As regular as clockwork, a number of songs dart around in my head everyday at around 5 pm. Why 5 pm? Because that's usually when I'm travelling and I like to travel by myself. Some of the songs do the darting thing because of a catchy hook or a particularly pounding drum-part, others, for the lyrics maybe and still others, for their vibe. They dart around like demented homing missiles that for some reason, are just lost and have nothing to home in on.
Homing missiles without a target...
Re-read that previous line and let the amazingly pointless existence of those missiles sink in.
Sunken in? Good, let's proceed. It's that theme of leading a pointless existence that very neatly ties in to my original point about the songs darting around my head, because of late, a song I've been a huge fan of for a while, has been doing the rounds in my head. Not for any particularly specific reason. More because of an amalgamation of things that are going on at the moment — the general elections, the rat-race that is formal employment and watching people scurrying all over the place for jobs, university courses, something to do, something to be, some way to get out... But out of what?
All we want is a head rush
All we want is to get out of our skin for a while
We have nothing to lose because we don't have anything
Anything we want anyway...
We used to hate people
Now we just make fun of them
It's more effective that way
We don't live
We just scratch on day-to-day
With nothing but matchbooks and
Sarcasm in our pockets
And all we are waiting for
Is for something worth waiting for
Let's admit America gets the celebrities we deserve
Let's stop saying "Don't quote me"
Because if no one quotes you
You probably haven't said a thing worth saying
We need something to kill the pain
Of all that nothing inside
We all just want to die a little bit
We fear that pop-culture
Is the only culture we're ever going to have
We want to stop reading magazines
Stop watching TV
Stop caring about Hollywood
But we're addicted to the things we hate
We don't run Washington and no one really does
Ask not what you can do for your country
Ask what your country did to you
The only reason you're still alive is because someone
Has decided to let you live
We owe so much money we're not broke we're broken
We're so poor we can't even pay attention
So what do you want
You want to be famous and rich and happy
But you're terrified you have nothing to offer this world
Nothing to say and no way to say it
But you can say it in three languages
You are more than the sum of what you consume
Desire is not an occupation
You are alternately thrilled and desperate
Sky-high and fucked
Let's stop praying for someone
To save us and start saving ourselves
Let's stop this and start over
Let's go out - Let's keep going
This is your life — This is your fucking life
We need something to kill
The pain of all that nothing inside
Quit whining you haven't done
Anything wrong because frankly
You haven't done much of anything
Someone's writing down your mistakes
Someone's documenting your downfall
— Dogma by KMFDM
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
What's in it for me, me, me?
We've all heard of NGOs or Non-Government Organisations. I'm fairly certain most of us have heard of NPOs or Non-Profit Organisations as well... But as I look around, I find increasingly that the much-desired concept of NCOs or Non-Credit Organisations is yet to sink into the public conscious.
This latest rant stems from a run-in I had very recently with someone who shall hereafter be referred to as Gollum, stemming from said person's tiny stature and immense propensity to irritate. It was all going fine until I get an angry call from Gollum, who was pissed that an article I'd done hadn't showered Gollum with credit for work done by a whole heap of groups. Additionally, there were allegations of manipulating Gollum's squawking and worse yet, of being "untasteful". And there's more — Gollum's wrath also stemmed from the fact that no other paper had done the story that way.
Of course...
It must have been a lapse of my incredibly tiny memory to forget that inviolable rule of journalism — All stories must be exactly the same as everyone else's. As for manipulation, if I recall correctly (damn you Gollum, AGAIN testing my memory), putting someone's quotes in the same context that they gave them to you, wasn't exactly manipulation.
Manipulation to me, would be more like say, a person who informed the organiser of an event that he would be late by around 100 minutes and yet, the organiser didn't consider it necessary to inform people in attendance that said person would be late. Ring a bell*, Gollum?
Finally and most pertinently, I know what public relations is. If I wanted to be a publicist and write press releases for people like you, Gollum, I would have entered that particular field and not journalism. Right? Journalism, at least by definition, is about telling it like it is and not about telling it like people want you to tell it. So it occurs to me that you crying because you didn't get all the kudos you feel is owed to you by the world, is none of my fucking concern!
I seriously doubt you'll read this, because knowing you, Gollum, you can't think beyond Google-searching your own name. If however, you stumble across this particular post, then heed me words carefully. Do not ever call my phone again and threaten me or my organisation again. Ever again.
UPDATE: * I figured it may not ring a bell, so allow me to elaborate. When there was a packed audience with people losing their tempers and targetting their anger at the person who came late, did you not think it your responsibility to tell them that he had already called to say he would be late? Instead, you just let the people get angrier, thereby manipulating their mood.
This latest rant stems from a run-in I had very recently with someone who shall hereafter be referred to as Gollum, stemming from said person's tiny stature and immense propensity to irritate. It was all going fine until I get an angry call from Gollum, who was pissed that an article I'd done hadn't showered Gollum with credit for work done by a whole heap of groups. Additionally, there were allegations of manipulating Gollum's squawking and worse yet, of being "untasteful". And there's more — Gollum's wrath also stemmed from the fact that no other paper had done the story that way.
Of course...
It must have been a lapse of my incredibly tiny memory to forget that inviolable rule of journalism — All stories must be exactly the same as everyone else's. As for manipulation, if I recall correctly (damn you Gollum, AGAIN testing my memory), putting someone's quotes in the same context that they gave them to you, wasn't exactly manipulation.
Manipulation to me, would be more like say, a person who informed the organiser of an event that he would be late by around 100 minutes and yet, the organiser didn't consider it necessary to inform people in attendance that said person would be late. Ring a bell*, Gollum?
Finally and most pertinently, I know what public relations is. If I wanted to be a publicist and write press releases for people like you, Gollum, I would have entered that particular field and not journalism. Right? Journalism, at least by definition, is about telling it like it is and not about telling it like people want you to tell it. So it occurs to me that you crying because you didn't get all the kudos you feel is owed to you by the world, is none of my fucking concern!
I seriously doubt you'll read this, because knowing you, Gollum, you can't think beyond Google-searching your own name. If however, you stumble across this particular post, then heed me words carefully. Do not ever call my phone again and threaten me or my organisation again. Ever again.
UPDATE: * I figured it may not ring a bell, so allow me to elaborate. When there was a packed audience with people losing their tempers and targetting their anger at the person who came late, did you not think it your responsibility to tell them that he had already called to say he would be late? Instead, you just let the people get angrier, thereby manipulating their mood.
Monday, April 6, 2009
"No mummy, no papa"
The junction at Mahalakshmi temple is one that has no less than three or four roads leading in and out of it and is one of the busier junctions in the city of Mumbai.
Now that the random trivia is out of the way, here comes the point. It's also a junction frequented by a variety of beggars and mobile hawkers. I've already dealt with beggars and the various tactics they employ, so I'll get straight into mobile hawkers. Contrary to the name, they don't actually sell mobile phones (well maybe, toy mobiles but, I digress) but they in themselves are mobile.
Traipsing as they do from vehicle to vehicle that's at a traffic signal, trying to peddle their wares. Bootleg books are one of the things one regularly encounters people — most often little kids — trying to sell. So there I was at the aforementioned junction a couple of days ago, when I see a little girl clutching a stack of books walking from car-to-car until she notices a CR-V, inhabited by two obvious out-of-towners. The Caucasian features are a dead giveaway.
She knocks on the window and holds up a bootleg of one of the countless books on Barack Obama doing their rounds. "Obama!!" she says in a voice loud enough to penetrate the rolled-up window (presumably to keep the cool air in and the... well, you get it). The man shakes his head. "Thousand splendid suns," she yells next clutching Khalid Hosseini's book and holding it up to the window. The man shakes his head again and rolls the window down a little and sticks out his hand with a ten rupee note in it.
Little girl refuses to accept any hand outs or alms... She's a businesswoman, after all. She walks around to the other side of the car, spotting a woman sitting next to the man. "Madam! Obama!" she shouts. Woman also shakes her head. Holding up a copy of Q & A which is now being sold under the name Slumdog Millionaire, she asks, "Slumdog?" The woman again shakes her head.
That's when the little girl pulls out a real gem and a gem of such shine and polish that it merited me writing a whole blog about it. "Madam, I have no mummy, no papa. I also slumdog," she says. Goddamn! Did I just hear that, I asked myself. Certainly did. "I (am) like this slumdog only," she says pointing at the book. The woman doesn't want the book but rolls down her window, this time offering the girl a 100 rupee note. The girl says no and walks off.
That's called taking pride in what you do.
Piqued by curiosity, I ventured back there yesterday and tried hunting her down and asking her some questions. None of which were ominous, I assure you. While on one hand, selling bootleg books is pretty illegal, she's gotta make a living. After much coaxing, she volunteered her name — Seema. A bar of chocolate and further questions brought out the fact that she was 9 and that she gets into a lot of trouble with her supplier, if she doesn't sell the books.
She also disclosed that people try to palm her off with alms, but that, apparently, is not her beat. "Main bhikari nahi hoon (I'm not a beggar)," she told me as she trotted off to sell some more books, clearly pissed off that I had wasted her time and had no inclination to buy a book.
P.S. - New layout, y'alls!
Now that the random trivia is out of the way, here comes the point. It's also a junction frequented by a variety of beggars and mobile hawkers. I've already dealt with beggars and the various tactics they employ, so I'll get straight into mobile hawkers. Contrary to the name, they don't actually sell mobile phones (well maybe, toy mobiles but, I digress) but they in themselves are mobile.
Traipsing as they do from vehicle to vehicle that's at a traffic signal, trying to peddle their wares. Bootleg books are one of the things one regularly encounters people — most often little kids — trying to sell. So there I was at the aforementioned junction a couple of days ago, when I see a little girl clutching a stack of books walking from car-to-car until she notices a CR-V, inhabited by two obvious out-of-towners. The Caucasian features are a dead giveaway.
She knocks on the window and holds up a bootleg of one of the countless books on Barack Obama doing their rounds. "Obama!!" she says in a voice loud enough to penetrate the rolled-up window (presumably to keep the cool air in and the... well, you get it). The man shakes his head. "Thousand splendid suns," she yells next clutching Khalid Hosseini's book and holding it up to the window. The man shakes his head again and rolls the window down a little and sticks out his hand with a ten rupee note in it.
Little girl refuses to accept any hand outs or alms... She's a businesswoman, after all. She walks around to the other side of the car, spotting a woman sitting next to the man. "Madam! Obama!" she shouts. Woman also shakes her head. Holding up a copy of Q & A which is now being sold under the name Slumdog Millionaire, she asks, "Slumdog?" The woman again shakes her head.
That's when the little girl pulls out a real gem and a gem of such shine and polish that it merited me writing a whole blog about it. "Madam, I have no mummy, no papa. I also slumdog," she says. Goddamn! Did I just hear that, I asked myself. Certainly did. "I (am) like this slumdog only," she says pointing at the book. The woman doesn't want the book but rolls down her window, this time offering the girl a 100 rupee note. The girl says no and walks off.
That's called taking pride in what you do.
Piqued by curiosity, I ventured back there yesterday and tried hunting her down and asking her some questions. None of which were ominous, I assure you. While on one hand, selling bootleg books is pretty illegal, she's gotta make a living. After much coaxing, she volunteered her name — Seema. A bar of chocolate and further questions brought out the fact that she was 9 and that she gets into a lot of trouble with her supplier, if she doesn't sell the books.
She also disclosed that people try to palm her off with alms, but that, apparently, is not her beat. "Main bhikari nahi hoon (I'm not a beggar)," she told me as she trotted off to sell some more books, clearly pissed off that I had wasted her time and had no inclination to buy a book.
P.S. - New layout, y'alls!
Friday, April 3, 2009
Get back or I'll knock you down
There's a hair-trigger explosion built into every single human being — I don't care who you are, it's there. It's that little No-Go Zone with a trip-wired bomb that goes Kaboom! if anyone strays into it.
For some, it might be rudeness that sets off their bomb.
For others, it could be people faking an accent.
For another set of others, it could be loud mobile phone ringtones.
Then of course, there's people eating their own boogers, people burping loudly etc. etc. etc.
The list is endless...
While those things can and do often annoy me, none of them are what makes my hair-trigger bomb go off. What does it for me is the lack of Entry-Exit Etiquette (which will hereafter be referred to as EEE or E3? I like E3). So, what is E3 (I like it a lot; rolls right off the tongue and into your heart)?
Put very simply, it's about the etiquette and manners one should really observe when alighting from or awaiting entry into a building, train, bus, elevator, tram etc. It is the awareness
that people who are exiting are entitled to right of way and those trying to enter must yield. Bloody obvious fact, you'd think. After all, you can't keep filling a glass with water unless you take some of it out.
Clearly not obvious enough as evidenced by the fact that there are some train stations in Mumbai, its suburbs and outskirts, where it is physically impossible to get off the train, thanks to the barrage of people trying to squeeze their limbs inside. On an average day, you manage to get off the train, with no more than a smear of someone's sweaty armpit across you. On a bad day, you end up getting bruised, your spectacles get damaged and your portable music player might find itself bereft of any earphones.
On a terrible day, however, all of that happens and in addition, you are still stuck on the train, unable to alight and dreaming of one of the good days, when you avoid the train altogether. The story's the same in an elevator, with an army of people trying to run you down as you aim to achieve that oh-so-difficult task of stepping off onto your floor.
Things get really bizarre when you get to taxis though. Taxis aren't your usual form of public transport in that they're a private sort of public transport, if that makes any sense (unless of course, you look at the concept of shared taxis, which is a whole different ballgame). But you would expect that a taxi would pull up at your chosen destination and that you would get to pay the fare and step out of it, making way for the next customer.
Right? Well, not always. Take for instance, this recent experience I had of trying to vacate a taxi while a man clutching a computer monitor (those box-type ones, not LCD screens) tried to make himself at home... on my lap!
Taxi pulls up
Surly north Indian taxi driver quotes price
I says, "Bullshit, show me the card"
Fare is lowered to normal rate and I pay
I notice man with computer monitor outside
Feel the need to hurry up so man can sit down quickly
I get my change from driver and open door.
"Here, put this inside," says the PC monitor guy
I says ok
Takes the monitor and keeps it inside
As i try to leave taxi, monitor man is entering and about to sit on my lap
WTF? I asks him and gives him a gentle nudge
He doesn't budge
So, some increased momentum from my palms moving forward, is transferred to his body which finds itself falling out of the taxi and onto the road.
"What was your problem?" I asks him rhetorically as I leave the taxi.
I'm usually quite a non-violent person, but when the hair-trigger is pulled, I am given to the odd incidents like these or jumping out of trains at a station with my elbows raised to protect myself from and smack some of the people running inside. I get the same primal sense of joy from knocking these non-E3-inclined people down as I used to in a moshpit. So sue me.
For some, it might be rudeness that sets off their bomb.
For others, it could be people faking an accent.
For another set of others, it could be loud mobile phone ringtones.
Then of course, there's people eating their own boogers, people burping loudly etc. etc. etc.
The list is endless...
While those things can and do often annoy me, none of them are what makes my hair-trigger bomb go off. What does it for me is the lack of Entry-Exit Etiquette (which will hereafter be referred to as EEE or E3? I like E3). So, what is E3 (I like it a lot; rolls right off the tongue and into your heart)?
Put very simply, it's about the etiquette and manners one should really observe when alighting from or awaiting entry into a building, train, bus, elevator, tram etc. It is the awareness
that people who are exiting are entitled to right of way and those trying to enter must yield. Bloody obvious fact, you'd think. After all, you can't keep filling a glass with water unless you take some of it out.Clearly not obvious enough as evidenced by the fact that there are some train stations in Mumbai, its suburbs and outskirts, where it is physically impossible to get off the train, thanks to the barrage of people trying to squeeze their limbs inside. On an average day, you manage to get off the train, with no more than a smear of someone's sweaty armpit across you. On a bad day, you end up getting bruised, your spectacles get damaged and your portable music player might find itself bereft of any earphones.
On a terrible day, however, all of that happens and in addition, you are still stuck on the train, unable to alight and dreaming of one of the good days, when you avoid the train altogether. The story's the same in an elevator, with an army of people trying to run you down as you aim to achieve that oh-so-difficult task of stepping off onto your floor.
Things get really bizarre when you get to taxis though. Taxis aren't your usual form of public transport in that they're a private sort of public transport, if that makes any sense (unless of course, you look at the concept of shared taxis, which is a whole different ballgame). But you would expect that a taxi would pull up at your chosen destination and that you would get to pay the fare and step out of it, making way for the next customer.
Right? Well, not always. Take for instance, this recent experience I had of trying to vacate a taxi while a man clutching a computer monitor (those box-type ones, not LCD screens) tried to make himself at home... on my lap!
Taxi pulls up
Surly north Indian taxi driver quotes price
I says, "Bullshit, show me the card"
Fare is lowered to normal rate and I pay
I notice man with computer monitor outside
Feel the need to hurry up so man can sit down quickly
I get my change from driver and open door.
"Here, put this inside," says the PC monitor guy
I says ok
Takes the monitor and keeps it inside
As i try to leave taxi, monitor man is entering and about to sit on my lap
WTF? I asks him and gives him a gentle nudge
He doesn't budge
So, some increased momentum from my palms moving forward, is transferred to his body which finds itself falling out of the taxi and onto the road.
"What was your problem?" I asks him rhetorically as I leave the taxi.
I'm usually quite a non-violent person, but when the hair-trigger is pulled, I am given to the odd incidents like these or jumping out of trains at a station with my elbows raised to protect myself from and smack some of the people running inside. I get the same primal sense of joy from knocking these non-E3-inclined people down as I used to in a moshpit. So sue me.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Bye-bye, IPL
The attack on Sri Lankan cricketers in Pakistan was always going to cast a pall of gloom on sports on the subcontinent, in general. It was also always going to spawn numerous half-baked comparisons to the 1972 attack on Israeli athletes in the Munich Olympics. What was less expected was that it would necessitate a shift in venue for the Indian Premier League (IPL). South Africa and England are two of the potential venues being explored, at the time of typing this.
Moving the IPL, you say? The bizareness of watching Kolkata Knight Riders playing Deccan Chargers at The Wanderers in Johannesburg isn't too far removed from watching an Aston Villa versus Middlesborough FA Cup match in Sydney, Australia or watching the Green Bay Packers take on the New York Giants in Tel Aviv, Israel. It just doesn't work that way, right?
Put into perspective, however,... it's a different story. With nationwide general elections set to clash with the IPL's schedule, it wouldn't seem like the smartest thing for security to be compromised in trying to run both the polls and the tournament simultaneously. Nevertheless, the people behind the IPL fought tooth and nail to ensure that the tournament would be held as scheduled.
Dates were moved around, permission sought from chief ministers of different states, clearances sought from security firms, bulletproof vehicles ordered etc. etc. Was it really worth risking the lives and safety of so many (common citizens would be at risk as well because of all the VIPs around)? And for what?
Just to ensure that the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) doesn't lose its grip on the udders of the cash cow that is cricket in India?
Just to ensure that every last bit of money is milked out?
The smartest thing in my opinion would have been for the big boys of the BCCI to realise that there are some things more important than cricket in the world and that elections obviously come first. Secondly, had they been willing to eschew this year's season (possibly even annul the players bought in this time's auction), then the integrity of the IPL would have remained intact. Through its own unrelenting obstinence, the BCCI has succeeded in watering down its product and turning it into the NRIPL (Non-resident IPL as a newspaper put it).
Kudos!
Moving the IPL, you say? The bizareness of watching Kolkata Knight Riders playing Deccan Chargers at The Wanderers in Johannesburg isn't too far removed from watching an Aston Villa versus Middlesborough FA Cup match in Sydney, Australia or watching the Green Bay Packers take on the New York Giants in Tel Aviv, Israel. It just doesn't work that way, right?
Put into perspective, however,... it's a different story. With nationwide general elections set to clash with the IPL's schedule, it wouldn't seem like the smartest thing for security to be compromised in trying to run both the polls and the tournament simultaneously. Nevertheless, the people behind the IPL fought tooth and nail to ensure that the tournament would be held as scheduled.
Dates were moved around, permission sought from chief ministers of different states, clearances sought from security firms, bulletproof vehicles ordered etc. etc. Was it really worth risking the lives and safety of so many (common citizens would be at risk as well because of all the VIPs around)? And for what?
Just to ensure that the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) doesn't lose its grip on the udders of the cash cow that is cricket in India?
Just to ensure that every last bit of money is milked out?
The smartest thing in my opinion would have been for the big boys of the BCCI to realise that there are some things more important than cricket in the world and that elections obviously come first. Secondly, had they been willing to eschew this year's season (possibly even annul the players bought in this time's auction), then the integrity of the IPL would have remained intact. Through its own unrelenting obstinence, the BCCI has succeeded in watering down its product and turning it into the NRIPL (Non-resident IPL as a newspaper put it).
Kudos!
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Pakman and the ghosts that trail him
"I am happy we didn't tour Pakistan, and that the government didn't allow us to tour Pakistan. It may or may not have happened to us. But overall I am happy to be here (New Zealand)."
When I first read these words by Mahendra Singh Dhoni in the wake of the senseless attack on the Sri Lankan cricket team in Lahore on March 3, I remember thinking to myself, "What a horribly selfish and nasty thing to say". And then comments from external affairs minister Pranab Mukherjee and home minister P. Chidambaram began flowing in and it all seemed like a bit of schadenfreude at the expense of the Pakistani government. Once India's three most important men had shared their views (yes, my tongue is firmly buried in my cheek), the gates had been thrown open.
Send in the clowns!
'Expert' after 'expert' and 'specialist' after 'specialist', everyone had a view about why Pakistan should be sidelined from world cricket and how cricket on the sub-continent had taken a dangerous turn. (Well, it's not just cricket — the sub-continent itself has taken a fairly ominous turn) Amidst all this mayhem, was a distraught Younis Khan apologising to the Sri Lankans on behalf of his country and saying that without cricket, the country was doomed, a despondent Inzamam-ul-Haq ruing the concept of teams not touring Pakistan, a fiery Imran Khan letting the ruling regime have it for the pitiful security provided in the name of "Presidential Security".
RULING regime? Ruling whom exactly? Certainly not those bone-heads who opened fire and hurled grenades at sportsmen. Then Zardari goes and claims that India is responsible for that shameful incident. Meanwhile, his policemen round up 50 suspects. The damage has been done. And yet, Lalit "Money Money" Modi sees fit to start whining about his beloved Indian Premier League, even as Chidambaram suggests it would be safer for the league not to clash with the general elections.
Far removed from all the talk of how much each franchise stands to lose in terms of revenue if the IPL is called off, is Pak-man. An average guy who goes to work, pays his taxes, prays, raises his children and when time permits, likes catching a match or two of cricket. To dive into the metaphor of the day, he'll eat all the pills (just like his buddy Pac-Man), in the hope that there's a nice cherry around the corner for that little bonus.
DENIED!!
Some stinking no-good ghosts pop up out of nowhere and that's the end of that.
No person in the right frame of mind would want to send a team to its potential death anymore, as sad as that is to say. While it's foolish to whine, "Oh, How can you live in a place where you could be blown up or shot at any time, yaaarrr?" (insert suitably whiny voice) like so many people who leave the sub-continent for greener pastures overseas, I can't help but feel maybe Dhoni had a point.
If the Indian team (as it was scheduled to be) was in Pakistan at the time and a similar incident has occurred, it's difficult to imagine the sheer nuclear amounts of firepower that the saffron army would get access to. They'd use it as a reason to push their anti-Muslim propaganda further and while it seems presumptuous, I will still say, there would be blood running through the streets of most of India's cities. In hindsight, I'm also very happy that the government didn't let India tour Pakistan.
When I first read these words by Mahendra Singh Dhoni in the wake of the senseless attack on the Sri Lankan cricket team in Lahore on March 3, I remember thinking to myself, "What a horribly selfish and nasty thing to say". And then comments from external affairs minister Pranab Mukherjee and home minister P. Chidambaram began flowing in and it all seemed like a bit of schadenfreude at the expense of the Pakistani government. Once India's three most important men had shared their views (yes, my tongue is firmly buried in my cheek), the gates had been thrown open.
Send in the clowns!
'Expert' after 'expert' and 'specialist' after 'specialist', everyone had a view about why Pakistan should be sidelined from world cricket and how cricket on the sub-continent had taken a dangerous turn. (Well, it's not just cricket — the sub-continent itself has taken a fairly ominous turn) Amidst all this mayhem, was a distraught Younis Khan apologising to the Sri Lankans on behalf of his country and saying that without cricket, the country was doomed, a despondent Inzamam-ul-Haq ruing the concept of teams not touring Pakistan, a fiery Imran Khan letting the ruling regime have it for the pitiful security provided in the name of "Presidential Security".
RULING regime? Ruling whom exactly? Certainly not those bone-heads who opened fire and hurled grenades at sportsmen. Then Zardari goes and claims that India is responsible for that shameful incident. Meanwhile, his policemen round up 50 suspects. The damage has been done. And yet, Lalit "Money Money" Modi sees fit to start whining about his beloved Indian Premier League, even as Chidambaram suggests it would be safer for the league not to clash with the general elections.
Far removed from all the talk of how much each franchise stands to lose in terms of revenue if the IPL is called off, is Pak-man. An average guy who goes to work, pays his taxes, prays, raises his children and when time permits, likes catching a match or two of cricket. To dive into the metaphor of the day, he'll eat all the pills (just like his buddy Pac-Man), in the hope that there's a nice cherry around the corner for that little bonus.
DENIED!!
Some stinking no-good ghosts pop up out of nowhere and that's the end of that.
No person in the right frame of mind would want to send a team to its potential death anymore, as sad as that is to say. While it's foolish to whine, "Oh, How can you live in a place where you could be blown up or shot at any time, yaaarrr?" (insert suitably whiny voice) like so many people who leave the sub-continent for greener pastures overseas, I can't help but feel maybe Dhoni had a point.
If the Indian team (as it was scheduled to be) was in Pakistan at the time and a similar incident has occurred, it's difficult to imagine the sheer nuclear amounts of firepower that the saffron army would get access to. They'd use it as a reason to push their anti-Muslim propaganda further and while it seems presumptuous, I will still say, there would be blood running through the streets of most of India's cities. In hindsight, I'm also very happy that the government didn't let India tour Pakistan.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Rein Raus Rein
How do you re-enter something you'd long stepped out of? That's the question that's been whizzing around in my head like a bottle-rocket for a while now; the only thing is, I didn't know it.
I mean of course, I knew that there was something on my mind, but pinning it down... that was the challenge. And between Jackie Chan-looking Martians with Isabella Rosellini lips and a goose called Captain Rotundo that likes to chill on a page for 5 hours, it irritated me like a splinter in my mind.
Someone 'interesting' said something equally interesting to me a while ago and it went along the lines of, "Yahhh duuude I knewww this four months ago... because I'm a mogul. You've become too comfortable." Whether it was his highly elevated sense of well-being and sense of self talking or it was the fact that maybe for once, he had a point, is of no consequence. Clearly, his words resonated somewhere inside.
I forgot all about that and got back to work the next day and was working on a feature story (i.e. not a hard news report, for the uninitiated). Cracked my knuckles and set my fingers down on the slightly greasy keyboard at work and flew headfirst like a rampaging bull, into a wall. How the fuck do I write a feature? Writing report after report after report, it almost felt like I'd forgotten how to write a nice flowing feature, never mind how to write a suitably acrimonious blog post.
Getting back into something you got out of... (no innuendo intended)
Be it a style of writing that you had ignored for a while
Be it a way of life that you had left behind, perhaps in my case, university
Be it an acquaintance that faded away
Be it...
Well, anything really.. To spout an overused cliché, we most certainly are resistant to change.
Hence, the shabby nature of this particular post. I grew too comfortable with the idea of not blogging. Better offerings soon, I promise.
I mean of course, I knew that there was something on my mind, but pinning it down... that was the challenge. And between Jackie Chan-looking Martians with Isabella Rosellini lips and a goose called Captain Rotundo that likes to chill on a page for 5 hours, it irritated me like a splinter in my mind.
Someone 'interesting' said something equally interesting to me a while ago and it went along the lines of, "Yahhh duuude I knewww this four months ago... because I'm a mogul. You've become too comfortable." Whether it was his highly elevated sense of well-being and sense of self talking or it was the fact that maybe for once, he had a point, is of no consequence. Clearly, his words resonated somewhere inside.
I forgot all about that and got back to work the next day and was working on a feature story (i.e. not a hard news report, for the uninitiated). Cracked my knuckles and set my fingers down on the slightly greasy keyboard at work and flew headfirst like a rampaging bull, into a wall. How the fuck do I write a feature? Writing report after report after report, it almost felt like I'd forgotten how to write a nice flowing feature, never mind how to write a suitably acrimonious blog post.
Getting back into something you got out of... (no innuendo intended)
Be it a style of writing that you had ignored for a while
Be it a way of life that you had left behind, perhaps in my case, university
Be it an acquaintance that faded away
Be it...
Well, anything really.. To spout an overused cliché, we most certainly are resistant to change.
Hence, the shabby nature of this particular post. I grew too comfortable with the idea of not blogging. Better offerings soon, I promise.
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