other benefits.
For one, I would much rather not have had this whole Anna drama, because it wasted too many days of the Parliament as the Opposition stalled the workings of the Houses, all at a cost to taxpayers like me. Two, much money was also spent on mobilising security for that fasting so-called Gandhian, or rather, in anticipation of all the trouble it could cause. Once again, coming from government coffers that are filled up by taxpayers. And I am sure that at his age, Mr Hazare does not pay any taxes. Come to think of it, has he even held any job since he left the Army decades ago? Or is he a full-time Gandhian?
For two, I am no fan of corruption. But let us think about what corruption is. Is it when the clerk in some government office demands some under-the-table money to push forward a file, which is actually his precise job? Is it giving an officer somewhere some money to win a contract? Does it include you when you pay a traffic policeman something for his wallet rather than the actual, higher penalty for jumping a traffic light? Or when you get in to a reserved compartment in a train without a valid ticket and then indulge in "setting" with the TTE?
Except those who are too scared to try bribing a traffic cop, everyone has done it at some point or the other. Or at least tried to. When you have to take the train, you have to take it and if you can get a seat, why not get it? If it is cheaper for you to pay the TTE or the traffic cop for their personal gain rather that pay the actual fare or fine, and the end-result for you is the same for all practical purposes, it could be said that you are making the rational choice. And you are also indulging in corruption.
I am not trying to justify such behaviour. I am merely pointing out with these examples the reality of life, and how most people are extremely used to it. Like most other things in life, we like to indulge in corruption ourselves when it is convenient for us, and scream and rant against it when it affects us adversely. I only chose two random examples that first sprang to mind, but you can think of others too, I am sure. It percolates our own lives, by our own volition, quite thoroughly, and if we want to end it, it is as they say: charity begins at home.
What the above mentioned gentlemen were campaigning for is something different. They demand an end to corruption at all levels, with the main thrust being on things such as the big-ticket multi-crore scams that have come to light in the last few months. Basically, they want the big fish to be in the net, fish that currently escape the net since it is those very fish who pull the strings. Sure. The monies involved are beyond what I can realistically imagine, and yes, it is also money from taxpayers like me. That money could well be used to at least partially solve some of the problems that plague the country. And there is no reason why some already fat political cat should make their stash bigger with money that has many better uses.
But you can never have a clean system when the individuals both in and outside it are not clean themselves. We, the common people, indulge in corruption in our own small common ways. But the mindset is the same as the fat-cats. They have bigger opportunities, so they play for bigger stakes. Put them behind bars, and one of us takes their place, and the cycle repeats itself. So if you must be a part of the moral brigade on this one, first turn the moral police eye on yourself. Then comes the world.
In my personal opinion, campaigning for maximum transparency in government actions is a far better aim. It will achieve an end to big-ticket corruption as a side-effect, along with various other benefits.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
The March, or May or June, of Sluts, Studs and Whoever the Hell Else
So much buzz about the proposed Slutwalk in Delhi. Really? And now, a proposed Studwalk in response? Again, really? Just who the fuck are you clowns, and clownesses, anyway? Or is clowness politically inappropriate, in much the same way words like actress are being phased out? How would Steven Tyler sound singing "Taste of India" if the song went "...sweet tantric priest..."? Like a nutjob (pun intended), that's how.
I can never stress enough my egalitarian credentials, but this sort of shtick makes me want to run to the conservative post and shoot some bra-burning delusional losers. Being equal is not being the same, because that can never be, and even if it could, it really shouldn't be. Not that this Slutwalk is about equality anyway. The Slutwalk is about making the word 'slut' so mainstream that it stops having negative connotations. In other words, it seeks to change the dictionary meaning of a word, all by a bunch of skimpily dressed women walking around with placards or what-have-you. Again, really? Please, someone poll the English-speaking Canadians about what they think the word means, considering that is where this supposed cultural (and linguistic) tour-de-force began.
Context, for fuck's (or sluts') sake. If a Canadian cop said something about some local woman being responsible for her own rape by being dressed sluttily, how does that affect us here in India?
For one, even typical everyday "Western" attire can be thought of as slutty by many here, given the HUGE cultural differences. So it makes me wonder how that poor woman must have actually been dressed. No, I am not echoing the views of the cop, I am just wondering about what the woman was wearing (or not wearing, for that matter). Really.
For two, women here (and elsewhere too, I am certain) get raped even if they are not dressed like a slut. A woman dressing like a slut does not change a non-rapist in to a rapist, and by corollary, a conservative dress will perhaps not save a potential victim from the leery eyes, grubby hands (and more) of a rapist. Again, really.
For three, must you emulate every fucking (no pun intended) movement that starts off somewhere in the West, especially if it has anything to do with Facebook? I mean, come on, if you really had to organise a Slutwalk, why not think of the idea on your own when the Delhi Chief Minister (a woman, by the way) said things strikingly similar to this Canadian cop, and much longer ago at that? Or are you admitting to simply being too daft to do anything about it on your own till such time as a Canadian movement makes it way over through Facebook? Why not spend your time using that defunct brain of yours once in a while instead of picking out slutty clothes to wear to the walk? Really.
For four, do all women really support this sort of protest, or even the very idea behind it, that of making the word 'slut' mainstream? To be fair, I do not know any women among the few I call friends who support this, and if anyone did, I will probably shift them to a category lower. I also know that the women in my family don't support this either. While all of them, family and friends, will support the right of women to dress how they want, they will all also not forget that changing the meaning of a word does not change human behaviour, and that dressing skimpily is not the benchmark of women's freedom or equality.
Of course, this sort neo-pseudo-feminist antic also gives rise, and room, to equally stupid and detestable pseudo-masculine crap, such as the Studwalk, proposed by men who feel (perhaps understandably) threatened. Not threatened by being one-upped by women, but of being branded rapists just because they have a schlong. Of course, the majority of them perhaps are coming along for the ride, as a way to get back at the women for some unknown but strongly perceived wrong, or just to check out the booty on display.
Good thing that Delhi is still under prohibition orders, banning all sorts of large public gatherings for protest. At least one good thing coming out of the Delhi Police crackdown on Baba Ramdev earlier this month!
I can never stress enough my egalitarian credentials, but this sort of shtick makes me want to run to the conservative post and shoot some bra-burning delusional losers. Being equal is not being the same, because that can never be, and even if it could, it really shouldn't be. Not that this Slutwalk is about equality anyway. The Slutwalk is about making the word 'slut' so mainstream that it stops having negative connotations. In other words, it seeks to change the dictionary meaning of a word, all by a bunch of skimpily dressed women walking around with placards or what-have-you. Again, really? Please, someone poll the English-speaking Canadians about what they think the word means, considering that is where this supposed cultural (and linguistic) tour-de-force began.
Context, for fuck's (or sluts') sake. If a Canadian cop said something about some local woman being responsible for her own rape by being dressed sluttily, how does that affect us here in India?
For one, even typical everyday "Western" attire can be thought of as slutty by many here, given the HUGE cultural differences. So it makes me wonder how that poor woman must have actually been dressed. No, I am not echoing the views of the cop, I am just wondering about what the woman was wearing (or not wearing, for that matter). Really.
For two, women here (and elsewhere too, I am certain) get raped even if they are not dressed like a slut. A woman dressing like a slut does not change a non-rapist in to a rapist, and by corollary, a conservative dress will perhaps not save a potential victim from the leery eyes, grubby hands (and more) of a rapist. Again, really.
For three, must you emulate every fucking (no pun intended) movement that starts off somewhere in the West, especially if it has anything to do with Facebook? I mean, come on, if you really had to organise a Slutwalk, why not think of the idea on your own when the Delhi Chief Minister (a woman, by the way) said things strikingly similar to this Canadian cop, and much longer ago at that? Or are you admitting to simply being too daft to do anything about it on your own till such time as a Canadian movement makes it way over through Facebook? Why not spend your time using that defunct brain of yours once in a while instead of picking out slutty clothes to wear to the walk? Really.
For four, do all women really support this sort of protest, or even the very idea behind it, that of making the word 'slut' mainstream? To be fair, I do not know any women among the few I call friends who support this, and if anyone did, I will probably shift them to a category lower. I also know that the women in my family don't support this either. While all of them, family and friends, will support the right of women to dress how they want, they will all also not forget that changing the meaning of a word does not change human behaviour, and that dressing skimpily is not the benchmark of women's freedom or equality.
Of course, this sort neo-pseudo-feminist antic also gives rise, and room, to equally stupid and detestable pseudo-masculine crap, such as the Studwalk, proposed by men who feel (perhaps understandably) threatened. Not threatened by being one-upped by women, but of being branded rapists just because they have a schlong. Of course, the majority of them perhaps are coming along for the ride, as a way to get back at the women for some unknown but strongly perceived wrong, or just to check out the booty on display.
Good thing that Delhi is still under prohibition orders, banning all sorts of large public gatherings for protest. At least one good thing coming out of the Delhi Police crackdown on Baba Ramdev earlier this month!
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Seeking Redemption from the Purgatory of the Past on the Surface of the Eclipsed Moon
Celestial events are tending to bring out the worst in me, and at the best of times at that. Well, some of them are also seemingly bringing about not so good times, but I prefer to think of that as part of the general shit in life. But given my general astral enthusiasm, it is ridiculous how so much shit has tagged along for the ride.
As the longest lunar eclipse in over 30 years is about to start, my thoughts race hundreds of kilometres, but not vertically. They transport themselves along the horizontal axis, to a time and place I had rather they not be at. Them being there takes my mind firmly off the present (which the wise old turtle in Kung Fu Panda tells us is a gift) and lodges it just as firmly in the past, therefore screwing up the future. After all, linearity of time is something I haven't, in all my wisdom, been able to alter.
Since the Purgatory is a result of one's own past actions, the only way to escape it is by trying to redeem oneself in the present. And that is precisely what I am being unable to do. Even at the risk of a blind world, I am crying for an eye for an eye. And then I am bemoaning the absence of eyes to gouge out. Maybe I should use mine to watch the night sky, lying on a mattress on the terrace, what with the spectacle about to unfold. Especially since I realise well that even if I did turn the world blind, I would still be pretty fucking upset about my own missing eye.
So I try to calm my stirring heart, which wants to leap out my throat. I try to calm my shaking fists, which want to break a certain face. I try to calm my quivering voice, which wants to scream and shout. And at the same time, I try to again convince myself that the magnificent bosom, my favourite pillow, better than them all, is better off without my head resting on it.
In the middle of this inert confusion, at least I am safe from committing another sin. But given this mind-numbing heart-rending soul-wrenching inertia, how the hell am I supposed to teach myself Japanese?
As the longest lunar eclipse in over 30 years is about to start, my thoughts race hundreds of kilometres, but not vertically. They transport themselves along the horizontal axis, to a time and place I had rather they not be at. Them being there takes my mind firmly off the present (which the wise old turtle in Kung Fu Panda tells us is a gift) and lodges it just as firmly in the past, therefore screwing up the future. After all, linearity of time is something I haven't, in all my wisdom, been able to alter.
Since the Purgatory is a result of one's own past actions, the only way to escape it is by trying to redeem oneself in the present. And that is precisely what I am being unable to do. Even at the risk of a blind world, I am crying for an eye for an eye. And then I am bemoaning the absence of eyes to gouge out. Maybe I should use mine to watch the night sky, lying on a mattress on the terrace, what with the spectacle about to unfold. Especially since I realise well that even if I did turn the world blind, I would still be pretty fucking upset about my own missing eye.
So I try to calm my stirring heart, which wants to leap out my throat. I try to calm my shaking fists, which want to break a certain face. I try to calm my quivering voice, which wants to scream and shout. And at the same time, I try to again convince myself that the magnificent bosom, my favourite pillow, better than them all, is better off without my head resting on it.
In the middle of this inert confusion, at least I am safe from committing another sin. But given this mind-numbing heart-rending soul-wrenching inertia, how the hell am I supposed to teach myself Japanese?
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Cultivating the Taste Buds
Eating humble pie, like Chinese food, is a cultivated taste. And likewise, it is perhaps a useful taste to cultivate, given its preponderance in the world around us. So here I am, finding myself taking another big of the distasteful confectionery.
Just two months ago, I wrote with much vehemence about my office moving to Bombay and that being my cue to quit this lousy job and the much lousier company. And before another two months are over, I will be in Bombay with the same company doing the same job.
Sure, there are strong circumstantial reasons for me to make the choice I have. But it is still some sort of a choice, given how I love telling people that everything is a choice, and that it is not too difficult to say "no". It still feels like giving a pound of my flesh for something I don't have much to do with. And it feels like no amount of mouthwash can completely rinse out the foul taste of the pie, that no matter how fresh, always tastes like shit gone rotten.
Dark clouds tend to pour, but are also said to have silver linings. I have always thought it happens because if it weren't for some sort of an optimistic outlook at the larger level, humans would have been wiped out long ago. Not that I would mind, I am just commenting. But yeah, it is shitty situations that make us start sniffing around to catch even if only a whiff of the scent of a rose. And of course, that is when even the odourless roadside wild flower seems like the most fragrant blossom that has even been.
Anyway, I really don't mind the rain. So I am still following through with all the plans I had made for after I will quit this job. I have already started on a freelance gig, and the stage is getting set for another one to start next month. I will still apply for a PhD, and follow through with the Japanese learning. Of course, how I will manage all this while waking up at 5:00 every morning to go to work, running around banks to get a housing loan, finding a house in Bombay and shifting, and other things that keep popping up in life always, is well, my problem.
For the rest, well, the company has told me that they really need me around in a mentoring sort of role (more flattery than practicality, I think; in reality, I am just their most efficient cog in the wheel, and they know it), and is therefore being quite generous with their purse-strings to make this move to Bombay a rather easy affair for me. Despite my oft-declared lack of love for money, this is still something that I really cannot complain about. After all, one shouldn't just ignore the silver lining.
Just two months ago, I wrote with much vehemence about my office moving to Bombay and that being my cue to quit this lousy job and the much lousier company. And before another two months are over, I will be in Bombay with the same company doing the same job.
Sure, there are strong circumstantial reasons for me to make the choice I have. But it is still some sort of a choice, given how I love telling people that everything is a choice, and that it is not too difficult to say "no". It still feels like giving a pound of my flesh for something I don't have much to do with. And it feels like no amount of mouthwash can completely rinse out the foul taste of the pie, that no matter how fresh, always tastes like shit gone rotten.
Dark clouds tend to pour, but are also said to have silver linings. I have always thought it happens because if it weren't for some sort of an optimistic outlook at the larger level, humans would have been wiped out long ago. Not that I would mind, I am just commenting. But yeah, it is shitty situations that make us start sniffing around to catch even if only a whiff of the scent of a rose. And of course, that is when even the odourless roadside wild flower seems like the most fragrant blossom that has even been.
Anyway, I really don't mind the rain. So I am still following through with all the plans I had made for after I will quit this job. I have already started on a freelance gig, and the stage is getting set for another one to start next month. I will still apply for a PhD, and follow through with the Japanese learning. Of course, how I will manage all this while waking up at 5:00 every morning to go to work, running around banks to get a housing loan, finding a house in Bombay and shifting, and other things that keep popping up in life always, is well, my problem.
For the rest, well, the company has told me that they really need me around in a mentoring sort of role (more flattery than practicality, I think; in reality, I am just their most efficient cog in the wheel, and they know it), and is therefore being quite generous with their purse-strings to make this move to Bombay a rather easy affair for me. Despite my oft-declared lack of love for money, this is still something that I really cannot complain about. After all, one shouldn't just ignore the silver lining.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Perceptions from the Wallet
Last night, on my way back from work, I took an auto rickshaw. Reaching home, I paid the driver Rs 30 in three notes of 10 each. At the very moment the money changed hands, I realised that I had given him a 50 instead of a 10. I told him as much, in a sort of apologetic manner. His hand was already putting the money inside his shirt pocket. On hearing me, he took the money out, along with the rest of the money in there too. Showing me all of it, which had one 50 note, he insisted that I hadn't given him that one note, that he got it an hour ago from someone else.
I was a bit flummoxed, so I checked my wallet again and was sure that I had indeed given him that note. So conversation ensued, soon in to which he said I had actually paid him only Rs 20, and that I owed him another tenner. Of course, I maintained that he owed me Rs 40 in change, and I was by now a bit incensed at the man's insolence. I mean, I could have considered the fact that it was a mistake wholly on my part. I mean, if I gave him one note instead of another, it is also conceivable that I didn't give him the said note at all. But then, we hardly live in a time where someone selling you a product or service will not count the cash received. And that is precisely what this man was claiming to have done, that he did not count the money I gave him till such time as I pointed it out. Then, when he did count it, must he have taken out all the contents of his pocket instead of simply counting what he was holding in hand, i.e., exactly what I gave him?
Sure enough, it all got a bit ugly and we ended up at a nearby police kiosk (at his insistence, I still don't know why exactly). He launched in to a complaining explanation about how I was not just swindling him for Rs 10, but also about how I was swearing at him, involving his mother, sister and many other female family members in unspeakable acts of profanity. After listening to it all with a weary sympathetic ear, the cop turned to me. I began my defense by saying that I had issued all of one expletive, not so much directed at him but at the fucked up situation in general. And then, I said my part of the story, feeling a little foolish the entire time, simply because I knew fully well that there was naught the cop could do, and that I was there only because it had become a matter of principle from being a matter of money. I was being accused of shortchanging an auto-driver and it didn't sit well with me. Especially when the very same auto-driver had started by asking for Rs 60 for the same journey earlier.
Anyway, the rest of the detail doesn't matter. After the auto-driver left, the cop told me that "those guys are always creating trouble, we are sick of the number of complaints we get". I was busy being incredulous and angry at being accused of trying to keep Rs 10 of someone else's hard-earned money. I was angry not just because I consider myself a mostly honest man (I will be the first to agree about my lapses on this front in certain situations), but also because it was an auto-driver accusing me. Why would my wallet, the proverbial size of which is bigger than his, want to eat in to his wallet? How dare he question my integrity about such money matters when it is he who indulges in unethical behaviour many times a day?
That is when another question cropped up in my mind and I am still working on finding an exact answer. In the event of a financial conflict between individuals, exactly how much of my perception of others' integrity will be defined by the relative sizes of their wallets?
I was a bit flummoxed, so I checked my wallet again and was sure that I had indeed given him that note. So conversation ensued, soon in to which he said I had actually paid him only Rs 20, and that I owed him another tenner. Of course, I maintained that he owed me Rs 40 in change, and I was by now a bit incensed at the man's insolence. I mean, I could have considered the fact that it was a mistake wholly on my part. I mean, if I gave him one note instead of another, it is also conceivable that I didn't give him the said note at all. But then, we hardly live in a time where someone selling you a product or service will not count the cash received. And that is precisely what this man was claiming to have done, that he did not count the money I gave him till such time as I pointed it out. Then, when he did count it, must he have taken out all the contents of his pocket instead of simply counting what he was holding in hand, i.e., exactly what I gave him?
Sure enough, it all got a bit ugly and we ended up at a nearby police kiosk (at his insistence, I still don't know why exactly). He launched in to a complaining explanation about how I was not just swindling him for Rs 10, but also about how I was swearing at him, involving his mother, sister and many other female family members in unspeakable acts of profanity. After listening to it all with a weary sympathetic ear, the cop turned to me. I began my defense by saying that I had issued all of one expletive, not so much directed at him but at the fucked up situation in general. And then, I said my part of the story, feeling a little foolish the entire time, simply because I knew fully well that there was naught the cop could do, and that I was there only because it had become a matter of principle from being a matter of money. I was being accused of shortchanging an auto-driver and it didn't sit well with me. Especially when the very same auto-driver had started by asking for Rs 60 for the same journey earlier.
Anyway, the rest of the detail doesn't matter. After the auto-driver left, the cop told me that "those guys are always creating trouble, we are sick of the number of complaints we get". I was busy being incredulous and angry at being accused of trying to keep Rs 10 of someone else's hard-earned money. I was angry not just because I consider myself a mostly honest man (I will be the first to agree about my lapses on this front in certain situations), but also because it was an auto-driver accusing me. Why would my wallet, the proverbial size of which is bigger than his, want to eat in to his wallet? How dare he question my integrity about such money matters when it is he who indulges in unethical behaviour many times a day?
That is when another question cropped up in my mind and I am still working on finding an exact answer. In the event of a financial conflict between individuals, exactly how much of my perception of others' integrity will be defined by the relative sizes of their wallets?
Monday, May 02, 2011
Osama Dies, Obama May Live On
Rather, it might be more accurate to say that the Obama presidency just may live on. Or that it has got a booster shot in the posterior at a time when it could very well use it, what with the economy not really doing any better than when he took office. But conspiracies of political mileage apart, and staying miles away from those theorists who suggest with a conspiratorial smile that bin Laden is actually still alive, there are a couple of other things that I wish to dwell on.
More than anything else, I am struck by the images of celebration. Across the USA, looks like it is Christmas in the summer time. People are rejoicing over images of a man whose face was quite likely molested after he had already been killed by a shot to the head. But as the enemy, I guess he stopped being "human" long ago. He was perhaps even worse than animals, because there are few who would publicly laugh at the execution of even a rabid dog. No, I don't want arguments about how animals, as opposed to humans, do not go around crashing planes in to buildings. And hence, how animals are anyway better than humans. While I agree with that statement for the most part, it uselessly takes this conversation on to an unrelated tangent that I frequent often enough, as it is.
As I was saying, it amuses be greatly, to see a 'civilised' people displaying what I will unhesitatingly term a sort of blood lust. Again, I have not much against violence in general, and I think barbarians were quite cool. But apparently, my point of view is not very popular and hence gives rise to the supposed advocates of peace and liberty the world over. Those who will raise their sword to protect those who don't have a sword, so to speak. Amusing how the use of violence is justified by those in power while telling others exactly why it should not be used. Unless the others happen to be minions. So went Saddam, so has Osama been put out to sea and so will probably go Gaddafi.
Dehumanising the enemy I think is a fundamental principle of war, no matter its scale. Otherwise, it becomes difficult for the soldier not just to take another life, but even to commit other acts of atrocity, such as loot or rape, or for that matter, to desecrate dead bodies. When you fail to dehumanise the enemy, or when the enemy's humanity stares you too starkly in the face, you end up with the heart of darkness.
The other thing is that struck me as curious is this: Why the secrecy surrounding this latest American adventure? No one gets to see anything but those two photographs of Osama's bloodied face. There is a video of his "burial at sea" that is supposed to be released at some point, but who knows what even that will actually show. And what became of the bodies of the others killed when the mansion was invaded? Were they left behind for the vultures or what? Why won't they just display the body of the man whose death everyone in their country is cheering? Why the big rush over everything? What's the big idea behind giving the ultimate face of terror some sort of an ultimate short shrift?
More than anything else, I am struck by the images of celebration. Across the USA, looks like it is Christmas in the summer time. People are rejoicing over images of a man whose face was quite likely molested after he had already been killed by a shot to the head. But as the enemy, I guess he stopped being "human" long ago. He was perhaps even worse than animals, because there are few who would publicly laugh at the execution of even a rabid dog. No, I don't want arguments about how animals, as opposed to humans, do not go around crashing planes in to buildings. And hence, how animals are anyway better than humans. While I agree with that statement for the most part, it uselessly takes this conversation on to an unrelated tangent that I frequent often enough, as it is.
As I was saying, it amuses be greatly, to see a 'civilised' people displaying what I will unhesitatingly term a sort of blood lust. Again, I have not much against violence in general, and I think barbarians were quite cool. But apparently, my point of view is not very popular and hence gives rise to the supposed advocates of peace and liberty the world over. Those who will raise their sword to protect those who don't have a sword, so to speak. Amusing how the use of violence is justified by those in power while telling others exactly why it should not be used. Unless the others happen to be minions. So went Saddam, so has Osama been put out to sea and so will probably go Gaddafi.
Dehumanising the enemy I think is a fundamental principle of war, no matter its scale. Otherwise, it becomes difficult for the soldier not just to take another life, but even to commit other acts of atrocity, such as loot or rape, or for that matter, to desecrate dead bodies. When you fail to dehumanise the enemy, or when the enemy's humanity stares you too starkly in the face, you end up with the heart of darkness.
The other thing is that struck me as curious is this: Why the secrecy surrounding this latest American adventure? No one gets to see anything but those two photographs of Osama's bloodied face. There is a video of his "burial at sea" that is supposed to be released at some point, but who knows what even that will actually show. And what became of the bodies of the others killed when the mansion was invaded? Were they left behind for the vultures or what? Why won't they just display the body of the man whose death everyone in their country is cheering? Why the big rush over everything? What's the big idea behind giving the ultimate face of terror some sort of an ultimate short shrift?
Friday, April 29, 2011
And Another god Lies Dead
Been about a week since he died. Which is to say, he got his own time of death wrong by only about 8 years or so. I suppose the megalomania (and I am sure, a very health-conscious lifestyle) did enough to hide from him for a long time the corporeal effects of old age, and by the time he realised he was as prone to breaking his hip as the next old man, it was too late for his pride to allow him to fess up.
There is no wondering about the "why" behind the fact that millions from across the world chose to believe Sathya Sai Baba of Puttaparthi to be a living god. As I keep saying, there is absolutely no dearth of morons in this world. None whatsoever. I mean, which god, no matter which mythos you choose from, has heart attacks, a broken hip or respiratory issues and organ failure? How many times have you even imagined god in a wheelchair?
There are some things though, that the man got right in his endeavour to be god. Megalomania for one. The sorts where he never tired of extolling his omnipresence and omniscience, even if he predicted wrongly the timing of his own death. For two, he established a more or less complete control over his chosen fiefdom, where his word ran parallel to the law of the land. For three, he maintained the belief of his followers in his divinity despite numerous allegations of sexual abuse and paedophilia and of course, despite the many claims of his materialisation of trifles being nothing more than sleight of hand.
But now, he lays under a few feet of earth. From heaven he came, to the earth he must return. Must be a little humbling, I would think. Especially when he nourishes subterranean life. Now that he is gone, there is one thing that is playing heavy on my mind. I wonder when the next smart-ass claiming to be the new reincarnation will turn up. Such a damn shame that it is already too late for me to do any such thing.
There is no wondering about the "why" behind the fact that millions from across the world chose to believe Sathya Sai Baba of Puttaparthi to be a living god. As I keep saying, there is absolutely no dearth of morons in this world. None whatsoever. I mean, which god, no matter which mythos you choose from, has heart attacks, a broken hip or respiratory issues and organ failure? How many times have you even imagined god in a wheelchair?
There are some things though, that the man got right in his endeavour to be god. Megalomania for one. The sorts where he never tired of extolling his omnipresence and omniscience, even if he predicted wrongly the timing of his own death. For two, he established a more or less complete control over his chosen fiefdom, where his word ran parallel to the law of the land. For three, he maintained the belief of his followers in his divinity despite numerous allegations of sexual abuse and paedophilia and of course, despite the many claims of his materialisation of trifles being nothing more than sleight of hand.
But now, he lays under a few feet of earth. From heaven he came, to the earth he must return. Must be a little humbling, I would think. Especially when he nourishes subterranean life. Now that he is gone, there is one thing that is playing heavy on my mind. I wonder when the next smart-ass claiming to be the new reincarnation will turn up. Such a damn shame that it is already too late for me to do any such thing.
Monday, April 04, 2011
The Economy of Change, or, The Mint Conspiracy
Even 10 years ago, I remember a bundle of 100 one rupee notes in good shape selling for more than a 100% premium. The buyers were typically families holding a wedding, where the one rupee note would be slipped inside an envelope along with another note of higher denomination, as a sort of good luck totem for the intended recipient of the cash gift.
Now the one rupee notes are out of print, so I can only imagine what premium those well preserved notes must now command. But there is another currency-related curious phenomenon which was first brought to my notice around the same time by my brother, and which I now see taking on gigantic proportions.
What is happening to all the small change? Where is it going? Whose is this pocket that it goes in to, never to emerge again? Who is hoarding all those coins? And how do they carry around the weight of them all? Doesn't it make a hideous racket each time they as much as breathe? What do they do with all the change anyway, use them as poker chips? Do we really have so many poker players in this country, or so many decks of cards, for that matter?
Starting at the institutional level, some banks now have the official policy of only dispensing notes of Rs 500 or 1,000 from their ATMs, causing an automatic shift towards higher denominations in circulation. So when I go from there to my local grocer or the cigarette shop, I will end up paying with a big note, no matter how small my purchase. The shopkeeper will give me some change, insofar as it comes down to a tenner, and will often then pass unto my hands the smaller change in the form of mint, or other sundry candy. Sure, I can exchange one candy for another, depending on my preference of flavour. But if I am the sorts who doesn't mind the occasional candy, but does not enjoy a regular dosage, what am I to do? Carry it home and let it rot? Distribute it to friends? Give it to street children?
Many possible solutions, but what about my damn money? I want what came from the government's mint, not some cheap mint in exchange. Just because the two words are the same gives the confectioner no right to force me to use them almost interchangeably. But that is precisely what I see happening. Some tub of jelly sitting atop a heap a small change that is his accumulated wealth, stolen from hard working men and women by shops all across the country, just because his candy wasn't good enough to sell on its own.
Ah, how ironic that I miss those days when my wallet would sometimes have too many coins for its own good, and I would be only too glad to be rid of most of them. But in these changing times, I am considering seriously the temptation to start hoarding them. After all, as individuals, they don't go very far, but in bulk can be quite a fortune. Ask the confectioners, they would know. As did a certain Ambani.
But what really gets my goat is this: if I try to pay for a part of my purchase with candy, the shopkeepers are not ready to have any of it. My mint is just candy, while theirs is straight from the mint!
Now the one rupee notes are out of print, so I can only imagine what premium those well preserved notes must now command. But there is another currency-related curious phenomenon which was first brought to my notice around the same time by my brother, and which I now see taking on gigantic proportions.
What is happening to all the small change? Where is it going? Whose is this pocket that it goes in to, never to emerge again? Who is hoarding all those coins? And how do they carry around the weight of them all? Doesn't it make a hideous racket each time they as much as breathe? What do they do with all the change anyway, use them as poker chips? Do we really have so many poker players in this country, or so many decks of cards, for that matter?
Starting at the institutional level, some banks now have the official policy of only dispensing notes of Rs 500 or 1,000 from their ATMs, causing an automatic shift towards higher denominations in circulation. So when I go from there to my local grocer or the cigarette shop, I will end up paying with a big note, no matter how small my purchase. The shopkeeper will give me some change, insofar as it comes down to a tenner, and will often then pass unto my hands the smaller change in the form of mint, or other sundry candy. Sure, I can exchange one candy for another, depending on my preference of flavour. But if I am the sorts who doesn't mind the occasional candy, but does not enjoy a regular dosage, what am I to do? Carry it home and let it rot? Distribute it to friends? Give it to street children?
Many possible solutions, but what about my damn money? I want what came from the government's mint, not some cheap mint in exchange. Just because the two words are the same gives the confectioner no right to force me to use them almost interchangeably. But that is precisely what I see happening. Some tub of jelly sitting atop a heap a small change that is his accumulated wealth, stolen from hard working men and women by shops all across the country, just because his candy wasn't good enough to sell on its own.
Ah, how ironic that I miss those days when my wallet would sometimes have too many coins for its own good, and I would be only too glad to be rid of most of them. But in these changing times, I am considering seriously the temptation to start hoarding them. After all, as individuals, they don't go very far, but in bulk can be quite a fortune. Ask the confectioners, they would know. As did a certain Ambani.
But what really gets my goat is this: if I try to pay for a part of my purchase with candy, the shopkeepers are not ready to have any of it. My mint is just candy, while theirs is straight from the mint!
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
The White Man's Appendage
No matter how many lies Pinocchio tells, his nose will never match that appendage protruding from the White Man's face. It glides through the air, slices through land and skims over the oceans to land in places far away, with a thud that raises much dust. When the clouds finally settle, one can't help but marvel at how much wallop a singular nose could pack. The sheer destructive power of the White Man's Nose is a wonder to behold, a phenomenon to be feared, a force best not messed with. If it only kept to within a mile's radius of the face it belonged to, wouldn't this world have enough fresh air for all to breathe?
It all began with religion, perhaps. The quest of the Nose to spread the White Man's ideas and ideals. Since it was too far back in time for me to know enough about it to put it down as fact, I can only speculate that the Christian missionaries only got violent at first when they felt threatened by the already violent missionaries of Islam. We had missionaries before that too, as any Buddhist will tell you, for instance. And while I do know of at least one expansion campaign that ended when the king converted to Buddhism, I do not know of any that started for the same reason.
Never quite content with small fare from among their own populace, or those of countries near by, the Nose always itched from exotic flavours from distant lands. So it brought disease to a mighty civilisation, whose one big shortcoming was lack of immunity to various strains of germs, on account of not having initially lived lives filthy enough to birth the plague and such. Such a weak populace was not nearly good enough to take back home as slaves, so merely their gold and women had to suffice.
However, the black man, sitting blissfully in the original garden of Eden, was sniffed out soon enough by the prodigious Nose. I mean, it was only natural I suppose, given how long the Egyptians and Persians had already troubled the Greeks and Romans. Using the force of cordite, slavery was made in to an institution at a never-before imagined scale. "Uncivilised" as the black man was to the refined senses of the Nose, it was only too easy to treat him at a sub-human level, to say the least.
But not everything about the Nose is bleak. It also championed causes like capitalism. Even if it meant crushing local trade and produce abroad for better profits at home, even if it meant crushing local governments abroad for the sake of bananas, even if it meant creating monsters where none existed because socialism, in any of its avatars, was not paying off enough.
Ah yes, let me not forget to mention the spread of technology that the Nose has ensured, all for the betterment of the human existence, obviously. Profit margins have nothing to do with it. The colonists always knew what was best for the colonised, their superior technological ways always better than the savage ways of the natives. Why let the tribes fight each when they can play cricket instead? And why use the camera shutter technology only for photography when it can also be used to make machine guns?
Even morality is something that the Nose always knows the best about. And since it knows best, it is a sacred duty to shine the same light on so many lesser mortals that dot the planet. Of course, part of the morality is the discourse on how everyone should grow a Nose. A uniform world is the best sort, is what the Nose seems to think, according to me. A uniform world where the original Nose still calls the shots, which becomes easier to do as everyone will be more compliant.
So enter the nasal dance of democracy and liberty. Ah, this seems to be the chosen favourite of the Nose, resonating as it does with most people on the planet. Not that I am a fan of democracy, or even humanity ("Hitler had the right idea, he was just an underachiever": Bill Hicks), but even if I were to support this democratic quest, the Nose is certainly not the way to go. "People must have the right to follow their chosen path for the future, and since they cannot do it themselves, we must help them along the way." Wow. This is what they forgot to add. "Let us first enslave and ship fit people from all these foreign lands, kill many of the rest, except the servants of course, in the lands we choose to inhabit, take their possessions even if we were to spare their lives, build a vast empire based on the labour and lives of millions, treat the world as our playground and divide lands based on our conveniences or sense of guilt when we have to depart for home because we couldn't keep our shit together. And oh, let us not to forget to sow deep seeds of discord that shall give us the chance to come back here and play some more soon."
Ah, what a burden it must be, having a white man's Nose.
It all began with religion, perhaps. The quest of the Nose to spread the White Man's ideas and ideals. Since it was too far back in time for me to know enough about it to put it down as fact, I can only speculate that the Christian missionaries only got violent at first when they felt threatened by the already violent missionaries of Islam. We had missionaries before that too, as any Buddhist will tell you, for instance. And while I do know of at least one expansion campaign that ended when the king converted to Buddhism, I do not know of any that started for the same reason.
Never quite content with small fare from among their own populace, or those of countries near by, the Nose always itched from exotic flavours from distant lands. So it brought disease to a mighty civilisation, whose one big shortcoming was lack of immunity to various strains of germs, on account of not having initially lived lives filthy enough to birth the plague and such. Such a weak populace was not nearly good enough to take back home as slaves, so merely their gold and women had to suffice.
However, the black man, sitting blissfully in the original garden of Eden, was sniffed out soon enough by the prodigious Nose. I mean, it was only natural I suppose, given how long the Egyptians and Persians had already troubled the Greeks and Romans. Using the force of cordite, slavery was made in to an institution at a never-before imagined scale. "Uncivilised" as the black man was to the refined senses of the Nose, it was only too easy to treat him at a sub-human level, to say the least.
But not everything about the Nose is bleak. It also championed causes like capitalism. Even if it meant crushing local trade and produce abroad for better profits at home, even if it meant crushing local governments abroad for the sake of bananas, even if it meant creating monsters where none existed because socialism, in any of its avatars, was not paying off enough.
Ah yes, let me not forget to mention the spread of technology that the Nose has ensured, all for the betterment of the human existence, obviously. Profit margins have nothing to do with it. The colonists always knew what was best for the colonised, their superior technological ways always better than the savage ways of the natives. Why let the tribes fight each when they can play cricket instead? And why use the camera shutter technology only for photography when it can also be used to make machine guns?
Even morality is something that the Nose always knows the best about. And since it knows best, it is a sacred duty to shine the same light on so many lesser mortals that dot the planet. Of course, part of the morality is the discourse on how everyone should grow a Nose. A uniform world is the best sort, is what the Nose seems to think, according to me. A uniform world where the original Nose still calls the shots, which becomes easier to do as everyone will be more compliant.
So enter the nasal dance of democracy and liberty. Ah, this seems to be the chosen favourite of the Nose, resonating as it does with most people on the planet. Not that I am a fan of democracy, or even humanity ("Hitler had the right idea, he was just an underachiever": Bill Hicks), but even if I were to support this democratic quest, the Nose is certainly not the way to go. "People must have the right to follow their chosen path for the future, and since they cannot do it themselves, we must help them along the way." Wow. This is what they forgot to add. "Let us first enslave and ship fit people from all these foreign lands, kill many of the rest, except the servants of course, in the lands we choose to inhabit, take their possessions even if we were to spare their lives, build a vast empire based on the labour and lives of millions, treat the world as our playground and divide lands based on our conveniences or sense of guilt when we have to depart for home because we couldn't keep our shit together. And oh, let us not to forget to sow deep seeds of discord that shall give us the chance to come back here and play some more soon."
Ah, what a burden it must be, having a white man's Nose.
A Rant on Time
The face stationary and the hands ever moving, the clock ticks away, reminding everyone that at least till we beat light in a race, and even then only conceptually perhaps, time is not exactly waiting around for anyone. Things rise, the hands turn, and they fall. Many an Atlantis arise, the face stays the same, and they turn to dust. Steel and bone, it all eventually starts to rust. All the same, I suppose it will be interesting to have the cockroaches give their perspective, though.
As yes, there are medicinal properties too, that the watch hides in its cogs and springs. Or so it is said. Something about how the water from those springs tends to heal wounds that doctors had steered a mile away from. About how the cog teeth close gashes that friends had seen, tried to help with and then eventually left you for dead. But what about an adherent of Bwiti who decimates the notion of a failing memory with the bark of iboga?
The length of the chain at the end of the fob is likened to the amount of time we have as conscious beings on this planet called home. Life itself consumes that chain for sustenance, and when the links are all devoured, the jig is up. Stupidity tends to be pretty hungry too, methinks. The biggest problem with these links though, in my view, is that they are hardly inter-changeable. I could never give you a link from my chain, which is still alright. But I couldn't even interchange two links in my own chain. Linear flow and all that. Raises then the question of how long originally was the chain of those that committed suicide?
The precision of the chronometer is only as precise as the person designing it. You put your faith in the machine, you automatically put your faith in the man. Something I instinctively shy away from, faith in its many forms. But precision derived from the body clock is as good or as bad as that of a chronometer, or at least as useful at any rate. No chronometer could tell you the precise moment to pull out and spill your seed on the ground, could it now? So I still choose to have a time piece.
Shit, just saw the time, and I am late for work. Time to hit the road. Another time then!
As yes, there are medicinal properties too, that the watch hides in its cogs and springs. Or so it is said. Something about how the water from those springs tends to heal wounds that doctors had steered a mile away from. About how the cog teeth close gashes that friends had seen, tried to help with and then eventually left you for dead. But what about an adherent of Bwiti who decimates the notion of a failing memory with the bark of iboga?
The length of the chain at the end of the fob is likened to the amount of time we have as conscious beings on this planet called home. Life itself consumes that chain for sustenance, and when the links are all devoured, the jig is up. Stupidity tends to be pretty hungry too, methinks. The biggest problem with these links though, in my view, is that they are hardly inter-changeable. I could never give you a link from my chain, which is still alright. But I couldn't even interchange two links in my own chain. Linear flow and all that. Raises then the question of how long originally was the chain of those that committed suicide?
The precision of the chronometer is only as precise as the person designing it. You put your faith in the machine, you automatically put your faith in the man. Something I instinctively shy away from, faith in its many forms. But precision derived from the body clock is as good or as bad as that of a chronometer, or at least as useful at any rate. No chronometer could tell you the precise moment to pull out and spill your seed on the ground, could it now? So I still choose to have a time piece.
Shit, just saw the time, and I am late for work. Time to hit the road. Another time then!
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Bombay Bummer, Not So Much For Me Though...
As the heat starts creeping back in to Delhi, my office is planning to shift to Bombay. No, it's not like they move base in the summer to avoid the heat or any such. They are simply planning to move, is all. Makes sense from their point of view, if you ask me. They will become a more efficient organisation both operationally and financially, both of which they really need. Not that I think it will do anything much for their viewership numbers, but still.
The planned move is causing much heart-ache however, among those in Delhi who are not very eager to move, for whatever reasons they may have. Some have mothers who need medical assistance, others have new born children, some others just generally dislike Bombay without actually ever having lived there while others still are simply used to their current comfort zone and are too lazy or stupid to accept change. Of course, the fact that the company is not very willing to provide the cost of relocation etc is not exactly calming anyone's nerves. All of this is making for very entertaining atmosphere at work for me, where I am making public declarations now of feasting on others' misery for my amusement.
The only thing that is bothering me in all of this is that the company is not providing any details as to when exactly they plan to move. Once I know that date, I can accordingly fire off my resignation. There is no fucking way these morons are dragging me back to Bombay for a second time in less than two years. Especially since it has only been less than five months that I left that over-sized dump. No way am I putting myself through yet another summer of sweaty over-flowing trains and a deluge of garbage that passes off for monsoon for the sake of this job that I don't even want. I trust these cheeky bastards to hold off announcing that final date till the last possible moment, so that they can then cut some money from my final salary on account of me not having given them the requisite one-month notice. There is no low they will not fall to, in my opinion, to save even small change from the lowly-paid hard working few to foot the bills of the highly-paid hardly working many.
I mean, for fuck's sake, on the one hand, they are going around telling everyone how there will probably be no pay hikes this year because of general lack of money. On the other, they seem to have suddenly coughed up the money for this move. And on yet another, they do something stupid like introduce valet parking for the remaining Delhi office from next month! Go figure.
The planned move is causing much heart-ache however, among those in Delhi who are not very eager to move, for whatever reasons they may have. Some have mothers who need medical assistance, others have new born children, some others just generally dislike Bombay without actually ever having lived there while others still are simply used to their current comfort zone and are too lazy or stupid to accept change. Of course, the fact that the company is not very willing to provide the cost of relocation etc is not exactly calming anyone's nerves. All of this is making for very entertaining atmosphere at work for me, where I am making public declarations now of feasting on others' misery for my amusement.
The only thing that is bothering me in all of this is that the company is not providing any details as to when exactly they plan to move. Once I know that date, I can accordingly fire off my resignation. There is no fucking way these morons are dragging me back to Bombay for a second time in less than two years. Especially since it has only been less than five months that I left that over-sized dump. No way am I putting myself through yet another summer of sweaty over-flowing trains and a deluge of garbage that passes off for monsoon for the sake of this job that I don't even want. I trust these cheeky bastards to hold off announcing that final date till the last possible moment, so that they can then cut some money from my final salary on account of me not having given them the requisite one-month notice. There is no low they will not fall to, in my opinion, to save even small change from the lowly-paid hard working few to foot the bills of the highly-paid hardly working many.
I mean, for fuck's sake, on the one hand, they are going around telling everyone how there will probably be no pay hikes this year because of general lack of money. On the other, they seem to have suddenly coughed up the money for this move. And on yet another, they do something stupid like introduce valet parking for the remaining Delhi office from next month! Go figure.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Purple and Green... and colourlessness
She comes again, a goddess from the heavens, raining at her beautiful leisurely pace, weaving her thick rich luxuriant Purple spell through the air, enchanting everything it touches. There a dab of Han turns the Greek beggar in to a king, here a spark of Tyrian turns the Chinese peasant's hut in to a palace. Electric, Royal and Red-Violet explode warmth upon frozen cities, vines climb out of the desert sand, while Prometheus and Sisyphus feel their pains numbing. The sound of Patriarch gives song to the birds, the fall of Veronica puts the rivers in motion, the sight of Medium brings the Olive Ridleys ashore.
And then, in a blinding flash of Orchid, Heliotrope, Psychedelic, Mulberry and Pansy, she surges forth, growing, flowing, soaring, towards what still resembles only a Green speck in the unfathomable distance. But soon, too soon, the speck is a field, a mountain, a continent, the planet itself. Persian, Fern, Neon, Office, Forest, Midnight, Harlequin, Celadon, all rise up in unison to escort the goddess down. Teal, Brunswick, Fern, Shamrock, Moss and Asparagus run ahead to make welcoming arrangements. Emerald, Pine, Myrtle, Tea and Sap put up a brilliant fireworks display while Army plays the band. India prepares the bed-chamber with Midnight in the middle of Jungle.
Sipping on Sea, Charma enters. In robes of Islam, Version 2.0 awaits her on the Jade bed.
From my corner in the colourless void, I watch them embrace. Then I go blind.
And then, in a blinding flash of Orchid, Heliotrope, Psychedelic, Mulberry and Pansy, she surges forth, growing, flowing, soaring, towards what still resembles only a Green speck in the unfathomable distance. But soon, too soon, the speck is a field, a mountain, a continent, the planet itself. Persian, Fern, Neon, Office, Forest, Midnight, Harlequin, Celadon, all rise up in unison to escort the goddess down. Teal, Brunswick, Fern, Shamrock, Moss and Asparagus run ahead to make welcoming arrangements. Emerald, Pine, Myrtle, Tea and Sap put up a brilliant fireworks display while Army plays the band. India prepares the bed-chamber with Midnight in the middle of Jungle.
Sipping on Sea, Charma enters. In robes of Islam, Version 2.0 awaits her on the Jade bed.
From my corner in the colourless void, I watch them embrace. Then I go blind.
Wednesday, March 09, 2011
Long Overdue in 2011
Between two holidays, visiting family, entertaining visiting friends, usual shit at work, fervent onanism, watching anime and otherwise languid laziness, this page kept being relegated further down the to-do list that I don't even have. All the same, here I am now. Late, never, better, blah, bah.
Of the vacations gone by already, I ain't gonna really write about. Except to say that they were both awesome. The breathtaking salt desert and ancient excavations in Gujarat and a drive from Bangalore to Kanyakumari, with most of the time spent in the backwaters and beaches of Kerala. The only common trait between the two places: pretty hot for the most part.
I would have liked to put up my new year poem here, but I can't find it on my office computer or email. So I will give it a skip. As it is, it would have been more than 2 months too late. Screw that. Couple of things I have been contemplating though, in this calendar year. Maybe I should get those off my chest.
One, the idea of seeking company for entertainment, as opposed to entertaining the self. (The perverted reader is free to draw conclusions from the onanism reference above.) Living all by myself as I am now for the first time ever, I was a bit apprehensive about the pangs of loneliness that had troubled me greatly once in the past. But I was also sort of looking forward to it too, to use my time in a way I deemed fit without being encumbered by someone else's choices. I thought I could be a lot more productive towards personal causes (such as writing) if I wasn't always spending my time in company. However, this post comes after a gap of two months and about the only thing I have written in the interim was the new year poem. I haven't done much else either, except sort of vegetate. What I have been contemplating (another form of procrastination?) is how do I actually make good of this time I now have for myself. In other words, how to throw off these shackles of sheer lethargy that are weighing me down?
The other thing is my supposed charsi look. I happened to run in to acquaintances from school days, guys I hadn't seen in over 10 years, at the least. Three of them were over at my place one evening, two of us drinking whisky and the other two relishing their Breezers. One of the Breezer drinkers also partook of a spliff, which he himself had asked me to roll, soon after which he proceeded to the toilet to throw up, after which he passed out. Then he called me a week later to tell me that I should take it easy in life and that I looked like I was in to drugs and that my enunciation of the desire to maybe do a PhD some time in life confirmed his apparently ancient viewpoint of my being mad. When I rose to my defence about drug consumption, he said he was only doing his duty as a friend by warning me. Couple of evenings later, the younger brother of the guy who drank whisky with me some evening ago came over to my place for 10 minutes, in which he told me how the brothers had both lost 25 kg each in the last 6 months (and they both are still more than just your average plump) and then went on to ask me why I looked so malnourished, and that I should go easy on the drugs. Once again, I began a cursory defence but abandoned it half-way. Couple of days later, the elder brother calls me up and tells me how his younger brother told him I looked drugged and haggard, and that I really ought to take better care of myself and that I should also put on some weight. And this, after he had himself seen me twice in the preceding three weeks. Was he too blind to notice it himself then? Or did the brother confirm his lurking suspicions? Suspicions? Of what?!
I can't decide if my external appearance has, in fact, changed, unbeknownst to me to resemble that of junkies, and I am too blind to notice it, what with it being my own face and all, or if it is, as usual, just the world around me that still hasn't found its marbles, tied up as it is with typecasts and preconceptions, even if it about things it has not the foggiest clue about.
Of the vacations gone by already, I ain't gonna really write about. Except to say that they were both awesome. The breathtaking salt desert and ancient excavations in Gujarat and a drive from Bangalore to Kanyakumari, with most of the time spent in the backwaters and beaches of Kerala. The only common trait between the two places: pretty hot for the most part.
I would have liked to put up my new year poem here, but I can't find it on my office computer or email. So I will give it a skip. As it is, it would have been more than 2 months too late. Screw that. Couple of things I have been contemplating though, in this calendar year. Maybe I should get those off my chest.
One, the idea of seeking company for entertainment, as opposed to entertaining the self. (The perverted reader is free to draw conclusions from the onanism reference above.) Living all by myself as I am now for the first time ever, I was a bit apprehensive about the pangs of loneliness that had troubled me greatly once in the past. But I was also sort of looking forward to it too, to use my time in a way I deemed fit without being encumbered by someone else's choices. I thought I could be a lot more productive towards personal causes (such as writing) if I wasn't always spending my time in company. However, this post comes after a gap of two months and about the only thing I have written in the interim was the new year poem. I haven't done much else either, except sort of vegetate. What I have been contemplating (another form of procrastination?) is how do I actually make good of this time I now have for myself. In other words, how to throw off these shackles of sheer lethargy that are weighing me down?
The other thing is my supposed charsi look. I happened to run in to acquaintances from school days, guys I hadn't seen in over 10 years, at the least. Three of them were over at my place one evening, two of us drinking whisky and the other two relishing their Breezers. One of the Breezer drinkers also partook of a spliff, which he himself had asked me to roll, soon after which he proceeded to the toilet to throw up, after which he passed out. Then he called me a week later to tell me that I should take it easy in life and that I looked like I was in to drugs and that my enunciation of the desire to maybe do a PhD some time in life confirmed his apparently ancient viewpoint of my being mad. When I rose to my defence about drug consumption, he said he was only doing his duty as a friend by warning me. Couple of evenings later, the younger brother of the guy who drank whisky with me some evening ago came over to my place for 10 minutes, in which he told me how the brothers had both lost 25 kg each in the last 6 months (and they both are still more than just your average plump) and then went on to ask me why I looked so malnourished, and that I should go easy on the drugs. Once again, I began a cursory defence but abandoned it half-way. Couple of days later, the elder brother calls me up and tells me how his younger brother told him I looked drugged and haggard, and that I really ought to take better care of myself and that I should also put on some weight. And this, after he had himself seen me twice in the preceding three weeks. Was he too blind to notice it himself then? Or did the brother confirm his lurking suspicions? Suspicions? Of what?!
I can't decide if my external appearance has, in fact, changed, unbeknownst to me to resemble that of junkies, and I am too blind to notice it, what with it being my own face and all, or if it is, as usual, just the world around me that still hasn't found its marbles, tied up as it is with typecasts and preconceptions, even if it about things it has not the foggiest clue about.
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