Diff'rent strokes for diff'rent folks

“Bombs rip through city”
“Serial blasts ravage town block”
“900 killed in massive explosion”

I have a theory about bombs. There’s neither any scientific backing for my theory, nor is there any evidence to back it up. There’s a to-scale model of the theory, but again, it isn’t especially conclusive or definitive. Here goes anyway...

My theory is that in the event of a bomb blast, it’s rarely ever the fire or the explosive energy that gets those in close proximity. Instead, I believe it’s the raw and primal shock of watching this ginormous ripping-at-the-seams of life just in front of one’s eyes. Of course, then there’s the sound and the eventual expulsion of energy that tears up everything in its path. But, they arrive much later. Way way after the shock.

The tiny to-scale model I was talking about has to do with trying to inflate a balloon. You blow into it and huff and puff. Your cheeks turn red and you’re out of breath. So you hold the end of the balloon tightly with your fingers and breathe in deeply. As you begin pumping this latest lungful of air into the balloon, it POPS!!!!

Your heart stands still for a second and you know that there is no way the popping balloon could have injured you in the least. Yet you flinch and jump. Shock.

Now back to bombs and in addition to shock, they inevitably create tragedy. Couple shock with tragedy and what you get is complete artistic fodder, journalistic fodder, terroristic (if the word doesn’t exist, it damn well should) fodder and many many other ‘stic’s of fodder.

Everyone loves a good tragedy — especially a tragedy replete with shock.

Some filmmaker will ‘capture the emotions’ of those whose lives have been torn apart by the tragedy and turn it into a heart-wrenching film that wins the maker of that exploitative movie a ton of accolades. While the victims get a nickel!

With a twiddle of some aspiring poet’s fingers around a pen, the tragedy is re-moulded, reconstructed and re-imagined amid a flowery smattering of clichés (Everyone loves a good cliché, too) and half-baked similes to once again earn the poet praise for the ‘sensitivity’ conveyed.

A journalist will be honoured for ‘pushing the envelope’ and bringing in a brilliant story, with amazing photographs and a screaming headline. “Man!! Our readership is going through the roof tomorrow,” says the editor congratulating the journalist, basking in all the glory.

Activists will scream, “We want Justice!” when you and I can hear their actual thoughts that cry out, “We want attention!!” For their humanitarian work, they lie in wait for their Nobel frickin’ Peace Prizes.

Fashionistas (as I believe they like being called) will unveil a new line of tragedy-wear. “It’s sombre and highly fashionable. You’ll have tear-filled eyes all over you” Can’t you just hear some overfed trout talking about a new boutique and saying that sentence?

But don’t get me wrong... Amid all of this, one perky and peppy woman, with apparently the entire Revlon factory on her face will be running her cute little ass around all over the place clutching a mic (I believe a ‘boom’ is the industry term) asking everyone related to and unrelated to the tragedy the same question... “Aapko kaisa mehsoos ho raha hai?” How do you feel? How do you feel exactly?

‘Care-ists’ (people desperate to show how much they care) will overdo it, ‘Stoic-ists’ (whose image of being unmoved by anything is more important) will underdo it. And then, some idiot will go and write himself a Candle in the Wind and rake in some more of that lovely fat-cash.

Oh speaking of idiots, finally a pseudo-anti-establishmentarian idiot will write a self-serving and smug piece on an obscurely named blog to show how said idiot is ‘above’ anything and everything.

And that is the way life works.

A brilliant social commentator I was fortunate enough to know, who’d just barely dipped her little toes into the waters inhabited by Noam Chomsky, Vir Sanghvi, Walter Cronkite and Teesta Setalvad (which would make for a very odd swimming pool, I know), would probably not agree with me. Instead, she’d probably hear out my side, nodding intently all the while, before proceeding to pick my viewpoint apart with all the precision of an eagle de-fleshing a mouse’s tiny ribcage. And my theory would lie in pieces while my learning would have grown. And she’d still have found time to talk about “how scary yet fascinating this whole Al Qaeda stuff is”.

There isn’t anything to say that hasn’t been said a million times before. Nevertheless...

It’s been an honour, pal.
Fly safe.
And I will see you on the other side.

Has it really been so long?

Laydeeeez and Gentle-nerds...

This following communiqué will not delve into where I have been the last four (nearly) months. Neither will it say anything about the fact that reporting kicks ass or about the BMC, to whom I am yet to establish myself as a complete menace. It won't even talk about the fact that life imitates art and that by "art" I mean Scott Adams' Dilbert and that by "life" I mean my life and that the basis of this imitation is that an aspect of my job has me working for a micro-managing person who isn't too far removed from the pokey-haired boss Dilbert has.

No, this communiqué is one of rejoice.
Of grateful thanking.
Of hailing the Messiah.
Of faith in the cause.

October 2, 2008 will go down in history as a golden day for man, for it was the day we were all saved. Believers and disbelievers alike were shown the evil curse of smoking for what it really is, as it was banished from the country's landscape forever. Moist-eyed with pride and thankfulness, citizens applauded the saviour and lit candles and lamps and offered prayers to thank the Lord for sending this ethereal soul their way.

No longer will bluish grey swirls of aromatic smoke cloud man's vision, even in bars and clubs, so he can get back to what's really important. No more will his vision be clouded preventing him from getting a nice glance at some tasty cleavage or a particularly juicy ass. No longer will that horrible demon of "choice" be allowed to enter the mindset of man. The country is so much richer for having that beast slain.

Citizens with their candles expressed their admiration for the saviour and beseeched him to rid the world of other demons as well. They prayed for him to dispatch alcohol to the depths of hell. They pleaded with him to end the existence of heavy metal music forever. They begged of him to destroy all films that weren't Rated U (Or G in some countries); in fact, some went as far as to say destroy all cinema and seditious television programming like The Simpsons, South Park, Family Guy, WWE, 24 and so many other names that sent shivers down the spines of the citizens.

The saviour smiled, closed his eyes and nodded. "It shall be so," he said softly and added, "But first I must return to continue my war on that son of the Devil called 'choice'. I shall return soon." And with that he disappeared without the customary puff of smoke. Citizens cheered and clapped in adulation.


Thanks a whole whole lot, jackass!