Funny story — "A guy walks up to me and asks 'What's Punk?'. So I kick over a garbage can and say 'That's punk!'. So he kicks over the garbage can and says 'That's Punk?', and I say 'No that's trendy!'". Yup, straight from the mouth of Billie Joe Armstrong and into my ears and out onto this hallowed cultural text or palimpsest, if you prefer.
I bet you're wondering what it is that's got me so riled up this time; enough to start off this latest post with an obscure story that has little to no relevance to anything apart from the fact that the Greenday of today are an absolutely turgid musical act, peddling consumer-oriented tripe like Boulevard of Broken Dreams. It beggars belief how a band that spat out such rabid albums as Kerplunk, Dookie and Nimrod could have degenerated into this horribly manufactured-sounding, made-for-radio, play-it-safe, eat-your-vitamins, say-your-prayers excuse for what once was a punk band.
Punk, you say? "As in black t-shirts and safety pins?", I hear some of you ask? And I answer, "no, pay attention!". That word scratched crudely across t-shirts worn by preppy and trendy girls with their Levi jeans, Prada or Louis Vuitton bags and odd hairstyles — all of which change with each passing season? They wouldn't know punk if it came up and bit them in the ass. Neither it would seem would a certain singer who mistakes punks for hippies!! Honestly, what self-respecting punk would have flowers in their hair?
But enough of what it isn't. What punk was — and I do mean it in the past tense because I honestly believe that punk is well and truly dead or on its last legs at the very least — was a movement, not a genre of music or a fashion statement. It stood for the anti-establishment, rebellion, wrecked-beyond-belief tape players belching out the sounds of The Clash or Sex Pistols and for once, standing dead in one's tracks with one's middle finger held high in the air to say, "No, I will not comply". Punk was never about drugs, alcohol, tattoos or torn clothes. For its part, punk certainly had its fair share of idiots who were hell-bent on ruining it for everyone else with violence, vandalism and wanton destruction. Very understandably, the scene had its detractors who branded everyone associated with the word punk as being hoodlums, louts, yobs yada yada yada. Who gives a crap? That was the romance of punk — You and me against the world, baby!
You think any of these trendy little pre-pubescent fools have a clue about that when they carefully spin the spinny thing on their iPods and press the middle button to start the whiny cribbings of Good Charlotte or Avril Lavigne and weep about how the world is so unfair, their friends don't like them and Mom and Dad just don't understand that homework sucks. That's why I said punk is dead or nearly there and from the looks of things, it ain't making a miraculous recovery anytime soon. As for the idiots who think they're punk, the less said the better.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Manufacturing ignorance
I don't always subscribe to the adage that a picture is worth a thousand words, but in this case, I'm forced to agree.Look at it! It tells you everything you need to know about the lines and lines that are inevitably going to follow this rambling (as always) opening salvo (paragraph, to some of you). Today, the subject of my amusement/bemusement/wrath/scorn/hate isn't one that I decided to write about as a result of my own train of thought. My muse decided to work overtime today and mention the topic and like any journalist worth his salt, I snapped it up as a story idea. Cool, non? And now, without further ado, let's be getting on with the actual story.
Not a day goes by when I don't walk past some clown sporting a Ché Guevara t-shirt, whether the conventional red screen print — that seems to be most in vogue, what with the commie red — or some more elaborate designs and a collage of his images splattered all over a garden variety black t-shirt. It isn't so much that I'm opposed to Communism per se. For the record, however, I will add that I don't really think it's a feasible or viable system for governance in most of India; that's an opinion by the way. And for another record, if you like it so much, go to Kolkata.
Moving on, I'd like to reiterate that I don't really have a problem with Ernesto Guevara or his beliefs — a terrorist to some and a revolutionary to others. What I do have a problem with is ignorant idiots who'll buy t-shirts with his visage adorning them, without knowing a thing about him, let alone the fact that he was actually an Argentine or anything about his ideologies and beliefs. In fact, I'd be willing to wager that they probably think he's the frontman for Rage Against The Machine or something. I can imagine it now:
Halfwit: Yeah yeah man... me and my boyeez are down wid' da rage. We loves Cooper O' Sullivan
Fullwit: Who? Cooper O' wha-... What the hell?
Halfwit: Yeah, you know... this guy right here *points at his t-shirt and specifically at the communist star on Ché's beret* He's all about keepin' it real!
Fullwit: *finds his palm hurtling toward halfwit's face and loud slapping sound echoes*
The brunt of this trend of stupidity isn't borne solely by ol' Mr Guevara either. Rock and metal bands also find themselves on the receiving end of this nonsense. In fact, there's two rather amusing incidents to which I had the hilarious honour of being privy. The first revolves around this little boy who lived next door to me, who I happen to spot one day in a Slipknot t-shirt. I commented on it, wondering just what a kid that tiny could see in a band like Slipknot. He informed me with a grin that he just thought the t-shirt was cool and told his mom to buy it for him. Being as it was a kid, I thought nothing of it.
A few years later, a good pal of mine who shall be henceforth referred to as AJG comes across some meathead testosterone-fuelled nugget, sporting an Alice in Chains t-shirt at some gig (can't recall). So as is AJG's wont, he went to talk Alice in Chains with the gent. Said meathead has no idea what AJG's talking about, much less that a band called Alice in Chains happens to exist! He probably thought it was Cooper O' Sullivan too.
So what does this boil down to? Are these just the rants of an elitist, who expects people to know everything about what they wear? It could be argued that it isn't that important to know what's on your t-shirt as long as it's comfortable and looks good. And I could well argue that the maker of the previous argument is a grade-A moron (BURN!!). And this is where the manufacture of ignorance steps in to the picture. Chomsky spoke of consent being manufactured by governments and those in power. I speak of t-shirt printers that are laughing their way to the bank, selling a bunch of trendy/poser idiots their wares, covered with "cool stuff" all over them. They don't create t-shirt designs. They don't manufacture ignorance (the trendies do it themselves), they just exploit the lack of awareness possessed by halfwits (who it may be added, will do anything to "be cool") and what a fine job they do of it(!)
There's far too much to go into here - FCUK t-shirts, tops with CUBA lettered on them or the Union Jack emblazoned across them or even replica football jerseys for some team that the wearer has probably never even heard of. Ultimately, when one chooses what logo, phrase or image will be proudly splashed across one's torso, one accepts a certain attachment to and dare I say, responsibility for it. For instance, one can't walk around wearing a t-shirt with Hitler on it and claim not to know the implications of it. Everything has its implications and consequences. Even sporting cool logos.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
The Power of Visuals
Everybody talks about it — photographers, cinematographers, directors, artists, psychologists etc — and it's a concept accepted at face value. No one questions it and no one denies its existence. Yet, for the most of us, it's more of an idea that is spoken about and "dropped" into conversation from time to time. We rarely tend to actually see the theory apply itself in practice and actually appreciate it. The idea/theory/concept I allude to is that of the sheer power possessed by visuals.
Admittedly, I had never really experienced it, barring a few instances when a particularly moving photograph or some bit in a film or an exceptionally retina-scorching live music show blew me away. These are just a few of the instances where I felt the mesmerising touch of the visual form in a meaningful, albeit sporadic manner. And that previous sentence contains the most important word and essence of this paragraph — sporadic.
Recently, I experienced this phenomenon over an extended period of time — three hours and a bit to be a little more precise. The effect of this power I'm on such a trip about isn't restricted to only images that move a person. It's also about the basic art of communication. The hearing impaired know this well.
So, onto my actual point, I found myself earlier this week, seated in a cinema hall, watching a film in a language that is more alien to me than the concept of ethical journalism is to India TV. The film in question, of course was Sivaji. Having never spoken or understood a word of Tamil to this day, it was always going to be a daunting task to make head or tail of the film. And yes, while I was aided by a couple of helpful persons, who actually did speak Tamil, in understanding some of the subtler aspects, I was able to figure out a major part of the film with the sole assistance of the antics onscreen.
That is not to say that this was the most cerebral piece of filmmaking I've ever seen or am ever likely to see. As a matter of fact, it was no more than a monetary splurge of extraordinary proportions to tell an idealistic but ultimately naive tale of one man's quest to make the world a better place (for you and for me and the entire human race). It wasn't what could be described by any stretch of the imagination as groundbreaking cinema either, but, it was my first real extended brush with the power of visuals as a communication tool and it intrigued me. And that's pretty much what this entire diatribe was all about. Time well spent, don't you think?
Admittedly, I had never really experienced it, barring a few instances when a particularly moving photograph or some bit in a film or an exceptionally retina-scorching live music show blew me away. These are just a few of the instances where I felt the mesmerising touch of the visual form in a meaningful, albeit sporadic manner. And that previous sentence contains the most important word and essence of this paragraph — sporadic.
Recently, I experienced this phenomenon over an extended period of time — three hours and a bit to be a little more precise. The effect of this power I'm on such a trip about isn't restricted to only images that move a person. It's also about the basic art of communication. The hearing impaired know this well.
So, onto my actual point, I found myself earlier this week, seated in a cinema hall, watching a film in a language that is more alien to me than the concept of ethical journalism is to India TV. The film in question, of course was Sivaji. Having never spoken or understood a word of Tamil to this day, it was always going to be a daunting task to make head or tail of the film. And yes, while I was aided by a couple of helpful persons, who actually did speak Tamil, in understanding some of the subtler aspects, I was able to figure out a major part of the film with the sole assistance of the antics onscreen.
That is not to say that this was the most cerebral piece of filmmaking I've ever seen or am ever likely to see. As a matter of fact, it was no more than a monetary splurge of extraordinary proportions to tell an idealistic but ultimately naive tale of one man's quest to make the world a better place (for you and for me and the entire human race). It wasn't what could be described by any stretch of the imagination as groundbreaking cinema either, but, it was my first real extended brush with the power of visuals as a communication tool and it intrigued me. And that's pretty much what this entire diatribe was all about. Time well spent, don't you think?
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Solutions at the bottom of a bottle, en masse
Drinking, as I best understand it and in my humblest of opinions, is a social concept. That is to say that one generally consumes/imbibes alcohol in the company of others — a gross generalisation perhaps, but I did say ‘generally’.
Of course, there are those times when some people feel the need to seek solace at the bottom of a bottle, immerse their sorrows in liquor or drown their unhappiness and such-like. While possibly not being the best way to go about things, if it helps them, then it's all good. Right?
Said activity can occur at home, whether openly in the living room, with the TV on or sneakily in the bathroom, with a cleverly concealed bottle. It could occur out on the street, stumbling around with a brown paper bag masking a bottle, as one celebrates one's own hobo-magnificence. Alternatively, there's always a bar/pub/drinking house where seated among one's ilk, it's made so much easier to drink drink drink the night away. Of course, there are tons more places to drink, but I'm stopping now, partly out of boredom and partly because this is my stop, so I'll disembark and allow the bus of thought (yeah! Analogy King) continue its journey through your mind.
There are normal bars/pubs/drinking houses/taverns and then there are *those* bars — I'm not talking about dance bars,... at all. Walking past one of *those*, it's not hard to feel a twinge of sympathy, perhaps even empathy for its patrons. To explain my fairly vague point, I shall resort to the use of an example — a fine example, quite possibly the best of its kind.
Café General, mere spitting distance away from Wilson College comprises this brilliant example. A cursory glance into the place as you walk past it will show you exactly what I mean. Almost all the tables in that place are taken up by solo drinkers. Ignoring the economical downside for the proprietors of that dive (one seat occupied per four chairs ain't good economics), it truly is a sight and a half to gaze upon the sea of depressed faces staring into the distance or giving their drink a little shake and knocking it back. Slowly, they rise reluctantly and in super slow motion, to leave and go home presumably, to families that probably give them unimaginable amounts of grief. Their jobs have probably stopped being troublesome chores, because they've either already been fired or the part of them that wanted to do something creative and fun to earn money is pushing up proverbial daisies. Sobering huh?
What makes this joint even more morose — if that were humanly possible — isn't the appropriately matching long faces of its waiters. It's the droning jukebox, emitting strains of the most depressing Hindi music from years long gone. The archetypal black and white flick music that would usually depict the protagonist sitting on a footpath, crooning sadly into the night. You know the type. What would probably constitute devdas music — not to be confused with the soundtrack of the films, but you know what I mean.
Logically, it wouldn't really make a whole heap of sense to depress oneself further, if one were already depressed. So why surround oneself with even more sorrow, be served by sorrowful waiters to the strains of sorrow hanging in the airwaves? One of those new-age remedies, perhaps?
Of course, there are those times when some people feel the need to seek solace at the bottom of a bottle, immerse their sorrows in liquor or drown their unhappiness and such-like. While possibly not being the best way to go about things, if it helps them, then it's all good. Right?
Said activity can occur at home, whether openly in the living room, with the TV on or sneakily in the bathroom, with a cleverly concealed bottle. It could occur out on the street, stumbling around with a brown paper bag masking a bottle, as one celebrates one's own hobo-magnificence. Alternatively, there's always a bar/pub/drinking house where seated among one's ilk, it's made so much easier to drink drink drink the night away. Of course, there are tons more places to drink, but I'm stopping now, partly out of boredom and partly because this is my stop, so I'll disembark and allow the bus of thought (yeah! Analogy King) continue its journey through your mind.
There are normal bars/pubs/drinking houses/taverns and then there are *those* bars — I'm not talking about dance bars,... at all. Walking past one of *those*, it's not hard to feel a twinge of sympathy, perhaps even empathy for its patrons. To explain my fairly vague point, I shall resort to the use of an example — a fine example, quite possibly the best of its kind.
Café General, mere spitting distance away from Wilson College comprises this brilliant example. A cursory glance into the place as you walk past it will show you exactly what I mean. Almost all the tables in that place are taken up by solo drinkers. Ignoring the economical downside for the proprietors of that dive (one seat occupied per four chairs ain't good economics), it truly is a sight and a half to gaze upon the sea of depressed faces staring into the distance or giving their drink a little shake and knocking it back. Slowly, they rise reluctantly and in super slow motion, to leave and go home presumably, to families that probably give them unimaginable amounts of grief. Their jobs have probably stopped being troublesome chores, because they've either already been fired or the part of them that wanted to do something creative and fun to earn money is pushing up proverbial daisies. Sobering huh?
What makes this joint even more morose — if that were humanly possible — isn't the appropriately matching long faces of its waiters. It's the droning jukebox, emitting strains of the most depressing Hindi music from years long gone. The archetypal black and white flick music that would usually depict the protagonist sitting on a footpath, crooning sadly into the night. You know the type. What would probably constitute devdas music — not to be confused with the soundtrack of the films, but you know what I mean.
Logically, it wouldn't really make a whole heap of sense to depress oneself further, if one were already depressed. So why surround oneself with even more sorrow, be served by sorrowful waiters to the strains of sorrow hanging in the airwaves? One of those new-age remedies, perhaps?
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Bloodsport - The Romance of Sports Movies
Before we begin, there are a few things that must be clarified. Firstly, it must be made clear that this isn't the kind of place where you can expect to read detailed layouts of places or word-based blueprints of cities. This is also not the place for repentance, regret or feelings unrequited.
What you can, however, expect to read on The View From Beneath Your Skin are my views, rants and opinions on several matters that interest, entertain or affect me. They do not represent the truth in terms of your truth, his truth or her truth. It is more a case of it being MY truth. If you choose to agree with me, great! If you don't, even better!! But do tell me why.
Now that that little rant is out of the way, it's time to examine a topic fairly dear to my heart. Sports movies, to me, represent everything that is pure, good and wholesome in the world of cinema. Now whether that's Bobby Boucher (The Waterboy) racking up a last second touchdown or Michael Jordan (Space Jam) netting an 11th hour slam dunk or Bhuvan (Lagaan) cracking a huge six off the last ball, there is no doubting the power of these films. Infusing hope, belief and an allround feeling of warm fuzziness inside is what these films do and they do it well. Very well...
Of course, there's no doubting the formulaic and almost contrived nature of these sagas. Misfit team contains problematic people. Problematic people have problems and conflict between them. They are brought together by the unifying power of the desire to play as a team, to play well and ultimately, to win. Often, this occurs in the face of insurmountable odds, in the face of being crushed by the opposition, being humiliated by them and eventually, ending up as losers. Situation usually comes to a climax in the final game of the season, after the losing streak was halted by an inspired coach, who came up with that one amazing speech, which gave the team everything they needed to hear.
A quick montage shows us just how well the training picked up after the inspiring speeches. Try any of the Mighty Ducks movies, Rocky movies or for that matter, H-E Double Hockeysticks.
SLIGHT DETOUR - On the topic of inspiring speeches, nothing beats Bill Pullman's little "..We are going to live on.. we are going to survive.. today.. we celebrate.. our Independence Day!!" speech, despite ID4 not really being what one could describe with any degree of accuracy as a sports movie. Still, good speech is good speech. And now, on with the show...
So the montage shows just how effective the coach was and then the team plays their final match and come half-time, they're on the receiving end of a potential annihilation. Enter coach and inspirational "Do it for the Gipper" or "Be proud of your achievements" or " Be perfect and be a good human being and have a great time" speech results. Players leave the dressing room misty eyed and roar onto the field and whaddaya know? The team is re-energised and all of a sudden, they're playing a hell of a game and find themselves back in it, amid a montage of scoring shots (goals, baskets, touchdowns, tries, wickets, runs etc etc).
And then!!! Scores are level, with only seven seconds to play and the coach has to devise a new strategy and so he inevitably pulls out some old strategy he came up with aeons ago (Iqbal anyone?) . And once again, surprise surprise, at the final second, our team.. that's right.. OUR team clinches it in style!!! They win the most important match of the season and everything else is A-OK. Divorced parents come together, grades are superb, a jilted lover re-enters the fray, bullies begin to applaud and all those people who doubted the boys and girls in the team once upon a time, are up on their feet and clapping their asses off.
You'd think I'd be sick of this same planned and 'by the playbooks' ending after every film, but I'm not. I love it!
That being said, a few movies do go out of the way and kill the sameyness of a home team win, by throwing a bit of heartbreak into the mix, most notably Cool Runnings, Rocky Balboa, Any Given Sunday, Saturday Night Lights and so on and so forth. Very often, this makes the runners up or losing team appear to be stronger, more gallant and better human beings after losing and still being able to keep their heads up high, having fought the good fight.
And before I end up dragging on and on, I guess what I'm trying to say is that I love sports films, because they always lift my mood, not for their realism, not for the message they try to leave the viewer with and certainly not the acting. In my view, it takes a beautifully crafted film, and more importantly, a succesful film that will make the viewer care about its characters. I'm yet to see one that has left me apathetic to the plea of its team members and I hope to God I never see one that kills this, my favourite escapist pastime.
What you can, however, expect to read on The View From Beneath Your Skin are my views, rants and opinions on several matters that interest, entertain or affect me. They do not represent the truth in terms of your truth, his truth or her truth. It is more a case of it being MY truth. If you choose to agree with me, great! If you don't, even better!! But do tell me why.
Now that that little rant is out of the way, it's time to examine a topic fairly dear to my heart. Sports movies, to me, represent everything that is pure, good and wholesome in the world of cinema. Now whether that's Bobby Boucher (The Waterboy) racking up a last second touchdown or Michael Jordan (Space Jam) netting an 11th hour slam dunk or Bhuvan (Lagaan) cracking a huge six off the last ball, there is no doubting the power of these films. Infusing hope, belief and an allround feeling of warm fuzziness inside is what these films do and they do it well. Very well...
Of course, there's no doubting the formulaic and almost contrived nature of these sagas. Misfit team contains problematic people. Problematic people have problems and conflict between them. They are brought together by the unifying power of the desire to play as a team, to play well and ultimately, to win. Often, this occurs in the face of insurmountable odds, in the face of being crushed by the opposition, being humiliated by them and eventually, ending up as losers. Situation usually comes to a climax in the final game of the season, after the losing streak was halted by an inspired coach, who came up with that one amazing speech, which gave the team everything they needed to hear.
A quick montage shows us just how well the training picked up after the inspiring speeches. Try any of the Mighty Ducks movies, Rocky movies or for that matter, H-E Double Hockeysticks.
SLIGHT DETOUR - On the topic of inspiring speeches, nothing beats Bill Pullman's little "..We are going to live on.. we are going to survive.. today.. we celebrate.. our Independence Day!!" speech, despite ID4 not really being what one could describe with any degree of accuracy as a sports movie. Still, good speech is good speech. And now, on with the show...
So the montage shows just how effective the coach was and then the team plays their final match and come half-time, they're on the receiving end of a potential annihilation. Enter coach and inspirational "Do it for the Gipper" or "Be proud of your achievements" or " Be perfect and be a good human being and have a great time" speech results. Players leave the dressing room misty eyed and roar onto the field and whaddaya know? The team is re-energised and all of a sudden, they're playing a hell of a game and find themselves back in it, amid a montage of scoring shots (goals, baskets, touchdowns, tries, wickets, runs etc etc).
And then!!! Scores are level, with only seven seconds to play and the coach has to devise a new strategy and so he inevitably pulls out some old strategy he came up with aeons ago (Iqbal anyone?) . And once again, surprise surprise, at the final second, our team.. that's right.. OUR team clinches it in style!!! They win the most important match of the season and everything else is A-OK. Divorced parents come together, grades are superb, a jilted lover re-enters the fray, bullies begin to applaud and all those people who doubted the boys and girls in the team once upon a time, are up on their feet and clapping their asses off.
You'd think I'd be sick of this same planned and 'by the playbooks' ending after every film, but I'm not. I love it!
That being said, a few movies do go out of the way and kill the sameyness of a home team win, by throwing a bit of heartbreak into the mix, most notably Cool Runnings, Rocky Balboa, Any Given Sunday, Saturday Night Lights and so on and so forth. Very often, this makes the runners up or losing team appear to be stronger, more gallant and better human beings after losing and still being able to keep their heads up high, having fought the good fight.
And before I end up dragging on and on, I guess what I'm trying to say is that I love sports films, because they always lift my mood, not for their realism, not for the message they try to leave the viewer with and certainly not the acting. In my view, it takes a beautifully crafted film, and more importantly, a succesful film that will make the viewer care about its characters. I'm yet to see one that has left me apathetic to the plea of its team members and I hope to God I never see one that kills this, my favourite escapist pastime.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Hey buddy, got a nickel?
The giving of alms is considered a virtuous deed in many religions of the world today. The act of donating to those less-fortunate and the needy can even be seen by some as being divine. In a less religion-driven and more practical context, a couple of rupees here and there may not mean anything to the giver, while to the givee (I like the word 'givee', but the English language refuses to show any cognizance to it, so substitute it for 'accepter', if you prefer), it could mean the difference between something to eat and an empty stomach, being burnt away by gastric juices.
And there ends the ethical side of this piece, so for the squeamish among you, a click of the back button or a swift scroll down or up, is recommended. For the rest, here comes the disclaimer.
I am not raising myself on a pedestal and looking down contemptuously on those less fortunate than me.
I am not poking fun at people to whom life has dealt a difficult hand.
I am not turning preachy and saying "get a job and stop begging!!" either.
What I am however, endeavouring to do is to compile and hammer out a set of observations and things I've picked up and seen over time to create a little list (by no means complete nor definitive) of "begging techniques" I have witnessed. As a wannabe journalist, it would actually be wrong of me not to document all this, so again, easy with the brickbats.
Before "techniques" came about, there was the very simple and basic statement of need, accompanied by an outstretched palm facing the sky. No pretense here, no emotional blackmail, merely, expressing the fact that one was in need and required a bit of a monetary push. Polio is one of those conditions that is rampant in this country of ours and consequently, a number of streetdwellers are affected by it. Similar to the basic statement of need is the demonstration of need. Through this, one would walk up and show one's affected limb and ask for the aforementioned monetary push.
Soon after, came the facilitated tears method, whereby a mother would pinch her infant, causing the little one to explode into tears and the sight of a weeping infant would induce the extraction of a bit of pocket change from the wallets of the alms-giver and into the mother's hand. Bada bing bada boom!
Coercion through spiritual sentiment is next on this list, with "Allah ke naam pe de-de" or "Bhagvaan tumhara bhala karega" topping the list of most-heard phrases. This method seems to try and create within the potential giver, a feeling that blessed will they be, should they cough up some dough. In my humble opinion, this is where emotional blackmail began kicking in into the "techniques".
Moving into the present and looking at some slightly more "contemporary techniques", there's the insistence of nourishment method, which involves children insisting that they will buy food and often, specifying just what they'll buy. This probably stems from the widespread notion (misguided or not, it's not my place to comment) that alms are swiftly spent on alcohol or a quick fix of crack. Furthering this "technique", is the medicine packaging method, which usually involves an empty aluminium and plastic wrapper, used usually to package tablets and capsules. Said wrapper is shown by the potential alms acceptor to the potential giver as a way of establishing that one requires the money for medicines. Again, it is not the purpose of this piece to judge, but there is no way of telling where the wrapper emerged from and whether the person actually needs the medication.
Next up, are some of the stranger methods I have observed. The first of these is the scare shitless through abuse method, which involves loud and raucous abusive screams aimed at the potential giver as a way to guilt/scare them into making with the moolah. An example of this is screams of " <Expletive> Bhooke ke pet par laath maarta hai,
Finally, and possibly the most bizarre "technique" of all is the earthquake method. This is usually executed while the potential giver is in some sort of vehicle, generally a taxi. Potential acceptor will position oneself next to the door and attempt to use the statement of need method. If that fails, one will grab the car door in tandem with an accomplice grabbing the boot of the car. They will both proceed to rock the car from side to side until it irritates the driver of the car and he/she is forced to get out of the car and make them disperse. It is unclear as to what exactly this particular method achieves, but suffice it to say that experiencing this method once, is enough.
And that brings this little list to an end. Additions, comments and criticism will be most appreciated.
And there ends the ethical side of this piece, so for the squeamish among you, a click of the back button or a swift scroll down or up, is recommended. For the rest, here comes the disclaimer.
I am not raising myself on a pedestal and looking down contemptuously on those less fortunate than me.
I am not poking fun at people to whom life has dealt a difficult hand.
I am not turning preachy and saying "get a job and stop begging!!" either.
What I am however, endeavouring to do is to compile and hammer out a set of observations and things I've picked up and seen over time to create a little list (by no means complete nor definitive) of "begging techniques" I have witnessed. As a wannabe journalist, it would actually be wrong of me not to document all this, so again, easy with the brickbats.
Before "techniques" came about, there was the very simple and basic statement of need, accompanied by an outstretched palm facing the sky. No pretense here, no emotional blackmail, merely, expressing the fact that one was in need and required a bit of a monetary push. Polio is one of those conditions that is rampant in this country of ours and consequently, a number of streetdwellers are affected by it. Similar to the basic statement of need is the demonstration of need. Through this, one would walk up and show one's affected limb and ask for the aforementioned monetary push.
Soon after, came the facilitated tears method, whereby a mother would pinch her infant, causing the little one to explode into tears and the sight of a weeping infant would induce the extraction of a bit of pocket change from the wallets of the alms-giver and into the mother's hand. Bada bing bada boom!
Coercion through spiritual sentiment is next on this list, with "Allah ke naam pe de-de" or "Bhagvaan tumhara bhala karega" topping the list of most-heard phrases. This method seems to try and create within the potential giver, a feeling that blessed will they be, should they cough up some dough. In my humble opinion, this is where emotional blackmail began kicking in into the "techniques".
Moving into the present and looking at some slightly more "contemporary techniques", there's the insistence of nourishment method, which involves children insisting that they will buy food and often, specifying just what they'll buy. This probably stems from the widespread notion (misguided or not, it's not my place to comment) that alms are swiftly spent on alcohol or a quick fix of crack. Furthering this "technique", is the medicine packaging method, which usually involves an empty aluminium and plastic wrapper, used usually to package tablets and capsules. Said wrapper is shown by the potential alms acceptor to the potential giver as a way of establishing that one requires the money for medicines. Again, it is not the purpose of this piece to judge, but there is no way of telling where the wrapper emerged from and whether the person actually needs the medication.
Next up, are some of the stranger methods I have observed. The first of these is the scare shitless through abuse method, which involves loud and raucous abusive screams aimed at the potential giver as a way to guilt/scare them into making with the moolah. An example of this is screams of " <Expletive> Bhooke ke pet par laath maarta hai,
Finally, and possibly the most bizarre "technique" of all is the earthquake method. This is usually executed while the potential giver is in some sort of vehicle, generally a taxi. Potential acceptor will position oneself next to the door and attempt to use the statement of need method. If that fails, one will grab the car door in tandem with an accomplice grabbing the boot of the car. They will both proceed to rock the car from side to side until it irritates the driver of the car and he/she is forced to get out of the car and make them disperse. It is unclear as to what exactly this particular method achieves, but suffice it to say that experiencing this method once, is enough.
And that brings this little list to an end. Additions, comments and criticism will be most appreciated.
Matchstick Symphony
What does a matchstick sound like when it's blown out? Go on, try it. How much of an interference does it cause to the rest of the sounds around you, in your room, at anna's or wherever else you may be? Do you remember the sound, say, 15 or 20 minutes after the matchstick's been blown out? And if you do, can you reproduce the sound in your head for more than a day after you hear it? And then, can you describe the sound to someone else at that point?
Before I am mauled and run over by a tirade of "no way!!"s and cries of "you sold out!!", I hasten to add that this isn't a bleeding heart ode to all things touchy-feely or anything of the sort. I'm still all man, baby!!! So put away your brickbats, cease the name-calling and stop burning those damn effigies. Alright?
Over time, I have permitted my writing travel only down certain tried and tested avenues, aloof to, perhaps afraid of peeking down different alleys or trying alternate routes. The fear of the unknown, possibly? Who's to say? Who's to know? So, without further ado, let's get on with it.
Anyway, the point of this symphony is more to do with the symphony of life (mention The Verve and get a slap in the mouth; I do actually like them, so I don't know what the slap would achieve, oh well). So, yes, the symphony of life comprises a mélange of sounds, from the time you come screaming into this world to the time you leave it, amid the hushed and buffered sound of sniffs and sobs (or loud guffaws and cheers, if you happen to have lived the life of an A-hole).
Along the way, there is the tittering of little girls as they make fun of a small boy who is apparently infested with cooties. Meanwhile, somewhere else on the planet, a dog howls into the night, lonely, aroused or just plain confused. Leaves rustle, the wind whistles, chisels ..ermm... chisel and my jokes continue to fizzle amid a sea of groans.
These sounds and trillions others come together to make up the symphony of life. But, and here I revert to my original point, what of the sound of the matchstick being extinguished? An inconsequential matchstick that's worn out its welcome and needs only to be discarded. After all, of what use is a matchstick once it's gone out? But I keep coming back to its sound. It is still a member of the symphony right? It is as much a part of the symphony as the sound of a young street child being cracked in the side by an oncoming vehicle, crushing part of his pelvis and sending him hurtling across the road, crashing into the tarmac with a sickening thud as his head is busted wide open.
Does he curse out loud?
Does he whimper softly?
Is he capable of emitting sound?
And what after his mangled corpse is scraped off the road and moved out of eye-shot and the large rivers and little tributaries of crimson blood streaming from where his carcass lay and into the gutter are washed away by jets of water? What then? Does anyone remember the sound of that matchstick as it was extinguished? Could anyone really be expected to?
Can I expect to remember it?
Before I am mauled and run over by a tirade of "no way!!"s and cries of "you sold out!!", I hasten to add that this isn't a bleeding heart ode to all things touchy-feely or anything of the sort. I'm still all man, baby!!! So put away your brickbats, cease the name-calling and stop burning those damn effigies. Alright?
Over time, I have permitted my writing travel only down certain tried and tested avenues, aloof to, perhaps afraid of peeking down different alleys or trying alternate routes. The fear of the unknown, possibly? Who's to say? Who's to know? So, without further ado, let's get on with it.
Anyway, the point of this symphony is more to do with the symphony of life (mention The Verve and get a slap in the mouth; I do actually like them, so I don't know what the slap would achieve, oh well). So, yes, the symphony of life comprises a mélange of sounds, from the time you come screaming into this world to the time you leave it, amid the hushed and buffered sound of sniffs and sobs (or loud guffaws and cheers, if you happen to have lived the life of an A-hole).
Along the way, there is the tittering of little girls as they make fun of a small boy who is apparently infested with cooties. Meanwhile, somewhere else on the planet, a dog howls into the night, lonely, aroused or just plain confused. Leaves rustle, the wind whistles, chisels ..ermm... chisel and my jokes continue to fizzle amid a sea of groans.
These sounds and trillions others come together to make up the symphony of life. But, and here I revert to my original point, what of the sound of the matchstick being extinguished? An inconsequential matchstick that's worn out its welcome and needs only to be discarded. After all, of what use is a matchstick once it's gone out? But I keep coming back to its sound. It is still a member of the symphony right? It is as much a part of the symphony as the sound of a young street child being cracked in the side by an oncoming vehicle, crushing part of his pelvis and sending him hurtling across the road, crashing into the tarmac with a sickening thud as his head is busted wide open.
Does he curse out loud?
Does he whimper softly?
Is he capable of emitting sound?
And what after his mangled corpse is scraped off the road and moved out of eye-shot and the large rivers and little tributaries of crimson blood streaming from where his carcass lay and into the gutter are washed away by jets of water? What then? Does anyone remember the sound of that matchstick as it was extinguished? Could anyone really be expected to?
Can I expect to remember it?
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