A Towel in the Gaudy Age of the Grotesque

Part three of this ongoing series on the grotesque deals with a towel, a small white towel to be precise. And to be even more precise, the tossing of that towel into the ring, when the grotesque takes its toll on you. Let’s stop there a second. Perhaps I’m exaggerating slightly. This sense of resignation to the grotesque I feel isn’t so much the type of towel that a boxing manager throws into the ring when his prize fighter takes a skull-crushing blow and his eyes roll into the back of his head. The manager sees it all happen in slow motion... Maybe, the mouthguard flies out of the boxer’s mouth like a comet, followed by a trail of blood and saliva. His knees are buckling and arms go limp at the side, with barely enough gas left in his tank to take another blow. His opponent is winding up and ready to unleash one final uppercut and put him out of his misery, as the manager lobs the grimy white towel in, surrendering.

That’s not the kind of towel I’m talking about.

There’s usually a neatly-folded variety of towel that finds itself in the track suit trouser pocket of a casual jogger. You know the kind. They sometimes carry a water bottle, a sweatband across their foreheads, despite knowing that they’re slow as shit they’ll still time themselves to see what fraction of...of... of a YEAR they shaved off their previous time. Running up a steep(ish) slope at times, a jogger belonging to the species I described will often pull up the to the side huffing and puffing a little, swearing that the air has gotten a lot thinner. The jogger reaches into his pocket and pulls out the neatly-folded towel and mops the sweat off his face, while taking a little break.

That’s the towel I’m referring to. And this right here, is the grotesque I’m referring to. The big ol’ mammoth of a caterpillar looking thing, as you probably know, is a garland made of nothing but 1000-rupee notes being presented to Uttar Pradesh chief minister Mayawati. It cost around Rs 5,00,00,000 allegedly, which is an obvious crock of shit (Remind me to get back to this). A few days later, another similar monstrosity was presented to her at a rally, followed swiftly by someone from Mayawati’s party, the BSP, proclaiming that henceforth, she would only be presented garlands made of money. Fantastic stuff.

This is the same woman who sanctioned a butt-load of statues of people (Kanshi Ram, Ambedkar etc.) to be built all across her state, including no less than six of herself. All this happens during a time when prices of essential commodities are skyrocketing and people are losing their jobs at the drop of a hat. In addition, her party members allegedly also beat up and killed (allegedly) some chaps for not contributing to her birthday fund.

To me, the goings-on in that state represent the zenith of grotesque. It isn’t only the chief minister either. I am certain that at least 90 per cent of all cases in India of major human rights violations and rampant corruption come from UP. Of course there will be those of you who will claim I’m overlooking all the good Mayawati is doing for UP and India and how the Congress is the true leach that is sucking life out of India etc. etc. That’s your opinion and you are entitled to it. I’m just talking about grotesque here.

Like these umpteen awards shows that are organised nearly every second day and have the same dodgy ‘song and dance’ sequences and awards designed to merely give a few actors or directors or producers a bit of a leg up (glorified PR exercises) or to invite A.R. Rahman and announce the words “Oscar winner”, because we are so Goddamn worried that no Indian will win an Oscar again. These horribly grandiose shows drip with money. It’s known.

Almost as much as the IPL. Actually, they’re nowhere near how gaudily gilded with gold the IPL. But they’re still pretty lavish displays of wealth. Now the Congress-ruled state government has in its infinite wisdom (See, I’m attacking the Congress too) to slash the entertainment tax on both those sets of events. And all along, I don’t see the price of essential commodities dropping. I don’t see the taxi/rickshaw meter running any slower. I don’t see any tax waivers in my salary. So why do Manikchand and Lalit Modi deserve these lowered taxes?

It’s for those reasons and many more that I realise the futility of not accepting the all pervasiveness of the grotesque. It’s here. It’s queer (as in weird). Get used to it (I guess). It’s not a complete surrender, mind you. It’s just time to catch our breath. Mop the sweat off our collective face. Have a swig of water. Walk off that hamstring cramp. And we’ll resume jogging soon.

And now, about that crock of shit : Rs 5,00,00,000 translates to 50,000 notes of the 1000-rupee denomination. Correct? Look at that garland once more. Does that look like 50,000 notes to you? Even if they were folded in half? That’s still miles off target. Just look at it. I hate to imagine how much it actually cost. For now though, I am pleased about what happened in another part of the country, when a member of Parliament of the same party I believe, was presented with a similar garland of money. Supporters (not even enemies, but honest-to-God supporters) ripped handfuls of money of the garland after mobbing him. ’Ave some of that!