Winner

This story won me some money recently, and there is some talk of it being published too, as part of an anthology. Anyway, neither of those will concern you as much as the morbidity in the story. So grab something to to munch on and enjoy The Perfect Closure :D

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As the sky grew dark outside, Sheetal sat by her window, sipping her coffee that had long gone cold. She shivered a little, the coffee providing no warmth, and hugged herself tightly. She took one long last look at the growing darkness and stood up, closed the window and faced the unlit room. Meandering around objects that she couldn’t possibly see in the dark, she made her way to kitchen, rinsed the cup and placed it in the sink.

Back in the room, she switched on the little night lamp, and by its feeble light, saw the body that lay next to the couch. These last few years, she had loved him with all her heart. And now, he was dead. All those years of loving and caring came to nothing, it seemed. All she was left with was a hole in her heart and dead body to deal with. Thankless bastard, she thought to herself, leaving her all alone to deal with the mess he left behind.

She sat down on the floor next to the body, and held the lifeless head in her lap. It wasn’t her fault that he was dead. She knew he had a weak heart, and she alone knew how much of her meagre salary she had already spent on his health. She knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that it was only a matter of time, but she had constantly put the thought away in some recesses of her brain that she never accessed. So, expected as it was, the death came as quite a blow.

Such a transient thing, life, she thought. We are born, we live, we eat, we love, we hurt, we die. And if we are reborn, we do it all over again. What is the point anyway?

As she sat in the feeble light of the night lamp in the grip of existentialist thoughts and feeling a sense of great loss, she heard a rumbling sound. She looked up with surprise, and then realised that it was her stomach signalling hunger. Drawn back to the reality of everyday bodily matters, she once again wondered what she should do with the body of her dog. She considered burying it, but couldn’t bear the thought of maggots eating away at her dear Monty. She couldn’t just dump it some place remote, for that would be too cruel to the one being she had loved selflessly. She definitely couldn’t afford a cremation. And she sure as hell couldn’t just leave it lying next to the couch.

Picking it up, Sheetal took it to the kitchen and put it down on the table. Rummaging through her refrigerator, trying to decide what to cook for dinner, she realised that she was all out of groceries, except a carrot which was hardly sufficient dinner. She took it out anyway, washed it clean, sat down on a chair facing the body, and began munching on it, while trying to decide what to do about dinner and the body on the table.

And then, it struck her. Sheer genius, she thought, and whimsical as it may seem, it was surely a great idea to eternalise her love for Monty while solving two of her more immediate concerns.

When the meal was over, and she had put away a substantial amount of leftovers, she made herself some more coffee and went back to her window to stare at the darkness outside. In the clear night sky, she traced Orion and Taurus, and thought of Monty’s soul up there in the sky. She tried to conjure up another constellation in his memory, and when she failed at that, she tried to pick a star that would always remind her of him.

Satisfied with a bright star a bit off Orion, she felt a double sense of contentment. No matter where she was, she only had to look up at the sky to see Monty in the unnamed star she had picked for him. And no matter where she was, she had to only rub her stomach to remember that Monty would forever and always be a part of her.

Sheetal couldn’t have asked for a better closure.

Two Deaths, Four Days and 175 KM Apart

What truly set apart the deaths of Bal Thackeray and Ajmal Kasab was not the time or distance between their occurrences, but rather, the reception that they received by the general public. While the former's demise saw lakhs of mourners gather in the streets of Mumbai and generated words of condolence from all and sundry across the political, corporate, entertainment and other aspects of public life; the latter's drew thousands to celebrate joyously by bursting crackers and distributing sweets, with some even saying the death took too long in coming.

Both men were religious fanatics, or at least behaved as such. While Thackeray may not have killed anyone personally in his life, he was directly or indirectly responsible for more deaths in Mumbai than the 166 that Kasab was given the noose for. Kasab was a part of a 3-day 10-man blitzkrieg on the city of Mumbai, while Thackeray ran the city like his personal fiefdom for decades, using gangs of hundreds and thousands to instill fear in whoever he chose to brand as anti-Maharashtra at the time of his choosing.

Kasab confessed to his crimes and provided information about his handlers in Pakistan, information India can leverage (not that it has successfully done much with it yet) in its relations with its neighbour. Thackeray publicly confessed his admiration for Hitler and used mobs of rioting youth to paint a cosmopolitan city his own version of saffron.

Even after he was hanged, Kasab's photographs were stamped upon and burnt in processions in various parts of the country. Voices of dissent, those opposing the death penalty in principle, were called anti-patriotic. And even in his death, Thackeray's followers caused Mumbai to shut down for at least two days. Someone who refused to deify this architect of communal divisions, let alone insult him, was promptly arrested.

Not that it justifies his actions, but at least Kasab could be thought of as a misguided young fool. Thackeray's crime, however, was misguiding young fools like Kasab. Good riddance, I say.

Not that this blog is nearly as popular or famous, but now, should I wait for the police to come knocking? :P

Better Judgement

Earthquakes are hardly understood even by seismologists, people who spend years studying the movement of tectonic plates and call themselves experts on the subject. And along comes this court in L'Aquila, telling seismologists that they knew better than they claim they did, and hence ought to have warned people more about an earthquake that claimed a few hundred lives three years ago.

So now, we have judges telling scientists what can and cannot be known and predicted by science. Reminds me a bit of what the church did once upon a time. Seems like whoever holds the keys to making and upholding laws goes a bit bonkers from time to time.

While I cannot agree with this decision, I cannot be too harsh on the judges either. After all, we all make bad judgements from time to time. And the truly terrible ones are those that we label as "despite my better judgement". A swim in a choppy sea because you are at the shore for only a day; a drunken drive back home when you can't even walk; going hunting at the bar when you already have a cougar in your bedroom; blah blah blah.

I like to live in the garden, but I don't want to call it home because... because well, for one, the garden has seasons, some likable, others not so much. And a home should be home for all seasons. For two, if the garden gets used to my caring for it, and if I suddenly stop living there one day, what will the garden do about the many flowers it plans to sprout? For three, even if I adapted to reason one and the garden adapted to reason two, how does one live in a garden that is in another part of the world?

Despite my better judgement, I called it home. And then, my home slammed its door in my face. :)

Losing the Past

Even as I use technology in many aspects of my life, and appreciate fully well how it has made certain things easier to do, I still don't like technological progress in many ways, and digitalisation the least of all. And yet, as so many of us now do, I have so much personal information saved in the digital format that it would fill up half my room were it all on paper.

And then, one day, my hard disk crashed. As it happened, I had been in the process of shifting etc, and hence my usual back up sources were not quite updated. And having shown my hard disk around a few places now, I have resigned myself to having lost all of its contents. For ever.

This resignation towards this sense of loss of personal symbols of my past has been almost cathartic. It has been a great loss. Twelve years of writing, almost entirely lost save a few bits here and there. And of course, all the electronic communication outside of email from the one who shall not be named but is a constant presence in my mind. Vanished, to never be read again. Her poems too, zany, so full of love and hate, humbling. Eight years of photographs, which included almost all my travelling outside of school days. And of course, all the memories that they could remind me of. All those happy times and even some of the sad ones. The mind gets lazy when it has photographs to help recall the past. It starts to get hazy about the details and forgetful of entire incidents.

Now it is all gone, without leaving behind the faintest trace except the dead weight of a useless hard disk. I was furious at first, and then, at some point, I realised I was doing what that other character in Hocus Pocus kept saying he did but never actually did: I was laughing like hell. I know now that it didn't make me feel any better, but it didn't make me feel any worse either.

Instead of trying to recall everything I have lost of my writing, I am working from scratch to fill up my hard disk anew. Photographs will come in their own time. Photographs of and writing from her, however, will not be coming back since she has no desire to be in my hard disk any more.

Making a break with the past is difficult in more ways than one, I realise. It is not easy to make the break yourself, and if it gets made for you by circumstance, it is not the easiest thing to accept. And once you accept it, you take a step closer towards being Buddha. But it is a giant step, and I am still in mid-stride. Sigh.

Politicising Sex

I am sure there will be those who will argue that sex is always political inherently, just like everything else is. But I am not walking that academic path, where everything is seen through the lens of power equations with no room for reciprocated feelings like such as those of unbridled lust or sublime love that have no regard whatsoever for power or politics.

However, women are Togo are planning to thoroughly politicise sex. There are calls for the President to resign and at least one woman feels that the men of the country are not doing enough to ensure his resignation. So her group has called for women to withhold sex from their husbands/lovers/partners for a week, in the hope that the lack of action in the bedroom will prod the men in to taking more concrete action against the President.

A novel idea, I thought, if not the smartest one. But apparently, it has been done before in Liberia about a decade ago. I don't know if it worked there in its calls for peace, but I doubt its efficacy in general. If you want the President to resign, ask his wife to stop fucking him. And if you can't convince her, why deprive your own husband? Next thing you know, you have a country full of women complaining of marital rape and such. Instead of solving one problem, you create another one.

The Chinki Fleeing Terror

Alarming text messages, doctored videos, sensational posts on social media, and of course, the good old word of mouth whipped up enough hysteria for chinkis from various states to flee whichever south Indian cities they were in, to go back to the safety of their homes. The government has now blamed elements in Pakistan for the mischief and what is being labeled "hate terror". Maybe the Pakis have a role to play in this conspiracy that I find particularly sinister, maybe they don't. Either way, I don't care.

Whoever planned this, however, must be an intelligent person with his (his sense of deviousness rivals that of a woman) finger squarely on the pulse of modern humanity. Send someone a fucked up text, it will reach 100 others. Minimum expense, even less effort and spectacular results that take on a life entirely their own. This whole business is based almost entirely on fiction, with not a single factual element to substantiate it. He must be orgasming constantly at the mere thought of this mobile & Internet age.

Junta has been obsessing about showing solidarity with the fleeing chinkis and leaders from the Muslim community, allegedly responsible for the threats, have been making regular appeals for peace and for the chinkis to return. All very commendable and back-slap worthy. But what about the actual effects of these people leaving?

My Manipuri friend has not left town, but he hasn't been going to work either. He is enjoying a 5-day weekend, helped by the two days he took off between Independence Day and the weekend. Because of the risk his life faced had he stepped out of his house, living as he does in a neighbourhood dominated by Muslims.

Security agencies in town are having a tough time. My own building complex has depleted security staff, prompting the managing committee to issue a notice seeking resident volunteers who will patrol the complex late at night and early mornings. Great way to teach the youngsters about vigilante behaviour. And what happens if there aren't enough volunteers? Should I feel unsafe too? And all because the chinkis, feeling unsafe, have left? Should I also leave town then? But where do I go? For me, this is where home is.

The Insolence of Being Usain

I adore Usain Bolt. Not so much for his athletic feats, which are worthy of much too much admiration. After all, he is the first man to take consecutive Olympic gold medals in both the 100m and 200m races. He holds the Olympic record for the 100m, which he bettered this time around. He also holds the world records for both the 100m and 200m dashes. So yes, his track achievements are supreme, and worthy of adulation. But that is not so much why I adore the man.

I like him for his seeming insolence that infuriated many a television commentators. I love him for how he runs, wins and breaks records with such irreverence. He has been called disrespectful for thumping his chest before crossing the finish line. He has accused of not being serious enough for slowing down before the finish line when he saw victory was assured. But that is what I love about him. He does things his own way, without giving a shit for what the world may want. He wins races, takes gold and glory, breaks records if he feels like, and if he doesn't, he just saunters across the finish line. It is an individual achievement, and the individual should be left free to achieve it any which way he likes.

His persona dripping with nonchalant confidence before races and flashy celebrations after winning them also raises a frequent eyebrow. The man knows he is good and has no reason to be worried. Is it so bad to not be like one of those nerdy book-worms who know the entire syllabus better than their own faces but are pathetically nervous before even a useless class-test? And if he has won a race where he chose to slow down and yet beat everyone else by a few metres to spare, he can pretty much celebrate any which way he likes.

Of course, Carl Lewis had to say something stupid about Jamaicans and the drug-testing standards being lax in the country. Here is my theory, Mr Lewis. All the theories about Jamaican dominance of sprinting are talking about tapioca and yam. I think it may have something to do with ganja. Ganja is legal in Jamaica and maybe ganja smoke in the air is good for sprinters. Maybe you should have moved there when you still had the feet to run, you sore loser. Of course, now they won't take you in.

Dreaming Emotion

I can't remember thinking too much about emoticons recently, even though I did mention it in my last post, which was only this morning. And that was only because I read and was greatly irked by the usage of "sad smiley" in a newspaper article. The last time I gave emoticons any serious thought was a couple of years ago after watching David Mitchell rant about them and abbreviations peculiar to the Internet chat, such as BRB or LOL.

But last night, I actually dreamt of an emoticon. Not in some abstract way where it had grown wings or fur or a penis. It was just there as it usually is. In fact, it made up an entire text message. It was a 2-character text sent to me that I woke up at some dark hour of the night to read. It made me joyous to read it, especially once I realised who the sender was. And then, I also realised that I was only dreaming. For some reason, the joy lingered despite the realisation and only went away a while ago when I remembered the dream.

:D

Maybe my subconscious was playing tricks with me, telling me in the language of a dream emoticon text that she is happy. And more importantly, that she is also choosing to tell me about it. But in my conscious mind, I know otherwise. For one, she is quite likely not exactly happy. And if she is, she is not going to give me the pleasure of knowing it. She had probably much rather I suffer in not knowing. Not that she thinks I suffer anyway.

I miss her.

A Form for Non-Hindus

While I have held religion in pretty low esteem for many years now, my belief in its general astute stupidity still gets reinforced from time to time. Such is the power of this all-pervasive phenomenon.

The latest example comes from Tirumala Tirupati Devasthanam, one of the richest religious bodies in the world. They have enacted a new rule, to be enforced from next week, which makes it mandatory for all non-Hindus to sign a declaration, in triplicate, no less, that states their faith in the deity presiding in the shrine.

How do they go about deciding who is Hindu and who isn't? Many Indians are from different faiths, and it is impossible to tell by just looking at them. Just asking people outright may not always get the right answer. What about foreigners who may have converted to Hinduism? What about people who may sign the form but may not actually have faith? If one didn't have faith, why would one stand for hours in the queues to catch half a glimpse of the deity from 50 metres away while being jostled by sweating crowds? Why would one even travel to the town itself, which has nothing but the temple and its associated infrastructure?

Beyond all this, the temple administration needs non-Hindus to sign three copies of the said form so that one can be returned to the non-Hindu and two be kept with the temple folk for administrative purposes. I can't imagine what administrative purpose those forms will serve, other than maybe a boast at some point in the future, when the temple authorities hope to have enough numbers to turn around and say "Look, we have so many non-Hindus coming here and expressing their belief too. Goes to show how cool our deity is." And what does the non-Hindu do with that returned copy? Frame it for the living room wall? Or do the temple folk expect it to serve as a reminder for life-long commitment to the faith?

Take something normal and make it strange, one can always count on religion for that.

On another note, what the hell is a "sad smiley"? Why has the word emoticon gone so wrongly out of vogue?

Tyranny of the Majority

I returned from a short holiday to Hampi which was otherwise excellent, but for the last three or so hours I spent there. They would have been excellent too, had the rest of the group I was travelling with not decided to indulge in good old fashioned tyranny of the majority.

In brief, there is a lot to see there, a lot of trekking and rock climbing to indulge in if it takes your fancy, old ruins and the sort. Mobile phone coverage is patchy at best, and since we were roaming around different parts of the town, a time and place was decided where we would meet for lunch. I and my only other companion from the group got there to find no one else. They called an hour later to say they were on the other side of town and were at the moment getting in to a boat for a ride.

Essentially, it meant that they did exactly what the fuck they felt like while I, like a fool, walked across town to get to a restaurant that they chose, only to meet no one, and in the process of that and lunch, lost time that could have been better spent seeing some more of the beautiful place. And once done with lunch, there was not enough time to go somewhere, see something and come back in time to leave.

As I expected, when we met finally, most of them didn't even bother with acknowledging that they had done me wrong, let alone apologise even half-heartedly. And when my grouse came out in the open, one of them gave me this beautiful piece of advice, and I quote: "sticking to the group is often a safer option, as I've found through experience. Schedules get screwed up easy and often, and when this happens, I always prefer to be with the group."

Wow. You are a pushover, and you want everyone else to be the same way too, so that stupid women who must carry an entire bag full of eye makeup for a 30-hour vacation involving trekking mostly (which they don't do because they are wearing chappals) have someone other than you to order their food for them because they are too darned lazy and anti-social to even come out of their room while everyone eats. Oh sorry, they tell you that they enjoy listening to you talk. I suppose that gives you enough of a boner for you to go on being so fucking servile, you shit-stick. Severin would be envious of you.

But people, go to Hampi if and when you get the chance. If outdoors is your thing, you will love it. Just don't go with stupid cows and stupider apologists.

Trafficking My Way Around

Hockey is our national sport, but you know what the national sport should be? No, not cricket, that’s not even a sport. It should be jaywalking. There is nothing wrong with it per se, so long as they tweak the laws a little in favour of the drivers. I mean, no one should stop you from taking the leap, but it’s your responsibility to look before you do. And if you don’t look, you only have yourself to blame. Just because I am the one driving does not mean that it was my fault that you got run over, and have to now spend the rest of your life eating and shitting through inter-changeable tubes. If you plan to jaywalk AND are stupid about it, you ought to be vegetative. One less moron walking this earth, literally.

But there is the one thing about jaywalkers that really gets my goat. There I am, sitting behind the wheel, doing 60 and out pops a jaywalker. Alright, now that you are here, and since I am no mood for sodomy behind bars (or even otherwise, for that matter), I will slow down and let you go. But what is with that upraised hand? How the hell do you think a car works? You raise your hand and it comes to a standstill in a second? Who the hell do you think you are, Darth fucking Vader?

The bulk of my rage on the road, however, little as I may express it, is reserved for those morons on two-wheelers who think that just because their vehicle is smaller than a car, it can squeeze through the butt-hole of an ant. You have delusions of being Valentino Rossi, that's fine, but he doesn't race on a choc-a-bloc road, does he? You don't care about rules for overtaking, that's fine too, I don't follow them always either. But must you overtake me from the right, wanting to turn left, when I am already turning right myself?

Even as far as humans go, it is terribly stupid of them to go so far to shun their survival instincts and putting their faith either in my supposed humanity or the fear of the law. Once I nudged that stupid bastard a little with the car, sure enough, fear rose faster than anger and he became even stupider and fled from the scene speeding like a bat out of hell. I hope he at least has a bruise on his leg from the impact though. Otherwise, that nudge would be such a waste.

Strike at the Heart of the Matter

Today is a Bharat Bandh (nation-wide strike) called by most of the Opposition parties, to protest against the latest hike in petrol prices in the country. As a form of protest, this is something that has always managed to evade my understanding. Exactly how does inconveniencing the "common man", whose cause is apparently being espoused, in every possible fashion amount to protesting against the government?

Trains have been blocked by people sitting on the tracks, buses have been set on fire or had their windows smashed, taxis and autos won't leave their stands for fear of being damaged, private vehicles have been stopped from going anywhere by crowds, businesses have been forced shut, and daily wage earners have nothing to eat today. Doesn't sound like a very effective protest mechanism to me, unless it aims to weaken the spirit of the "common man".

Last night, my parents were coming back home from the airport in one of the airport shuttle buses. In the darkness, first one stone came flying from the right, and a minute later, another smashed through a window on the left. The driver sped ahead a bit before stopping to make sure every thing was alright. Except a lot of broken glass and a couple of small cuts, everything was actually okay. But is this what the protest has set out to achieve? Victimising people who have nothing to do with the price hike?

And about this price hike. I bought a petrol car less than two weeks ago. The price of the fuel went up by 10% two days later. I am not complaining. Not because I have bucketfuls of money to pour down my fuel tank, but because I understand that it is unreasonable to want subsidised luxury. But also, because I understand that 32% of the cost of petrol in this state, which has a BJP government, is tax levied by the state government. If the BJP has such a big problem with the price of petrol and cares so deeply about how it affects the "common man", then why won't states run by it reduce their own taxes to keep costs down? Hypocrites and opportunists who have no principals, that is how they come across. Nothing new, obviously. Just reinforcement.

Dreamer in a dead language

I could see the words coming out of my mouth, but instead of flying straight up in to the air and raining all around, they just fell to the ground without a sound, the thick mud absorbing them, serifs and all. I checked the colours, they were just the way they were meant to be. Bright pulsating red vowels, streaked with lavender, and the deep blue of the consonants, flickering the occasional green. Even the strings were shiny white, and I could see no reason why they would not hold the syllables together.

I looked as the last of the words dissolved in to the thick slush under my feet, never to be heard. How had I got here? How long had I been here? What was this place with this endless expanse of thick mud? And what are these tress that grow impossibly tall in this place? Where are Amulya and Drishti? Where is everyone? Why does no one else call out?

Looking up, I once again saw the canopy of the tree tops that blocked out all but a small jagged piece of the sky. And in that jagged piece, I saw a vision. They were dead, they were all dead. Somewhere in this marshy forest, everyone I have ever known lies dead and buried. But how can that be? I was with them only just now. Amulya had just been initiated as an elder, and there was the big feast in the village, and the whole tribe was there. Even old Mandal. And then, it was back to the hut with Drishti. Funny, I can’t recall if we had sex or not. What happened then? How did I get here? And what was that vision just now? Why won’t my words fly?

I don’t think I can make words any more. Or maybe I should give it one last try. Maybe someone will see them too and come looking. Oh no, why are the strings turning ashen? I don’t even have my medicine bag, else I could have tried healing these vowels that are now bleeding yellow. I guess this is the end for them. And for me too, the vision makes that clear. I might as well let them all out.

What is that? I didn’t have that word! Is that even a word? I can’t tell, I grow weak, sinking in to the mud. It is creeping in to my eyes and dying letters are all around me. Except those few in the sky, dark against that jagged sky. I must know what they are. R… I… P?

And then, there were two

The grand old man had perhaps had a bit too much to smoke. This new batch that Morning Star had been giving him – Lucy Special, he called it – was the bomb. As his enormous and gigantic mind drifted through the infinite depths of dream space, coloured in various hues and twisted into various shapes due to the effects of the substance, god’s body, unbeknownst to him, twitched every now and then.

No one was around when he awoke with a start, perhaps in the middle of a nostalgic dream about the beginning of creation, muttered four words that no one heard and promptly fell back into an intoxicated slumber. The effect of a second “Let there be light”, however, were felt by quite a few. Small surprise, given that another sun had popped up in the sky.

*          *          *

As the skiing industry went into a meltdown and clouds either vaporised or sulked away, all sorts of hell began to break loose.

“These humans use the word hell too loosely,” Lucifer thought to himself. “All the same, there are always the few who redeem the many. I must see to it that Adam gets his due. Even though he doesn’t know himself how potent the stuff he grew is, the results have been fat better than I could have ever hoped for.”

“Oblivious to all this, Adam, Lucifer’s dealer, was on one of his bi-weekly visits to Eve, who practiced the oldest profession there is. He had just dropped some coins in Eve’s outstretched hand and was about to rid himself of his clothes when Lucifer materialised next to her.

“Fuck! Don’t scare me like that, man! And when, in God’s name, will you give me some privacy?”

“Adam, my dear friend, this is a good day and I am in a generous mood.” said Lucifer, as he smiled and cast appreciative glances at Eve while squeezing her thigh.

“But why are you here now? I just gave you enough stuff to knock an army out! And please, get your hands off my woman.”

“Your woman?” asked Lucifer, not hiding his mocking amusement. “Well, so be it. I did say I was in a generous mood.”

And as Adam stood there, jealous, dazed and confused, and Eve sat there, petrified and docile, there was an inaudible pop and the room was empty.

*          *          *

As the world came to an end, and god still slept intoxicated, Morning Star took it upon himself to awaken the grand old man and break the good news to him.

“What the fuck have I done?” were the only words that came out of god’s mouth as he sat with his head in his hands for a very long time.

“Compensation, old man,” suggested Morning Star. “Infinite virility and infinite fecundity, and I have just the right candidates.”

Drug peddler. Whore. Genesis.

Sins of the Past Catching Up with Spain?

Shit happens to everyone, individuals and nations. It is only a matter of time.

Spain managed to get that treasure from Peru last month even as the South Americans cried foul. But now, the Argentines are giving them a wonderful kick by planning to nationalise YPF, an Argentinian petroleum company in which Spain's Repsol holds the majority stake. Of course, Spain has issues warnings and threats of grave and horrific reactions, and said that this move will make Argentina "an international pariah". Argentina is quite happy to take control of its own natural resources, which I think is only natural. If only more countries would do the same.

Of course, the Spanish PM is quite thick to say that this move by Argentina is "without any economic reason", Of course, it's not, Senor Rajoy, which is why you are crying bloody murder, right? Why exactly should Argentina have to import oil and gas while produce from YPF is sent elsewhere to make profits for Repsol, Rajoy? Oh sorry, I forgot, this is all "without any economic reason"!

The Spanish monarch, Juan Carlos, is at home with a broken hip. While the country is going through depression and half the youth is unemployed and times are worse now than any time since Franco's death, he went elephant hunting to Botswana. As if the act of elephant hunting itself is not bad enough, he went on that trip secretly, and the matter only came to light when he slipped and fell and broke his hip and had to fly back home for treatment. Doesn't look very good as a concerned king, and looks even worse as the honorary president of WWF's Spanish branch. Superbly executed escapist behaviour has turned into quite the royal scandal.

Maybe the African nations should nationalise elephants and other big "game". That would make prospective European hunters think twice about coming around, broken hips notwithstanding.

In Iggy's Words: Lust for Life

They are only his words, but I don't think he would necessarily agree with the way organisations (and associated people) like Amnesty International go about practicing those words. You have a life, live it with gusto. But what is with this fucking god complex that pushes to save every fucking human soul on this planet? Isn't the species carcinogenic enough for the planet already?

Amnesty International does "not believe that governments should be in the business of executing citizens." How about non-citizens then? And should we then leave the citizens to the mob? People who preach such abject non-fatal violence (after all, imprisonment is also arguably a form a violence, according to certain schools of thought) tend to make the same mistake that had predestined the fall of Marxism: the fallacious belief in the inherent goodness of our miserable species.

It doesn't need spelling out but I might as well. I support capital punishment. And I have what I consider good reasons. For one, we are too fucking many humans on this planet for anyone sensible to want to save every last one (while also always working on and celebrating the extension of human life span) who is already here, since more and more always keep arriving. For two, since it is the fear of death that tends to drive this quest for extending life, the same fear of death should act as a pretty good deterrent for aspiring criminals.

Maim, dismember and then hang/shoot/electrocute/poison/hack/burn, basically in any way kill a few rapists, child molesters, acid throwers and other such scum, and others who may have considered indulging will think at least a few times, if not abandon their plans altogether. Or maybe they will just take it to the world of bedroom fantasy, which many of us do any way. But no, Amnesty says people shouldn't be killed, "regardless of the circumstances".

I have tremendous regard for the principle of hanged, drawn and quartered, though I never could understand why the phrase isn't drawn, hanged and quartered. Logically, it makes no difference to a dead person to be drawn about, and the public spectacle is far greater when the person drawn is still alive and shrieking bloody murder. Hang the bloody bastard after she/he has been dragged through the town, which as a consequence will most likely be scared rather shitless.

Have good reason though, of course. :) For instance, a human being should deserve any "universal human right", such as the right to life, if and only if she/he can accord it to others too.

Some News, Some Thoughts

Colonialism-proper ended a while ago, even though it still goes on in many forms, some more overt and others less so. But this bit of news is like a validation of it almost. Maybe the Spaniards are thinking the $500 million will help them to stave off a bit longer the economic crisis the country is currently facing.

http://www.mail.com/in-en/news/world/1126752-peruvians-feel-robbed-spain-treasure.html

In striking contrast is this other piece of news. Of course, I do sincerely wish the world, and especially Germany, would move on from harping on and on about this same event in human history.

http://www.mail.com/in-en/entertainment/lifestyle/1136200-nazi-seized-art-ordered-returned-to-american-man.html

And of course, most are perhaps already aware of the latest civilian shooting spree by an American soldier in Afghan villages. This story raises to me again the question of why alcohol is legal while so many other intoxicants are not. But it was the last two paragraphs in this story that really caught my attention. I am not sure why they are there, you see. Not once does it indicate that he did what he did under any influence other than his notion of Iraqi civilians not quite being humans.

http://www.mail.com/in-en/news/world/1136730-afghan-killings-case-questions-alcohol.html

Waxing Lyrical

Here is some pointless verse for you to munch on. If you must steal the words, have the decency to quote at the very least. This one is called "crash and burn, to the finish".

hay fever rising in real slow burn
sometimes, even flowers tend to rust
those garden colours all slowly turn
sometimes to ash, sometimes to dust

cutting ribbons and cutting ties
one fabric, the other more fabricated
occasions marking truths and lies
in an existence now emasculated

when a man is truly, really hungry
he would gladly eat a sandwich of mould
it will probably make him less angry
than if offered a biscuit of gold

if a bird doesn't see she is pretty
how will she still keep her chin up?
when everything looks so fucking shitty
shittier even than two girls, one cup

out on a limb, in for a ride
the race car driver shows no fear
even as he shits bricks inside
while trying to simultaneously steer

painful pangs of prurient choice
while emotions toiled in the backseat
disdain, blame, fury in a soft voice
tears well up, dry in the ensuing heat

skid marks screech on the track
rash accusations of treatment like trash
now heading in to a cul-de-sac
slam the brakes or go up in a crash

Confucius Say: Roll of Dice is Three

It is almost three years to the date that I find myself moving to Bangalore again with the intent of helping my father in his business plans. And it is with a sense of some more apprehension, a lot more responsibility and now, also some anticipation. While this career shift is welcome, considering it gives me something of a career as opposed to not having one at all right now, it also has its own set of troubles that don't merit detail. Suffice to say that I foresee now a very different life for me than I had ever previously imagined it to be. And how was that, you ask? Instead of an answer, here is another question for you.

What is common between the atmosphere, the bottom of the ocean and the urethra under a bursting bladder? Yep, pressure. And there are many other kinds too, of course. There was a time when I thought I withstood it well, and it was a quality I admired in my pool of few positive traits. But in what I guess is a rather telling sign, I seem to have lost, along with patience, that attribute of mine.

I am being torn asunder, it seems. And try as I may, I don't quite see myself as the vacuumed ball that horse drawn carriages are trying to pull apart. It is far less dramatic in real life, as opposed to the illustration from that physics book, but I still find myself empathising with that useless ball of metal. Only, in my case, I feel much worse than the ball that stood its ground.

I thought I was doing pretty well, telling myself that I just need to come to terms with my responsibilities, whether I like them or not and even if I did not necessarily choose to take them on in the first place. And then, out of the blue come accusations. Not very precise ones, mere allusions for the most part, but accusations all the same. And their vague nature does not help. I cannot be dismissive of them either, since callousness would only add to my list of crimes, and as it is, callous is something I do not wish to always be.

I never thought that I (or anyone outside of a tragic comedy, for that matter) could simultaneously be in so many places that I don't want to be in. Of course, I am not referring merely to physical spaces here. But it seems that a change of physical space, in this case, is the only course of action I can take if I am to preserve what little I think is left of my sanity, which was always on shaky ground to start with. And now that it sounds much like escapism, I cannot help but feel a sort of disdain at my own anticipation.

I guess there are no un-drastic measures to start life from scratch, disowning everything from your past. For better or for worse, the past makes us who we are, and we can't really disown ourselves. But why, oh why, does the past have to keep coming back to haunt? And if it must, it really knows how to pick the time when the chips are down. Find a homeless unemployed man who has little other than the generosity of friends and family to live on, passing his time indolently, making of himself a caricature of the person he once was, and fling upon him his past. Even Chinese torture techniques seem laughable in contrast. Or maybe I am only saying that since I have never been tortured by the Chinese. But right now, I really wouldn't mind the trade.

My Internet Footprint

Is it a personal matter or a public one? What I do to contribute to my Internet footprint, such as a newspaper article or a prize-winning essay, or even this blog definitely counts as personal. But when other people start piling on to it, does it still stay personal? If someone picks up something I contributed to the Internet originally and showcases it elsewhere, giving me due credit, then I guess I can't exactly complain, irrespective of whether I think it personal or public, since I put it out in the public domain in the first place.

But how about the fact that there is a sizable number of photographs of me floating about on the Internet that I had nothing to do with except being in them? No, they are not pornographic sort, so it is not that I am embarrassed about them or some such. They are regular photographs, mostly on Facebook, put there by family and friends. I don't even have a bloody profile on that damned website, and yet, it contributes more to my Internet footprint than all my other actions put together.

I don't have to do a thing and yet it grows, entirely on its own. Like it were some monster, fed constantly by people who I am sure I know but whose monster-feeding habits I surely have no clue about. Insofar as possible, I have even told people, who I see inclined towards such monster-feeding activity, specifically to not indulge in it when it comes to my private monster, a request that I consider only fair to make.

I guess the fact that these same people will, in all likelihood, never come to my blog, let alone read this post, is a good indicator of exactly how much these friends and family actually care about how I want my Internet footprint to be. Since they can't control my actions, they will make sure that I can't control their's. And in what I guess they must think to be perfectly harmless actions, they indulge in freewheeling exhibitionism, not only on their behalf, but also on behalf of others who may not exactly be the very exhibitionist kinds.

I think I am now going to ask people to not photograph me at all. But then again, I don't trust them to actually give in to my demand. And in the name of freedom to click, click they shall. And once clicked, it absolutely must be uploaded to Facebook, lest Zuckerberg come by and give them a spanking for having dared to withhold even a single moment of their lousy (and others' not so lousy, in comparison) existences from his software that was essentially created to separate the hot broads in college from the ugly ducks. Not a very privacy oriented thought to start with, was it?

If any of you arseholes are reading this (and you know who you are better than even I), then for fuck's sake, leave me be. And if you give even half a damn about me, then please remove my pictures from a site that I really and deeply wish to be no part of. Of course, knowing your ilk, you probably won't, either in indignation at the thought of your freedom of expression being thus curbed, or from sheer laziness that somehow vanishes in a whiff when it comes time to upload and tag and share those gazillion pictures.

And now that I have that off my chest, I don't care any more.