Biology was always my favourite subject in school. Shame then that I never really pursued it further, but there were reasons and we shall not go into them right here right now. Regardless, I was always fascinated by biology — not so much plants and trees, but animal biology... the zoology stuff.
I believe it was in Class 7 (Seventh Grade, or Year 8 depending on where you’re from) that I was given an assignment to make a presentation about the most vicious creature in the animal kingdom, according to me. Now, half my brain figured the teacher had been watching some TV show all morning and it happened to be called America’s Most Vicious Animal Attacks or something like that and in her infinite wisdom or unabashed lethargy, had decided to turn it into an assignment.
Still it sounded like fun. While all around me, voices emanated about whether a tiger was more vicious than a lion or whether a bear would survive an octopus attack, my mind was trying to establish parameters to decide on viciousness. After all, even a harmless skunk can be quite a vicious little piece of shit, spraying that vile stink-juice like it does. So I asks the teacher. I asks, “Who decides what is vicious and what isn’t?”. She says, “You do”. I says, “Oh”.
There could be a bit more to this assignment that I previously imagined. So I did a bit of research and whittled the list down to 3 strong contendors — a shark, a vulture and a boa constrictor. After an hour or two of deliberation, the jury that sits inside my head decided to vote in favour of the vulture. Circling dying animals and starting the process of picking them clean to the bone, as they’re dying, is about as vicious as it gets. And besides, I figured that a ton of people would go with the shark, on account of its total bad-assery. As for the boa constrictor? Well at the end of the day, the boa constrictor is just a jerk.
Presentation day rolled around and you know how every class has those one or two (or sometimes more) kids who will basically put in the minimum mental effort required and come up with something like “Tiger has claws and sharp-sharp teeth, so he is most vicious. Thank you please.” Yes I’m a bloody elitist, but that doesn’t invalidate my point. So, a bunch of tigers, lions, panthers and even cheetahs (wussies by nature) went by. Then I did the vulture thing. Wasn’t too shabby. Some of the ones that stood out were jellyfish, polar bear and a good friend on mine’s bid to be ironic with a presentation on why the mosquito was the most vicious creature.
It’s only today, well maybe a couple of days ago that I realised that we were all wrong. Every single one of us was dead wrong. Even Will Ferrell was wrong and Gavin Lyall (author: The Most Dangerous Game) couldn’t be more wrong if he tried. Fuelled by observations made over a lifetime and triggered by an interesting comment made by a colleague of mine, I have now realised that the most vicious animal known to man has always been none other than the Goddamn pigeon, which is also known by its latin binomial nomenclature Shittius motherfuckeris. And you that the braconid wasp (Verae peculya) had it bad?
But seriously, these vile creatures aren’t called flying rats, for cuteness sake. Pigeons are unequivocally, the scum of the earth. You know the phrase “to shit on someone’s work”. Well, I bet the person who coined it made it after watching pigeons drop a slimey smelly one on the world the good Lord created. But, I hear some of you argue, so their personal hygiene sucks, but that doesn’t make them vicious.
These people have clearly never been crapped on by these aerial shitmachines. Their viciousness stems from the fact that they will hunt you down and drop their load on you. It doesn’t matter where you are, they actually find ways to position themselves above you. Your next argument, I’m certain will be “Why you pickin’ on pigeons, you pigeon-hater? As REM says, ‘everybody poops... sometimes’.” Sure, other birds crap from a height too. But if you’ve noticed carefully, it’s usually only by accident that you get crow crap on you (say you’re walking under a tree) or if an eagle or something happens to crap on you. No other bird goes out of its way to score a direct hit everytime it needs “to go potty”.
Take my office washroom for instance. Due to the ingenious design of said washroom, there’s no ceiling overhead and the nearest thing to a ceiling is the roof of the shed that houses this monstrosity of architecture. After being tired of getting crapped on by pigeons while on a visit to the restroom, someone decided to put an asbestos sheet over the top — albeit one that covers only half the men’s room. For around two or three days, the plan worked. But soon after, the pigeons actually relocated themselves so as to be able to “bombs away” away from the sheet and on people in the washroom. Those vicious bastards!
Back to what I was talking about earlier... My colleague once happened to comment, while shooting the breeze, that for pigeons, strategically launching their waste so as to hit high-value targets is probably a sport. And in their sport, they too have their Sachin Tendulkars, he said. Why just Sachin I wondered, surely they also have their Shane Warnes and Muttiah Muralitharans and obviously, their Harsha Bhogles, Richie Benauds and yes, sadly, Ranjit Fernandos (check dis) too. You didn’t honestly believe that the whole “Grrrrooooo Grrrooooo” sound they make was just bird calls, did you?
It’s obviously their commentators describing a particularly strategic relocation that a pigeon just indulged in. Or they’re debating the pros and cons of dropping a fluid missile on an old woman, as opposed to say, a little boy running around in a field — faster moving target equals more points, you see. Or they could even be discussing how long it’ll be before that hotshot Leroy the Pigeon’s prolific scoring rate sees him overtake the established veteran and senior statesman of the game Ernest the Pigeon. Commentator 1 goes “Ghhhrrroooooo Ghhrroo” to state that it’s too early to say something like that, to which Commentator 2 fires back “Ghhhhrrroooo.. Ghrrooo Ghhrooo” which means NEVER! It’s never too soon, given our short life expectancies.
And you honestly thought they were just making noises to pass the time? You gullible fool.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Snippety-snip snap shenanigoats
I was never particularly in love with a festival to the extent that I’d wait impatiently for it to arrive. As far back as I can remember, it’s always been the festivity in the air that appealed to me. And by festivity, I don’t mean long poojas and prayers, fireworks, coloured powder, eggs, halls decked with boughs of holly... Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la and so on and so forth. Festivity to me is the unpredictable mood in the air around those times of the year. You never can say for certain what someone’s going to say or do next.
Sometimes you get doses of great unpredictability like a different city’s bureau of your publication sending you pages early in the night. Sometimes it’s shady unpredictability with a friend pissing all over your collective plans because of a family function he/she simply must attend. So yeah... that’s why I like festivity.
In the festive mood that I presently find myself, I decided to walk on down to the ol’ barber and get a haircut for the whole “ushering in the New Year” thing. It’s times like these that I really hate Hollywood for selling me a false dream. I’m talking about the films Barbershop and Barbershop 2, where said barbershops are bursting with conversation, people cracking jokes
and odd characters throwing down some heavy socio-political discourse. The barbershop I frequent, which for some reason is called Air-Cool, is nothing like that.
In fact, Air-Cool is so damn cool that some geezer has immortalised it with this black and white photograph I found online. Upon looking closely at it, I found that the man posing at the front is the same idiot who cut my sideburns too damn short this morning.
As I’m getting weary of repeatedly pointing out, I’ve just gone and digressed again. Now this is one of those places where piped instrumental versions of old Hindi music plays over the chorus of clicking scissors, the hum of electric clippers and of course, the swishing sound of the sweeper clearing away freshly cut hair from the barbershop floor. Peaceful and calm is great, but where’s the conversation?
Faced with that predicament, you sometimes try and engage a barber in a conversation, but the high-levels of stress that emanate from him, with each word you say seemingly adding a wrinkle on his forehead, the desire to talk disappears pretty damn quick. Sometimes the barber is too lazy to respond in any more than monosyllables. So whatcha gonna do? You sit and look around at the people, see if they’re having more fun than you.
Some people make faces as they’re being shaved, others have their faces buried in magazines and a third group just glare at you for looking at them. Fortunately, as I was waiting for my turn in the chair, I got a fair bit of entertainment as well as an important lesson in human psychology and I do believe I’ve come up with some sort of theory that would be admissable in scientific journals.
I’ve seen toddlers get haircuts before. I’ve never before seen two toddlers getting haircuts in the same barbershop at the same time. So naturally, curiosity got the better of me and after sharing a sympathetic half-smile with a seriously harrowed-looking dad, the show began. Toddler A was with his dad (the harrowed guy) and Toddler B was with his mom and dad. Toddler A was first off the mark and unlike any wee ‘un I’ve ever seen, this guy was wide-eyed and wore a wider grin and followed the electrical clippers as they buzzed around his head. I think it’s safe to say he was loving it.
Meanwhile, mom and dad put Toddler B into the chair after a lot of coercion, including a promise to show him crows after the haircut. Seeing the barber wield some long scissors, mom asks him to swap the scissors for electric clippers. While in the red corner, ol’ Toddler A is gurgling to himself and the harrowed dad suddenly seems at peace.
Just then, the peace and quiet is interrupted by a piercing little scream, followed by the loud bawling of Toddler B. He’s not liking it. Not liking it one bit. Thrashing his neck from side to side to avoid the buzzing machine. His little hands clench into tiny baby potato-size fists, while his toes curl up with irritation. Toddler A’s peaceful reverie smashed, he turns to see what all the commotion is about. This is the crucial moment.
He sees Toddler B crying his little lungs out and looks down, Toddler A that is, looks down at his hands and sees little wisps of hair. Hair that’s just been cut from his head. His eyebrows very slowly turn from a flat line like a calm sea to a growing wave and finally a raging tsunami. Running concurrently to all this, his lip starts to quiver and KABOOM!! The weepy bomb explodes. Now, we have crying and screaming and weeping in stereo surround sound.
By then of course, it was time for me to be seated and Toddler A was done with his haircut and Toddler B’s parents had given up. But one thing really stuck out for me. Go back to that crucial moment I spoke about. Toddler A was perfectly happy and then when he saw Toddler B crying, he suddenly started crying. My theory is that it is at this age where the concept of peer pressure or the herd mentality (I’m not sure which) is built into the human system.
Maybe if babies were isolated from one another, they could grow to be individual ladies and gents with their own sets of views, not just some noise about bitches and Nike shoes. You know? Think of the potential for advancement in all of life’s fields. More focussed human beings. Like androids. Or cyborgs.
Then again, maybe Toddler A just got scared.
Sometimes you get doses of great unpredictability like a different city’s bureau of your publication sending you pages early in the night. Sometimes it’s shady unpredictability with a friend pissing all over your collective plans because of a family function he/she simply must attend. So yeah... that’s why I like festivity.
In the festive mood that I presently find myself, I decided to walk on down to the ol’ barber and get a haircut for the whole “ushering in the New Year” thing. It’s times like these that I really hate Hollywood for selling me a false dream. I’m talking about the films Barbershop and Barbershop 2, where said barbershops are bursting with conversation, people cracking jokes
and odd characters throwing down some heavy socio-political discourse. The barbershop I frequent, which for some reason is called Air-Cool, is nothing like that.In fact, Air-Cool is so damn cool that some geezer has immortalised it with this black and white photograph I found online. Upon looking closely at it, I found that the man posing at the front is the same idiot who cut my sideburns too damn short this morning.
As I’m getting weary of repeatedly pointing out, I’ve just gone and digressed again. Now this is one of those places where piped instrumental versions of old Hindi music plays over the chorus of clicking scissors, the hum of electric clippers and of course, the swishing sound of the sweeper clearing away freshly cut hair from the barbershop floor. Peaceful and calm is great, but where’s the conversation?
Faced with that predicament, you sometimes try and engage a barber in a conversation, but the high-levels of stress that emanate from him, with each word you say seemingly adding a wrinkle on his forehead, the desire to talk disappears pretty damn quick. Sometimes the barber is too lazy to respond in any more than monosyllables. So whatcha gonna do? You sit and look around at the people, see if they’re having more fun than you.
Some people make faces as they’re being shaved, others have their faces buried in magazines and a third group just glare at you for looking at them. Fortunately, as I was waiting for my turn in the chair, I got a fair bit of entertainment as well as an important lesson in human psychology and I do believe I’ve come up with some sort of theory that would be admissable in scientific journals.
I’ve seen toddlers get haircuts before. I’ve never before seen two toddlers getting haircuts in the same barbershop at the same time. So naturally, curiosity got the better of me and after sharing a sympathetic half-smile with a seriously harrowed-looking dad, the show began. Toddler A was with his dad (the harrowed guy) and Toddler B was with his mom and dad. Toddler A was first off the mark and unlike any wee ‘un I’ve ever seen, this guy was wide-eyed and wore a wider grin and followed the electrical clippers as they buzzed around his head. I think it’s safe to say he was loving it.
Meanwhile, mom and dad put Toddler B into the chair after a lot of coercion, including a promise to show him crows after the haircut. Seeing the barber wield some long scissors, mom asks him to swap the scissors for electric clippers. While in the red corner, ol’ Toddler A is gurgling to himself and the harrowed dad suddenly seems at peace.
Just then, the peace and quiet is interrupted by a piercing little scream, followed by the loud bawling of Toddler B. He’s not liking it. Not liking it one bit. Thrashing his neck from side to side to avoid the buzzing machine. His little hands clench into tiny baby potato-size fists, while his toes curl up with irritation. Toddler A’s peaceful reverie smashed, he turns to see what all the commotion is about. This is the crucial moment.
He sees Toddler B crying his little lungs out and looks down, Toddler A that is, looks down at his hands and sees little wisps of hair. Hair that’s just been cut from his head. His eyebrows very slowly turn from a flat line like a calm sea to a growing wave and finally a raging tsunami. Running concurrently to all this, his lip starts to quiver and KABOOM!! The weepy bomb explodes. Now, we have crying and screaming and weeping in stereo surround sound.
By then of course, it was time for me to be seated and Toddler A was done with his haircut and Toddler B’s parents had given up. But one thing really stuck out for me. Go back to that crucial moment I spoke about. Toddler A was perfectly happy and then when he saw Toddler B crying, he suddenly started crying. My theory is that it is at this age where the concept of peer pressure or the herd mentality (I’m not sure which) is built into the human system.
Maybe if babies were isolated from one another, they could grow to be individual ladies and gents with their own sets of views, not just some noise about bitches and Nike shoes. You know? Think of the potential for advancement in all of life’s fields. More focussed human beings. Like androids. Or cyborgs.
Then again, maybe Toddler A just got scared.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Boab Mar-lay’s Greatest Hits
I think we’ve all had shitty days
We’ve all had times when we dread the thought of going to work
Or even sometimes, dread the thought of going home.
We’ve all fought with people and come out of the fight angry, hurt or depressed.
There have also been times where it seems as though we’ll never smile again.
In those particular situations, music tends to pick me up, cheer me up, fire me up or whatever the need of the hour is. But there are a few times when even music falls sadly short. What do you do then? I don’t know about you lot, but one thing that never fails to cheer me up is the manifestation of a WTF? Moment before my very eyes. It could be anything, from a man falling over to someone shouting a dorky name out loudly across the street. It could and very often is some obscure phrase a colleague of mine comes up with before jiggling his belly to the beat of the universe (I like how it sounds, I don’t know what it means).
Right, so now that the jibber-jabber of the introduction or lead as it were, has been dealt with and is out of the way, we can actually get to this latest WTF? Moment I experienced. After a fairly ratty day a week or so ago, I found myself on the train heading to work, with my earphones tucked in. As I was sifting through my tracklist to find something to fit the mood, I was shaken out of my dreary state by the sound of three youths yelling and screaming about something.
Sensing a fight about to kick off, I moved to the side to avoid being in the firing line. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you feel after reading this story), it wasn’t a fight at all as it turned out and was just three collegians having a “conversation”.
Before I get into it, let’s meet the characters...
1) A is clearly the leader of the gang, but not in a cool Top Cat kinda way. More in a creepy, “Yeah my brother is drug dealer and I think he’s really cool. Hopefully, he’ll let me deal for him too, so you guys know just how cool I am” kind of way. Spiked hair, an ear piercing, a Ché Guevara t-shirt and a mouth that is filthier than Chris Rock’s.
2) B is A’s little lackey, his little yes-man if you will. Bespectacled and sporting a truly honourable attempt at using hair oil to imitate his leader’s spiked look. Slightly less mouthy but equally annoying.
3) C is the new kid. While A’s trying to show him the levels of coolness he can aspire to, B’s doing his best to reinforce A’s cool credentials and how C’s life would be so much better if he joined this gang.
I tried to ignore them and switched on some Therapy?. Sadly, the trio drowned out any semblance of sound in my phones. So I figured, hey, why don’t I just listen in. After all, it’s not eavesdropping if you’re listening to a loudspeaker, in this case, a human loudspeaker. I can’t be bothered to write out what they said in Hindi and then translate it, so I’ll just transcribe it in English. I’ll try not to lose the essence in the translation.
A: C, You should come to this party we’re going to, over the weekend.
B: Yes, it’s going to be great
A: And don’t worry. You’ll get everything there *brings his fingers to his mouth and takes a drag from an invisible joint and then takes a swig from an invisible bottle of booze*
C: Really?
A: Of course, we only go to great parties... like this one
C: Wow.
A: And don’t worry about the money. We’re always taken care of. My brother—...
B: Yeah, his brother has contacts...
A: But the best kind of parties to go to are rave parties
B: Rave parties are the best
C: Rave?
A: Yeah, there’s all the drinks and drugs you want and once you’re buzzed, the best kind of music to listen to, is trance. Tu pagal ho jaayega (You’ll go insane)
B: True. Tu pagal ho jaayega (You’ll go insane)
C: I’m not quite with you. Rave?
A: Yes, they’re great. But we only go to this one farm in Amboli. The cops never catch us there because they join us at the party.
B: That’s right.
A: But the best music when you’re high is trance. Tu pagal ho jaayega (You’ll go insane)
B: Tu pagal ho jaayega (You’ll go insane)
<At this point, I am totally hooked. Whether or not I remember to climb out of the train at my stop, is immaterial right now>
A: Trance is the best. You should listen to some.
B: Yeah. Totally
C: But what is it?
B: You know that Goan guy with a long white beard? He makes trance music.
C: Which guy?
A: Have you heard of Boab Mar-lay? [prounced: Bobe (rhymes with hope) Mar-lay (rhymes with parlay)]
B: Yeah yeah yeah! That’s the Goan guy with a beard.
A: No, it’s not.
A: Boab Mar-lay is from Mexico and he got kicked out from there. Now no one knows where he is but he’s still making great music. I have 40 GB of music on my harddrive, of which 13 GB is only Boab.
B: You listen to his music, tu pagal ho jaayega (You’ll go insane)
C: Sounds quite good. I’ve never heard any though.
A: I’ll rip some for you. You see Boab Mar-lay was kicked out from Mexico by the government. Why? Because of his message, which is the thing I love the most. His message is that you should enjoy every moment and have a great time all the time. So do all the drugs you want, drink as much as you want, because life is about enjoying yourself. He has a few songs about cocaine and how it’s something everyone should do. We’ll get some cocaine at the party.
B: Yeah, you’ll love it—...
We’ve all had times when we dread the thought of going to work
Or even sometimes, dread the thought of going home.
We’ve all fought with people and come out of the fight angry, hurt or depressed.
There have also been times where it seems as though we’ll never smile again.
In those particular situations, music tends to pick me up, cheer me up, fire me up or whatever the need of the hour is. But there are a few times when even music falls sadly short. What do you do then? I don’t know about you lot, but one thing that never fails to cheer me up is the manifestation of a WTF? Moment before my very eyes. It could be anything, from a man falling over to someone shouting a dorky name out loudly across the street. It could and very often is some obscure phrase a colleague of mine comes up with before jiggling his belly to the beat of the universe (I like how it sounds, I don’t know what it means).
Right, so now that the jibber-jabber of the introduction or lead as it were, has been dealt with and is out of the way, we can actually get to this latest WTF? Moment I experienced. After a fairly ratty day a week or so ago, I found myself on the train heading to work, with my earphones tucked in. As I was sifting through my tracklist to find something to fit the mood, I was shaken out of my dreary state by the sound of three youths yelling and screaming about something.
Sensing a fight about to kick off, I moved to the side to avoid being in the firing line. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you feel after reading this story), it wasn’t a fight at all as it turned out and was just three collegians having a “conversation”.
Before I get into it, let’s meet the characters...
1) A is clearly the leader of the gang, but not in a cool Top Cat kinda way. More in a creepy, “Yeah my brother is drug dealer and I think he’s really cool. Hopefully, he’ll let me deal for him too, so you guys know just how cool I am” kind of way. Spiked hair, an ear piercing, a Ché Guevara t-shirt and a mouth that is filthier than Chris Rock’s.
2) B is A’s little lackey, his little yes-man if you will. Bespectacled and sporting a truly honourable attempt at using hair oil to imitate his leader’s spiked look. Slightly less mouthy but equally annoying.
3) C is the new kid. While A’s trying to show him the levels of coolness he can aspire to, B’s doing his best to reinforce A’s cool credentials and how C’s life would be so much better if he joined this gang.
I tried to ignore them and switched on some Therapy?. Sadly, the trio drowned out any semblance of sound in my phones. So I figured, hey, why don’t I just listen in. After all, it’s not eavesdropping if you’re listening to a loudspeaker, in this case, a human loudspeaker. I can’t be bothered to write out what they said in Hindi and then translate it, so I’ll just transcribe it in English. I’ll try not to lose the essence in the translation.
A: C, You should come to this party we’re going to, over the weekend.
B: Yes, it’s going to be great
A: And don’t worry. You’ll get everything there *brings his fingers to his mouth and takes a drag from an invisible joint and then takes a swig from an invisible bottle of booze*
C: Really?
A: Of course, we only go to great parties... like this one
C: Wow.
A: And don’t worry about the money. We’re always taken care of. My brother—...
B: Yeah, his brother has contacts...
A: But the best kind of parties to go to are rave parties
B: Rave parties are the best
C: Rave?
A: Yeah, there’s all the drinks and drugs you want and once you’re buzzed, the best kind of music to listen to, is trance. Tu pagal ho jaayega (You’ll go insane)
B: True. Tu pagal ho jaayega (You’ll go insane)
C: I’m not quite with you. Rave?
A: Yes, they’re great. But we only go to this one farm in Amboli. The cops never catch us there because they join us at the party.
B: That’s right.
A: But the best music when you’re high is trance. Tu pagal ho jaayega (You’ll go insane)
B: Tu pagal ho jaayega (You’ll go insane)
<At this point, I am totally hooked. Whether or not I remember to climb out of the train at my stop, is immaterial right now>
A: Trance is the best. You should listen to some.
B: Yeah. Totally
C: But what is it?
B: You know that Goan guy with a long white beard? He makes trance music.
C: Which guy?
A: Have you heard of Boab Mar-lay? [prounced: Bobe (rhymes with hope) Mar-lay (rhymes with parlay)]
B: Yeah yeah yeah! That’s the Goan guy with a beard.
A: No, it’s not.
A: Boab Mar-lay is from Mexico and he got kicked out from there. Now no one knows where he is but he’s still making great music. I have 40 GB of music on my harddrive, of which 13 GB is only Boab.
B: You listen to his music, tu pagal ho jaayega (You’ll go insane)
C: Sounds quite good. I’ve never heard any though.
A: I’ll rip some for you. You see Boab Mar-lay was kicked out from Mexico by the government. Why? Because of his message, which is the thing I love the most. His message is that you should enjoy every moment and have a great time all the time. So do all the drugs you want, drink as much as you want, because life is about enjoying yourself. He has a few songs about cocaine and how it’s something everyone should do. We’ll get some cocaine at the party.
B: Yeah, you’ll love it—...
***
It was then that I had to tear myself from my seat and alight at Lower Parel station. How I wish I could’ve heard more of that bizarre conversation that left me with numerous WTF? Moments and a bemused half-smile across my face. Now I need to go and check out some Boab Mar-ley, if you’ll please excuse me.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Hostages at Home
Warning: It’s been a while since I issued any disclaimers. Let’s see if I remember how to do one. The views expressed below are not as part of a political debate about states or languages. The views are not to pass judgment on what is set to happen in the near future. If you read and interpret them that way, then you’re really really missing the point... and you’re a moron too. Enjoy!
Apparently, a hostage is “a person held by one party in a conflict as security that specified terms will be met by the opposing party”. In other words, the safety of said hostage hangs in the balance and the hostage-taker poses a threat to the hostage’s life. Agreed? Good, then I’ll continue. Now, holding someone hostage in most parts of the civilised world is tantamount to an act of terror, or at its very least, an act of crime. In India for instance, as per section 364 of the Indian Penal Code,...
“Whoever kidnaps or abducts any person in order that such person may be murdered or may be so disposed of as to be put in danger of being murdered, shall be punished with imprisonment for life or rigorous imprisonment for a term which may extend to ten years, and shall also be liable to fine”
I shall safely assume at this point that you, good reader, agrees with me that errr... taking hostages are baaaad... Mmmkay? There’s a funny story I once read that some small hick-ass town in the United States punishes an unsuccessful attempt at suicide with the death penalty. Whether that’s true or not is immaterial. What matters is that it’s a damn funny story. Anyway, as far as an unsuccessful suicide attempt is concerned, the Indian Penal Code says...
“Whoever attempts to commit suicide and does any act towards the commission of such offence, shall be punished with simple imprisonment for a term which may extend to one year 1 or with fine, or with both”
People all over the world will tell you that it’s not the destination, but the journey that counts in life. One shouldn’t be preoccupied with reaching a point, instead one should take in the sights, the sounds and the smells along the way. Well your journey is over, dear reader, because here comes the point.
In the Indian state of Andhra Pradesh, a movement of secession has been ongoing since God knows how long for a separate state called Telangana, which as Wikipedia will tell you, means Land of the Telugus. The demand for a separate state has been on for a while and most recently, one of the most vocal advocates of a separate state, Mr Kalvakuntla Chandrashekhar Rao launched a fast-unto-death, demanding that the government create a separate state called Telangana.
This standoff went on for around 11 days and his health grew steadily worse, just as his supporters turned increasingly violent until the government finally blinked and said that the process of creating this new state would begin in January 2010. Well, now KCR (as he’s better known) is a hero to his people. Once he recovers his health, he will be garlanded, praised, poured milk upon, cheered etc. etc. Indian cult-of-personality and all that.
But what about the fact that what he effectively did was hold a human being hostage? What about the fact that his threat was to effectively kill a person if he did not get his state of Telangana? And what about the fact that what he was doing was really a case of attempted suicide? Albeit a very slow attempt. Will there be any imprisonment for him? Or a fine, even? Hell no.
For you see, the act of going on a fast-unto-death or a hunger strike has been a part of India’s cultural history, ever since its inception. Gandhi employed this particular tactic to great success and since then, numerous politicos have taken his cue and gone on these hunger strikes. Where does it all stem from? I don’t know.
But I have a theory. Threatening to kill oneself is merely a branch of a tree rooted so deeply in humanity’s collective mindset, that it’s often hard to imagine life without it. Each and every one of us has had a branch from that tree brush past us or whack us across the face at some time or the other in our lives. The name of the tree? Emotional blackmail/manipulation. Not really one of those Latin kingdon-phylum-class-species type names, but it’s a real tree.
The profundity of that last paragraph has just left me speechless, so I shall end here. As for you, gentle reader, you are advised to comment and share your views about this here topic with me... or I’ll never speak to you again.
Apparently, a hostage is “a person held by one party in a conflict as security that specified terms will be met by the opposing party”. In other words, the safety of said hostage hangs in the balance and the hostage-taker poses a threat to the hostage’s life. Agreed? Good, then I’ll continue. Now, holding someone hostage in most parts of the civilised world is tantamount to an act of terror, or at its very least, an act of crime. In India for instance, as per section 364 of the Indian Penal Code,...
“Whoever kidnaps or abducts any person in order that such person may be murdered or may be so disposed of as to be put in danger of being murdered, shall be punished with imprisonment for life or rigorous imprisonment for a term which may extend to ten years, and shall also be liable to fine”
I shall safely assume at this point that you, good reader, agrees with me that errr... taking hostages are baaaad... Mmmkay? There’s a funny story I once read that some small hick-ass town in the United States punishes an unsuccessful attempt at suicide with the death penalty. Whether that’s true or not is immaterial. What matters is that it’s a damn funny story. Anyway, as far as an unsuccessful suicide attempt is concerned, the Indian Penal Code says...
“Whoever attempts to commit suicide and does any act towards the commission of such offence, shall be punished with simple imprisonment for a term which may extend to one year 1 or with fine, or with both”
People all over the world will tell you that it’s not the destination, but the journey that counts in life. One shouldn’t be preoccupied with reaching a point, instead one should take in the sights, the sounds and the smells along the way. Well your journey is over, dear reader, because here comes the point.
In the Indian state of Andhra Pradesh, a movement of secession has been ongoing since God knows how long for a separate state called Telangana, which as Wikipedia will tell you, means Land of the Telugus. The demand for a separate state has been on for a while and most recently, one of the most vocal advocates of a separate state, Mr Kalvakuntla Chandrashekhar Rao launched a fast-unto-death, demanding that the government create a separate state called Telangana.
This standoff went on for around 11 days and his health grew steadily worse, just as his supporters turned increasingly violent until the government finally blinked and said that the process of creating this new state would begin in January 2010. Well, now KCR (as he’s better known) is a hero to his people. Once he recovers his health, he will be garlanded, praised, poured milk upon, cheered etc. etc. Indian cult-of-personality and all that.
But what about the fact that what he effectively did was hold a human being hostage? What about the fact that his threat was to effectively kill a person if he did not get his state of Telangana? And what about the fact that what he was doing was really a case of attempted suicide? Albeit a very slow attempt. Will there be any imprisonment for him? Or a fine, even? Hell no.
For you see, the act of going on a fast-unto-death or a hunger strike has been a part of India’s cultural history, ever since its inception. Gandhi employed this particular tactic to great success and since then, numerous politicos have taken his cue and gone on these hunger strikes. Where does it all stem from? I don’t know.
But I have a theory. Threatening to kill oneself is merely a branch of a tree rooted so deeply in humanity’s collective mindset, that it’s often hard to imagine life without it. Each and every one of us has had a branch from that tree brush past us or whack us across the face at some time or the other in our lives. The name of the tree? Emotional blackmail/manipulation. Not really one of those Latin kingdon-phylum-class-species type names, but it’s a real tree.
The profundity of that last paragraph has just left me speechless, so I shall end here. As for you, gentle reader, you are advised to comment and share your views about this here topic with me... or I’ll never speak to you again.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
“What have you achieved?”
Long long ago in a city of steel far far away...
A smokey student hostel room
A tiny television set with a PS2 plugged in
Four pairs of eyes glued to the screen
A burly and hairy beast of a man crushes the PS2 controller’s keys to within an inch of their lives
A relatively smaller and yet almost as hirsute man with a taste for things profane nimbly taps the keys of his battered old PS2 controller.
Enough mood... Now on with the story. The beast man known henceforth as GC and the littler man called AMSTM were playing Pro-Evolution Soccer and were in the middle of a hotly contested match — That being said, most PES matches played in said room were fairly hotly contested anyway. This time though, it was personal... If memory serves, it was the 82nd minute and AMSTM pulled off a screamer of a goal, much to GC’s bitter disappointment.
GC’s anguish was compounded moments later, when one of the carefully crafted onscreen sprites scored another goal, doubling AMSTM’s lead. Being a sporting loser isn’t one of GC’s more well known qualities and so he stood up, like a gorilla in battle (making itself large) and bellowed at AMSTM, “WHAT HAVE YOU ACHIEVED?”
Silence....
I’ve been thinking of that line since the time I woke up this morning. Not for the same reasons as above obviously. For what it’s worth, I recall AMSTM being stunned witless by that outburst and the rest of the room cracking up with laughter. But anyway, back to the point... As we roll into December, the last month of this , the double-O decade, I found me asking that question of myself. “What have you achieved?”.
For sure, it’s been a tumultous and exciting decade, which saw me do a ton of foolish, fun and worthwhile things (sometimes all at once), it saw me meet a wide array of people; from the weird to the downright bizarre (you know who you are). I read a number of good books, saw some brilliant films, heard some awesome music — saw every single live music show I’ve ever been to, in this decade.
There’ve also been disappointments, failures, times that I’ve let myself, my family and my friends down, times I’ve been despondent, times when I felt tomorrow would suck even more. But none of this really amounts to having achieved anything. Educational qualifications happen. I don’t consider them achievements. News stories too, happen. They’re hardly achievements.
So what have I achieved? That being asked, what the hell have you achieved lately?
A smokey student hostel room
A tiny television set with a PS2 plugged in
Four pairs of eyes glued to the screen
A burly and hairy beast of a man crushes the PS2 controller’s keys to within an inch of their lives
A relatively smaller and yet almost as hirsute man with a taste for things profane nimbly taps the keys of his battered old PS2 controller.
Enough mood... Now on with the story. The beast man known henceforth as GC and the littler man called AMSTM were playing Pro-Evolution Soccer and were in the middle of a hotly contested match — That being said, most PES matches played in said room were fairly hotly contested anyway. This time though, it was personal... If memory serves, it was the 82nd minute and AMSTM pulled off a screamer of a goal, much to GC’s bitter disappointment.
GC’s anguish was compounded moments later, when one of the carefully crafted onscreen sprites scored another goal, doubling AMSTM’s lead. Being a sporting loser isn’t one of GC’s more well known qualities and so he stood up, like a gorilla in battle (making itself large) and bellowed at AMSTM, “WHAT HAVE YOU ACHIEVED?”
Silence....
I’ve been thinking of that line since the time I woke up this morning. Not for the same reasons as above obviously. For what it’s worth, I recall AMSTM being stunned witless by that outburst and the rest of the room cracking up with laughter. But anyway, back to the point... As we roll into December, the last month of this , the double-O decade, I found me asking that question of myself. “What have you achieved?”.
For sure, it’s been a tumultous and exciting decade, which saw me do a ton of foolish, fun and worthwhile things (sometimes all at once), it saw me meet a wide array of people; from the weird to the downright bizarre (you know who you are). I read a number of good books, saw some brilliant films, heard some awesome music — saw every single live music show I’ve ever been to, in this decade.
There’ve also been disappointments, failures, times that I’ve let myself, my family and my friends down, times I’ve been despondent, times when I felt tomorrow would suck even more. But none of this really amounts to having achieved anything. Educational qualifications happen. I don’t consider them achievements. News stories too, happen. They’re hardly achievements.
So what have I achieved? That being asked, what the hell have you achieved lately?
Sunday, November 29, 2009
A year on...
...not a lot has changed,” say people. The November 26 terror attacks of last year have been commemorated with plaques here and junctions being renamed there with a few installations being set up at the theatres of terror. People say the attacks should have served as a warning and yet, they add that nothing has changed. Everything is exactly the same, they say. The government/authorities are still bumbling about with Band-Aid® solutions to compound fracture situations with some unGodly sense of misplaced pride about these solutions.
A case in point is the city’s fire department, which admittedly found itself fighting fires amid a hailstorm of bullets and grenades in the 26/11 attacks. This is not a typical situation. It’s a damn anomaly and as such, should be acknowledged as that, one would imagine. Now, under this misguided idea that firemen will regularly have to deal with being shot at, bulletproof vests have been ordered and received by the department. Honestly, bulletproof vests. And yet, helmets fitted with oxygen masks are too much to ask for.
It’s like a concept in cricket captaincy called “ball chasing”. What happens here is that as a captain, you set a field for a particular bowler and if the batsman happens to pick a gap and hit the ball through a vacant part of the field, your first instinct is to plug that gap by picking up a fielder from somewhere else. Playing catch-up, basically. That is exactly what this bulletproof vest plan is. Some quarters also wanted firemen to receive military training. Thank heavens then for the chief fire official who put his foot down and said, “No! Law and order control is not the fire department’s job. Fighting fires is.”
Digression aside, people also believe that the attitude of the police hasn’t changed despite losing some of their best men in the attacks. They’re still the same callous and corrupt lot, people say. To serve and protect? Ha! “They’re serving themselves an extra helping of tax payer money to protect their well-fed belly” is a view one is more likely to come across.
The government hasn’t changed, the cops haven’t changed, the security of the Nation hasn’t changed, Pakistan’s refusal to take responsibility hasn’t changed. Nothing’s changed, people scream.
I beg to differ.
Something has changed and this change has been quite massive. Last year, I had written about the way people responded to tragedy, specifically, the terror attacks. (Feel free to have a look. I’ll wait.) The biggest change I’ve seen and I’m dead certain that I’m not alone, is that people have turned so incredibly stupid. Which, it must be said, is quite a feat, considering they were already pretty damn stupid to begin with.
First, there were the candles. Those infernal candles. You remember the candles? Then, there was the hysterical news reporting, all that shrieking and bellowing like someone had trapped the anchor’s testicles in a car door. Then came all that “We will not forget!” bull-honkey.
And now, this year, news channels had the same sort of retrospective news reports. “What happened on that day...” and junk like that. People brought their candles out. (I’m convinced that the city of Mumbai has some underhanded dealings with a major wax manufacturer. Everywhere I look, it’s those damn candles) Some people — like this one woman on a news channel who was crying, because all the people who lost their lives, made her feel like she had lost her son and husband — cried, postured, talked about the increased need for accountability etc. etc.
But wait... There were TWO elections held this year. One of them was on a National scale and one was on a state assembly scale. With all the effort these fools could put into making banners and keeping those Godforsaken candles burning in the wind, one would imagine they’d actually go and vote. Nope. No chance of that. Voter turnouts were among the lowest seen by the city. Logic dictates that if you want all these changes, you’d change your representative or at least put pressure on your representative to deliver. Not miss the whole damn election process altogether, as these geniuses did.
And they still see fit to start yelling and screaming about change. Sigh... Such stupid creatures... and getting stupider by the minute.
A case in point is the city’s fire department, which admittedly found itself fighting fires amid a hailstorm of bullets and grenades in the 26/11 attacks. This is not a typical situation. It’s a damn anomaly and as such, should be acknowledged as that, one would imagine. Now, under this misguided idea that firemen will regularly have to deal with being shot at, bulletproof vests have been ordered and received by the department. Honestly, bulletproof vests. And yet, helmets fitted with oxygen masks are too much to ask for.
It’s like a concept in cricket captaincy called “ball chasing”. What happens here is that as a captain, you set a field for a particular bowler and if the batsman happens to pick a gap and hit the ball through a vacant part of the field, your first instinct is to plug that gap by picking up a fielder from somewhere else. Playing catch-up, basically. That is exactly what this bulletproof vest plan is. Some quarters also wanted firemen to receive military training. Thank heavens then for the chief fire official who put his foot down and said, “No! Law and order control is not the fire department’s job. Fighting fires is.”
Digression aside, people also believe that the attitude of the police hasn’t changed despite losing some of their best men in the attacks. They’re still the same callous and corrupt lot, people say. To serve and protect? Ha! “They’re serving themselves an extra helping of tax payer money to protect their well-fed belly” is a view one is more likely to come across.
The government hasn’t changed, the cops haven’t changed, the security of the Nation hasn’t changed, Pakistan’s refusal to take responsibility hasn’t changed. Nothing’s changed, people scream.
I beg to differ.
Something has changed and this change has been quite massive. Last year, I had written about the way people responded to tragedy, specifically, the terror attacks. (Feel free to have a look. I’ll wait.) The biggest change I’ve seen and I’m dead certain that I’m not alone, is that people have turned so incredibly stupid. Which, it must be said, is quite a feat, considering they were already pretty damn stupid to begin with.
First, there were the candles. Those infernal candles. You remember the candles? Then, there was the hysterical news reporting, all that shrieking and bellowing like someone had trapped the anchor’s testicles in a car door. Then came all that “We will not forget!” bull-honkey.
And now, this year, news channels had the same sort of retrospective news reports. “What happened on that day...” and junk like that. People brought their candles out. (I’m convinced that the city of Mumbai has some underhanded dealings with a major wax manufacturer. Everywhere I look, it’s those damn candles) Some people — like this one woman on a news channel who was crying, because all the people who lost their lives, made her feel like she had lost her son and husband — cried, postured, talked about the increased need for accountability etc. etc.
But wait... There were TWO elections held this year. One of them was on a National scale and one was on a state assembly scale. With all the effort these fools could put into making banners and keeping those Godforsaken candles burning in the wind, one would imagine they’d actually go and vote. Nope. No chance of that. Voter turnouts were among the lowest seen by the city. Logic dictates that if you want all these changes, you’d change your representative or at least put pressure on your representative to deliver. Not miss the whole damn election process altogether, as these geniuses did.
And they still see fit to start yelling and screaming about change. Sigh... Such stupid creatures... and getting stupider by the minute.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Chris Tucker said it best...
There’s a film known as Friday and it just so happens to be one of my very favourites. It isn’t especially demanding of the viewer, where brains are concerned anyway. But it’s a hell of a lot of fun. Anyway, so it stars Chris Tucker and one of the most iconic scenes in the film is when he stands over a knocked out Zeus “Tiny” Lister and yells, “You got knocked the fuck out!!”.
It isn’t all that profound a statement, but his delivery of “You got knocked the fuck out!!” still resonates in my head. More pertinently this week, because without flying Mr Tucker over to India to say it, the whole nation seemed to say it to one man... an ageing “tiger”, if you will.
Yes, yes, yes, I am talking about that hot topic. I am talking about Bal Thackeray (the octo-something-arian), that Marathi hriday-samraat (upholder of the pride of the Marathi man is what I think it means) whose acrimonious editorials in his party’s mouthpiece are the stuff of legend. This time around he messed with the one person no Indian would tolerate being so much as disturbed... Leave alone hassled, fined, taxed or worse yet, disciplined. (Mike Deness? Where are you?)
Anyway, India’s pride and glory Sachin Tendulkar told the press that he was an Indian before being a Maharashtrian (i.e. he was a citizen of the Nation, before being a citizen of the state... and why not?). Thackeray lays ridicule upon him telling him to stick to sports and not comment on what that ageing communal and linguistic fascist describes as politics.
In other words, that nearly extinguished shell of a man is allowed to talk trash about anyone and everyone in the vilest terms and when Sachin answers a question and perhaps (knowingly) aims to spread a message of national harmony, Thackeray feels the need to rebuke him. Interesting shit, non? Anyway, the whole of India got behind Sachin and told Thackeray to know his role and shut his mouth. After all, there are some holy cows you just don’t touch. Sachin, in this case.
A day later, Thackeray’s newspaper publishes a “clarification” and claims it to be “affectionate advice from an elder”. HA! Yeah right... Thackeray and your Shiv Sena, you just got knocked the fuck out!!
It isn’t all that profound a statement, but his delivery of “You got knocked the fuck out!!” still resonates in my head. More pertinently this week, because without flying Mr Tucker over to India to say it, the whole nation seemed to say it to one man... an ageing “tiger”, if you will.
Yes, yes, yes, I am talking about that hot topic. I am talking about Bal Thackeray (the octo-something-arian), that Marathi hriday-samraat (upholder of the pride of the Marathi man is what I think it means) whose acrimonious editorials in his party’s mouthpiece are the stuff of legend. This time around he messed with the one person no Indian would tolerate being so much as disturbed... Leave alone hassled, fined, taxed or worse yet, disciplined. (Mike Deness? Where are you?)
Anyway, India’s pride and glory Sachin Tendulkar told the press that he was an Indian before being a Maharashtrian (i.e. he was a citizen of the Nation, before being a citizen of the state... and why not?). Thackeray lays ridicule upon him telling him to stick to sports and not comment on what that ageing communal and linguistic fascist describes as politics.
In other words, that nearly extinguished shell of a man is allowed to talk trash about anyone and everyone in the vilest terms and when Sachin answers a question and perhaps (knowingly) aims to spread a message of national harmony, Thackeray feels the need to rebuke him. Interesting shit, non? Anyway, the whole of India got behind Sachin and told Thackeray to know his role and shut his mouth. After all, there are some holy cows you just don’t touch. Sachin, in this case.
A day later, Thackeray’s newspaper publishes a “clarification” and claims it to be “affectionate advice from an elder”. HA! Yeah right... Thackeray and your Shiv Sena, you just got knocked the fuck out!!
Monday, November 9, 2009
Of morons, animals and really, morons...
November 9 is a day that will forever live in infamy — in my head at least — for the sheer levels of stupidity and moronic behaviour scaled by people of my city. And this is just when I thought people couldn’t get any stupider — case in point, being people refusing to acknowledge the Nation’s National Song, as it impinged on their Islamic beliefs.
Never mind, today’s idiocy scaled even the mark set by those soaring levels of dumbness. A to-be-sworn-in member of the legislative assembly for Maharashtra wanted to take his oath in Hindi. It just so happens to be the National Language after all. Anyway, so as he’s about to do it, he’s attacked by these animals from the Maharashtra Navnirman Sena (MNS) — a party of a few intellectuals and mostly thugs. They proceed to slap him for not taking the oath in Marathi, the state language and hit him with slippers, grab his microphone etc. The usual shit goons and thugs indulge in.
The latest is that four of these animals have been suspended for four years... Four years of their five-year term. If you thought for a second that they’d be upset, think again. They’ve received nothing but adulation from their party’s equally obnoxious and thuggish leader. Spare a thought for the voters from the constituencies of those four suspended members of the legislative assembly. What the hell did they vote for? For a candidate who’d be suspended for 80 per cent of the term?
The suspended people will meanwhile, live it up at home and get paid for doing nothing. Hopefully, people learn their lesson and never vote for such foul creatures again.
If on the other hand, you think I’m showing any sort of solidarity with the guy who took his oath in Hindi, you are mistaken. Far from being roundly regarded as a fairly corrupt fellow, I find it
incredibly stupid that he would announce days in advance that he would not take his oath in the state’s language, but the National Language. Is it not folly to publicly come up with something like this, when one knows what sort of animals the MNS are and the currency they deal in. See adjoining picture for details of their currency and how lavishly they spend it.
incredibly stupid that he would announce days in advance that he would not take his oath in the state’s language, but the National Language. Is it not folly to publicly come up with something like this, when one knows what sort of animals the MNS are and the currency they deal in. See adjoining picture for details of their currency and how lavishly they spend it.Further, it was reported that at a city church, a crucifix was — believe it or not — crying! And working as I believed I did at a progressive publication that pushes the envelope, I would’ve imagined that running the photographs with a slightly skeptical caption would have been apt. But no. We don’t want to look like mocking their faith. We don’t want to call a shovel a shovel, a spade a spade and an obvious act of condensation as that. We’d rather term it a miracle and in the process, allow people to continue buying into superstition and standing in line with idol worship.
Methinks the two instances of stupidity in the day may not have been so far removed from each other...
Friday, October 30, 2009
All spinal-tapped out...
Alternatively, the title of this post could very well be Who the hell is MJ? - Volume 2. But that would take away from the point of this particular post and so it would not be a very good title after all. Now MJ was always in the business of blowing people’s regularly and consistently and even after his death, “let me tell you, cousin, business is booming”.
What was downright bizarre was how someone in that level of fitness, was found as such a broken man when they found his body. There’s no way that person could be the same MJ. Note: I am not supporting Joe Jackson’s theory about the use of body doubles. And at the same time, MJ was one of the only people onscreen who wore full-sleeves throughout the documentary. You never get to see his arms. Which leads me to believe that a) he may have been cold (Thank you, Chim-tee) or b) his arms were covered with injection marks, which would seem logical.
But, now’s not the time to discuss all that. I hear the film’s in theatres only for two weeks. Go watch it. You won’t be sorry. Just as I’m not sorry that I’m not ending this post with some lame way using the phrase “This is It”.
Chamone!
P.S. - Also saw the trailer for the upcoming 2012 and well, that did a whole different number on my spine. There’s a special place in my heart for disaster films and this particular one is shaping up very nicely to occupy a little corner in that special place.
But that’s not what this post is about; it’s actually about my back — one that’s reputed for its constant propensity to leave me in tremendous pain. Today was dif—... Apologies, it’s tomorrow now, so, yesterday’s back issues were different. Markedly so. The last time my back got this sort of treatment was... well, I don’t remember really. Enough foreplay now, I think.
I’m still recovering from the countless chills that travelled up and down my spine like it was the goddamn Bandra-Worli Sealink, as I watched This is It last night. As I’m sure a gigantic majority of you, 
dear readers are aware it’s the posthumously edited film containing footage of MJ preparing for his 50-date O2 Arena engagement in London. Now the first thought that entered my mind was that it was either going to begin or end with the “real story” of MJ’s demise and honestly, that would have sucked. Big time.
Fortunately though there was none of that. Only rehearsals and the build-up to the the mammoth London tour. If it’s just one city, I’m not sure if it can be called a tour or not. Hmmm.. something to think about.
Anyway, I won’t go into too many details, so I’ll keep it short. I think it’s fair to say that IF he’d lived on to actually perform the kind of show he was planning... I realise that’s a huge “if”, but stay with me. If he’d actually performed even one of those shows, I can guaran-damn-tee that it would have been the finest live performance ever ever ever witnessed anywhere on this planet. (Sorry Till, Cristoph, Oli, Richard, Flake and Paul... I can’t wait to get my mits on your newest album though, if that’s any consolation)
Where was I? Ah yes, let’s just put it this way, the kind of budget the show had and the way green-screen (chroma to some of you) was being used all over the place and music videos were being created on a whim... well, it’s a kind of Roland Emmerich, Stephen Sommers, Ridley Scott and Peter Jackson project with William Gibson, Anne Rice and Haruki Murakami ideas... And obviously, the music is banging!
I’m gushing, I realise. You would too if your spinal column had been turned to jelly over the course of around two hours or so. Jelly-fic! The kind of attention to detail the man paid was something that really shines in the film or maybe the film’s made to look like he was hands-on. I don’t know. I especially enjoyed the bits where he was
communicating and sharing ideas with musicians on how to mix it up with songs, by singing the parts for them, whether “bum-ba-thish-thish-boo-doo-ba” to the bassist or hitting one of them high-pitched notes for the incredibly talented Orianthi Panagaris (in picture) to work out a guitar solo. Not once did he cheapen his music to chords and notes and octave this and bar that. His tunes were always beyond all that.
What was weird though, was his repeated “God bless you”s, but then he was always supposedly a bit kookie. What I felt also was that this massive routine that was being planned — though visually and aurally fantastic — would probably get a little old by the 12th or 13th show. Once you’ve seen it and been mesmerised, would it hold the same awe the next time around? Maybe they had different routines planned. Maybe they expected a new set of 20,000-odd people to turn up to each show.
dear readers are aware it’s the posthumously edited film containing footage of MJ preparing for his 50-date O2 Arena engagement in London. Now the first thought that entered my mind was that it was either going to begin or end with the “real story” of MJ’s demise and honestly, that would have sucked. Big time.Fortunately though there was none of that. Only rehearsals and the build-up to the the mammoth London tour. If it’s just one city, I’m not sure if it can be called a tour or not. Hmmm.. something to think about.
Anyway, I won’t go into too many details, so I’ll keep it short. I think it’s fair to say that IF he’d lived on to actually perform the kind of show he was planning... I realise that’s a huge “if”, but stay with me. If he’d actually performed even one of those shows, I can guaran-damn-tee that it would have been the finest live performance ever ever ever witnessed anywhere on this planet. (Sorry Till, Cristoph, Oli, Richard, Flake and Paul... I can’t wait to get my mits on your newest album though, if that’s any consolation)
Where was I? Ah yes, let’s just put it this way, the kind of budget the show had and the way green-screen (chroma to some of you) was being used all over the place and music videos were being created on a whim... well, it’s a kind of Roland Emmerich, Stephen Sommers, Ridley Scott and Peter Jackson project with William Gibson, Anne Rice and Haruki Murakami ideas... And obviously, the music is banging!
I’m gushing, I realise. You would too if your spinal column had been turned to jelly over the course of around two hours or so. Jelly-fic! The kind of attention to detail the man paid was something that really shines in the film or maybe the film’s made to look like he was hands-on. I don’t know. I especially enjoyed the bits where he was
communicating and sharing ideas with musicians on how to mix it up with songs, by singing the parts for them, whether “bum-ba-thish-thish-boo-doo-ba” to the bassist or hitting one of them high-pitched notes for the incredibly talented Orianthi Panagaris (in picture) to work out a guitar solo. Not once did he cheapen his music to chords and notes and octave this and bar that. His tunes were always beyond all that.What was weird though, was his repeated “God bless you”s, but then he was always supposedly a bit kookie. What I felt also was that this massive routine that was being planned — though visually and aurally fantastic — would probably get a little old by the 12th or 13th show. Once you’ve seen it and been mesmerised, would it hold the same awe the next time around? Maybe they had different routines planned. Maybe they expected a new set of 20,000-odd people to turn up to each show.
What was downright bizarre was how someone in that level of fitness, was found as such a broken man when they found his body. There’s no way that person could be the same MJ. Note: I am not supporting Joe Jackson’s theory about the use of body doubles. And at the same time, MJ was one of the only people onscreen who wore full-sleeves throughout the documentary. You never get to see his arms. Which leads me to believe that a) he may have been cold (Thank you, Chim-tee) or b) his arms were covered with injection marks, which would seem logical.
But, now’s not the time to discuss all that. I hear the film’s in theatres only for two weeks. Go watch it. You won’t be sorry. Just as I’m not sorry that I’m not ending this post with some lame way using the phrase “This is It”.
Chamone!
P.S. - Also saw the trailer for the upcoming 2012 and well, that did a whole different number on my spine. There’s a special place in my heart for disaster films and this particular one is shaping up very nicely to occupy a little corner in that special place.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
The Art of Un-fucking a Situation...
... and sometimes just watching a sufficiently fucked scene crumble
(That’s part of the title too, but too long to fit, you see, so I had to bring it down here)
Anyway, I don’t have a lot of time to luxuriate on each word and sentence and roll it around in the batter of excessive prepositions and punctuation marks before throwing it down here, so I’ll cut right to brass tacks. People around me don’t think I’m a very good listener. Perhaps not, but the reasoning is what I find peculiar.
It’s the theory that when they tell me about a problem or come to me with one, I’m reluctant to just listen to it and make the right noises (the hmmms, ohhhs and awwws expected, presumably) and would rather take the time to think up a solution — maybe not a very good one, but a solution nonetheless. Trying to un-fuck the situation. That doesn’t always go down well but such is life.
Problem-solving and of course cancelling out the fornication that a situation has undergone are two things that one deals with regularly in most walks of life. As I only know about how these two things are done in my walk of life, that’s gonna be my point of reference from here on end. I’ve seen people around me who are very very good at problem-solving in my workplace. Whether it’s the problem of a lack of stories, a rapidly-evolving event that’s hard to keep tabs on or the problem of there being work to do, but preferring to be a lazy bastard and dawdle or stand around chit-chatting (so as to do the minimum work possible), I’ve seen some brilliantly fucked situations being un-fucked.
So much so, that I consider it an art to un-fuck a situation. It takes an artist to take a potentially bad scene and paint it in different colours and end up brightening up the whole scene.
Then again, at times, it’s worth watching the spectacle of chaos and enjoying the sight of everything falling apart. Just as it happened last night and a new Chief Minister was picked for the state around a whole half hour after the last page of the newspaper was ready to go to the printers. Changing one of the main stories on page 1 brought to us the realisation that it completely contradicted a story we had on page 2 and at that time, nothing could be done to change it.
So whatcha gonna do?
a) cry about it?
b) yell at everyone about it, but in effect do nothing?
c) call up 9,412 people in the span of 13 minutes and get a new story?
d) kick back and watch it crumble?
(Answers on a postcard or in the comments section)
(I love these abrupt endings)
(That’s part of the title too, but too long to fit, you see, so I had to bring it down here)
Anyway, I don’t have a lot of time to luxuriate on each word and sentence and roll it around in the batter of excessive prepositions and punctuation marks before throwing it down here, so I’ll cut right to brass tacks. People around me don’t think I’m a very good listener. Perhaps not, but the reasoning is what I find peculiar.
It’s the theory that when they tell me about a problem or come to me with one, I’m reluctant to just listen to it and make the right noises (the hmmms, ohhhs and awwws expected, presumably) and would rather take the time to think up a solution — maybe not a very good one, but a solution nonetheless. Trying to un-fuck the situation. That doesn’t always go down well but such is life.
Problem-solving and of course cancelling out the fornication that a situation has undergone are two things that one deals with regularly in most walks of life. As I only know about how these two things are done in my walk of life, that’s gonna be my point of reference from here on end. I’ve seen people around me who are very very good at problem-solving in my workplace. Whether it’s the problem of a lack of stories, a rapidly-evolving event that’s hard to keep tabs on or the problem of there being work to do, but preferring to be a lazy bastard and dawdle or stand around chit-chatting (so as to do the minimum work possible), I’ve seen some brilliantly fucked situations being un-fucked.
So much so, that I consider it an art to un-fuck a situation. It takes an artist to take a potentially bad scene and paint it in different colours and end up brightening up the whole scene.
Then again, at times, it’s worth watching the spectacle of chaos and enjoying the sight of everything falling apart. Just as it happened last night and a new Chief Minister was picked for the state around a whole half hour after the last page of the newspaper was ready to go to the printers. Changing one of the main stories on page 1 brought to us the realisation that it completely contradicted a story we had on page 2 and at that time, nothing could be done to change it.
So whatcha gonna do?
a) cry about it?
b) yell at everyone about it, but in effect do nothing?
c) call up 9,412 people in the span of 13 minutes and get a new story?
d) kick back and watch it crumble?
(Answers on a postcard or in the comments section)
(I love these abrupt endings)
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Whether tis nobler in the mind...
To be mainstream or alternative, is what you should have been pondering. For you see, Hamlet, my good fellow, you messed up and messed up big time. The question of being or not being is trivial. You have to be. Without being, you may as well be dead.
And people who aren’t, are almost guaranteed of being forgotten as soon as they are off the page and out of the mind. The page, in this case, is not necessarily an actual page — of the paper or virtual variety. It could be in a relationship, for all you know. You may be forgotten without a second though by someone you considered a friend, if you choose not to be (by be, I’m not sure exactly what I mean, but vaguely, being something... something memorable).
Being forgotten is one of the worst things around; far worse than being written off, I’d go as far as to say. To write someone off is to claim that what they can offer is not worthwhile, but to forget, is almost to make it seem like it never was.
In the true tradition of The View, I digress.
Returning to my point, To be mainstream or to be alternative? That is the question. For something as vast as this, let’s narrow it down and keep it simple so the most of me and the least of you understands. Let’s look at the blogosphere. I concede I’m a fairly unremarkable blogger. The sight of someone saying, “Yes, that’s what I was thinking” when they read the contents of a post I’ve blasted up on this here site, comes as a happy surprise to me and makes me smile. But for the majority of the time, my blog slips under the radar. Fair enough, it is not your usual pack of rants... ermmm... most of the time.
And I can assure you that you are some of the minutely few people who take the time to read it. Even fewer of you take the time to pick my rants to the roots of their origin (not saying I’m dying to be interpreted or anything). This is not a blog that racks up 40 plus hits a day.
What perturbs me most is that the fact that it isn’t racking up those kinda hits after being around since 2007... doesn’t seem to bother me all that much. A lack of killer instinct? A false pretext of being the alternative to the mainstream? I’m not sure. I do know that I struggle to write for an audience. My boss knows this. But surely, a few more hits wouldn’t kill. Throw in some Bollywood, some “how fucked up the world is” or alternatively, a dash of “how pretty my morning is and everything around me too”. That’ll get more hits,... (maybe).
But where would that leave me? Would I feel any happier? You can bet your entire life savings — for most of the readers who come to this here blog, that isn’t a whole lot, so let’s change that. You can rob seven banks and beat up an old woman on the way and bet your entire bounty that I would not feel an iota of a difference. Why?
Why? Because The View lets me pepper you, the readers with this kind of a pointless and meandering tirade, with zero accountability for me to bear. Ultimately, the reading of this stuff is your burden to bear. And I wouldn’t cha-...
(You see? I don’t even have to complete my blog. Being in the alternative bracket of genre-allocation kicks ass!)
And people who aren’t, are almost guaranteed of being forgotten as soon as they are off the page and out of the mind. The page, in this case, is not necessarily an actual page — of the paper or virtual variety. It could be in a relationship, for all you know. You may be forgotten without a second though by someone you considered a friend, if you choose not to be (by be, I’m not sure exactly what I mean, but vaguely, being something... something memorable).
Being forgotten is one of the worst things around; far worse than being written off, I’d go as far as to say. To write someone off is to claim that what they can offer is not worthwhile, but to forget, is almost to make it seem like it never was.
In the true tradition of The View, I digress.
Returning to my point, To be mainstream or to be alternative? That is the question. For something as vast as this, let’s narrow it down and keep it simple so the most of me and the least of you understands. Let’s look at the blogosphere. I concede I’m a fairly unremarkable blogger. The sight of someone saying, “Yes, that’s what I was thinking” when they read the contents of a post I’ve blasted up on this here site, comes as a happy surprise to me and makes me smile. But for the majority of the time, my blog slips under the radar. Fair enough, it is not your usual pack of rants... ermmm... most of the time.
And I can assure you that you are some of the minutely few people who take the time to read it. Even fewer of you take the time to pick my rants to the roots of their origin (not saying I’m dying to be interpreted or anything). This is not a blog that racks up 40 plus hits a day.
What perturbs me most is that the fact that it isn’t racking up those kinda hits after being around since 2007... doesn’t seem to bother me all that much. A lack of killer instinct? A false pretext of being the alternative to the mainstream? I’m not sure. I do know that I struggle to write for an audience. My boss knows this. But surely, a few more hits wouldn’t kill. Throw in some Bollywood, some “how fucked up the world is” or alternatively, a dash of “how pretty my morning is and everything around me too”. That’ll get more hits,... (maybe).
But where would that leave me? Would I feel any happier? You can bet your entire life savings — for most of the readers who come to this here blog, that isn’t a whole lot, so let’s change that. You can rob seven banks and beat up an old woman on the way and bet your entire bounty that I would not feel an iota of a difference. Why?
Why? Because The View lets me pepper you, the readers with this kind of a pointless and meandering tirade, with zero accountability for me to bear. Ultimately, the reading of this stuff is your burden to bear. And I wouldn’t cha-...
(You see? I don’t even have to complete my blog. Being in the alternative bracket of genre-allocation kicks ass!)
Monday, October 12, 2009
The Power and the Glory
Power or being powerful is not something one would usually tend to associate with a 77-year-old man. That being said, neither is the concept of glory one that would be generally associated with the Jewish, during the holocaust. And yet, Sunday gave me glimpses — albeit possibly played up by my own mind in one case or completely fictitious, as in the other case.
Sunday was made of glimpses of these concepts demonstrated by the demographic or sociographic (I think it’s a word and if not, as usual, I’m making it one) in question. The second reference I’ve made above is pretty obvious, so I’ll start with the first. I’ve seen this guy on a number of occasions on television. In fact, innumerable times. I finally got to meet the man in the flesh just over 24 hours ago. But I digress. The point is he’s been called a “weak Prime Minister” and “soft on Pakistan” among other things and the old boy’s
never raised his voice at even opposition parties, leave alone being rude to them (publicly).
On Sunday, all it took was one sentence from him, in his usual calm and composed tone and style of delivery to turn a “weak Prime Minister” to someone who in fact controls the power that is India. The exact statement follows, reproduced in its entirety as delivered by the man, when asked about Pakistan blaming India for terror on Pakistani soil.
He said, “We are not in the business of exporting terror and the government and people of Pakistan jolly well know that these are false accusations.” An unremarkable statement in itself, but it had to be seen to be believed. The expression turned stern, the teeth seemed to be almost gritted and the stress on the word “jolly” made it almost seem like what he was actually saying was “They know goddamn well that we aren’t the ones who are fucking spawning these sons of bitches and Rahman Malik (Pak Interior Minister) can shove his allegations where the sun don’t shine.”
Of course that sort of language isn’t something you’d hear from Dr Singh. Oh no. That’s the sort of talk that’s comfortable at home in what forms the second of these concepts I’ve been ranting about. The glory of the Jews in Inglourious Basterds.See, I told you the second reference was bleeding obvious. Naturally, I was always going to go and watch this film. It was Quentin after all.
CAUTION: HERE BE SPOILERS. STOP READING IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN AND WANT TO SEE THE FILM. THERE ISN’T ANY POINT IN RUINING IT FOR YOURSELF
Now, before I went to watch this film, I’d heard numerous tales of how it was a very gory film and there were scalpings shown with all the lurid details Quentin is capable of conjuring onscreen. That’s alright. I figured it’d be an interesting enough setting to try out his idea of stylicised violence.
To hell with the violence though, the last time I saw/read anything that rewrote history about WWII was Philip. K. Dick’s The Man in the High Castle, which told a tale about a time where the Germans, Italians (Eye-talians, according to that man Pitt) and Japanese won and took over the world.
But the way SS officials were depicted as intelligent and shrewd people (not insulting their intelligence in anyway) and the fact that they still end up losing (with Hitler getting his visage blown to shreds) at the hands of the Jewish uprising was... well, something I never actually envisioned watching an onscreen fictionalised depiction of. Never. This isn’t a film review so I want talk about the sublime nature of the reams and reams of dialogue in the film. I won’t talk about Samuel L. Jackson. I won’t talk about Harvey Keitel or Mike Myers either.
It’s always exciting to see someone break character. Like Metallica writing Mama Said or like Bangladesh beating India at cricket or to extend the metaphor, like Stephen Sommers making a chick-flick (The Mummy Returns was not by the way, a chick-flick: Ed) or like Franz Kafka writing a joke book. And these two incidents were some of the finest breaks of character I’ve seen in a while.
Sunday was made of glimpses of these concepts demonstrated by the demographic or sociographic (I think it’s a word and if not, as usual, I’m making it one) in question. The second reference I’ve made above is pretty obvious, so I’ll start with the first. I’ve seen this guy on a number of occasions on television. In fact, innumerable times. I finally got to meet the man in the flesh just over 24 hours ago. But I digress. The point is he’s been called a “weak Prime Minister” and “soft on Pakistan” among other things and the old boy’s
never raised his voice at even opposition parties, leave alone being rude to them (publicly).On Sunday, all it took was one sentence from him, in his usual calm and composed tone and style of delivery to turn a “weak Prime Minister” to someone who in fact controls the power that is India. The exact statement follows, reproduced in its entirety as delivered by the man, when asked about Pakistan blaming India for terror on Pakistani soil.
He said, “We are not in the business of exporting terror and the government and people of Pakistan jolly well know that these are false accusations.” An unremarkable statement in itself, but it had to be seen to be believed. The expression turned stern, the teeth seemed to be almost gritted and the stress on the word “jolly” made it almost seem like what he was actually saying was “They know goddamn well that we aren’t the ones who are fucking spawning these sons of bitches and Rahman Malik (Pak Interior Minister) can shove his allegations where the sun don’t shine.”
Of course that sort of language isn’t something you’d hear from Dr Singh. Oh no. That’s the sort of talk that’s comfortable at home in what forms the second of these concepts I’ve been ranting about. The glory of the Jews in Inglourious Basterds.See, I told you the second reference was bleeding obvious. Naturally, I was always going to go and watch this film. It was Quentin after all.
CAUTION: HERE BE SPOILERS. STOP READING IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN AND WANT TO SEE THE FILM. THERE ISN’T ANY POINT IN RUINING IT FOR YOURSELF
Now, before I went to watch this film, I’d heard numerous tales of how it was a very gory film and there were scalpings shown with all the lurid details Quentin is capable of conjuring onscreen. That’s alright. I figured it’d be an interesting enough setting to try out his idea of stylicised violence.To hell with the violence though, the last time I saw/read anything that rewrote history about WWII was Philip. K. Dick’s The Man in the High Castle, which told a tale about a time where the Germans, Italians (Eye-talians, according to that man Pitt) and Japanese won and took over the world.
But the way SS officials were depicted as intelligent and shrewd people (not insulting their intelligence in anyway) and the fact that they still end up losing (with Hitler getting his visage blown to shreds) at the hands of the Jewish uprising was... well, something I never actually envisioned watching an onscreen fictionalised depiction of. Never. This isn’t a film review so I want talk about the sublime nature of the reams and reams of dialogue in the film. I won’t talk about Samuel L. Jackson. I won’t talk about Harvey Keitel or Mike Myers either.
It’s always exciting to see someone break character. Like Metallica writing Mama Said or like Bangladesh beating India at cricket or to extend the metaphor, like Stephen Sommers making a chick-flick (The Mummy Returns was not by the way, a chick-flick: Ed) or like Franz Kafka writing a joke book. And these two incidents were some of the finest breaks of character I’ve seen in a while.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
A convenient escape route
I think I’ve heard the phrase “violation of sovereignty” a fair few dozen times over the last 20 or so hours. The context is Pakistan’s response to the Kerry-Lugar bill passed by the US Senate that “aims” to create better ties with Pakistan. This bill that is to be debated now by Pakistan’s national assembly, promises $1.5 billion every year for five years to Pakistan as a grant.
As always, take a few moments to catch your breath and re-read that last part. That’s right. A country with debts of $1.4 trillion is now set to hand out grants to Pakistan. I don’t believe I need to go into any details about the fact that that country is today not only known as, but also widely acknowledged as the the World Terror Hub. Places across the world are known as World Technology Hubs or World Tourist Hubs or even World Heavy Metal Hubs. I’ve never known any country to just sit there so brazenly about being called the World Terror Hub. It could be argued that they want to get rid of terrorism just as badly as the rest of the world does, but I just don’t see it.
From that slight detour and back on track, the US Senate passed the Kerry-Lugar bill, which has apparently been amended since it was first tabled. Among some of the conditions, of which there are a fair few, the most important part I saw was that the US would only commence the cash flow once the following conditions were met.
A matter of hours (I don’t believe it got to even days) after voices in Pakistan blamed India (or the BCCI) for the latest match-fixing conspiracy theory surrounding the former’s loss in the Champion’s Trophy, more voices emerged from within Pakistan blaming an “Indian lobby” for having pressurised the US into including the clause about “terrorists in Muridke and Quetta” (as I had mentioned above).
Now, Pakistani political parties are asking for the US to make further amendments to the bill before the national assembly in Pakistan can debate it. And there you have it folks, by using the most convenient escape route known to Pakistan for the past 62 years, which is also known as the “Blame India” policy, the country to the northwest seems all set to get itself out of another sticky situation with the rest of the world. And it’ll probably get its grants too. And continue to shoot the shit out of our citizens.
Appendix: The last time I recall hearing this “violation of sovereignty” thing so many times was when India was about to sign the Hyde Pact, also known as the 123 Agreement in 2006. In the face of many parties that disagreed with a lot of the conditions — including one about giving the US access to all India’s nuclear facilities, I think — a no-confidence motion was called, resulting in the trust vote and that infamous “cash for votes” scam.
One could well say, “Well India was indulging in the same antics as Pakistan is, right now. It’s exactly the same thing.” And while one may be partially correct, the facts are as follows: India will be spending $100 billion on American technology and Pakistan will be getting $7.5 billion... as a grant. That makes it a completely different thing.
As always, take a few moments to catch your breath and re-read that last part. That’s right. A country with debts of $1.4 trillion is now set to hand out grants to Pakistan. I don’t believe I need to go into any details about the fact that that country is today not only known as, but also widely acknowledged as the the World Terror Hub. Places across the world are known as World Technology Hubs or World Tourist Hubs or even World Heavy Metal Hubs. I’ve never known any country to just sit there so brazenly about being called the World Terror Hub. It could be argued that they want to get rid of terrorism just as badly as the rest of the world does, but I just don’t see it.
From that slight detour and back on track, the US Senate passed the Kerry-Lugar bill, which has apparently been amended since it was first tabled. Among some of the conditions, of which there are a fair few, the most important part I saw was that the US would only commence the cash flow once the following conditions were met.
- The Pakistani military or its intelligence agency — ISI — ceases to support terrorist groups that have conducted attacks against the US or its coalition forces in Afghanistan or the people of neighbouring countries. (The ISI has long been known to support terror groups and this fact came out into the mainstream when a leaked British defence ministry document in 2006 substantiated just how the agency was behind the 7/7 serial blasts and other such attack. As for the attacks on neighbouring countries, Pakistan is in this wonderful position where it can condemn attacks on one hand and yet, fund people to do a 26/11 and then dilly-dally with the prosecution process. I doubt they’ll agree to this one.)
- Pakistan prevents Al-Qaeda, Taliban, Laskhar-e-Tayyaba and Jaish-e-Mohammed from operating in its territory, including cross-border raids into neighbouring countries. (I’m sorry, but I just don’t see that happening. Cross-border raids into Kashmir are unlikely to ever stop.)
- Pakistan dismantles terror training camps across the country including those in Quetta and Muridke (A section allegedly chucked into the bill by an Indian lobby. Read below for details on this section)
- Pakistan strengthens counter-terrorist and anti-money laundering laws.
- Pakistani security forces do not “materially and substantially” subvert the political or judicial processes of the country. (Vague vague vague. What is the defining characteristic of a material and substantial subversion? How is it different from an immaterial and unsubstantial one? And at what degree of subversion does the difference lie?)
- Pakistan continues to cooperate with the United States in an effort to dismantle supplier networks that relate to the acquisition of nuclear weapon related materials AND provides the US to direct access to Pakistani nationals like A.Q. Khan who are associated with such networks. (A.Q. Khan is one of Pakistan’s most valued resources. I cannot believe the country would allow anyone direct access to him. Just as they haven’t given anyone any access to Dawood Ibrahim for years and years, when the world knows he lives in Pakistan. Also he’s not even a Pakistani national)
A matter of hours (I don’t believe it got to even days) after voices in Pakistan blamed India (or the BCCI) for the latest match-fixing conspiracy theory surrounding the former’s loss in the Champion’s Trophy, more voices emerged from within Pakistan blaming an “Indian lobby” for having pressurised the US into including the clause about “terrorists in Muridke and Quetta” (as I had mentioned above).
Now, Pakistani political parties are asking for the US to make further amendments to the bill before the national assembly in Pakistan can debate it. And there you have it folks, by using the most convenient escape route known to Pakistan for the past 62 years, which is also known as the “Blame India” policy, the country to the northwest seems all set to get itself out of another sticky situation with the rest of the world. And it’ll probably get its grants too. And continue to shoot the shit out of our citizens.
Appendix: The last time I recall hearing this “violation of sovereignty” thing so many times was when India was about to sign the Hyde Pact, also known as the 123 Agreement in 2006. In the face of many parties that disagreed with a lot of the conditions — including one about giving the US access to all India’s nuclear facilities, I think — a no-confidence motion was called, resulting in the trust vote and that infamous “cash for votes” scam.
One could well say, “Well India was indulging in the same antics as Pakistan is, right now. It’s exactly the same thing.” And while one may be partially correct, the facts are as follows: India will be spending $100 billion on American technology and Pakistan will be getting $7.5 billion... as a grant. That makes it a completely different thing.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
A Nation Built on Sweat...
A Nation built on Blood
A Nation built on Dreams
A Nation - A Nation!
A Struggle - A Struggle!
A Weapon - A Weapon!
— Sepultura - Sepulnation
I’m feeling patriotic today... I don’t quite know why... It’s not that jingoistic, chest-beating and making an anus of myself kind of patriotism. I didn’t just finish watching Lagaan.It’s not Independence Day or Republic Day... Hell, it’s not even a dry day. Well, now that I know what it ain’t, let’s look at the amalgamation of what it is...
As with most things I blather on about, the reasoning is manifold. Part of it is the fact that I’m just happy, in general. Another contributing factor is that I recently read the rant of an ungrateful sod (I refuse to name you. I have dignity), selling out his country, in a bid to earn sympathy and dare I say it, friends (?) to a bunch of strangers — who are probably going to think, “Oh no, what a hell-hole India must be... poor guy”. How much or how little sympathy he got is none of my concern, but that letter did make me look around and appreciate my country for what it is.
Another potential contributing factor could be the fact that the elections are just around the corner... and watching people whip themselves into a frenzy with campaigning, bringing down their opponents or trying to win the faith of citizens is just... well, it’s a trip. Then of course there’s the feeling of dazed exhaustion at the end of a hard day’s work (No, I’m not claiming I’ve paid my “dues” or any such shit) in your own homeland, where people treat you (unless you’re a film actor, cricketer or dynastic politician) like you deserve to on the basis of what you’ve done. Actually done. Not who you are or who your daddy is.
Then of course, there’s the buzz I still have from last night. There’s a Guns ‘n’ Roses video I remember
watching where Slash busts out a solo of The Godfather Theme and everyone in the audience is spellbound. I recall getting a similar vibe through the way popular culture defines Jimi Hendrix’s Star Spangled Banner at Woodstock ’69. That’s kinda what it was like watching Motherjane’s Baiju belt out a Carnatic Music-infused version of Vande Mataram — India’s National Song, for the uninitiated. And for the even less initiated, it’s not to be confused with the National Anthem. Ever.
Yes, I’m aware that I don’t need to hear National pieces of music for my love for my country to be realised. And yet, I sat there last night with my heart thumping like a bass drum as I heard every strain and note of that song resonate inside me. We’re by no means, a perfect Nation. Far from it. I dislike most of my fellow Indians
But, I digress as always.
Sigh, what a rendition of Vande Mataram that was..
What a performance...
What a band...
Sigh.
As for the aforementioned, ungrateful sod, I doubt I’ll be hearing from him any time soon. I’m an Indian after all. With the things he’s said, he’d either have to be really shameless or really stupid to talk to this Indian again... Hmmm.. Now that I think about it—...
Jai Hind
A Nation built on Dreams
A Nation - A Nation!
A Struggle - A Struggle!
A Weapon - A Weapon!
— Sepultura - Sepulnation
I’m feeling patriotic today... I don’t quite know why... It’s not that jingoistic, chest-beating and making an anus of myself kind of patriotism. I didn’t just finish watching Lagaan.It’s not Independence Day or Republic Day... Hell, it’s not even a dry day. Well, now that I know what it ain’t, let’s look at the amalgamation of what it is...
As with most things I blather on about, the reasoning is manifold. Part of it is the fact that I’m just happy, in general. Another contributing factor is that I recently read the rant of an ungrateful sod (I refuse to name you. I have dignity), selling out his country, in a bid to earn sympathy and dare I say it, friends (?) to a bunch of strangers — who are probably going to think, “Oh no, what a hell-hole India must be... poor guy”. How much or how little sympathy he got is none of my concern, but that letter did make me look around and appreciate my country for what it is.
Another potential contributing factor could be the fact that the elections are just around the corner... and watching people whip themselves into a frenzy with campaigning, bringing down their opponents or trying to win the faith of citizens is just... well, it’s a trip. Then of course there’s the feeling of dazed exhaustion at the end of a hard day’s work (No, I’m not claiming I’ve paid my “dues” or any such shit) in your own homeland, where people treat you (unless you’re a film actor, cricketer or dynastic politician) like you deserve to on the basis of what you’ve done. Actually done. Not who you are or who your daddy is.
Then of course, there’s the buzz I still have from last night. There’s a Guns ‘n’ Roses video I remember
watching where Slash busts out a solo of The Godfather Theme and everyone in the audience is spellbound. I recall getting a similar vibe through the way popular culture defines Jimi Hendrix’s Star Spangled Banner at Woodstock ’69. That’s kinda what it was like watching Motherjane’s Baiju belt out a Carnatic Music-infused version of Vande Mataram — India’s National Song, for the uninitiated. And for the even less initiated, it’s not to be confused with the National Anthem. Ever.
Yes, I’m aware that I don’t need to hear National pieces of music for my love for my country to be realised. And yet, I sat there last night with my heart thumping like a bass drum as I heard every strain and note of that song resonate inside me. We’re by no means, a perfect Nation. Far from it. I dislike most of my fellow Indians
But, I digress as always.
Sigh, what a rendition of Vande Mataram that was..
What a performance...
What a band...
Sigh.
As for the aforementioned, ungrateful sod, I doubt I’ll be hearing from him any time soon. I’m an Indian after all. With the things he’s said, he’d either have to be really shameless or really stupid to talk to this Indian again... Hmmm.. Now that I think about it—...
Jai Hind
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