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!
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
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.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
The day the passed buck got stuck - Part II
With the end of a fairly violent year and nearly the end of the first month of the year that we all hope doesn't suck as much as last year did, this seems as good a time as any to unveil the sequel to my last post, so here goes...
One of the major things I've learnt is that technology, economies, global markets, enlightenment, nobel prizes — none of that stuff matters, because at the end of the day, people are stupid. And "people", I don't mean a specific person, groups of people or nations; I am referring to the whole damn human race. It's almost as if the great creator in his/her infinite wisdom decided to bless the human race with the power of reason, insight, imagination and such-like, yet at the same time, decreed that the only way human beings would be able to survive is by being totally and utterly stupid.
The unending candlelit marches after the attacks on Mumbai are a prime example of this, because it is common knowledge that terrorists and troublemakers are deathly scared of melted candlewax. Right? Everyone knows that. I wonder if melted candlewax works on Raj Thackeray and his Massively Nitwitted Squad too. That would stop the random neanderthal outbursts and attacks on random citizens of the city.
Speaking of random attacks, here is Shekhar Kapur's blog entry about a similar act that took place just yesterday, where (possibly related) nitwits decided to take the role of moral police to a whole-new level and went into a pub and beat the living shit out of girls there. Again, because THAT is precisely what moral police are supposed to do. Right? The Thackerays unleash that ludicrous form of protest everytime something itches their collective backside in Maharashtra. So what's so odd about another state adopting the same "progressive" means for putting a point across?
Regardless, getting back to the point. This was heinous; an act of terror in itself (if you think about it) and yet, I don't see any misspelled placards and candles anywhere. Possibly because there's no cameras around?
And now I'm done talking about this...
One of the major things I've learnt is that technology, economies, global markets, enlightenment, nobel prizes — none of that stuff matters, because at the end of the day, people are stupid. And "people", I don't mean a specific person, groups of people or nations; I am referring to the whole damn human race. It's almost as if the great creator in his/her infinite wisdom decided to bless the human race with the power of reason, insight, imagination and such-like, yet at the same time, decreed that the only way human beings would be able to survive is by being totally and utterly stupid.
The unending candlelit marches after the attacks on Mumbai are a prime example of this, because it is common knowledge that terrorists and troublemakers are deathly scared of melted candlewax. Right? Everyone knows that. I wonder if melted candlewax works on Raj Thackeray and his Massively Nitwitted Squad too. That would stop the random neanderthal outbursts and attacks on random citizens of the city.
Speaking of random attacks, here is Shekhar Kapur's blog entry about a similar act that took place just yesterday, where (possibly related) nitwits decided to take the role of moral police to a whole-new level and went into a pub and beat the living shit out of girls there. Again, because THAT is precisely what moral police are supposed to do. Right? The Thackerays unleash that ludicrous form of protest everytime something itches their collective backside in Maharashtra. So what's so odd about another state adopting the same "progressive" means for putting a point across?
Regardless, getting back to the point. This was heinous; an act of terror in itself (if you think about it) and yet, I don't see any misspelled placards and candles anywhere. Possibly because there's no cameras around?
And now I'm done talking about this...
Friday, December 5, 2008
The day the passed buck got stuck - Part I
Ten people.
I still marvel at the ridiculous notion of the figures.
Are ten people all you need to grab a city by its short and curlies for nearly three days?
The death toll continues to push ever closer to 200 (at the time of going to print) and God knows how many thousands suffered injuries. Beyond the figures themselves, the thought that something of this sort just occured over a week ago also seems far-fetched.
Did it really happen or was it some horrific drug-induced hallucination?
Did those rivers and in some cases, tides of innocent blood really flow like that?
Did we really get caught so unprepared and with our pants down?
Did some of the finest officers in the country really lay their lives down for our safety?
Ask and ask yourself again, but the answer doesn't change overnight. What transpired is not going to suddenly consign itself to that box of daydreams that seem so real that you have once in a while. Facts will remain facts.
We are at War
This war however,... it's not quite as simple to classify as a War on Terror©. That being said, fighting terror is one of the major parts of this war, I won't deny. It is said and written that it is not our job to judge people and thereby persecute them etc. etc. In this case however, by their actions, not only have these 10 men made animals of the wild look completely civilised, but also their actions are their own judgment. If they are seen as being unworthy to live and as a cancer to be wiped off this planet, then that is the fruit of their own actions and not any judgment I've passed.
But that's just a minor part of this diatribe. Enough's been said and written about these characters, so I won't go on about them. But I will look at what's important. The rebuilding process. Getting back up on our feet. Dusting ourselves off. Going back to school, college, work (more on this in a bit). Grabbing it with both hands and taking our lives back.
(Insert Bill Pullman's Independence Day speech here)
But I digress.
Resignations by politicians are not the answer and neither are calls for their replacement. Ok, so they overlooked something that could have saved lives. Ok, so maybe they were callous and ignored certain important facts. Ok, with gritted teeth I'll also accept that maybe they were lazy and fast asleep while 10 maniacs landed on the Mumbai coastline.
Does that mean that now we allow them to run away from it all?
Mrs Sonia Gandhi, if you can hear me, please reinstate the Union Home minister, the chief minister of Maharashtra and his deputy. Messers Patil, Deshmukh and Patil, you should be made to clean up this mess. Fix the mistakes you have made and don't abdicate your throne leaving the job to someone else.
Meanwhile, saffron-waving vultures just looking for a chance to push the ruling party over and seize the votebank, will continue to hover. Mr Advani, if you can't be supportive and helpful as an Indian, then don't do anything at all. Destabilising the Congress is of no use; they need to fix the mess they made. Why don't you go and write another book. This time, though, stick to just fiction and not fiction-masquerading-as-non-fiction, like your autobiography.
The war I was alluding to earlier is an all-encompassing one.
A war on apathy
A war on laziness
A war on callousness
A war on petty politics
A war on corruption
But that's not where it ends... Not by a long shot. Tune in for Chapter 2, where the shit really hits the fan...
I still marvel at the ridiculous notion of the figures.
Are ten people all you need to grab a city by its short and curlies for nearly three days?
The death toll continues to push ever closer to 200 (at the time of going to print) and God knows how many thousands suffered injuries. Beyond the figures themselves, the thought that something of this sort just occured over a week ago also seems far-fetched.
Did it really happen or was it some horrific drug-induced hallucination?
Did those rivers and in some cases, tides of innocent blood really flow like that?
Did we really get caught so unprepared and with our pants down?
Did some of the finest officers in the country really lay their lives down for our safety?
Ask and ask yourself again, but the answer doesn't change overnight. What transpired is not going to suddenly consign itself to that box of daydreams that seem so real that you have once in a while. Facts will remain facts.
We are at War
This war however,... it's not quite as simple to classify as a War on Terror©. That being said, fighting terror is one of the major parts of this war, I won't deny. It is said and written that it is not our job to judge people and thereby persecute them etc. etc. In this case however, by their actions, not only have these 10 men made animals of the wild look completely civilised, but also their actions are their own judgment. If they are seen as being unworthy to live and as a cancer to be wiped off this planet, then that is the fruit of their own actions and not any judgment I've passed.
But that's just a minor part of this diatribe. Enough's been said and written about these characters, so I won't go on about them. But I will look at what's important. The rebuilding process. Getting back up on our feet. Dusting ourselves off. Going back to school, college, work (more on this in a bit). Grabbing it with both hands and taking our lives back.
(Insert Bill Pullman's Independence Day speech here)
But I digress.
Resignations by politicians are not the answer and neither are calls for their replacement. Ok, so they overlooked something that could have saved lives. Ok, so maybe they were callous and ignored certain important facts. Ok, with gritted teeth I'll also accept that maybe they were lazy and fast asleep while 10 maniacs landed on the Mumbai coastline.
Does that mean that now we allow them to run away from it all?
Mrs Sonia Gandhi, if you can hear me, please reinstate the Union Home minister, the chief minister of Maharashtra and his deputy. Messers Patil, Deshmukh and Patil, you should be made to clean up this mess. Fix the mistakes you have made and don't abdicate your throne leaving the job to someone else.
Meanwhile, saffron-waving vultures just looking for a chance to push the ruling party over and seize the votebank, will continue to hover. Mr Advani, if you can't be supportive and helpful as an Indian, then don't do anything at all. Destabilising the Congress is of no use; they need to fix the mess they made. Why don't you go and write another book. This time, though, stick to just fiction and not fiction-masquerading-as-non-fiction, like your autobiography.
The war I was alluding to earlier is an all-encompassing one.
A war on apathy
A war on laziness
A war on callousness
A war on petty politics
A war on corruption
But that's not where it ends... Not by a long shot. Tune in for Chapter 2, where the shit really hits the fan...
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Diff'rent strokes for diff'rent folks
“Bombs rip through city”
“Serial blasts ravage town block”
“900 killed in massive explosion”
I have a theory about bombs. There’s neither any scientific backing for my theory, nor is there any evidence to back it up. There’s a to-scale model of the theory, but again, it isn’t especially conclusive or definitive. Here goes anyway...
My theory is that in the event of a bomb blast, it’s rarely ever the fire or the explosive energy that gets those in close proximity. Instead, I believe it’s the raw and primal shock of watching this ginormous ripping-at-the-seams of life just in front of one’s eyes. Of course, then there’s the sound and the eventual expulsion of energy that tears up everything in its path. But, they arrive much later. Way way after the shock.
The tiny to-scale model I was talking about has to do with trying to inflate a balloon. You blow into it and huff and puff. Your cheeks turn red and you’re out of breath. So you hold the end of the balloon tightly with your fingers and breathe in deeply. As you begin pumping this latest lungful of air into the balloon, it POPS!!!!
Your heart stands still for a second and you know that there is no way the popping balloon could have injured you in the least. Yet you flinch and jump. Shock.
Now back to bombs and in addition to shock, they inevitably create tragedy. Couple shock with tragedy and what you get is complete artistic fodder, journalistic fodder, terroristic (if the word doesn’t exist, it damn well should) fodder and many many other ‘stic’s of fodder.
Everyone loves a good tragedy — especially a tragedy replete with shock.
Some filmmaker will ‘capture the emotions’ of those whose lives have been torn apart by the tragedy and turn it into a heart-wrenching film that wins the maker of that exploitative movie a ton of accolades. While the victims get a nickel!
With a twiddle of some aspiring poet’s fingers around a pen, the tragedy is re-moulded, reconstructed and re-imagined amid a flowery smattering of clichés (Everyone loves a good cliché, too) and half-baked similes to once again earn the poet praise for the ‘sensitivity’ conveyed.
A journalist will be honoured for ‘pushing the envelope’ and bringing in a brilliant story, with amazing photographs and a screaming headline. “Man!! Our readership is going through the roof tomorrow,” says the editor congratulating the journalist, basking in all the glory.
Activists will scream, “We want Justice!” when you and I can hear their actual thoughts that cry out, “We want attention!!” For their humanitarian work, they lie in wait for their Nobel frickin’ Peace Prizes.
Fashionistas (as I believe they like being called) will unveil a new line of tragedy-wear. “It’s sombre and highly fashionable. You’ll have tear-filled eyes all over you” Can’t you just hear some overfed trout talking about a new boutique and saying that sentence?
But don’t get me wrong... Amid all of this, one perky and peppy woman, with apparently the entire Revlon factory on her face will be running her cute little ass around all over the place clutching a mic (I believe a ‘boom’ is the industry term) asking everyone related to and unrelated to the tragedy the same question... “Aapko kaisa mehsoos ho raha hai?” How do you feel? How do you feel exactly?
‘Care-ists’ (people desperate to show how much they care) will overdo it, ‘Stoic-ists’ (whose image of being unmoved by anything is more important) will underdo it. And then, some idiot will go and write himself a Candle in the Wind and rake in some more of that lovely fat-cash.
Oh speaking of idiots, finally a pseudo-anti-establishmentarian idiot will write a self-serving and smug piece on an obscurely named blog to show how said idiot is ‘above’ anything and everything.
And that is the way life works.
A brilliant social commentator I was fortunate enough to know, who’d just barely dipped her little toes into the waters inhabited by Noam Chomsky, Vir Sanghvi, Walter Cronkite and Teesta Setalvad (which would make for a very odd swimming pool, I know), would probably not agree with me. Instead, she’d probably hear out my side, nodding intently all the while, before proceeding to pick my viewpoint apart with all the precision of an eagle de-fleshing a mouse’s tiny ribcage. And my theory would lie in pieces while my learning would have grown. And she’d still have found time to talk about “how scary yet fascinating this whole Al Qaeda stuff is”.
There isn’t anything to say that hasn’t been said a million times before. Nevertheless...
It’s been an honour, pal.
Fly safe.
And I will see you on the other side.
“Serial blasts ravage town block”
“900 killed in massive explosion”
I have a theory about bombs. There’s neither any scientific backing for my theory, nor is there any evidence to back it up. There’s a to-scale model of the theory, but again, it isn’t especially conclusive or definitive. Here goes anyway...
My theory is that in the event of a bomb blast, it’s rarely ever the fire or the explosive energy that gets those in close proximity. Instead, I believe it’s the raw and primal shock of watching this ginormous ripping-at-the-seams of life just in front of one’s eyes. Of course, then there’s the sound and the eventual expulsion of energy that tears up everything in its path. But, they arrive much later. Way way after the shock.
The tiny to-scale model I was talking about has to do with trying to inflate a balloon. You blow into it and huff and puff. Your cheeks turn red and you’re out of breath. So you hold the end of the balloon tightly with your fingers and breathe in deeply. As you begin pumping this latest lungful of air into the balloon, it POPS!!!!
Your heart stands still for a second and you know that there is no way the popping balloon could have injured you in the least. Yet you flinch and jump. Shock.
Now back to bombs and in addition to shock, they inevitably create tragedy. Couple shock with tragedy and what you get is complete artistic fodder, journalistic fodder, terroristic (if the word doesn’t exist, it damn well should) fodder and many many other ‘stic’s of fodder.
Everyone loves a good tragedy — especially a tragedy replete with shock.
Some filmmaker will ‘capture the emotions’ of those whose lives have been torn apart by the tragedy and turn it into a heart-wrenching film that wins the maker of that exploitative movie a ton of accolades. While the victims get a nickel!
With a twiddle of some aspiring poet’s fingers around a pen, the tragedy is re-moulded, reconstructed and re-imagined amid a flowery smattering of clichés (Everyone loves a good cliché, too) and half-baked similes to once again earn the poet praise for the ‘sensitivity’ conveyed.
A journalist will be honoured for ‘pushing the envelope’ and bringing in a brilliant story, with amazing photographs and a screaming headline. “Man!! Our readership is going through the roof tomorrow,” says the editor congratulating the journalist, basking in all the glory.
Activists will scream, “We want Justice!” when you and I can hear their actual thoughts that cry out, “We want attention!!” For their humanitarian work, they lie in wait for their Nobel frickin’ Peace Prizes.
Fashionistas (as I believe they like being called) will unveil a new line of tragedy-wear. “It’s sombre and highly fashionable. You’ll have tear-filled eyes all over you” Can’t you just hear some overfed trout talking about a new boutique and saying that sentence?
But don’t get me wrong... Amid all of this, one perky and peppy woman, with apparently the entire Revlon factory on her face will be running her cute little ass around all over the place clutching a mic (I believe a ‘boom’ is the industry term) asking everyone related to and unrelated to the tragedy the same question... “Aapko kaisa mehsoos ho raha hai?” How do you feel? How do you feel exactly?
‘Care-ists’ (people desperate to show how much they care) will overdo it, ‘Stoic-ists’ (whose image of being unmoved by anything is more important) will underdo it. And then, some idiot will go and write himself a Candle in the Wind and rake in some more of that lovely fat-cash.
Oh speaking of idiots, finally a pseudo-anti-establishmentarian idiot will write a self-serving and smug piece on an obscurely named blog to show how said idiot is ‘above’ anything and everything.
And that is the way life works.
A brilliant social commentator I was fortunate enough to know, who’d just barely dipped her little toes into the waters inhabited by Noam Chomsky, Vir Sanghvi, Walter Cronkite and Teesta Setalvad (which would make for a very odd swimming pool, I know), would probably not agree with me. Instead, she’d probably hear out my side, nodding intently all the while, before proceeding to pick my viewpoint apart with all the precision of an eagle de-fleshing a mouse’s tiny ribcage. And my theory would lie in pieces while my learning would have grown. And she’d still have found time to talk about “how scary yet fascinating this whole Al Qaeda stuff is”.
There isn’t anything to say that hasn’t been said a million times before. Nevertheless...
It’s been an honour, pal.
Fly safe.
And I will see you on the other side.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Has it really been so long?
Laydeeeez and Gentle-nerds...
This following communiqué will not delve into where I have been the last four (nearly) months. Neither will it say anything about the fact that reporting kicks ass or about the BMC, to whom I am yet to establish myself as a complete menace. It won't even talk about the fact that life imitates art and that by "art" I mean Scott Adams' Dilbert and that by "life" I mean my life and that the basis of this imitation is that an aspect of my job has me working for a micro-managing person who isn't too far removed from the pokey-haired boss Dilbert has.
No, this communiqué is one of rejoice.
Of grateful thanking.
Of hailing the Messiah.
Of faith in the cause.
October 2, 2008 will go down in history as a golden day for man, for it was the day we were all saved. Believers and disbelievers alike were shown the evil curse of smoking for what it really is, as it was banished from the country's landscape forever. Moist-eyed with pride and thankfulness, citizens applauded the saviour and lit candles and lamps and offered prayers to thank the Lord for sending this ethereal soul their way.
No longer will bluish grey swirls of aromatic smoke cloud man's vision, even in bars and clubs, so he can get back to what's really important. No more will his vision be clouded preventing him from getting a nice glance at some tasty cleavage or a particularly juicy ass. No longer will that horrible demon of "choice" be allowed to enter the mindset of man. The country is so much richer for having that beast slain.
Citizens with their candles expressed their admiration for the saviour and beseeched him to rid the world of other demons as well. They prayed for him to dispatch alcohol to the depths of hell. They pleaded with him to end the existence of heavy metal music forever. They begged of him to destroy all films that weren't Rated U (Or G in some countries); in fact, some went as far as to say destroy all cinema and seditious television programming like The Simpsons, South Park, Family Guy, WWE, 24 and so many other names that sent shivers down the spines of the citizens.
The saviour smiled, closed his eyes and nodded. "It shall be so," he said softly and added, "But first I must return to continue my war on that son of the Devil called 'choice'. I shall return soon." And with that he disappeared without the customary puff of smoke. Citizens cheered and clapped in adulation.
Thanks a whole whole lot, jackass!
This following communiqué will not delve into where I have been the last four (nearly) months. Neither will it say anything about the fact that reporting kicks ass or about the BMC, to whom I am yet to establish myself as a complete menace. It won't even talk about the fact that life imitates art and that by "art" I mean Scott Adams' Dilbert and that by "life" I mean my life and that the basis of this imitation is that an aspect of my job has me working for a micro-managing person who isn't too far removed from the pokey-haired boss Dilbert has.
No, this communiqué is one of rejoice.
Of grateful thanking.
Of hailing the Messiah.
Of faith in the cause.
October 2, 2008 will go down in history as a golden day for man, for it was the day we were all saved. Believers and disbelievers alike were shown the evil curse of smoking for what it really is, as it was banished from the country's landscape forever. Moist-eyed with pride and thankfulness, citizens applauded the saviour and lit candles and lamps and offered prayers to thank the Lord for sending this ethereal soul their way.
No longer will bluish grey swirls of aromatic smoke cloud man's vision, even in bars and clubs, so he can get back to what's really important. No more will his vision be clouded preventing him from getting a nice glance at some tasty cleavage or a particularly juicy ass. No longer will that horrible demon of "choice" be allowed to enter the mindset of man. The country is so much richer for having that beast slain.
Citizens with their candles expressed their admiration for the saviour and beseeched him to rid the world of other demons as well. They prayed for him to dispatch alcohol to the depths of hell. They pleaded with him to end the existence of heavy metal music forever. They begged of him to destroy all films that weren't Rated U (Or G in some countries); in fact, some went as far as to say destroy all cinema and seditious television programming like The Simpsons, South Park, Family Guy, WWE, 24 and so many other names that sent shivers down the spines of the citizens.
The saviour smiled, closed his eyes and nodded. "It shall be so," he said softly and added, "But first I must return to continue my war on that son of the Devil called 'choice'. I shall return soon." And with that he disappeared without the customary puff of smoke. Citizens cheered and clapped in adulation.
Thanks a whole whole lot, jackass!
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