Growing pains

I haven’t written very much (hardly even a word) about the two most burning issues in India yet and it’s not been only due to laziness. I figured they’re getting enough attention from other sources, so why me bother? Right? Well, yes and no, it’s just that now the time seems right to offer comment. But first... the good news. No wait, the good news will have to wait a second. Let’s have the AWESOME news first.

Err... I’m actually lost for words. For the last few days I’ve used the most outlandish metaphors, similes and general statements to describe this news, and now I seem to have blown a literary fuse. I haven’t the words to embellish this outstandingly wonderful good news. I’m still reeling from it, y’see. Reeling from the fact that I haven’t been on a self-destructively fun holiday in a while, with the exception of monkeying around with LT, but that was more of a babysitting assignment (hyuk hyuk). So Bengaluru and New Delhi it is. January. To see The Prodigy. That is all...

Now onto the good news. The Commonwealth Games (to be referred to from this point as simply CWG) look like they’ll actually happen. Well, they bloody well should, given that today’s the opening ceremony. I know what you’re thinking. ’Twas only a matter of time till I too jumped on the CWG-bashing bandwagon? No. Be patient and read (and besides, I’m fighting a tight deadline, targetting wrapping this up before the ceremony starts, so I know how the CWG peeps feel).

The reality of the situation is that while the enduring image of these games, to me at least, should have been the awestruck faces of little kids watching a 100-metre race or some long (or high) jump action or the pole vault event or anything for that matter. My theory is that the more kids who find themselves more enamoured by a long-ass fibreglass pole than a wooden bat, the better our nation’s level of athletics will be. But I digress. If the kids don’t turn up, then I’d have hoped that the enduring image would have been the victory dance or celebrations of a new star. Someone who’d just broken a long-standing record. Someone who’d picked up a stack of medals.

All my scepticism and cynicism aside, I never thought it would be that image. You know the one I mean. Maybe I believed that somewhere, at some point, the authorities would actually get serious about more than lining their own pockets. It’s possible. You’d have thought that they would have considered the potential for embarrassment in front of the whole effin’ world. Maybe? The thought had crossed my mind. That’s when it hit me. Kalmadi’s corruption is not something I wish to discuss (although you have to wonder how Rs 70,000 crore or 700 billion could be so shamelessly pilfered) but it’s glaringly obvious why the CWG village was in such a squalid state.

The sports authorities in this country have always treated our athletes like shit. There’s no way of sugar coating it. Unless they’re cricketers or someone who’s (despite the shitty facilities and management) gone and won a medal somewhere — then there’ll be loads of fawning and photo opportunities. But for the majority of athletes, they’re horribly ill-treated and so, Kalmadi probably thought, “Hey, athletes are athletes. Who’s gonna notice if I pocket the money meant for them and let them slum it out. Besides it’s only 14 days. Fuck ’em.”

No Mr Kalmadi, fuck you. Corruption is one thing. Stupidity and arrogance is quite another. Claiming that these Games would be bigger and better than the Beijing Olympics is the single most moronic thing you could have ever thought of. Never mind the fact that you actually said it. And also, when you’re in the wrong, accept it. Don’t act so Goddamn brazen. Please.

Getting back to the international humiliation aspect, a lot of people are upset at the sort of outspoken criticism that India has been receiving from all quarters. Some are even questioning why the world hates India. The first thing to do is not cry and feel sorry for ourselves. Instead, use it as a reality check. Yes, the organising committee really screwed up. The government did drop the ball on this one. A lot of people made us, Indians look extremely stupid (Like the dumbass who said foreign standards and our standards of hygiene are different. WTF?). And finally, the brilliantly understanding cricket board decided to schedule an India-Australia series at the same bloody time.

But if we are to harbour dreams of rising out of this Third World Country status and being taken seriously as a world power, scrutiny and indeed, criticism is inevitable. It’s been around forever. Remember Prince Phillip in all his princely majesty looking at a fuse box that was faulty and proclaiming, “Oh I do say Lizzie, this fuse box looks like it was put together by an Indian. Narf narf narf.” To which, I’m told the Queen replied, “What have I told you, Phillip? You call me Queen.”

In fact, it’ll be worse than ever when the world sees we’re trying to assert ourselves. The criticism will go from “Oh, you’re so filthy” to “Your momma” type insults. Being so thin-skinned and crying about it isn’t the way to go. And sure, our momentum has been hit by this fiasco. But that’s alright. There’s still time. And usually, the really malicious insults have a way of coming back to bite people in the ass.

Slight detour: I was on a Prodigy bulletin board the other day, when I saw a thread about the upcoming India tour and in one of the entries, some user whose avatar picture depicted some sort of eagle in the foreground with the St. George’s Cross in the backdrop. He had written something along the lines of “Are the lads sure they want to go there? What if the stage collapses like? Heh heh”. Not very nice, but okay. On Saturday, a burst water pipe causes part of the ceiling of the visitors’ changing room at Sunderland’s Stadium of Light to come crashing down, leaving Manchester United homeless. Karma? Maybe. That’s why I’m not going to tempt a Karmic bite in the ass by saying something like “Stadium of Shite”.

Also, a shitty build-up doesn’t necessarily mean crappy Games, right? They could end up being quite good actually. India could get a massive haul of medals. Some new stars could be born. Who knows? And now that the CWG is hours from getting underway, I plan to put my support behind it. There’ll be enough digging around and heads rolling after they’re done, anyway. I just hope the right heads roll and not some scapegoats.

Speaking of scapegoats, God, who has often been blamed for so much bloodshed, animosity and bigotry in this country I call my home, probably breathed a sigh of relief this Thursday. Not for the sakes of our livers though (it was the first of three back-to-back dry days), but because the nation finally showed a bit of maturity. It hinted that maybe it’s citizens are growing up. Maybe there’s more than black and white (or in this case, saffron and green). Yes, the Ayodhya verdict where the land was split three-ways, was a little controversial, but it was brilliant to see most people saying, “Yeah alright then. It’s the fairest decision.”

Sure, the petitioners are going to appeal to the Supreme Court, but that’s what a democracy is about. Go for it. Appeal. HOWZZAT!!! (Poor taste, I know). But answer me this: how many people were killed in communal riots after the verdict? Zero. Despite the fact that the media in its overzealous reportage seemed like it was almost goading people to fight (and one newscaster actually looked dismayed at announcing that there was no violence), no one took to arms. I liked that. It filled me with hope. A feeling that despite the fact that there are still creases in our system, the ironing process has begun.

And after the CWG, we’ll suddenly wake up and realise something. Two things. Who the fuck cares about the Commonwealth anymore and why the crikey-fuck are we trying to preserve the history of colonialism?!?

Cowardice in the Gaudy Age of the Grotesque

I’m pretty pleased with myself.
2008 was one of the slowest years for The View.
Only 16 posts and most of them sucked.
That’s not why I’m pleased.
I thought the Gaudy Age of the Grotesque series would be a two-parter.
A trilogy at the very most.
Now, we’re already staring down the barrel of part five.
BANG!

It was at the end of another woefully mismatched contest in the IPL between the Mumbai Indians and Deccan Chargers that the broadcasting channel decided to show some “exclusive” footage of that night’s post-match party. There’s this new concept they have of a party (in the city in which the match was played) every night at the end of the match with random celebrities preening and posing for cameras and hob-knobbing with cricketers, team owners and socialites. I hear they also have ramps and fashion shows by designers who couldn’t quite make it to a normal fashion show. Presumably, the cricketers model their wares. Or something. I don’t know.

And so, on this so-called exclusive footage was a television presenter with horrible facial foliage, who is described by a colleague of mine as a choosa hua aam (sucked-out mango). So this mango man walks up with his cameraman and microphone to IPL Commissioner (that name still makes me laugh; makes it seem like he’s on Raw or Smackdown) Lalit Modi and Sushmita Sen, who acts in films and adopts little girls. So, mango master asks some inane questions that are fresh out of the training manual for banal TV presenter-style chit-chat.

After gushing about Sachin was her favourite cricketer, Sen proceeded to answer mango mania’s next query about which team she supported. Some nit-witted giggly joke about being a neutral supporter was followed by—... You know what? This doesn’t really capture the essence of it at all. Let’s try again.


Mango Masala: So Sush... *cracks one of those ‘Eyyyy’ smiles* Are you enjoying the cricket?
Sen: Oh my, yes... of course *trying hardest, it would seem to convince herself* It’s... great.
Mango Masti: Yeah? *absolutely shocked by that response* Wow, that’s great. Do you have a favourite cricketers?
Sen: Well, let’s see... *rumbled, she realises she needs to come up with some names*. I have a lot of favourite players *phew, she sighs, that was a close one, but it’s best not to take chances, so who’s that guy everyone knows... errr... he’s on hoardings, tv and errr...* But my all-time favourite is Sachin Tendulkar. He’s just... great *phew, home and dry*

Mango Mahal: Yeah? That’s... great *if it’s not a Citi Moment of Success, or a Karbonn Kamal Catch or a DLF Maximum... it must be great* Which team are you supporting in the IPL?
Sen: *bloody hell, what is this, a trial? what where those teams called again, she wonders briefly, grins and notices that creepy Modi leching at her from off camera* Well, you know I... just like your commissioner Mr Modi, I too am a neutral supporter
Modi: *ain’t got nothing to do or say... wait, camera’s turning towards him and so he grins*
Sen: I usually select the team I’m going to support after the match has started *need to know who’s winning to then support them... wait, that came out wrong... backtrack* and I always back the underdog.

At this point, Modi clears his throat and gets ready to open his mouth. The guy was adept enough at inducing thousands to cringe in the first couple of IPLs, but he has been nothing short of an utter embarrassment in this particular edition. First off, he has the most moronic speech-writers. Either that or he writes them himself and they’re very very poor. Secondly, at every match, he runs around the stadium in a bit to sit next to every vaguely famous person at the ground and ensures that he is shown doing so onscreen. And some member of the commentary team, usually Ravi Shastri (you too have become such an embarrassment) will announce in a regal manner, as his heart beats proudly in his chest, “The commissioner, ladies and gentlemen... Lalit Modi” or some shite like that and Modi’ll smile and wave at the camera. It sickens me.

Honestly, watching the IPL is an emotionally traumatic process. Ads. Interruptions. That stupid Spanish horn. Modi. Shilpa Shetty. Some would call it Emotional Atyachar. (Bud-dum thish!) A television show called Emotional Atyachar, which is basically a copy of the American show Cheaters as I’ve been reliably informed, recently received a strongly-worded call from the Maharashtra Navnirman Sena. It’d take too damn long to go into just how dodgy the concept of the show is so I’ll make it ultra ultra brief (Go me!). Boy/girl suspects partner is cheating, gets TV channel to plant spycams, microphones and decoys to administer “loyalty test” and show all footage to boy/girl who suspects partner, followed by a final showdown.

No, it isn’t the dubious moral leanings of the show that invited the MNS’ wrath and threats of violence. One of the girls who suspected her boy friend of being a dirty no-good rat, said “Bombay” instead of “Mumbai” on the show. This led to the threat, which was followed by extra care by the Emotional... people to never let anyone say “Bombay” again and a ticker across the screen apologising for the mistake. Ok. The Shiv Sena a few days earlier attacked the nearly 130-year-old Bombay Natural History Society for not changing its name to “Mumbai Natural History Society”. BNHS didn’t apologise or anything though. Good on them.

Which brings us back very neatly to mango mambo, Sen and Modi. To recap, Sen had just said that she supported the underdog and...

Sen: *underdog eh? so, by that logic...* And so today, I was a Deccan Chargers supporter
Modi: *jumps in over-enthusiastically* Nonsense, she supports Bombay!

Did you hear that, MNS and Sena? Lalit Modi said Bombay on TV. I don’t see your goons trying to break down his door, smear ink or paint on his face and tear his clothes up. What happened? Got scared that he might have security guards, who might have an automatic weapon that might be unloaded in the heads of your foolish followers? What’s the matter, o protectors of Mumbai and its culture? Doused your drawers at the thought of taking on Modi Inc? Happy taking on the little guy, but revealing what cowards you are when it’s time to carry your agenda to the big dog. It’s really sad.

Keep it up and carry on beating up North Indians and then see how quickly this city goes to hell. Honestly, starting fights when people say “Bombay”? Grow up. I bet Modi just said it to show how you can’t touch him. So this then, is for you, Shiv Sena and MNS. Read as carefully as you can.

Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay Bombay effin’ Bombay. Jo ukhaadna hai, ukhaad le abhi.

Dear God, please don’t send me to hell

Having visited four of the major stops on the Gaudy Age of the Grotesque tour, the time has come to take a slight detour. Worry not, there’s plenty more subject matter that Earth 2010 has to offer for numerous more sequels to the Gaudy Age of the Grotesque tetrology or quadrilogy (I’m not 100% on which one is more correct). Anyway, there’s a lot more going on in the world than merely grotesque things like those beautiful little things that happen every so often.

For the more pedantic among you, there can be beauty in the grotesque and yes, I concede that at times, the grotesque can be beautiful, but that’s really not what I’m on about, so pay some bloody attention.

Justice is one such thing of beauty. From the way a little kid smiles when a toy or sweet or something that has been snatched from him, is returned to him and the snatcher duly punished to the relief the real mother of the baby must’ve felt when King Solomon of Bible Land weeded out the impostor mother. I assume you know the story of “Whose baby is this? Let’s cut it in half”. And I’m not just talking about the justice of men, whether that be criminal justice, civil justice, parental justice, street justice etc. etc. etc.

Animal justice is a thing of beauty too. Not a day goes by when the newspapers don’t have something about x number of animals being poached. Not a day goes by when the Internet doesn’t have a new picture of some poor defenceless animal maimed with an arrow or firecracker or something. And not a single day goes by when I don’t hear a dog howl in pain somewhere in the dark dead of the city. Then there’s times when animals are provoked and they retaliate, injuring or killing humans and so they just have to be put down... or to put it as what it is, killed.

Speaking of being killed, let me take this opportunity to make it abundantly clear that I do not revel in the joy of other people’s misfortune. Schadenfreude is not one of those things I consider as my hobbies. I do not wish death upon anyone and nor do I take joy in the death of anyone. I believe in justice, but I am opposed to the death penalty. So, keeping these pointers in mind, you may now read on.

Elephants, apart from seals and beluga whales (among others), are some of the most adorable creatures to have ever live on this planet. And they’re all essentially non-violent creatures until provoked. That seems perfectly rational. (I bet if you sat jabbing and prodding Mahatma Gandhi or Dr Martin Luther King Jr with a sharp object of some kind all day, eventually they’d probably snap and slap you upside the head.) Maybe. Seals, elephants and belugas are subjected to some truly heinous treatment that is dished out by man.

So it brings a smile to my face whenever I see these subjects of the Animal Kingdom get justice. Yesterday, at the Byculla Zoo, some stoned nitwit jumped the fence and entered the elephant enclosure and mosey down towards the pair of jumbos, who were busy eating. Like most creatures, elephants immensely dislike being disturbed or interrupted when they’re eating. But said nitwit decides to ignore the signs saying “Stay Out” and ventures in anyway.

I’m told that around Ganeshotsav (the Ganesh festival), fools often get wasted and in a bid to receive blessings from Lord Ganesh, they think to themselves, “I know! Here’s the next best thing!!”. And they invade elephant enclosures at zoos to go and touch their feet. Now you can only imagine what an elephant would make of this weird guy (or gal) grabbing at his feet. Think of your reaction if a sewer rat was on your foot. You’d kick it the F away, wouldn’t you? Same thing. Accordingly, tens of people are injured or worse trying to force some blessings out of elephants, every year.

Now back to our elephant, who was eating and who I’m reliable informed was 53-year-old Lakshmi, got mad as hell and told her food, “Hold up a second. I’ll be right back.” She charged out and walloped that sucka over the head with her trunk. Kablamis!! Don’t fuck with the eating elephant, son. Sadly, the impact of the blow caused serious head injuries to the man and he succumbed on the way to the hospital. Shame. It would’ve been a lot better if he had lived to tell the tale.

Just like animals that have been branded, probably gather at animal bars to tell each other stories about what they went through during the branding process, this guy with a massive dent in his skull would have people hanging on his every word at country liquor bars as he told them about the elephant that banjaxed his skull. That, unfortunately, was not to be. Talk about heavy-handed treatment (Highly inappropriate, I know).

What really took the cake though, after this whole incident, was the zoo’s vet reassuring me that the elephant was fine. She should be, considering she started a movement of justice for her whole species. All hail this big ol’ four-legged Rosa Parks with a Malcolm X attitude and a trunk. Hey, that just gave me an incredible idea for an eight-part TV drama or at worst, a sitcom.

Daily (almost) deadweight disaster

So there I was in my “need to know” pose at a coffee shop I’ve begun frequenting quite regularly since LT’s visit, desperately waiting for a phone call. A doctor was supposed to call me back with a clincher quote that would put the exclamation point, as it were, on my story. Watching people walk by is overrated. So is sitting around twiddling a pen between your fingers. Actually, it wasn’t a total waste. I did see this absolute fool with a jauntily-angled cap on his head, a t-shirt that was at least 10 sizes too big and jeans that were probably slung just above his knees, judging by the fact that the crotch of the jeans nearly touched the ground. I’m sorry, but housing is just a stupid concept.

No, he wasn’t African-American. He was just a local moron, who seemed to be from Bandra (sorry, couldn’t resist it).

So anyway, once I finished shaking my head at the state of today’s youth and the clothes they wear, my eyes that were now in the highest state of alertness, caught sight of a street-dwelling woman carrying her baby. Seemed like a happy enough baby. 10 fingers. 10 toes. Curious eyes darting around like a peregrine falcon on speed. In the middle of a sip of my middling-to-decent shot of espresso, the baby gets pissed off at something and starts crying loudly.

In an effort that looked driven more towards shutting the baby up, rather than pacifying him/her, the mother starts whacking the baby over the head — albeit not as hard as the word “whacking” would imply, but still pretty hard, considering a baby’s soft skull and all that. It made me remember that I’ve always hated being hit on the head, top of the head or back of it. There’s something very very insulting about it and obviously dangerous about it too. My brain’s got a lot of mileage left in it. There’s a lot I plan to do with it. Hands off.

But throughout my life, I’ve seen people wantonly hitting each other over the head. Mark my words, it’s dangerous. Take daftie for instance. You know daftie. The guy who thought he was black a few paragraphs above. I bet that lad was beaten fairly mercilessly over the head as a child. Maybe he still is. Who knows? I just wish I’d taken a photo of his ludicrous appearance.

Another thing that has always freaked me out is the thought or sight of any sort of injury to the eyeballs or the sternum (breastbone). I’m cringing as I write it. Makes me shudder almost as much as the idea of Camilla Parker-Bowles in the nood. Super-Mega-Shudder.

That’s what makes me queasy. What amuses me no end, in retrospect however, is a numb arm. It’s amused me for a while, but I’ve surprisingly never felt the need to articulate my thoughts about that peculiar form of temporary paralysis. Reminds me of a song actually. One that was introduced to me by a fellow who was pretty peculiar, himself. The song’s a lot of fun and it pays homage/mocks the musical style of a number of bands including Rage against the Machine with this particular line, done in their style.

Corporate America makes pencils
For the man with the left hand
They make pencils for the man with the right hand
But what about the man with the numb hand?

Did I mention that the whole song is about falling asleep on one’s arm and it going numb? I meant to. The track is by The Aquabats and is called I fell asleep on my arm. But back to the real issue, waking up to a numb arm is one of the scariest things I’ve ever encountered. You’re in the middle of a bomb-ass dream and out of nowhere, you wake up... a little dazed... incredibly disoriented... and suddenly, you can’t breathe.

Damn straight you can’t breath. There’s this heavy thing on your chest. And worse, you only have one arm! So you use that arm to lift the heavy thing off you. No luck. It’s deadweight. But what the hell happened to your other arm? That’s right. It’s dead and lying across your chest suffocating you. Sweet sweet irony. Being killed by your right arm (right hand would sound better, but a hand is pretty light).

You try to throw your arm off you and once in a while it lands smack! on your nose, causing the involuntary watering of your eyes. Stop for a second. Regain composure. And then you aim to hurl the arm off your face. You succeed! Boo-yah! Except the momentum of the arm flying away, often carries your body off the bed and onto the floor, with a dull thwap!-sort of slapping sound. How appropriate. You just got bitch-slapped by your own stupidity. Well done! That shit is funny as hell in retrospect.

Why is any of this relevant? Because it bloody damn near happened to me again last night. Previous occasions have seen me get a black eye from falling on my alarm clock or the edge of a bedside table. This time though, my consciousness was slowly taking over and I stopped myself on the very edge of the bed. A semi-Matrix semi-Mission Impossible scene was what I had going on there. Go me!

But seriously, numb arms scare me. It’s all fun and games until you sever or damage a nerve or something. And this happens to me almost on a daily basis. Shudder.

Why so discourteous?

Flatulence, as you know, kids, is the expulsion through the rectum of a mixture of gases that are a byproduct of the digestive process of mammals mainly. The noises commonly associated with flatulence are caused by the vibration of the anal sphincter and occasionally This mixture of gases is known as flatus or informally, as a simple fart. Apparently, someone who farts for a living — a professional farter is called a flatulist. Apparently.

An air-biscuit is another name for flatus, that is far nastier, but a lot funnier too. Air-biscuits are undoubtedly the source of much mirth and hilarity. They’re not, you say? Then how do you explain the fact that the business of whoopee cushions is still booming? Maybe it isn’t. I don’t know for sure. But I do know they’re sold all over the world. I also know that they have remote-controlled devices that can emit the sounds of a flatus symphony... on demand.

I also know something that might be an urban legend but here goes... some weird girl, well known to a few friends of mine, allegedly goes around saying, “Oops! Came out!” every time she drops an air-biscuit, the frequency of which I’m told is alarmingly regular. Could be a flatulist for all we know. Anyway, the comedy value of farts is not something I intend to discuss here.

It’s the timing that I’m more concerned about. Only a couple of hours ago, I attended a meeting of the mayor of Stuttgart and his Mumbai counterpart. I would’ve thought the occasion would bring out the best behaviour from Mumbai’s representatives, who in an ideal world, would want to show their city in the best light. Wake up and smell the moonshine, I later found me saying to myself. When it wasn’t a reporter burping or slurping tea uncomfortably close to my ear, it was a senior councillor unleashing his volley of burps. When that wasn’t the case, it was Mumbai’s mayor who had no idea of what to say or do, leaping at the snacks on offer, almost as if it was the last plate of sandwiches (and some other junk) left in the world.

Then, as the discussion between the Stuttgart mayor and the commissioner of Mumbai (because the mayor of Mumbai had nothing to say) got to the topic of water management, I hear one of the peons — as he walks past me — let out a low, bass-heavy rear blast. I watched on incredulously as he continued walking nonchalantly past the dignitaries. Ok,... that happened, I said to myself as I tried to pay attention to what this dude from Deutschland was talking about.

Then it happened. That final switch. That last thing that told me loud and clear — Citizens of my city have absolutely no regard for manners, courtesy or even appropriate behaviour.

<I had an inkling about this when I first started living in Mumbai in 2005, when I noticed how people could not stop staring... at anything... anyone. A number of people I know have ranted about this staring thing, some have blogged. In fact, I know a few of these starers too.>

Staring, though was the least of my concerns. That final switch was the realisation that people believe it to be their God-given right to have their mobile phones on Ultra Loud mode at the most idiotic times. I’ve known this for a while, but it all came together today. I’ve seen mobiles ringing loudly in hospital wards, theatres during plays, cinema halls, press conferences, college lectures and even at a small meeting with the Nation’s Prime Minister.

The worst offenders are cameramen and photographers, who for some reason live under the belief that vibrate mode has not been invented and such a concept does not even exist. In fact, talking softly is a concept that’s alien to them as well. Aside from a couple of exceptions, most people I know in these categories are the loudest and most obnoxious people alive. To top it all off, they have the most annoying ringtones on the planet. Criminally irritating stuff.

Today’s photographers were no exception. Loud jangly and oppressive ringtones. In the middle of the meeting. What took the cake was that the deputy public relations officer, for whom (on a side note) food is a fulltime occupation, also did not have the sense to keep his phone silent, because sure enough, his phone began ringing loudly, throwing the mayor of Stuttgart off for a moment, in the middle of a sentence.

The deputy PRO merely glances at his phone... in the process, allowing it to ring for a while longer and then as nonchalantly as the farting peon, proceeds to slip the phone back into his pocket, as his eyes track another plate-load of food travelling across the room.

It wouldn’t be right to pass judgment, I know. And I’ve always been taught that being rude to someone rude, isn’t the right way to do things. The fact that I disregard those teachings most of the time is a different story altogether. Telling someone something politely... that serves no purpose. Yelling at them... even worse as you’ll probably get beaten. Ignoring them... hard to do, very hard to do and in a way, it shows that you accept what they’re doing.

So what have we learnt? Nothing.
What changes will we make in the future? None.
Where will all the knowlege you’ve gathered through this post, take you? Nowhere.

And yet, the sheer degree of catharsis from having vented all this, compels me to quote Lt. Aldo Raine who said, “You know somethin’, Utivich? I think this might just be my masterpiece.”

Snippety-snip snap shenanigoats

I was never particularly in love with a festival to the extent that I’d wait impatiently for it to arrive. As far back as I can remember, it’s always been the festivity in the air that appealed to me. And by festivity, I don’t mean long poojas and prayers, fireworks, coloured powder, eggs, halls decked with boughs of holly... Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la and so on and so forth. Festivity to me is the unpredictable mood in the air around those times of the year. You never can say for certain what someone’s going to say or do next.

Sometimes you get doses of great unpredictability like a different city’s bureau of your publication sending you pages early in the night. Sometimes it’s shady unpredictability with a friend pissing all over your collective plans because of a family function he/she simply must attend. So yeah... that’s why I like festivity.

In the festive mood that I presently find myself, I decided to walk on down to the ol’ barber and get a haircut for the whole “ushering in the New Year” thing. It’s times like these that I really hate Hollywood for selling me a false dream. I’m talking about the films Barbershop and Barbershop 2, where said barbershops are bursting with conversation, people cracking jokes and odd characters throwing down some heavy socio-political discourse. The barbershop I frequent, which for some reason is called Air-Cool, is nothing like that.

In fact, Air-Cool is so damn cool that some geezer has immortalised it with this black and white photograph I found online. Upon looking closely at it, I found that the man posing at the front is the same idiot who cut my sideburns too damn short this morning.

As I’m getting weary of repeatedly pointing out, I’ve just gone and digressed again. Now this is one of those places where piped instrumental versions of old Hindi music plays over the chorus of clicking scissors, the hum of electric clippers and of course, the swishing sound of the sweeper clearing away freshly cut hair from the barbershop floor. Peaceful and calm is great, but where’s the conversation?

Faced with that predicament, you sometimes try and engage a barber in a conversation, but the high-levels of stress that emanate from him, with each word you say seemingly adding a wrinkle on his forehead, the desire to talk disappears pretty damn quick. Sometimes the barber is too lazy to respond in any more than monosyllables. So whatcha gonna do? You sit and look around at the people, see if they’re having more fun than you.

Some people make faces as they’re being shaved, others have their faces buried in magazines and a third group just glare at you for looking at them. Fortunately, as I was waiting for my turn in the chair, I got a fair bit of entertainment as well as an important lesson in human psychology and I do believe I’ve come up with some sort of theory that would be admissable in scientific journals.

I’ve seen toddlers get haircuts before. I’ve never before seen two toddlers getting haircuts in the same barbershop at the same time. So naturally, curiosity got the better of me and after sharing a sympathetic half-smile with a seriously harrowed-looking dad, the show began. Toddler A was with his dad (the harrowed guy) and Toddler B was with his mom and dad. Toddler A was first off the mark and unlike any wee ‘un I’ve ever seen, this guy was wide-eyed and wore a wider grin and followed the electrical clippers as they buzzed around his head. I think it’s safe to say he was loving it.

Meanwhile, mom and dad put Toddler B into the chair after a lot of coercion, including a promise to show him crows after the haircut. Seeing the barber wield some long scissors, mom asks him to swap the scissors for electric clippers. While in the red corner, ol’ Toddler A is gurgling to himself and the harrowed dad suddenly seems at peace.

Just then, the peace and quiet is interrupted by a piercing little scream, followed by the loud bawling of Toddler B. He’s not liking it. Not liking it one bit. Thrashing his neck from side to side to avoid the buzzing machine. His little hands clench into tiny baby potato-size fists, while his toes curl up with irritation. Toddler A’s peaceful reverie smashed, he turns to see what all the commotion is about. This is the crucial moment.

He sees Toddler B crying his little lungs out and looks down, Toddler A that is, looks down at his hands and sees little wisps of hair. Hair that’s just been cut from his head. His eyebrows very slowly turn from a flat line like a calm sea to a growing wave and finally a raging tsunami. Running concurrently to all this, his lip starts to quiver and KABOOM!! The weepy bomb explodes. Now, we have crying and screaming and weeping in stereo surround sound.

By then of course, it was time for me to be seated and Toddler A was done with his haircut and Toddler B’s parents had given up. But one thing really stuck out for me. Go back to that crucial moment I spoke about. Toddler A was perfectly happy and then when he saw Toddler B crying, he suddenly started crying. My theory is that it is at this age where the concept of peer pressure or the herd mentality (I’m not sure which) is built into the human system.

Maybe if babies were isolated from one another, they could grow to be individual ladies and gents with their own sets of views, not just some noise about bitches and Nike shoes. You know? Think of the potential for advancement in all of life’s fields. More focussed human beings. Like androids. Or cyborgs.

Then again, maybe Toddler A just got scared.

Boab Mar-lay’s Greatest Hits

I think we’ve all had shitty days
We’ve all had times when we dread the thought of going to work
Or even sometimes, dread the thought of going home.
We’ve all fought with people and come out of the fight angry, hurt or depressed.
There have also been times where it seems as though we’ll never smile again.

In those particular situations, music tends to pick me up, cheer me up, fire me up or whatever the need of the hour is. But there are a few times when even music falls sadly short. What do you do then? I don’t know about you lot, but one thing that never fails to cheer me up is the manifestation of a WTF? Moment before my very eyes. It could be anything, from a man falling over to someone shouting a dorky name out loudly across the street. It could and very often is some obscure phrase a colleague of mine comes up with before jiggling his belly to the beat of the universe (I like how it sounds, I don’t know what it means).

Right, so now that the jibber-jabber of the introduction or lead as it were, has been dealt with and is out of the way, we can actually get to this latest WTF? Moment I experienced. After a fairly ratty day a week or so ago, I found myself on the train heading to work, with my earphones tucked in. As I was sifting through my tracklist to find something to fit the mood, I was shaken out of my dreary state by the sound of three youths yelling and screaming about something.

Sensing a fight about to kick off, I moved to the side to avoid being in the firing line. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you feel after reading this story), it wasn’t a fight at all as it turned out and was just three collegians having a “conversation”.

Before I get into it, let’s meet the characters...
1) A is clearly the leader of the gang, but not in a cool Top Cat kinda way. More in a creepy, “Yeah my brother is drug dealer and I think he’s really cool. Hopefully, he’ll let me deal for him too, so you guys know just how cool I am” kind of way. Spiked hair, an ear piercing, a Ché Guevara t-shirt and a mouth that is filthier than Chris Rock’s.

2) B is A’s little lackey, his little yes-man if you will. Bespectacled and sporting a truly honourable attempt at using hair oil to imitate his leader’s spiked look. Slightly less mouthy but equally annoying.

3) C is the new kid. While A’s trying to show him the levels of coolness he can aspire to, B’s doing his best to reinforce A’s cool credentials and how C’s life would be so much better if he joined this gang.

I tried to ignore them and switched on some Therapy?. Sadly, the trio drowned out any semblance of sound in my phones. So I figured, hey, why don’t I just listen in. After all, it’s not eavesdropping if you’re listening to a loudspeaker, in this case, a human loudspeaker. I can’t be bothered to write out what they said in Hindi and then translate it, so I’ll just transcribe it in English. I’ll try not to lose the essence in the translation.

A: C, You should come to this party we’re going to, over the weekend.
B: Yes, it’s going to be great
A: And don’t worry. You’ll get everything there *brings his fingers to his mouth and takes a drag from an invisible joint and then takes a swig from an invisible bottle of booze*
C: Really?
A: Of course, we only go to great parties... like this one
C: Wow.

A: And don’t worry about the money. We’re always taken care of. My brother—...
B: Yeah, his brother has contacts...
A: But the best kind of parties to go to are rave parties
B: Rave parties are the best
C: Rave?
A: Yeah, there’s all the drinks and drugs you want and once you’re buzzed, the best kind of music to listen to, is trance. Tu pagal ho jaayega (You’ll go insane)
B: True. Tu pagal ho jaayega (You’ll go insane)

C: I’m not quite with you. Rave?
A: Yes, they’re great. But we only go to this one farm in Amboli. The cops never catch us there because they join us at the party.
B: That’s right.
A: But the best music when you’re high is trance. Tu pagal ho jaayega (You’ll go insane)
B: Tu pagal ho jaayega (You’ll go insane)

<At this point, I am totally hooked. Whether or not I remember to climb out of the train at my stop, is immaterial right now>

A: Trance is the best. You should listen to some.
B: Yeah. Totally
C: But what is it?
B: You know that Goan guy with a long white beard? He makes trance music.
C: Which guy?
A: Have you heard of Boab Mar-lay? [prounced: Bobe (rhymes with hope) Mar-lay (rhymes with parlay)]
B: Yeah yeah yeah! That’s the Goan guy with a beard.
A: No, it’s not.

A: Boab Mar-lay is from Mexico and he got kicked out from there. Now no one knows where he is but he’s still making great music. I have 40 GB of music on my harddrive, of which 13 GB is only Boab.
B: You listen to his music, tu pagal ho jaayega (You’ll go insane)
C: Sounds quite good. I’ve never heard any though.
A: I’ll rip some for you. You see Boab Mar-lay was kicked out from Mexico by the government. Why? Because of his message, which is the thing I love the most. His message is that you should enjoy every moment and have a great time all the time. So do all the drugs you want, drink as much as you want, because life is about enjoying yourself. He has a few songs about cocaine and how it’s something everyone should do. We’ll get some cocaine at the party.
B: Yeah, you’ll love it—...

***

It was then that I had to tear myself from my seat and alight at Lower Parel station. How I wish I could’ve heard more of that bizarre conversation that left me with numerous WTF? Moments and a bemused half-smile across my face. Now I need to go and check out some Boab Mar-ley, if you’ll please excuse me.

Hostages at Home

Warning: It’s been a while since I issued any disclaimers. Let’s see if I remember how to do one. The views expressed below are not as part of a political debate about states or languages. The views are not to pass judgment on what is set to happen in the near future. If you read and interpret them that way, then you’re really really missing the point... and you’re a moron too. Enjoy!

Apparently, a hostage is “a person held by one party in a conflict as security that specified terms will be met by the opposing party”. In other words, the safety of said hostage hangs in the balance and the hostage-taker poses a threat to the hostage’s life. Agreed? Good, then I’ll continue. Now, holding someone hostage in most parts of the civilised world is tantamount to an act of terror, or at its very least, an act of crime. In India for instance, as per section 364 of the Indian Penal Code,...

“Whoever kidnaps or abducts any person in order that such person may be murdered or may be so disposed of as to be put in danger of being murdered, shall be punished with imprisonment for life or rigorous imprisonment for a term which may extend to ten years, and shall also be liable to fine”

I shall safely assume at this point that you, good reader, agrees with me that errr... taking hostages are baaaad... Mmmkay? There’s a funny story I once read that some small hick-ass town in the United States punishes an unsuccessful attempt at suicide with the death penalty. Whether that’s true or not is immaterial. What matters is that it’s a damn funny story. Anyway, as far as an unsuccessful suicide attempt is concerned, the Indian Penal Code says...

“Whoever attempts to commit suicide and does any act towards the commission of such offence, shall be punished with simple imprisonment for a term which may extend to one year 1 or with fine, or with both”

People all over the world will tell you that it’s not the destination, but the journey that counts in life. One shouldn’t be preoccupied with reaching a point, instead one should take in the sights, the sounds and the smells along the way. Well your journey is over, dear reader, because here comes the point.

In the Indian state of Andhra Pradesh, a movement of secession has been ongoing since God knows how long for a separate state called Telangana, which as Wikipedia will tell you, means Land of the Telugus. The demand for a separate state has been on for a while and most recently, one of the most vocal advocates of a separate state, Mr Kalvakuntla Chandrashekhar Rao launched a fast-unto-death, demanding that the government create a separate state called Telangana.

This standoff went on for around 11 days and his health grew steadily worse, just as his supporters turned increasingly violent until the government finally blinked and said that the process of creating this new state would begin in January 2010. Well, now KCR (as he’s better known) is a hero to his people. Once he recovers his health, he will be garlanded, praised, poured milk upon, cheered etc. etc. Indian cult-of-personality and all that.

But what about the fact that what he effectively did was hold a human being hostage? What about the fact that his threat was to effectively kill a person if he did not get his state of Telangana? And what about the fact that what he was doing was really a case of attempted suicide? Albeit a very slow attempt. Will there be any imprisonment for him? Or a fine, even? Hell no.

For you see, the act of going on a fast-unto-death or a hunger strike has been a part of India’s cultural history, ever since its inception. Gandhi employed this particular tactic to great success and since then, numerous politicos have taken his cue and gone on these hunger strikes. Where does it all stem from? I don’t know.

But I have a theory. Threatening to kill oneself is merely a branch of a tree rooted so deeply in humanity’s collective mindset, that it’s often hard to imagine life without it. Each and every one of us has had a branch from that tree brush past us or whack us across the face at some time or the other in our lives. The name of the tree? Emotional blackmail/manipulation. Not really one of those Latin kingdon-phylum-class-species type names, but it’s a real tree.

The profundity of that last paragraph has just left me speechless, so I shall end here. As for you, gentle reader, you are advised to comment and share your views about this here topic with me... or I’ll never speak to you again.

Mambo Number Fifty

"What a stupid idea!" I hear my voice resonate in my head as I knocked the idea of having a weblog. "Me? Blog?? Forget about it.. What a stupid word 'blog' is!" The idea that other people could have access to my thoughts on issues — issues that make me happy, those that make me angry, those that leave me apathetic and others that make me go "whoa!" — was a little scary.

I wasn't an exhibitionist after all.

I had no desire to make a scene and a hue and a cry of my views. Or did I?

It's now been around two years that I've had this blog knocking around — not particularly long, one may argue. But damn!! This inanimate little excuse for a journal has seen a shitload in its time.

Around four facelifts

Tributes to cricket/cinema/music/Will Smith

Sarcastic and sneering attacks at a whole variety of targets

Peanut butter Jelly time! Peanut butter Jelly time!

Pure unadulterated "can't eat, can't sleep, World Series sorta thing" elation

Bitter crushing heartbreak

A variety of cyber pets (two to be precise, but what the hell)

And as of today, 50 posts...

Not much, I know. But each one of those 50 was churned out with a chunk of me torn out from within and deposited in the words. I have never felt the need to blog for blogging's sake. It's always been about scratching an itch. If something itches me, I'll metaphorically scratch the living bejeezus out of it on The View. That's how it's always been. That's how it will always be.

Well done for surviving 50.

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!

Have you ever had the feeling...

... that you want to punch the ceiling?
So you step out of your house, you can't take it anymore
In your quest for absolution
There is only one solution...
Kicking pigeons in the park!!

The excellent lyrics of [spunge] aside, this frame of thought has passed through my brain on numerous occasions over the past few days. Talks about aliens secretly entering our plane of existence are a mere instance when those feelings subside. But the rest of the time, the urge for extreme violence aimed at my ceiling enter my head with alarming regularity.

And then, something as unexpectedly weird, yet unexpectedly pleasant as herding goats comes along and I find myself cackling like I used to in the Team 163 era. Oh those cackles... As rare as those cackles are, my feelings of being sane find themselves being even rarer. I need a neural shake-up... I need to be thrown against the wall, like Karl Urban (Reaper in the film Doom) was, by The Rock... I need some sort of electrifying slap that wakes me up. Clinging onto some place in my mind where I thought I used to live (until eviction) isn't very me.

They say that support from those around you helps. And 'they' may well be right. But for now, what really gets my engines pumping and gets me striving for that bigger score is the scornful and defiant apathy of certain people around me. This factor is one of the driving forces that I love to rely on to really light a fire under my ass and get me all rabid for action.

So, to those people, I invite your scornful defiance. Nothing drives me like you guys! Mucho thanks and tons of appreciation to you. While I may not see you lot again, you certainly will see me — maybe just my name — as you hold open your favourite publications. I will be there. As you turn the pages. I will be there. As you throw it on the floor, wishing your name was mentioned. I will be there.

I am destined to be there.

Festivities and the re-emergence of glass

Almost two weeks ago and after much will-they won't-they (in my mind at least), Rock in India finally descended on these shores. Headlined by the arguably past-it Megadeth and the more rabid than ever Machine Head, the show, as expected did not disappoint... in the least. More pictures than just these, may be viewed here.

The show's immense success (in my opinion and this will be discussed later) could largely be attributed to two factors. The first would have to be Machine Head's undisputed power, majesty, brutality and utter and complete pwnage (there you go Pastry, something for you *chortle*). The second and more surprising (for me at least) of the two factors is the fact that with a couple of exceptions (neither of which need to be named), all the Indian bands really came to the party.

This, it should be noted, is no small feat considering the magnitude of odds stacked against them. First off, the stage being occupied by the international acts was humongous compared to the one being used for the seven home bands. Secondly, the apathetic attitude of a significant number of audience members meant that they stood around or sat in the heat, right in front of the large stage from afternoon or so, in the hope of being right at the front for the international bands. While it could be argued that it's not everyday that one gets to see Megadeth and Machine Head, it was very easy to get right up front even if you weren't sitting at the front from the beginning. Anyway, it was their loss. I'm not complaining. The pictures above depict the stark difference of scale between the two stages. Anyway, despite bands like Motherjane appealing to the "main stage crowd" to come on over or at least, sing along, they sat in their own bliss in front of the main stage and ruminated on the show they may or may not see.

Which is all the better for people like me who got the slap-in-the-face of a lifetime (5 time recurring slaps notwithstanding) and were ripped, torn and shredded by the sheer brilliance of bands like Prestorika (thrash as it should be played), Junkyard Groove (difficult to pigeon-hole, but brilliant as a jazz/funk/rock quartet), Motherjane (mindblowing INDIAN rock/metal; just listen to the song Mindstreets), Millenium (ripping sounds of old school metal) and Pentagram ('nuff said). Pentagram are an established act, Millenium have been churning out their sounds for over two decades. Regardless, this quintet of bands destroyed any preconceptions that the Indian bands were merely spectators at a showcase of two international acts.

After this bruising set-up provided by our home bands, Machine Head stepped in and blew my head away. Even my good friend Sandy Quest couldn't contain his sheer admiration for the power exuded by Robb Flynn and the boys as they tore Bangalore apart with a brutal eight-track set. It's interesting because a normal MH show would be a showcase of heavy stuff, fun stuff, sing-along stuff, downer stuff and the works. This show seemed to be devised in a way that would obliterate any spinal columns or bones of other types in its midst. Belting out seventy five thousand tonne heavy songs, one after the other, (only to be interspersed by the ethereal Descend the Shades of Night) it seemed that their agenda was to fill up the emergency wards in all of Bangalore's hospitals. Kudos must go to the band for the way they entertained the crowd in between pulverising them with their tunes. The onstage banter in lieu of an extra song or so would not have been missed by the crowd. Of course, Megadeth came on next, flat as flat can be; devoid of any real enthusiasm, energy or electricity. I say 'electricity', because even the Gods decided that Machine Head were getting a rough deal playing second fiddle to the band Kerrang! magazine described in a review for an album as "the patchiest band in the world". Seemingly in a rush to catch the first flight out of India, they rushed through their set and went through the motions with all the usual solos (bum notes notwithstanding), platitudes ("We will be back, Bangalore!") and crowd-involving behaviour (turning a mic towards the crowd to get them to sing). That really is all that needs to be said about the disappointing end to the show.

People on online fora and blogs however will crow about what an "experience" it was to see their "heroes" (Mustaine, Broderick and the other two?) in the flesh and how it brought tears to their eyes. Good for them! I'm glad they demand so little of the music they claim to love. As for others, they cried about how crappy the sound was, how desi the Indian bands sounded, how Pentagram sucked, how Prestorika should never have been there, how Megadeth weren't done justice by the fact that their volume was turned down after Machine Head and how India isn't a rock/metal nation. Despite all this nonsense, music was the winner. Guys and gals like me and Sandy respectively got to see bands we'd never normally see and we loved it! That was a festival. Walking around, checking out merchandise (I refer to t-shirts, key-chains, CDs and such-like; I am not sexist), closely scrutinising the food on sale, checking out bands one wouldn't normally listen to, striking up conversations with random idiots and running into people one met at the Sepultura show in Bangalore (Nov 07).

Of course, it isn't my place to tell people to have an opinion that matches mine. Everyone is entitled to their own. Even the people who sat at the stage who I branded victims of a colonial hang-over are entitled to believe what they wish to and do as they please (as long as it's legal, natch). The same logic applies for the self-righteous mobs rising up to decry Indian males in light of Scarlett Keeling's tragic death in Goa.

Crucify me, if you will, for saying 'death' and not 'brutal rape and murder'. The circumstances surrounding her demise don't change the fact that she passed away; in other words, it was in fact, her death. So, I would invite all pedantics to go and jump off the nearest multi-storey building. It sickens me when unrealistic morons try to play the "Firangis mess around with the culture of this country and get their comeuppance" card. The real point here, is that there are most definitely a number of sickos in this country; a majority of who are men. For instance, some peon was arrested yesterday for molesting a four year old girl. Honestly! It takes a person with real mental deficiencies as a human being (if I am now accused of being prejudiced towards the differently abled, I would invite those accusers too to jump off the nearest multi-storey building), to stoop to that level.

The police in Goa appear to be hiding some important and fundamental truths and if they, in fact, are doing so, they should be taken to task. There are no two ways about that. My contention, however, and the "re-emergence of glass" part (a reference to those with glass stomachs, whose heads are so far up their own rectum that basic vision is impossible sans a clear viewing window of glass) pertains to the way Indian males are being blamed for all this. Sweeping statements like "all Indian men are sexually deprived and yada yada yada" serve no purpose. But stop! I'm by no means exonerating a minority (yet one that makes itself notorious by its sickness) of men who indulge in the most heinous antics known to man. The jackasses who molest women on trains, lech at random tourists and go to the extent of raping innocent children are not being spoken for here.

I am trying to speak for the average Indian male. The one who respects women as human beings who are just like him. The one who has grown with strong female role models around him. The one who treats women as his equals and superiors whom he must compete with on a level playing field, in order to get somewhere in life. The one who has been brought up with 'Respect' as one of his major values. And to me, that final point, is the most poignant. It's all well and good in Indian society to claim that women are subordinate to men and that they must just go along with whatever the man says. That sort of attitude breeds mothers and fathers who reinforce this misplaced 'male mentality' as NDTV's presenters, newspaper columnists and random upstarts would like you, gentle reader, to believe is rampant throughout this nation of ours.

When talking about parenting, it is crucial also to talk about Fiona "Warrior for Justice" McKeown's role. What kind of parent allows her fifteen year old — allow me to repeat that — fifteen year old daughter to frolic around by herself in a place like Goa? You may as well send her to Las Vegas or Blackpool or Manila or something. The drugs, alcohol and debauchery part is secondary to that point. Claiming to be a 'gypsy' is inconsequential to that point. You give birth to a child; you damn well better raise, nurture and take care of it. That's my belief anyway. I eagerly await criticisms of these theories I propound, especially from 'bleeding heart liberals' as South Park so succinctly puts it.

Patriot Games

After all the hoop-la of *that* bus ride and the teeming legions that thronged the sides of the roads that the open top vehicle drove through. After all the televisual, printed and real-time imagery of the saffron, white and green to which we were subjected for as long as that Twenty20 tournament lasted and a few days after. After enduring random blasts of that infernal Chak de India song, newscasters going ga-ga about random things to do with Indian cricket, money being hurled here and there for "bringing honour to India", mastheads of newspapers being splattered with the tricolour and so on and so forth. After all that overtly cheap showiness, I find me asking myself, "Is THIS what constitutes patriotism?" Is coming together during cricket matches and high-fiving strangers when the Indian team gets a wicket, patriotism? (Note: The Australian demolition machine seems to have put paid to a large amount of the showiness, that's for sure) Interestingly, I also find myself wondering where this patriotism disappears when the team is whomped by another.

Moving away from the construct of "patriotism" in sport, where is this patriotism when pushing and shoving people to get into public transport, when selling second grade goods to fellow Indians, when neglecting roads that need repair, schools that need establishing and pretty much any basic civic duty that needs to be carried out and isn't, time and time again? Where is this patriotism and love for one's country at that point?

Where does all the gusto of the pledge I was made to (and am certain a number of others were too) memorise in school, go?

"India is my country. All Indians are my brothers and sisters. (Sisters?! A glance at any daily newspaper will say more than I ever could about *that* little irony)

I love my country. I am proud of its rich and varied culture. I shall always strive to be worthy of it. (This part never fails to make me crack up — how exactly are we striving to be in any way worthy of it?)

I shall love and respect my parents, teachers and elders. (Meh. It COULD happen)

To my country and my people I pledge my devotion. (Loosely worded sentence that helps no one in any way whatsoever. I could be devoted to violence and carnage and could pledge the delivery of that to my country and its people. In other news, Gujarat elections are just around the corner)

I solemnly pledge to work with dedication to preserve and strengthen the freedom and integrity of the nation. (Gujarat. 'Nuff said)

I further affirm that I shall never resort to violence and that all differences and disputes relating to religion, language, region or other political or economic grievances should be settled by peaceful and constitutional means. (Aaaaand with an unprecedented, hat-trick of references... that's right, it's Gujarat again! If this were Neo Sports, we'd cut to an ad break just as I said "that's right")

In their well being and prosperity alone lies my happiness. (And the Easter Bunny will be participating in a Hungry Hungry Hippos Showdown with Santa Claus, a leprechaun and Shaft... John Shaft at the Wankhede stadium on October 19. All ticket proceeds will be donated to charity by Niranjan Shah)"

Amid all this, have any of us actually examined the concept of patriotism? "Love and devotion to one's country" is a great definition and answer to give a school teacher at the age of 5 and receive a round of applause from the class. But what is it, really?

Looking at it very very objectively, doesn't it seem like a bit of a stupid concept that one patriotism requires one's love and devotion for a land one was born in with no choice whatsoever? It's not like one had any means of selection in terms of which country to be born in and which people one would have to refer to as one's brothers and sisters. So by virtue of pure dumb luck, I was born in a country home to a pluralistic society, without any prescribed religion or way to live (minus the "don't be homosexual" which Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code states, but the Fundamental Right of Life and Liberty under Article 21 of the Indian Constitution contradicts). Call it freedom. Call it tolerance. Call it secularism . Call it whatever the hell you want, but it’s the bedrock on which this nation was founded and from which we stray at our peril. It’s what has defined us as Indians and no flag-waving, chest-beating nonsense will act as a substitute for.

As far as something one has no direct control over goes, patriotism seems to me, to be a very personal concept. I can choose not to be patriotic, just as easily as I can choose not to. If I complied with the former, I could very happily put up with "anti-national" and "desh-drohi" jibes from people, if I knew inside that I did not believe in the country or what it stood for. Similarly, I could choose to be "patriotic" and brandish my face paint, my flag and my appropriate headgear every time a sports event came along, as a number of those people with the "desh-drohi" remarks do, I suspect. OR, I could choose to be patriotic (not the lack of inverted commas here) and actually live according to the tenets laid down by the constitution and in essence, be a good person, thereby, be a good Indian.

Exhausting as this diatribe was to put down and I'm sure will have been to read (read: Moid), it is nowhere near as exhausting as it was to watch the absolute unashamed exploitation of little children on the altar of "patriotism" on the blog of a ermm... person some of us have had recent interactions with. Children, barely 4 or 5, being made to sing "patriotic songs" and being exalted as being brave for being Kashmiri and singing that. You think those kids even had a clue as to what they were singing? I refuse to endorse such exploitation and will not be linking that travesty. Although you are most welcome to look it up yourself. (Hint: Numerous hints as to the blogger's identity are liberally strewn all over this page).

To bring this sporadic, free-form and fairly stream-of-conscious spray of words to a close, I'm not sure what level of patriotism I find myself on, if any. But I do know this — patriotism to me does not represent bringing Pakistan down at any opportunity or getting all worked up when Narendra Modi is denied a US Visa.

Pictures courtesy:
Kwik Essential
Benjamin's Worldview
Worth 1000

A life less ordinary

(copyright - karan pradhan)

Getting There

(copyright - karan pradhan)