I think therefore Iam...confused

Marriage Blues

2007-08-04T15:16:00.000+05:00

These days when I meet long-lost friends
What they ask is not
“How have you been?”
or, “I missed you a lot!”
but, “who are you seeing?”
or even, “Have you tied the knot?”

Family get-togethers are even more amusing,
all they are interested in is your marital non-status.
Sitting there and countering questions can be weary,
with a plastic smile hiding an anguished soul
“Yes pinni, haven’t found the right girl.”
“No attaya, I assure you I am straight.”
When I really want to say
“That’s none of your business.”
“Why don’t you fuck off.”

When I read the Sunday paper
I turn to the matrimonial column for some fun (amid the daily dose of rapes, murders, robberies and Sunday specials)
“ Wanted: Good looking, handsome, well-earning, socially settled, tall, fair, Iyer- Brahmin, 30 years old, NRI, (preferably) Male with no bad habits for good looking, pretty, fair, homely, 26 year old Iyer-Brahmin (presumably) female, who can cook good sambhar, rasam, sing ragas, play veena, knows full Bharatanatyam, will look after mother-in-law, sweeps, swabs, sobs (when necessary), will press husband’s legs, can rear children, no bad habits.
Interested parties may please send photo.”

Sometimes I feel I should give in to obdurate aunts and well-meaning uncles
and get married the traditional way amid blaring nadaswarams,
instead of trying to find love in a loveless city.

The irony is hard to miss: a child of modernity, of convent schools,
of Marxist-leninist-feminist parents
hankering after tradition.

I was thinking of you

2006-12-19T13:58:00.000+05:00

I was thinking about you last night my dear,
of the occasional glances and knowing nods,
of the tentative touches and deep sighs,
the smiles that bore meaning
and the sadness that bared the soul

I was thinking about you this morning my darling,
of the long conversations by the sea
punctuated by the gentle sound of the waves
the sporadic silences
animated by the pink light on the horizon

The breeze blew strands of hair across your radiant face
as you told me about your future dreams
and as they unfolded I felt happy
that you will be where you can hear the birds chirping good morning
and the wind whispering sweet nothings to the leaves outside your window;
melancholic, because I will not be there to greet you with a kiss
and a song I wrote for you

The moments we were together, in each other’s arms,
seem so fleeting, like grains of sand dropping from my palm.
I could have spent the whole time just looking into your eyes
waiting for your soul to come up to view,
Or just held you close to comfort you

We talked instead of living and loving
and the joys of wandering; someday I wish to take you
to the heights of Machhu Picchu and the sights of white ice flowing into a blue sea
the mystical staring eyes of the Easter Island giants,
and the calming embrace of the laughing Buddha

That is not to be, at least not now, I do not know if ever,
Someday, I hope we meet again; faraway from this forgetable world
faraway, in a magical place where clocks forget to show the time
and tiny fairies dressed in white dance to the piper’s mellifluous tune
and bow low when we walk past them hand in hand
and take our seats under the shade of the mighty tree
with mynahs and kingfishers for company

It is not as if I haven’t built this beautiful world for you, my love

Day Trippin'

2006-12-12T08:12:00.000+05:00

Dope Tale 1: Big fat Baby (starring Tushar and Arjun)

Arjun is playing lead while I play rythm. The strains of Free Bird echo in the air in a hell-raising solo. It is late in the evening and the bored few people in the crowd want real music, like bhangra beats and raunchy Telugu film songs. We play the last few chords and sing the last few words.

"I am as free as a bird now
and this bird you cannot chain"

Song over. We win first prize. Dedication time. Arjun dedicates his to his sweet mother and I dedicate mine to my sweet Mary Jane. We exit the sparsely lit hall hurriedly, guitars slung casually over our shoulders. The massive paintings of eminent personalities on the walls stare down sternly, as if they know exactly what we are going to do.
Arjun has a reefer in his pocket. It’s a fat baby, a real beauty. He fondles it as if he is making love to it. There is a nasty expression on his face. He holds it up to my nose and the strong smell of herbs wafts to my nostrils. Ah, the smell of fresh buds late in the night!
He lights it and takes a deep drag. Another one, another one and another one. My turn. I take a puff. Downdowndown it goes. I cough it out in a paroxysm of chokes. Another try. Another rejection. One more try later I succeed in filling my lungs with the smoke. I lift my head and wait for moksha. We are sitting under a peepul tree and I feel like a Buddha. Any moment now and I will start giving gyan.
We start walking and soon cross the college gates. I feel a tingling sensation in the pit of my stomach. It radiates outwards towards my extremities. I feel rubbery. As I walk my arms and legs feel disjointed, as if they will fall of any moment now. If you’ve seen that iconic scene in Terminator 2 where Arnold shoots the liquid metal man just before he collapses into a heap of molten metal, well, that’s how I feel. As I walk my leg comes of at the joint, then the knee and finally the trunk falls of. But I am still walking. My arm is swinging wildly by my side ready to drop of any moment.
My throat feels parched and dry and I am hungry. Waves of well being ripple through my body. A gentle smile appears on my face and gradually turns into a giggle and then a guffaw as Arjun goads me on with his one-liners. They are genuinely funny. I am laughing like a madman in the middle of a road with traffic all around me and drivers yelling abuse.

“Ye ra lanjakodaka” (why you son of a whore)

I don’t care. I yell back.

‘Nee amma ni denga’ (screw your mother)

I am chilled out. I’ve just won first prize in a music competition and celebrated in style. My prize is a book by Swami Vivekananda, ‘Lessons in Moral Fortitude for India: How Today’s Youth Can Build a Stronger Tomorrow.’

Dope tale 2: Stadium Rock: Its all in your mind (staring Tushar, Kazaa and Judas Priest)

It is dark. The only light in the small hostel room is the flickering of a computer screen. Kazaa is lying on the mattress beside me. He has just puked his guts out, fortunately not in the room. Demi has ditched us badly, but we have the keys to his room. Kazaa and I are in a stupor. The night weighs heavily on us and silence reigns supreme. The only sound that disturbs the otherwise deathly silence is the collective sound of a thousand IIT mugoo’s reading in their rooms, their brains clocking away the miles furiously. Kazaa and Demi are not your average IITan. They like having a good time and hate studying, always late and last in class. Their whole gumbal (group) is like that.
Judas Priest’s frenzied riffs spill forth from the computer. It’s the stadium anthem ‘You’ve got a another think coming’. Kazaa and I have smoked a thin baby. She’s potent and has cast her spell on me. Hell no, she’s seduced me.
I am rocking along with Priest. My favourite Judas is lead guitarist Glen Tipton. As the number gets more intense I am up on stage with Priest. Hell, I am Tipton. Dressed in figure hugging spandex and black doc martens I have a devil’s head flying-V slung across my shoulder. 100,000 watts of pure sound pump from the giant marshall amps and the stadium strobe lights throb pulsatingly, emitting an effulgent 80’s vibe. Vocalist Jake ‘the ripper’ Owen is shredding his vocal cords to bits and the time comes for the lead riff. I am prepared. The drummer is pounding the skins and the bass lines are going haywire. When the moment comes I let fly. My fingers know all the notes, they rip across the fretboard effortlessly. Updown, up and down. Fastfasterfastest. The only sound in the stadium apart from my lead line is the frenzied screams of delirious fans down below. The mosh pit is a surging sea of humanity as headbangers body surf their way to the front near the stage. The throbbing lights are connected to my guitar in such a way that I can control them merely by playing my instrument.
Imagine being up on stage with a million raving fans screaming and the entire stadium at the tips of your fingers, literally. When the climax comes I synchronize my last note with the last pound of the drums and the last deep woof woof of the bass and an air raid siren of a shriek from Jake. It ends in thunderous applause. I go backstage and smoke more weed with Priest.

Dope Tale 3: The Doors of Perception (starring Tushar, Nietzsche and Aldous Huxley)

It’s late in the night and I am alone in my room. The door is locked and my folks are sleeping in their room. I rolled a joint in the bathroom and have smoked it in my balcony. Now its just me in my room, my universe.
My room is me, in a sense. It reflects a part of me, what I am, what I want to be. A corner is occupied by a large shelf piled with books. These are the titles I’ve been reading since age 10 and earlier. They reflect the evolution of my reading. A writing table beside the shelf has my notes and music system. The cupboard has clothes strewn every which way and my cassettes and CD’s, backpack, tent, khukri. A bed completes the roundup of furniture in my room.
The weed is taking effect. Sleep dissipates as the mind goes into overdrive. Nietzsche’s ‘Thus spake Zarathustra’ is lying on the bed. I start reading. Its too dense. I can’t understand a word the great philosopher is trying to expound. Nietzsche is difficult enough to read when you are sober, not to speak of when your brains are fried by burning herbs. I put it down.
I pick up ‘The Doors of Perception’ by Aldous Huxley. It starts with a quote by William Blake:

“If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear as it were, infinite”

In 1951 Aldous Huxley was part of an experimental group of people who took the newly discovered drug mescalin. The book is about Huxley’s experience for the 7 hours he was under the influence of the hallucinogen. I haven’t got a chance to try mescalin, but ganja can broadly be classified in the same category of ‘mind expanding’ hallucinogens. The book became a must read for the 60’s hippie generation. Jim Morrison got the name for his band from Blake’s quote quoted in the book.

We act on and are acted upon. We think, do, love, hate, cry. We come into this world alone and leave it alone, only richer for the memories we take into the afterlife. The memories of those we loved and those who loved us, those we thought loved us. Dreams turn to dust and dust will cover our graves when we die. Memories are the only reminders I have that my life was lived, punctuated through its short banal existence by intense bursts of joy, sorrow, pain, suffering. My friends are now all gone, scattered like dust in a whirlwind. Memories are all I have of them. I remember we once sat under a peepul tree and talked of living, loving and loathing. We shared our secret desires, ecstatic fantasies and petty longings. We shared smiles, traded stories and cradled hope. All I can cradle now is a memory of what they were, what I thought they were.

We are trapped within ourselves, our universe consisting of our thoughts and experiences.
How do I immerse myself wholly and completely in another person without becoming the person? What she tells me is what I think she tells me. I am who I think I am. Do I think I am me, or do I know I am I? Who am I? Do I know, can I know, should I know?

“If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear as it were, infinite”

There is a small window in the wall. The wall is the boundary of what I can see. If I were to open the window I would be able to glance into the vast open outside the realm of my being. I long to go through the window, and yet am afraid, afraid of what I might find. I might find that I am not who I think I am. And yet, I might find the true me out there.

Media and Violence

2006-12-08T12:24:00.000+05:00

How has the media treated the Khairlanji killings and its aftermath, the ended in large scale mob violence in many parts of urban maharshtra. News of the Khairlanji killings had been circulating in informal channels of communications established by dalit organizations. The mainstream media was apparently so clued out of this network that they didn’t realize something was brewing. Add to this the inept handling by the state government of the situation. The home minister blamed naxalites, the ISI and just about anybody, but did zilch to bring the actual perpetrators to justice. Again, his ‘conspiracy theory’ comments received wide publicity in the mainstream media.
Now let us come to the second part of the story. Everyone was taken by surprise by the violence that has rocked maharashtra over the last one week. Media commentary has put it down to simmering dalit anger over the Khairlanji incident where 4 members of a dalit family were brutally murdered by upper caste villagers. The two women were sexually humiliated and raped. The spark was provided by the desecration of an Ambedkar statue in kanpur. The strange part is that while Kanpur remained calm Maharashtra burned.
According to commentary in the mainstream and alternative media the violence that rocked urban centres in Maharashtra was spontaneous and uncoordinated. The dalit leadership, as represented by the various factions of the Republican Party is hopelessly splintered and opportunistic. According to at least one commentator this episode marks the emergence of a new movement in Dalit politics. Enough has been said about the politics. I want to concentrate on one aspect, how the media represented the entire chain of events.
Although the incident happened in end September, the national media did not pick up the story for a month after it happened. So what happened in this period? News of the ry. When an Ambedkar statue was desecrated in Kanpur the consequences were felt in Maharashtra. Mobs went on the rampage. Two local trains were burned in Bombay apart from the Deccan Queen, the intercity exress that plies between Pune and Bombay. The visuals made for good sensational footage and in the best traditions of the media they made front-page news in the newspapers and breaking news on the TV channels.
But one thing intrigued me the most. It was a report that some television channels were repeatedly airing footage of the Ambedkar statue desecration in Kanpur. This footage played a crucial role in fanning sentiments among viewers that led to the violence. It got to a point where the police had to call up the channels and request them to stop showing the provocative visuals. At least one channel disregarded that request and repeatedly broadcast the offending story.
The role of the broadcast media and its use of visuals that had shock value potential and the ability to provoke a reaction needs to be looked at more closely. By repeatedly airing this particular footage, aided no doubt by in-your-face commentary from studio anchors, the media played a crucial role in a particular chain of events playing themselves out. It would be wrong to lay the blame entirely on the media’s doorstep. Tempers were already running high and all it needed was a spark to set if off. There are many courses along which the line of events from the Khairlanji killings through the statue desecration could have played out. It is not a certainty that this line would have led to the large scale mob violence that was witnessed. But the fact that it did take this turn aided by the mass media is interesting. Was this a result that was ‘inevitable’ or even ‘desirous’ given the cut-throat media environment. After all, what makes for more gripping TV viewing than violence?
Jean Baudrillard identified the spread and saturation of the mass media as a defining feature of the post modern society. The ability of the media to create and define a reality of its own is a crucial part of the post-modern society. What we witnessed in Maharashtra was an example of the media nudging events in the direction it wanted and thus creating a situation that justifies its own relevance.

Snapshots of a Trip

2006-12-06T13:45:00.000+05:00

Meeting in Bangalore

I spotted her through the milling morning crowd at Bangalore station, all 5 feet four inches of her. “Allo Tushar.” The blue backpack seemed entirely too large for her delicate frame. But all her earthly possessions for the next seven months ‘around the world’ trip were packed inside it; three pairs of clothes, toilet case, Simone de Bouveir’s ‘Second Sex’, her mom’s old battered camera, some odds and ends and her most prized possession, three blue coloured juggling balls. I was kitted out in similar manner for the trip ahead, except that my backpack was a lot bigger and stuffed with more clothes than hers for the 10-day trip ahead.
I met Josie Ann in Bombay through a common friend. She was a quiet but friendly girl from Quebec. As we got to know each other better we found that we had a lot in common. The love of travel, for instance. She was new to India and wanted to travel. We decided to travel to God’s own country of Kerala. But before that she went to Igatpuri for an intensive 10 day course of Vippasana meditation while I was busy tying up some loose ends in Hyderabad.
We planned to meet in Bangalore and proceed from there.
I had a rough idea of how we were going to travel through Kerala since I had done the route with another friend some years earlier. The morning we met at Bangalore I took her to GVK Kamat hotel just across the station and over a plate of idly’s swimming deliciously in red sambar and steaming hot filter kapi I told her the plan “Let’s go to Mysore and from there enter Kerala and gradually wind our way down south.” She was ok with the plan. So we walked down to the bus stand, which is just across the road from the station. On the way she taught me some basic French sentences, not that French would come much in handy in Kerala. But still…

Mysore Medu Vada

We reached Mysore in 3 hours after a bad road trip and insipid conversation. Mysore is a small town with a lot of yoga schools where foreigners flock in search of instant karma. The other thing about Mysore is the proliferation of vegetarian restaurants that have‘plate meals’ signs hung outside. I had to explain the concept of south Indian meals to Josie. She nodded with satisfaction. We headed to the Maharaja’s palace, backpacks in tow.
You can see the golden dome of the palace from a long distance off when you walk down the approach road towards it. As you proceed the palace slowly surfaces into view like a great hulking yellow beast. The anglophile Wodeyars who ruled Mysore in the nineteenth were a pretty emasculated lot after Tipu sultan who ruled a century before them. The British had enough problems subduing the fiercly independent 'Tiger of Mysore' and decided to install an effete bunch of pliable rajas. They built a palace made of gold so that the rajas would be ensconced in it with their harems and nautch girls, too busy to disturb the brits empire building project.
The palace is a splendid work of art. Guilded domes, latticed artwork, Venetian phalluses and kamasutra friezes in stone testified to the raja’s preference for sensual pleasure over statecraft. The palace is built in both oriental and occidental styles. It is what a typically nineteenth century Irish architect straight out of the peat bogs would have imagined an Indian maharaja’s palace to be like.
A long corridor inside has paintings of nineteenth century life in Mysore: a royal procession with the Wodeyar mounted atop an elephant, fireworks during dusserah, a court scene, women in the royal harem arguing animatedly over who would get to bed the king that night and so on. Moving on is a second corridor that has some breath arresting European artwork: Women in different stages of undress, a still life of a bowl of fruit, a chiaroscuro of cobbled streets, European city life. In the middle of this these two intersecting corridors is a massive hemispherical dome with gigantic chandeliers hung along the ceiling.
Seeing the entire palace would take a whole day and since we didn’t have time to spare we bid adieu to the Maharaja’s and wound our way out. It was already mid afternoon and we had had nothing to eat since breakfast. Moreover we had to be in Kerala by evening. We walked into Bendre Kamat family udipi hotel and ordered two plate meals.

The Pleasures of Wynad

We reached Kalpetta that evening. Kalpetta is the main town in Wynad district. It is a one street town, charming though. We searched for the cheapest joint in town and found a run down lodge that charged 40 rs per night bed bugs and all. No hot water. It was February and freezing cold. But who needed hot water!
The next morning we headed out of town. I had come here two years ago. There was a beautiful, virtually unknown waterfall 15 km outside kalpetta. We decided to head there. We took a local Kerala transport bus. I normally am not chary of bus travel, but Kerala busses scare the shit out of me. The drivers drive like there’s no tomorrow. The roads are narrow and bumpy, but they won’t let that get in the way. Its like being on a rollercoaster ride. But the drive to Suchipara waterfall is stunning.
Wynad is hill country dotted with beautiful coffee and pepper plantations. As the bus wound its way through the mist-kissed peaks I could see the green valleys below. The cold breeze brushed against my hair and cheeks gently teasing me.
To get to the waterfall you have to get off 3 kms before the town of Churanmala and walk 2 km through coffee plantation. This is the most magical part of the trip. Imagine yourself at a crossroad in the middle of nowhere. Plantations dot the hillsides as far as the eye can see and the diffused evening light blankets everything in a surreal tint of ochre yellow. A chill wind blows in from the misty mountain-tops and rustles the leaves of the tall pepper pods and coconut trees. When you exhale a fine mist billows out like thick cigarette smoke, except that the air is pure, so pure that you come alive with joy and verve. For a moment you can leave all your worries behind. Close your eyes and take in the scene. It will be preserved forever in a corner of your brain like a photographic image to be called forth whenever needed.
We walked slowly to the waterfall. It is in the middle of a forest and virgin, except for the lays packets and cigarette butts that litter the place. I got into my trunks and Josie got into shorts and t-shirt. We descended into the pool of water at the bottom of the fall, which was surprisingly deep and cold. We swam around for half an hour avoiding the jagged rocks that jutted out of the water like wicked teeth. Later we dressed and went back the same way.

Drinking and drunkards

The next day, on our way to Calicut, we went to pookot lake, which turned out to be a disappointment. We had visions of a virgin, unspoilt lake but what was on offer was far from it. It was a touristy thing, of a sort all too common in Kerala, complete with ice cream wallah and lemon drink orange drink man. We turned back to take a bus to Calicut. Just beside the highway we saw a stream that had been dammed into a small pool. It wasn’t very deep, but enough to wallow in. So we did our strip act (not the full monty, sorry) and jumped in.
A bunch of boys was already in the pool. They took no notice of us. In fact they were quite welcoming. A middle aged man watched Josie and me from the edge of the pool. He was bearded and wore spectacles. He asked josie where she was from. When she replied Canada he mumbled “Oh nice, nice.” It was clear that he was drunk from the way he was talking. The boys in the pool too indicated this, putting a finger to their temples as if indicating that he had a few screws missing. He kept trying to chat up Josie.
Drunkenness is nothing new in Kerala. In fact, along with strikes and suicides it ranks as Kerala’s foremost social problems. When you have a state where there are few jobs, but plenty of remittance money to go around coupled with cheap liquor it’s a recipe for an alcoholism epidemic.
But this bloke didn’t seem dangerous, just looney. He kept offering to put us on the bus to Calicut. He proudly informed us that he was half nepali and half mallu. How that particular mix of bloodline came about I have no clue. We took him up on his offer and he led the way to the bus stop, stumbling on his feet. It seems he was well known in that little village because when we went past the Kerala Tourism kiosk the woman manning it saw our little party and slapped her hand against her forehead. At any rate we got our bus and waved him goodbye.

Calicut Adventures

After Calicut our next destination was Munnar. There was a late night train to Aluva for which we had no tickets. Josie and I agreed to travel by the general compartment. That night, after a beer each in a cheap ill-lit ‘blackhole’ of a bar, we arrived at the station, luggage in tow. The train trundled into the station an hour late. The general compartment was so packed with people there was no space to get in. We were caught in the horns of a dilemma. Get squished or miss this train, in which case we would have to spend another day in Calicut. The train was ready to leave when the luggage van, next to the general compartment, was thrown open by a rag tag bunch of dozen youth. Josie said “Lets get into the luggage van.” My heart skipped a beat when I saw the raucous gang of boys.
“Are you sure?”
“yeah, c’mon.”
By this time the boys had caught sight of us and they were gesturing to Josie to get in. Some held their hands out and my feverish imagination thought that someone let out a joyous wolfwhistle. Josie jumped in and I had no option but to follow. It was the only chivalrous thing to do.
The train trundled out and we were alone with a gang of boys from Mallapuram. I was terrified and half expected a rape, or at least some serious molestation. In the event, I was proved wrong and that train ride was one of the most amazing train rides I’ve been on.
The boys were warm and friendly and asked Josie and me where we were from. They shared their stories and beedies with us. They were all friends who lived in different parts of Mallapuram, the Muslim majority district of Kerala. We spent a happy three hours together and exchanged addresses and photographs of each other. One of the boys, Zubair, was a cook who specialized in making Malabari biryani. We exchanged notes on Hyderabadi and Malabari biryani. When the time came to say goodbye the boys begged Josie and me to come visit them at their homes and said they would never forget us. We continued to travel in the luggage van till the guard shooed us out.
I learned an important lesson that night. There are a lot of real and imagined fears and often we confuse the imagined fears for real fears. Often life is not as hard as it seems. Its a lesson thats stood me in good stead.

Down And Out in Varkala

From Munnar we went to Cochin where we spent a day. We wanted to do the famous backwater trip. So we headed to Allepey and checked out the ferry’s at the waterfront. A day-long trip to Quillon cost Rs 250. It was a nice looking ferry. We paid up and put our backpacks in the deck below. The ferry started at 10 am and slowly wound its way south through the backwaters. I had seen and heard so much about the backwaters that what I saw left me disappointed. The ferry was full of foreigners. There was a girl sitting next to us. She started chatting to us. She was also from Canada, but an Anglophone. Valerie had worked for 7 years in an advertising agency and was so sick of it that she finally worked up the nerve to embark on a 9 month ‘around the world’ trip. This was the second leg after Europe. She was making copious notes of all that she saw on the way. This included quotes about India from yours truly. We passed through quaint villages on the way. We stopped at one for lunch. The hotel was located in a hut and the fare was typically keralite. It was amusing seeing the foreigners trying to scoop rice and curry from a banana leaf with their hands. There was a burly German who had the buttons of his shirt undone. I guess it was the heat. A couple of villagers were staring at him. I overheard one remark to the other “He looks like a typical village rowdy.” I couldn’t suppress a smile when I heard this.
After lunch we started again. The bunch on board was an assorted bunch of people. There was a bunch of German tourists who looked rich. Then there was a New Zealander who had been traveling the world for the past 7 years. Currently he was with his Brazilian girlfriend who was wearing a t-shirt that proclaimed ‘babe’ in front. Then there was a bunch of Swedish girls. More on them later.
We passed mata amritananda’s ashram. She is more famous as the hugging mata. She hugs whoever she can lay her hands on, or whoever’s in front of her. Three or four foreigners got off at the ashram. Valerie was headed to the beach town of Varkala and invited us to come along. We agreed.
The ferry languidly wound its way in the afternoon heat. Beers were served. Little boys from the fishing villages we went past ran alongside the ferry and begged the foreigners for pens. The Swedish girls were sitting on the prow of the boat. One of them actually threw a pen into the water. One little boy jumped from the bank into the river and swam to where the pen hit the water. I found what the Swede did offensive (not to mention racist). Valerie nodded her head in disapproval. The five Swedish girls were sitting together. They were sitting in two pairs with their arms around each others shoulders. I noticed a strange tattoo on the first ones bicep. It was a clenched fist, as if raised in defiance. A feminist version of the ‘Black Power’ fist. Valerie later told me that it was probably some sort of lesbian symbol. Evidently others on the boat had realized this and were stealing furtive glances at the girls. They didn’t care.
We reached Quillon in the evening. We headed straight to the bus stand and got into a Varkala bound bus. Sitting in the seat next to us was who else…but another drunk. He kept staring at Valerie and finally mustered up the nerve to chat. “Beautiful cultures” he said. There was a temple procession passing outside complete with caparisoned elephants and banging mridangams. Valerie just nodded.
When we got to Varkala it was night. The three of us booked into a cottage on the main cliff that overlooks Varkala beach. Varkala is tourist heaven. It has all the infrastructure to cater to every type of tourist: cottages, lodges, restaurants that serve continental food, memento shops, mini theatres and dealers who sold ganja and charas.
The next morning Valerie, Josie and I headed down to the beach for a bit of surf pounding. It was fun swimming in the sea and getting pounded by the waves. Deeper inside where the sea was calmer you could float gently and reflect on life.

Goodbye Cruel World

2006-12-03T17:49:00.000+05:00

Read an excellent story today in the Guardian about the ‘Exhaustion Epidemic’. A lot of people complain of tiredness and exhaustion from the daily stresses that batter them: jobs, family, work pressure etc. Go to work, rush back home, do the household chores, get ready for the next day…without respite for weeks and months on end. No wonder people feel like physical wrecks.
It’s a feeling I am all too familiar with. Work leaves me with very little time to do anything else, and what free time I get is spent catching up on sleep. I maintain a stoic calm and go about the week like a zombie on auto-pilot. The one off-day I get is spent sleeping off the effects of the past week’s exhaustion with maybe 2 hours spent alone in the bar next to home drinking beer and staring at the wall. Sometimes this façade gets ripped open. It usually happens when I see pictures of the lunar landscape of Ladakh on Lonely Planet or lions lazily stretching about in the wilds of Kenya without a care in life on Discovery Channel. Then I curse this life of mine.
Once, two years ago things reached such a pass that I began questioning the meaning of my life. All sorts of existential questions popped in my mind in rapid succession during the course of a turbulent 3 month period. I questioned the purpose of my life. At the end of it I was so sick of my modern urban existence that I was seriously contemplating quitting the rat race and living in Ladakh for a year.
That phase has since retreated, but I am sure it will surface again. And when it does what will I do? Will I be prepared to deal with it? Can I keep my sanity intact? Or will the urge to explore rip me apart?
I have this intense desire to travel. Not the well worn travel packages that are advertised for rich Indians these days: 4 days, 5 nights in Geneva; 7 nights of exclusive romance in Maldives, Experience the lights and sights of Paris (Indian food guaranteed in case you can’t eat boiled snails or roast beef).
What I want to do is see the sunrise from the craggy heights of Macchu Picchu, trek in the wild steppes of Central Asia, photograph the gazelle frolicking in the plains of Namibia, prise out the secrets of the statues of Easter Island, walk the poetic streets of Kom in Iran, go up to Everest base camp in Namche Bazaar…
But right now I am trapped in the great city of Bombay living (being dragged along would be more appropriate) the great Indian middle class dream and feeling more dead with each passing day.
The train ride to work is a reminder of how set my urban nightmare has become. See my fellow passengers on the Churchgate fast local and wonder how they could live this inflexible and unyielding life. It’s been the same story every day for the last 20 years of my next seat ‘pyare mohan’: fight with the crowds to get onto the 7:43 am fast local to Churchgate and spend 45 minutes standing, the experience being akin to a dirty shirt in a washing machine. Work, work, work. Take the 7:54 local back home, prepare for next days battle. I don’t want to live this life because I like to think I am special. I was not born to get bogged down in the ‘comfortable’ existence of middle class life: gadi, banglaa, biwi, bachche…
Can I escape this middle class dream and live the life of a nomad?

The wild world of the Internet

2006-12-01T16:49:00.000+05:00

When was the last time you experienced a mind trip? I am not talking about an alcohol or drug-induced trip, rather when a thought or an idea or an experience expanded the horizons of your mind, made you see the world differently or even generated an immense feeling of joy and contentment. I last had that kind of a trip when I went to the ‘Bring Your Own Film Festival’ in Puri. But lately I’ve been getting my kicks from the virtual world of the internet.
The net is an amazing place to get lost in. You can wander down virtual lanes and by lanes for hours. As the famous New Yorker cartoon once said, on the net no one knows you’re a dog. There is something for everyone. Travel, sports, personal journals, videos and more.
The other day I discovered the Lonely Planet Thorn Tree forum where people can ‘bluelist’ their travel experiences, basically give gyan about their favourite travel destination for the benefit of others. I logged on and enthusiastically wrote about the best trips I’ve done. It’s the next best thing to traveling and its addictive. When I read about ‘sammy’ describing his amazing camel ride in the deserts of Namibia or ‘Amy’ talking about how much fun she had crushing grapes underfoot during the harvesting season in a little village in Greece it acts as a proxy for my latent ambitions to see the world. If I can’t go there myself I can at least relive the experience through the words of others. Of course, its no substitute for the real thing and one day I hope to travel around the world. Till then I will have to satisfy my wanderlust online.
The other thing that has caught my imagination is blogs. Some are silly, some frivolous and some funny. The media blogs are hilarious: mediamamu, war for news and media malice yank the pants off hacks who take themselves too seriously. The best part is that you can be part of the blog by leaving your comment, anonymously if you choose. Then there are the political blogs. These allow dissent to be articulated in a manner which is unthinkable in the mainstream media. The internet has opened up a platform for anyone to post their 10 paise’s worth. In a sense it has democratized publishing. Call it the flat virtual world (thanks Thomas).
And apart from these the regular sites that I visit, salon, slate, countercurrents, caferati, arthedains.

Iam Macaca

2006-11-27T10:59:00.000+05:00

This is the title of an op-ed piece written by Sidharth, who had a pivotal role in changing the course of the just concluded US mid-term election. Sidharth, an Indian-American who was born and brought up in Virginia, was a campaign worker for Democrat Jim Webb who was up against the incumbent Republican governor George Allen. Allen was your typical republican red-state American politician, the kind that swears by guns and god and swears at gays. In fact some reports say that had Allen won he would have been a contender for president in 2008.
Sidharth was tasked with the job of making recordings of Allen’s campaign speeches. He shadowed Allen throughout the state and was by all accounts (including his own) received courteously. This is remarkable considering the politically surcharged affair that this election has been.
The now famous incident occurred at a speech Allen was giving. Sidharth was in the crown recording Allen who knew exactly who the former was working for. During the course of the speech Allen welcomed “Macaca or whatever his name is to America and the real world of Virginia.” Gosh, that sounds like a racial slur. I don’t even know what it means. But it sounds awfully condescending, like something you would use for some kind of sub-human retard.
Maybe Allen thought he was being funny. Unfortunately for him the seemingly innocuous statement snowballed into a huge controversy which ultimately led to his loss against his democratic opponent. But, was this one incident responsible for tipping the balance of power in favour of the democrats? How did it influence the vote in Virginia? Did the average redneck hick in the state think to himself before going in to vote: Macaca, no good man. I am not gonna vote for this racist scumbag?
Your guess is as good as mine. But the incident does highlight the darker side of American democracy, albeit one that rarely comes to light. Racism is probably sewn into the fabric of American society. Ok, I don’t want to make silly generalizations. But why is it that the world’s oldest democracy has never elected a black, jew, Hispanic or woman as president? John F. Kennedy was the only catholic president. And I wonder if New Orleans was left to its fate after hurricane Katarina because most of the city’s residents are black. A lot of blacks think so.

---------------------------------------------------------

I’ve been reading up about Muhammed Ali lately. I admire the guy. He had the courage to defy white America in the prime of his fighting career. He threw his Olympic medal into a river after a bunch of white racist bikers taunted him one night. He showed mainstream America a side of itself that it did not want to acknowledge, a dark side inhabited by bigotry and racism. His reason for avoiding the Vietnam draft: “I ain’t got no fight with the Vietcong, no Vietnamese ever called me nigger.” In the end, in his own words “this is one nigger you don’t own white man.”

hmmm...think the next book I will buy will be frantz Fannon's 'The Wretched of the Earth'. Am proud of the fact that Fannon was born in a family of mixed African and Tamil indentured labourers in Martinique.

Empire strikes back

2006-11-25T14:21:00.000+05:00

The Arabic channel Al-Jazeera has started broadcasting in English. Al Jazeer English marks a milestone in the history of news and broadcast and may have important consequences for turning the tide in the global flow of information and images. Hitherto, the west has had a monopoly on information. It was the countries of North America and Europe that controlled the flow of news through outlets like CNN and BBC that had a global reach. This monopoly was used to control news flow in a way that favoured a western point of view. This became painfully apparent during gulf war II when “embedded” journalists traveled with American army columns and prostituted news reporting. Apparently, even “liberal” media outlets like CNN and BBC reported the American invasion uncritically and treated the US army with kid gloves. I remember watching a shocked Rageh Omar, The BBC’s war correspondent, reporting from Baghdad on how US soldiers were targeting journalists. Rageh is now with Al Jazeera.
Al jazeera is notorious in the west (especially America) as a propaganda outlet for Al qaida. But just because they show al qaida videos which CNN won’t show due to misplaced notions of patriotism and self-censorship does not mean they do plug jobs for terrorist outfits. Just call it reporting the other side of the story, the side that the west does not want to hear. The channel has provoked as much outrage in the middle-east by taking a critical view of the authoritarian regimes that dot the landscape. It is a channel that has provoked a lot of debate and discussion, something that is sorely needed in that troubled region. And, if they show the damage wrought by American foreign policy in Palestine, Iraq and possible Syria and Iran should they be labeled a channel that supports terrorists? Especially when CNN, ABC, BBC and Fox will not show the graphic and violent visuals that keep getting generated everyday in the Arab street.
A host of popular television personalities from BBC and CNN have joined the fledgling network (albeit one that is backed by the financial resources of the Qatar government). David Frost (BBC), Rageh Omar and Riz Khan (CNN) to name a few. Why did they leave their comfy media jobs and join a new venture? I believe it was for the challenge as much as anything else. Here, for the first time in modern history, is a channel that is challenging western media outlets and their dominance of information flow and ability to set the economic and political agenda in connivance with their governments. Al-Jazeera intends to bring an Asian and African perspective to its reporting, an alternative world-view. At last, a new perspective.
I hope they start broadcasting in India soon.

BCCI - Brig these Chutiyas some Cricketing Intelligence

2006-11-25T14:19:00.000+05:00

The boys in blue sank to a new low the other night against South Africa. Despite a vaunted batting line up they crumbled to 92 all out against a determined pace attack. The only thing these chutiyas are good at is lining their own pockets and doing music videos. The country exploded in rage after the latest debacle. Used as we are to sporting non-greatness, even parliamentarians demanded an explanation from Sharad Pawar, the wily politician who heads the BCCI, the body that controls cricket in India.
The “gillification” of cricket is now complete. A little backgrounder: KPS Gill was an upstanding Punjab cadre IPS officer who was in charge of the state during the height of the Khalistan movement. He brought Punjab back to normalcy when others were shivering in their underpants, though his methods of combating militancy were dubious to say the least. After the militancy was put down he had nothing to do, so he became the president of the Hockey Federation. Hockey was already in decline and after Gill it hit rock bottom. Gill has been at the helm for 12-13 years and since then Indian hockey has been in the wilderness. This in a country that produce Dhyan Chand and where it is the national sport!

Moral: When sport is governed by non-sports people they make a complete pigs breakfast out of it.

So why is Pawar in charge of Indian cricket? What the hell does he know about cricket? Can he tell the difference between mid-wicket and long on? Or does he believe silly point is the position occupied by his bete noir Vilasrao Deshmukh (Maharashtra CM). Here’s a hint, it could have something to do with the fact that the BCCI is the world’s richest sporting body. It out-moneyed Manchester United 3-4 years ago (the previous record holder as richest club). It’s the usual story of how sport gets kicked around in India at the mercy of politicians and pimps of various hues. There was a report in the paper the other day that 16 freeloaders from the Indian Olympic Committee had signed on for an “observation trip” to Greece when the max limit was 8.

Pawar now gets a chance to line his pockets with BCCI money and provide jobs for the boys. This guy has no business being in charge of a sporting body. The only sport he has probably indulged in is horse-trading. What is the message sent out to players when a politician becomes your boss? The just concluded champions trophy final offered a glimpse. The now famous “Aussies manhandled Pawar” incident showed how even famous players crawled to lick Pawar’s ass. I saw the video on You Tube and frankly think its no great deal. Pawar himself did not think so. But Tendulkar, Gavaskar, Azharuddin et al pounced on the Aussies and verbally took them apart. When you can’t beat the mighty Aussies on the field why bother with low blows off it.

Pawar should be held accountable for each and every penny that the BCCI spends and each and every defeat of the team. And please, can we get some professional sportspeople to manage out sporting affairs. What would happen if jokers and pimps were brought in to run politics. On second thoughts, isn’t that already happening?

Justice for Saddam?

2006-11-08T12:18:00.000+05:00

So Saddam’s sentencing did not have anything to do with the US mid-term elections! What absolute utter crap. Do those morons at the White House believe we were all born yesterday? They would have us believe that the “independent” judges who handed out the verdict had nothing to do with US elections. It just so happens that W convieniently uses the verdict in his desperate attempts to tout his administrations “achievements”.
Which brings us to the fact that Saddam has been sentenced to hang. The ousted dictator, true to form, would prefer to face a firing squad. Serves him well. OK, lets get one thing straight: Saddam is no angel. He ruthlessly ruled Iraq for two decades with help from his minority sect and quashed all opposition to him. Shias and Kurds are celebrating the death sentence while Sunnis are smarting and vowing bloody revenge. BUT, lets also not forget that Saddam was a SECULAR leader who despised al-qaida type loonies and kept Iraq free of them. The feeling was mutual. And, he posed no threat to the US because he had no weapons of mass destruction.
Which brings us to the question: What to make of this verdict. Absolute roobish (thanks boycott). The bloody regime whose invasion of Iraq has led to more Iraqi deaths (6,00,000 according to Lancet magazine) than during the Saddam years has the gall to try Saddam and call it a great victory for democracy!!!
Will the Saddam verdict make things any better for Iraqis. Unlikely. In fact it just might exacerbate tensions as the Ba’ath party has vowed to attack the green zone and other Iraqis. With the American casualty rate nudging the 3000 mark this just might be the worst news they have heard this month. In any case the American morons have been so incompetent that Saddam, from the confines of his cell, appealed to his Iraqi compatriots for calm! When Saddam pleads for peace you know things have hit rock bottom.
It would have been a better idea if Saddam had been handed over to the international Court. Anyway, Saddam made an absolute pigs breakfast of his trial: He harangued the judge at every turn and generally screamed his way through the trial. Apparently at one point even the chief prosecutor got unnerved. Jolly good show, that.
I wonder when Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld and that whole company will be brought before a court and tried for crimes against humanity. Bush can plead “no brainer”. In his case it will be literally true too.

US Elections

2006-11-08T12:17:00.001+05:00

As I write this post the US mid term elections would be in its last leg. I wonder if and Americans have grown any wiser than the last time. Will they vote the republicans out of power? The whole world waits with bated breath to see if the American public displays its famous streak of imbecilism once more. I mean after a host of controversies centred around the Republican party if they still vote for them then there is something wrong here.
Lets see, the incompetent response to Hurricane Katrina (they were all Blacks in any case, why bother), the Jack Abramoff lobbying scandal, The foley scandal, the Haggard scandal, the torture scandal, the shooting scandal, the martian scandal…that’s a lot of scandals to get going. After leading in the polls the democrats find themselves slipping in the crucial 72 hours before the polls. This is when the famed republican “get out the vote” machine wakes from its slumber and begins its inexorable march towards power. They trot out the same worn out issues of Guns, Gays and God and scare god fearing righteous red neck folk into voting for them. As for the democrats, they can only hope that all the bad news coming out of Iraq will find some resonance with the voters.

I wonder which party will triumph?

The last Mughal

2006-11-02T12:19:00.000+05:00

William Dalrymple’s new book ‘The Last Mughal’ is out. I am going to buy my copy ASAP. His last book ‘The White Mughals’ rocked. I expect this one to be just as good. Dalrymple writes in a very entertaining and engaging style. Not academic and pedantic, the his writing is simple, humourous and fun to read. At the same time he challenges conventional wisdom and opens up new vistas of thinking.
The Last Mughal is about the great 1857 revolt or war of independence (depending on how you view it). The title refers to Bahadur Shah Zafar, the poet who tragiucally became a figure head for the revolutionaries. But a dozen other characters also put in an appearance including the famed urdu poet Mirza Ghalib. Significantly, Mangal Pandey is a minor character, though he is deified as central to the events of 1857 in certain Indian quarters.
The book is bound to ruffle feathers in India and Britain because it challenges the views held by both countries about the empire-shaking events of 1857. What makes the narrative more credible is that Dalrymple’s primary source were papers in Urdu and Persian written by Indians about the revolt. This assumes significance because till now (or so dalrymple says) all accounts about what happened relied on European records. There were presumed to be no Indian eyewitness accounts. Even Indian historians relied on European accounts. For instance Marxist historians allege that the conflict occurred due to economic reasons. Dalrymple disputes this view. According to him the main reason was religion since evangelical Christianity was on the rise at this time. The enfield rifle controversy (documented in the film Mangal Pandey that starred Amir Khan) was the fuse that ignited the issue.
At the same time I feel sad. A foreigner (no doubt Dalrymple is an indophile, but a firang nevertheless) comes and discovers ANOTHER aspect of India’s past that we have not bothered about. What is it about us that makes us neglect our own country and leave it to foreigners to tell us about ourselves? The documents that Dalrymple used were lying in the Nehru memorial library all these years for anyone to access. But it just so happened that no Indian bothered to read them.

Shariat Panchayats not wanted

2006-11-02T12:16:00.000+05:00

Finally some hope for Muslim women. The centre has ruled that shariat panchayats have no legal sanction. Neither can they claim to be an alternative to the Indian judicial system. The centre submitted an affidavit before the Supreme Court which stated that clerics cannot force people to obey their diktats. Further, a mufti cannot impose a fine or force a jail term for people violating a fatwa. The affidavit says that Islamic can only be an alternative dispute redressal mechanism and the role of muftis can only be to provide advice on matters brought before them.
This should hold out a ray of hope to the Imranas (and the activists battling the clerical order) that their rights will not be trampled upon by the mullas. In fact, this is a very welcome step which will help the community to intergrate itself with the mainstream (at least judicially speaking). Of course there will be opposition from the clerics who will cry blue murder and spout nonsense about “our rights being trampled”. The government should be firm and not upturn this progressive step.
It is because of the mullahs and their twisted interpretation of the Koran that women like imrana have to face the ignominy of being punished for being raped by their own father-in-law. Will these bearded fucks ever take off their blinkers and grow up? When Shabana Azmi recently said the Koran does not sanction veils that moron from the Jama Masjid, Bukhari, told her to mind her own business. “Her job is to sing and dance and not comment on religious issues,” continued the dork in a similar vein. Let him rave and rant all he wants, one just hopes the wider Muslim community uses the directive to their advantage.

Capital Punishment

2006-10-31T12:54:00.000+05:00

Two people have been sentenced to death in the last couple of weeks: Afzal Guru, who is alleged to have helped the militants who stormed parliament and Santosh Singh, who brutally raped and killed Priyadarshini Matoo 10 years ago. Both cases throw up interesting question: is it right (in ethical and moral terms) for the state to murder?
The Afzal Guru case is particularly interesting. When parliament was stormed in 2001 the country was outraged. Militants tried to attack one of the visible symbols of Indian democracy, and failed. Afzal Guru is alleged to have provided logistic and other support to the militants. The judgement has sharply polarized opinion. While the whole of Kashmir protested from the Chief Minister down to the man on the street, opinion in the rest of India seems to agree with the decision. The right has meanwhile launched a “Hang Afzal” campaign.
While I don’t agree with the jingoistic position taken by many people I do not also believe Afzal should be left off that easily. If it turns out that he had helped the militants then he should be given the maximum punishment possible within the judicial system. The trial of Afzal Guru has been so non-transparent that the lay public does not have the facts at hand. What was his exact role? What is the evidence against him? Is it conclusive or circumstantial? Another ridiculous thing is that Guru has reportedly gone UNREPRESENTED by legal counsel during his trial. Awarding a death sentence to a person who did not have legal counsel is downright absurd.
Given the history of victimization of kashmiris in this particular case, one needs to look at this particular sentence with suspicion. SAR Geelani, a DU prof was falsely implicated in the same case by the Delhi Police.
The second case is more straightforward, but no less troubling. Santosh Singh, a typically north Indian rich brash spoilt young man brutally raped and killed a law student. Faasi do, said the court, after 10 years. For all those out there baying for his blood I have one question, do two wrongs make a right? Is it justifiable to answer the violence he committed with violence unleashed by the state? But then on the other hand, Santosh is obviously an unrepentant man who used his power, as a male and the son of a police officer, to commit a beastly atrocity. I wonder how Priyadarshini’s father feels. I wonder how I would feel if someone raped my sister and killed her. Would I be able to forgive the perpetrator? Unlikely.
So, coming back to the two cases, In Afzal’s case I don’t think he should be killed. In Santosh’s case the view looks less complicated, but we are still on slippery ground.

An icon gets repacked by mass media

2006-10-14T09:57:00.000+05:00

Gandhigiri or Gandugiri

Gandhism has gone mainstream. Only this time its called by the trendy name of ‘Gandhigiri’. Ever since the smash hit Munnabhai Lage Raho introduced the term the media, print and electronic, has gone bonkers over it. Now it seems Gandhigiri is everywhere, atleast of the media were to be believed. If you want to protest against injustice don’t do it with sticks and stones, do it with flowers and words. That’s gandhigiri; Gandhism dressed up in fashionable 21st century attire.
The electronic media have been having a field day with gandhigiri. IBN in particular has had prime time shows where the panelists deconstruct the term and correspondents who give us examples of gandhigiri being practiced in different parts of India. Even the print media is no less complicit. Stories, stand alone pictures, comment…all form part of the media’s contribution.
Popular cinema is a powerful medium in contemporary society. A film has managed to resurrect (at least in the popular imagination) a concept that Indians had by and large abandoned. Suddenly everyone is talking and practicing turning the other cheek. The media is full of stories about how people are adopting the tactics from the film to deal with difficult bosses, wives and girlfriends. Some of these people are no doubt publicity hounds, who sensed a chance to get their pictures in the papers and TV. The media too, sensing an offbeat human-interest story cashed in, partly to fill the 24 hour news cycle and partly to stay ahead of the competition.
So, a departure point that starts with a movie gets picked up by the mass media and gets exposure and becomes a household name, at least in houses that have access to the mass media. Thus a cultural/political icon gets repackaged for contemporary tastes by the mass media, which is good in one way. But there seems to be no engagement with the ideas that Gandhi espoused.

Kiran Desai wins Booker

2006-10-11T11:46:00.000+05:00

The news is out. Another Indian has won the Man Booker prize. Kiran Desai's 'The Inheritance of Loss' is "a magnificent novel of humane breadth and wisdom, comic tenderness and powerful political acuteness," acording to head judge, Hermione Lee. Kirna succeeds where her mother, Anita Desai, was not able to. Anita was shortlisted thrice but failed to win the prize.
The book "is a magnificent novel of humane breadth and wisdom, comic tenderness and powerful political acuteness" according to Lee. This is great for Indian literature. Way to go Kiran.

Some important news omitted

2006-10-11T11:23:00.000+05:00

The big news in yesterday's papers (Oct 10) was North Korea's gatecrash act into the global nuclear club. Times and IE led with the story. IE's coverage was better than the ToI. Of course, ToI had to supplement its Korean coverage with a report of 'Dear Leader's' sexual preferences. The 'shock and awe' has spilled over to today's coverage as well. The (Indian) newspapers have been highlighting a possible Pakistani link in the tests. They have also reported India's 'statements of concern' about the tests. I think India is being hypocritical in that it exercised the option itself in 1998 and became an openly declared nuclear nation. In an unequal global order where countries with the most nuclear stockpiles aggressively follow a policy of 'pre-emptive strikes' can you blame countries that want nukes? Ideally, I want a world free of all nukes. But given that that won't be possible anytime soon, the current nuclear apartheid is clearly discriminatory.
One suprising ommission is Kanshi Ram's death. It got relatively little coverage in the print media. ToI had a small one column story tucked away in page 10 or so. However, IE's second lead was Kanshi Ram. IE's coverage was of this story was much better than ToI's. The third lead in IE was how Bihar's economic fortune is being revived by the sugar industry. Interesting. Two of IE's front page stories were about socio-political issues. Given that Kanshi Ram is the person who gave Dalit's a voice one would have though that his death would be fairly important news, though he was politically marginalised in his later years. However, the media skipping this story is not surprising, given the amount of space they dedicate to dalit/farmers/depressed/deprieved sections. I am looking forward to Frontline and Tehelka for more comprehensive coverage and analysis.
Today's (Oct 11) ToI is fairly bland in terms of interesting stories. A story about a legal case against google for an alleged anti-India community has made the front page. Ok, the story deals with issues of free speech, internet security etc., but is it front page news? Maybe science and tech page story but...
The lead in the city pages is the fight between the Sena siblings: Siv Sena and Maharashtra Navanirman Sena workers clash in Dadar. It has all the elements of a racy story: politics, violence, revenge, intrigue..who would not love a story about sainiks fighting sainiks?
ToI's edit and op-ed page have been compressed to one page. Where the op-ed page should be is the page 'Times Trends' and the 4 column lead is 'Why do we have SEX?' The anchor is 'Women on their fertility peak dress up to impress'. Has ToI crossed a red line by giving over op-ed to trends?
IE (Oct 11) has carried an NYT article on Daniel Pearl and his Kidnapper Omar Sheik. The article pits 'inquiring and understanding western civiliation'against a 'civilisation bent on annihalation'. The article's slant, I feel, creates an impression of a monolithic violent Islam pitted against an 'ill-equipped' west. This may or may not be true.

Studying the Media

2006-10-09T11:46:00.000+05:00

Starting with this post I intend to examine at the print, and possibly broadcast media and look at the kind of news they are reporting, and more importantly, not reporting. It will be an interesting exercise to compare what stories and themes different newspapers carry everyday, how they report similar stories, How much prominence they give to stories etc. Since media shapes public opinion a study of media will reveal the newsroom processes that go into deciding which news is 'fit' for public consumption, which news is in 'public interest' and so on. Since I am in Bombay (mumbai), which is a financial hub it should be an interesting study.

Today's post examines the Times of India dated October 9, 2006. ToI led with a story about controversy over prime property belonging to a church in Malabar Hill. A fairly routine story, but going by the soaring real estate prices in Bombay and shortage of land, the story is fairly 'juicy'. Incidentally there was a small ad about the sale of a bungalow in Juhu. The last line says 'Clients with "Taste & Budget" only'. Interesting, hmmmm. The second lead is about another case of data theft at a BPO in Delhi. Big numbers have been thrown around...50 crores apparently. The story looks at cyber crime and efforts to curb it.
Page 1 had 2 stories whose focus was real estate and the outsourcing boom. And finally on page 1, 'Brangelina' hysteria reaches fever pitch. A papparazzi style picture of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie with their son in an auto. I wonder how many people in Andheri, let alone Bombay have heard of the Hollywood couple? The way the all papers are reporting it it seems as if all of India is obsessed with them.
Two good stories on page 10. One is an opinion piece by Santosh Desai on education. Education is immediately equated with intelligence, ambition, urbane etc. while its opposite state (uneducated) is identified with ignorance and treated with disdain. The author seeks to upturn this 'received wisdom' and says that educated folk, who abrogate to themselves the right to define societal norms, are not automatically cleverer or more anle than uneducated people. I agree with this formu lation. In fact, I think educated people are more prejudiced than the ones that are the objects of their disdain.
A story about how Marathi films are turning to Jatras (mobile exhibitions) to break even financially was interesting. Since this genre is finding it difficult to exhibit in multiplexes, the jatras, that tour rural areas, are one option to recoup financially and reach audiences outside urban centres. What does this say about the tastes of urban audiences in Bombay, definitely not Marathi films.

A New Beginning

2006-10-07T09:52:00.000+05:00

A new beginning is as fraught as an old memory.
As yesterday's dreams slip through my fingers like fine dust
I look at my disjointed self in the cracked mirror,
and see a thousand I's staring back in stoic silence.

I left my past life in the city(ies) I abandoned,
with its fine texture and exquisite folds unravelling in my wake.
Its not what I wanted, but sometimes words become pointed arrows
that pierce the heart and spread the venom slowly, surely

Words once spoken cannot be unsaid.
Pain once inflicted cannot be undone.
As I wander the run down streets of my latest city
in search of myself, I look at the brown-eyed children
playing in the slush-filled streets
The sunlight comes down in feeble gasps
as the dark clouds chase the sun in a cosmic game of hide and seek
and prepare to rain down their offerings on the disconsolate city.

The first droplet is ecstacy, second glory and third is release.
It falls on my hair, slides down my ears and streams down my eyes
I say nothing, know nothing, think nothing,
A new beginning...as delicate as an old dream.

Media, Muslims and me!

2006-09-09T11:19:00.000+05:00

Something had to give. It had to happen sometime. Three explosions ripped through the communally sensitive town of Malegaon in Maharashtra killing 37 and injuring more than 100. The explosions occurred in a mosque, a marketplace and a residential area. The targets were quite clearly Muslims.
The most common interpretation in the media is that the latest round of terrorist strikes is “revenge” for the Varanasi temple attack and the Mumbai serial terror strikes. Though no leads have been found yet it has been widely assumed that the perpetrators are Hindu fundamentalists, who are paying back the Muslim fundoo’s in the same coin. This is their “revenge” for Varanasi and Mumbai.
And so the downward spiral of violence gets a new lease on life. Media reports say the town is “tense”. Rioting mobs went on a rampage, incensed by the attack on their place of worship. Security forces have been rushed to Malgaon and curfew has been declared. Government officials have appealed for calm. We know all this from the media. But what goes unreported?
These are disquieting times we live in. An international war on terror is met with an equally fierce jihad against the kafir. Reams of newsprint and miles of footage document this clash of civilizations every single day in different parts of the world: Iraq, Lebanon, Kashmir, Palestine, and Chechnya. Meanwhile an idiot who can’t string two sentences together leads the “coalition of the killing” against a bearded fanatic who preaches terror from a shadowy cave somewhere in Pakistan. The international media outlets, depending on their political predilections, get into the act. Beyond the slogans of “We report, you decide”, “Free and fair” or even “Free and Fearless” we are fed a diet of biased reports and opinionated arguments. I saw the CNN documentary “In Bin-Laden’s Footsteps” the other day on IBN. It was slick, glossy, gripping…and completely missed the point. Christiane Amanpour narrated how Bin-Laden became the leader of an international terror franchise. But, it didn’t address several important issues:
Why have certain streams in Islam turned so virulently against the west, America in particular?
Has US foreign policy contributed to the rage in the “Arab Street”?
What can be done to address the issue?
But why would they? They are a mainstream American media outlet after all.
Here is the media image of Muslims: bearded, skull-cap wearing fanatics who preach hatred for non-believers and love for Allah who are out to get all of us. It is a seductive image. When one sees a Muslim with a beard and skull-cap dressed in a traditional sherwani it is difficult not to think of mad mullahs.
When my mind inadvertently strays to this image I think of the Muslims I have known; I think of Karimullah, a police constable in rural Guntur who fights Naxalites and risks his life everyday, I think of Basha, a stringer in a small town in Guntur who scrapes a living working for a progressive newspaper. My neighbour Feroz who works in Lucknow for a pittance and dearly misses his wife and daughter in faraway Faizabad. Mahboob, whom I met at a documentary film festival, was dying to make a docu on social issues. Sheik Mastan, the guy who painted my house and whom I rather heartlessly once asked, during the course of an India-Pakistan cricket match, “Which country do you support?” His stoic reply, “India, sir”. Naheed Aqeel, an activist in Lucknow who doesn’t wear a burqa, but wears her feminist convictions quite openly on her sleeve, Qurratulain, my friend in Hyderabad who smokes, drinks and does other un-islamic things. Firoz, another friend who wears his hair long, loves Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin and Salman Rushdie. Kismat, who is involved in the gay-rights movement and is a safe sex evangelist.
I think of these people and feel reassured that all is not lost, yet.

Dreams to dust

2006-09-06T11:44:00.000+05:00

A Dream steps across the golden threshold
And comes alive with a life of its own,
Decked up in a silken brocade of blue and gold
It beckons me to be hers alone.

Visions of a promised land dissolve
Like a wispy mist on a warm March day,
In its place lies a former resolve
Broken, bruised and scattered in a million ways.

Dreams lie in ruins hope gives way to sorrow
I look at the wreckage that lies around me,
This was supposed to be a better tomorrow
But all that remains are memories that won’t let me be.

At nights voices echo through my head
Keeping me awake till the wee morning hours,
Unborn dreams I left for dead
Rain upon me like a wild monsoon shower.

Staring languidly at the warm colours of dawn
A faint ray of hope shines through the dark clouds,
Visions of a promised land are reborn,
Materialize before my eyes, I shout in joy aloud.

Talk to her!!!

2006-09-05T09:29:00.000+05:00

He blinked and took a sharp intake of breath as she approached. A slight wave of panic rose from the pit of his stomach and expanded to his chest and flowed down his arms like a gushing fountain, causing him difficulty in breathing. Her lithe, sensuous figure was accentuated by the gentle cadence of her walk. She was simply dressed in a pair of blue denims and black top with minimal jewelry and make up. Her short-cropped hair accentuated the attractive features of her face: a long aquiline nose set amidst twinkling eyes. The hint of a smile played on her slender lips, lighting up her face like a diya.
When she was within eyeshot she looked at him. A moment. Two separate glances. Four eyes. He felt his mouth going dry. Another panic wave coursed through his body like a tsunami, devastating his faculty of speech. He fervently hoped she hadn’t noticed that his hands were shaking slightly. She was within earshot now. He had to say something. Anything. But what? At that moment his mind was all clouded up. He was trying to think of something tremendously witty.
“Hi there.”
“Hi, yourself.”
She was standing in front of him. Silence. He nodded his head up down as if to indicate he was weighing weighty matters in his mind. She looked on eagerly, expectantly. Still silence. They stood there, looking at each other, looking through each other. Still no profound thoughts articulated into words. They can’t continue like this and not look silly. He made a stab at conversation.
“Hey, how are you doing?”
“Fine, and you?”
“Ok, I guess.” (This with rolled eyes to indicate a cold cruel world)
“Real crowded roads…huh, heavy traffic, lots of pollution, cows on the street.”
“Oh, oh yeah…bad scene.”
At this point the conversation ran dry, like the course of an Indian river in summer. They stood there awhile. His hand supported his face, which had a semi-serious expression. She still had a silly grin on hers. Finally she said, “Well, gotta go, see you later.”
“Yeah, catch ya.”
He stared as she headed inside the building and nodded his head sideways. There is always next time.

Talk to Her

2006-09-04T15:44:00.000+05:00

Inspired by Pedro Almodovar's film 'Talk to Her'

Scene 1

The young man stares silently. His eyes reflect the scenes unfolding in front of him, around him, in the arena. Meanwhile inside, a matador, in shiny red sequined short coat, tighttootight trousers, cowboy boots, top hat, flowing red cape contemplates. Dust rises in anticipation of the magnificent duel, pitting beast against man. The black bull is released. Its curved wicked horns grin in anticipation. Red cape is waved, bull charges, matador side steps, bull misses its target and turns around in fury. The young man still stares, eyes expressionless, body rigid. The matador is fearless. Her golden brown hair dances with the dust. Her lithe body ready to take the bull by the horns. A furious charge, yet again. Bull’s-eye. Matador is on the ground, cape splayed, warm liquid oozing and staining the coat a deeper red. Young man comes to life and rushes towards her.

Scene 2

Another young man stares silently. His eyes reflect the beautiful scenes unfolding before him. In the glass room across the street bodies move in delightful slow motion, to choreographed perfection. She raises one arm, straightens a leg, in tune to the mellow music. Pirouette, arabesque, plie. Her body moves with a magic of its own, tracing dance patterns across the floor. The young man watches, enthralled. He would love to talk to her, but is too scared. He musters up the courage after she comes out. Strikes up a conversation. They walk together on the crowded streets, talking about this and that. He’s funny and animated. She’s offbeat and sparkling. She has to cross the street to get to her house. Bye for now. He stares silently as she crosses. A car rams into her and she falls in a dead swoon. He rushes towards her.

Scene 3

The two young men are seated together. The women in their care are in adjacent rooms in the hospital. Fate brought their destinies together by chance! Or is it by design? The women are in coma, medically dead. But the men refuse to give up. Endless night vigils for signs of life. They are full of hope. Talk to her! Care for her! Tell her how much you love her! Days become weeks become months become years. Hope is alive. The men feed clean clothe care for the women. Time passes, bonds strengthen. The men become good friends. They two couples have so much in common, yet are so dissimilar. Four friends, united by intertwined destinies, together in life and death.

Balochistan on Fire

2006-09-01T12:50:00.000+05:00

I was fortunate to know Malik Siraj Akbar at Asian College of Journalism. He enriched my understanding of a lot of issues and contributed to my growth as a person. Unfortunately, Malik could not attend the full academic year at ACJ because he is a Pakistani. Visa problems you see. By the time the Indian government decided Malik was not likely to blow up ACJ he had missed five months. Still we had him with us for six months and he brought a fresh perspective with him, apart from being very popular.
This perspective is important because Malik is from Balochistan, currently Pakistan’s most troubled province. Ever since the recent targeted killing of Nawab Akbar Bugti, a prominent tribal and political Baloch leader, the lid has been blown off Pakistan’s Baloch policy. Malik was passionately involved in Balochistan’s politics and talked endlessly about its problems. “There is so much wrong with Balochistan,” He once told me. One could perceive a sense of disenchantment when he spoke.
Malik was not an extremist, in the sense that he did not subscribe to the stand of Baloch radicals when they demanded “Baloch self-determination” or even “Baloch independence”. He believed in Pakistan and wanted the province to remain part of it.
“All my friends chide me for supporting Pakistan.”
However he was upset that his province was getting a raw deal from the federal government, and Punjab in particular. Outsiders had cornered most of the jobs in the province, the resources, particularly natural gas, was being piped out of Balochistan leaving very little for local consumption, most government jobs were held by outsiders, he explained.
One day I asked him why he was still pro-Pakistan. He replied that the rule of the sardars, or tribal chiefs, was just as bad. The feudal rule of the sardars of the various tribes – Bugti, Mengal, Marri – is as much to blame as any other reason for the province’s backwardness in education, healthcare, infrastructure and other social and economic indicators. Akbar Bugti was the sardar of the Bugti tribe. His iron-fisted rule over his tribe alienated many Baloch and earned him enemies within the province opposed to his feudal and autocratic ways.
Unfortunately for Pakistan, with Akbar Bugti’s death even moderate Baloch have been forced to take a pro-Bugti position. Already a legend in his lifetime, the manner of his death (the 80 year old was bombed by helicopter gun ships in his mountain hideout) has made him a martyr for the Baloch cause. Ironically, Bugti was considered pro-Pakistan and Islamabad’s points-man in the province till he fell out with the rulers. He voted for Balochistan’s accession to Pakistan in 1947. He justified his current anti-Islamabad stand on the grounds that he was fighting for Balochistan’s rights, as suggested by this interview he gave to Praveen Swami.
What now for Pakistan? Echo’s of 1971 all over again? A lot of Pakistani’s think so. Read this excellent piece by Ayaz Amir in Dawn. Pakistan’s rulers don’t seem to have learnt any lessons from the Bangladesh debacle. You cannot answer political problems with military solutions. Pervez Mussharaf, who has the tact and subtlety of a sledgehammer, is a military man who only understands the language of force. As he once famously remarked at a press conference “I am a fighter, I will fight you all the way.” Unfortunately, machismo and bluster do not go down very well in civilian life.

Mottled Memories, Bottled Thoughts

2006-08-31T15:08:00.001+05:00

The phone rings morosely, tring…triiiing, and acquires urgency with each new triiiiinnnngggg. The silence between rings sounds painfully loud. My pulse keeps pace with the guttural electronic sound, a gentle trot at first, then a mild canter. The sound sounds light years away, like the memory of her. How will she respond when she picks up the phone?

I close my eyes.
What will I say?
What can I say?

Think of those nights and days. Was it only three months ago? A fragment in time, feels like eternity.

Poetry mingled with passion, feelings ran amok.
Saints cavorted with sinners, emotions came unstuck.

Gentle sound of laughter, quirky smiles,
Thoughts spoken and unspoken, words uttered without guile.

The words tumbled out carefully when she read poetry to me. In slow motion, like an exquisite sequence of steps, images assembled in my head, strung together like pieces of coloured confetti. Eyes vacant, staring at the white wall. Mouth agape, a smile frozen in place. Nostrils wide open for a whiff of her breath. Skin tingles with anticipation.

She finishes and turns to me, quizzical look on her face. Two separate glances meet. A moment of silence.

Questions? Answers.

She throws her head back and laughs. Hair sways in lockstep. Body shakes in gentle titter. Looks up at me: How was it? I would love to tell her, but words cannot express, neither hands describe, emotions cannot come together, nor joy transcribe. Moments of ecstasy, movements in space, the rising crescendo of musical notes, accompanies two bodies frozen in time.

---------

She once said,
Some things are best left undefined!
Some people are best left un-understood!
Some spaces are best left unexplored!
Some feelings are best left untouched!
Some wounds are best left unhealed!

Questions? Still no answers.
The phone rings, Still no answer.

Airport Blues

2006-08-31T06:53:00.000+05:00

This fictional account of being detained at an airport is inspired by an incident where 12 Muslims were arrested from an airplane and detained at Schipol Airport because they were "behaving suspiciously".

"Next," he said in an even tone. There was a quite menace in his voice as he stared hard at me. He was a big man, well over six feet and strongly built; the broad shoulders and barell chest made him look like a puffed up pigeon strutting about with a certain disdain. A sidearm, snug in its holster, adorned his considerable waist. The multi coloured medals on his chest indicated that this was no ordinary security official. The airport was swarming with security personnel armed to the teeth.

Ever since an alleged plot to blow up 10 airliners was uncovered, security had been further tightened at airports across the world. No chances could be taken in these uncertain times. Anyone with brown skin, or a beard, or with a different accent or suspicious looking was not to be trusted. After all you are either with "them" or with "us", no questions asked, and certainly no answers given.

I was next and as I approcahed him I noticed that there were electronic gadgets on the table beside him. I stepped through a metal detector which beeped with what sounded like sadistic pleasure. I was unsure about what it meant, was I carrying something offensive or was I all clear? I looked at the man. He fixed me with a steely glare. I raised my eyebrows as if to indicate 'what now'? he gestured for me to step forward towards him, which I did.

"Raise your arms." I held my hands out horizontally at shoulder level as he patted me down. His hands did a slow waltz up and down the front and back of my body. He felt a bulge when he groped my ass. I took out my wallet and handed it over. He opened it and examined the contents. Out came currency notes, visiting cards, a telephone diary, some coins, bank statements, credit cards, a packet of condoms and more. I tried not to show my embarrasment. I wondered if people in the queues beside mine were undergoing similar indignations. His fingers felt my front pocket. "What is this," he growled. "Cellphone," I answered timidly as I gave it up for scrutiny. It went through the X-ray machine behind him. I wondered if the machine could damage my phone. But, the ordeal was far from over.

I had a knapsack which I intended to take into the plane with me. This would never pass through airport security unopened. Sure enough, he asked me to open my bag. It did not matter that it had already been through the all-seeing X-ray machine. I wondered if others in the queue had to undergo similar treatment. He asked me if I was carrying toothpaste, shaving cream, hair gel or any other form of liquid in my bag as he roughly pried open the front zip. My toilet case contained all the offending items. "Yes," I said resignedly. He looked at me with a mixture of triumph and lingering suspicion, as if his fears had been confirmed. The bag was emptied and the contents were on the table: toilet case, assorted pieces of clothing, flight ticket, passport and identification documents, the latest thriller by Frederick Forsyth, which I intended to read on the flight, an i-pod and CD player and some CD's. The toilet case was opened and the contents spilled out. He shook his head as he separated the offending items. "You will have to put these in your check in luggage." I had already checked in my luggage, so that was not possible. I said so. "Well in that case...," he took the shampoo, toothpaste tube, shaving gel, moisturizing lotion and deodarant and put them aside. I couldn't take these onto the plane. I felt a hot tide of anger rising inside me. My cheeks flushed red. "Listen, you just checked these items yourself. They are harmless. You cannot do this." He continued examining the bag as if he had not heard me. Each of the other items was carefully scrutinized. The clothes were opened out and dusted, the pages of the book were flipped in rapid succession, the CD covers were opened and the CDs checked and the i-pod and CD player put through the machine. Finally, he turned his attention to my passport. He stared hard at my mug shot and then stared at me. It had been a while since the photo was taken. He returned his attention to the mug shot. He then looked at the ticket. It was to Bombay. "Wait here," he barked, as he confered with his pals.

I looked around and noticed that other travellers in my queue were being waved on after a cursory examination. Seemed like I was the only one being singled out for extra checks. But then I was the only brown skinned man in this crowd of whites. Why me? Did I look like I was about to blow myself up? I was clean shaven, hell I was not even a muslim, but then I didn't expect this man to tell the difference on the basis of my name. All that mattered was that my skin colour was dark, too dark for comfort.

He turned around and asked me to follow him. What now? He led the way to a room close by. There were three men sitting around a brown table. The man at the head of the table was smoking a camel and the others were holding styrofoam cups of steaming coffee. My man asked me to take a seat. He seated himself next to me. The interrogation began.

"What was your business here?"

"How long did you stay here?"

"Why are you carrying liquid items in your baggage?"

"Are you aware these are banned?"

I looked at the man seated opposite me. It was apparent from the deference that the others showed him that he was the chief officer here. He slowly blew out a thick puff of smoke. "I came here to visit my ailing aunt." I could see that they were not convinced. They stared at me, then stared at each other, as if unsure of what to say next. All my papers were in order and they had nothing incriminating on me. So I pressed on, "My luggage was checked by this gentleman here," I gestured towards my man, "And everything is in order. Why am I being detained?"

The chief shifted uncomfortably in his seat and cleared his throat, "We have had bomb threats at this airport before and just wanted to make sure..." I was livid. "Oh, so you detain me because I not a white. Or is it because I look like an Arab," I yelled. I had had enough of this bullshit. I was not going to stand for it anymore. It was bad enough that I was subjected to what I suspect was racial profiling. The thought of missing my flight upset me even more.

"No that is not the case," said the chief brusquely. "We pick out random people from the queue and subject them to checks." Random people, yeah right.

They let me go after a few more desultory questions. As I walked out of the room and rejoined the queue I realized that I was luckier than the 12 Muslims who had been detained at Amsterdam because they were behaving suspiciously.

An announcement rings out on the PA system in a sonourous voice: "Flight No. Dlt 213 is ready to fly to Bombay, passengers are requested to check-in."

I, you and me?

2006-08-09T18:46:00.001+05:00

Who am I?
Am I me or am I I?
Do I exist today? Will I disappear tomorrow?
Did I shut my eyes yesterday?
Am I the me of last week?
Will I be the I of next month?
Will I become me, will I become you?
When you become me will I become your's?
When I become you will I lose myself? My self??

Brilliance or Madness?

2006-07-12T19:26:00.000+05:00

Brilliance gone awry or a moment of blind rage, the FIFA World Cup final between France and Italy will be remembered for one moment of insanity: when Zinedine Zidane took matters into his own hands, or head, and butted Marco Matterazi full on in the gut. Since this was going to be Zidane's last stab at glory, he would have wanted a grand flourish before the exit. So, what propmted the gifted French wizard to throw it all away in a fit of blind rage? Did the Italian taunt his mother of having loose morals or make a racist comment while the two were jostling for the ball? We don't know, yet, but sledging is quite common in sports. But if it was indeed the slur about Zidane's mother that made him lose his rag it is to be understood in a certain cultural context.

The 'mother' is a venerated figure in certain cultures and you insult her at your own peril. I had my own 'zidane moment' four years ago, ironically on the eve of the FIFA World Cup 2002. I was backpacking with Sagar, a good but eccentric friend in Kerala. He was shooting a documentary and I was tagging along, being the spot boy, camera assistant, bag carrier, odd jobs man and dumping ground all rolled in one. One evening in Thrissur, we went to see a late night movie. It was a tamil language potboiler with racy dances and a steamy siren. Walking back to our hotel after the movie, me cheesed off and Sagar thoughfully animated, the two of us argued about the merits of the movie. The argument was along the lines of 'art' cinema Vs. kitsch. the conversation meandered dangerously to the personal and at some point I made a comment, I forget exactly I said, about Sagar's mother. It wasn't in an insulting vein, more like a matter of fact statement. Since Sagar was quite a radical I thought he would be able to take the comment. how wrong I was. The next instant I was hit by a verbal tirade with the intensity of a nuclear blast. That was the end of the fragile peace that had held since the trip started. The remaining days were spent in spiteful acrimony and we parted ways on a bad note.

It is a big deal in India to insult someone's mother. Specially considering the fact that most Indian males deify their mothers, the sacred space around the mother-figure is indeed to be carefully trod; one misstep could land you in some very hot water. The mother-figure is glorified in Indian popular culture. Think of films like Mother India (1951); then there is that cathartic scene in a Rajesh Khanna-Amitabh Bacchan movie (i forget which one) where khanna declares emotionally 'mere paas maa hai' in reply to Amitabh's taunts about his poverty.

The deification of the mother is in keeping with the 'virgin-whore' dichotomy that characterises gender norms. On the one hand women are elevated to perfect role models in the form of loving, caring mothers. But they are also cast as immoral sluts and voluptuous vamps with loose morals. This dichotomy is puzzling. There are cultural and religious traditions in India that celebrate both manifestations of the feminine: The grand durga pooja festivities of Bengal elevate the feminine to the status of benevolent protector. The malevolent form, in the shape of the dreaded kali with her voluptuous dance of death and garland of male skulls, is just out of the range of vision, but forever lurking at the back of the mind.

The Remains of Memory

2006-07-03T19:12:00.000+05:00

The shards of white, glittering glass, lying on the hard ground
remind me of my delicate piecemeal memories.
Broken up by age and scatterd in the slipstreams of time
they lie buried deep in the caverns of my mind
and are retrieved when a shroud of blue envelops me in its warm embrace.

I stop and stare at the shards glowing bright in the noon sun,
doing a dance of light and fury.
Ever so carefully, I make my way among the shattered, scaterred glass
so as not to disturb their mocking tones, their smug self belief
that, after all, memories are like shards of glass,
bright from afar, but painful when embraced from close.

The Politics of Science

2006-07-03T10:46:00.000+05:00

There was a lec-dem yesterday at the Centre for Drug Research Institute. CDRI is a premier government funded research institute for biomedical research located in Lucknow. CDRI is located in Chattar Manzil Palace, where the regal nawabs of Lucknow once lived the good life. It is a huge magnificent building. If Nehru called dams the “temples of modern India” then surely research institutes like CDRI would be the reigning deities of the nation; strech the analogy further and you could imagine scientists as the “priests of modern India.”
The striking irony: A product of scientific rationalism like CDRI located in a palace that was built for a pre-modern way of life.

The lec-dem was by a distnguished scientist from the National Physical Laboratory (another government lab) who had just returned from Antarctica. This gentleman is the coordinator of India’s Antarctica project and has visited the icy continent twice! The lec-dem was organised with a view to share his experiences about his journey. But the subtext was to also introduce the audience to the potential to exploit Antarctica’s resources. More on that later.
The scientist showed us pictures he took at the Indian station and narrated anecdotes about his visit. Also, interesting facts about the white continent. But, I felt that the underlying message of the talk was “This is a continent that is lying unexplored and unexploited. Something has to be done.”

He kept harping on the fact that there is no tourism to Antarctica from India. The fact that 10,000 tourists, mainly from S. Africa, Australia, N. Zealand, visit Antarctica made it all the more regrettable. The terms in which he framed it, it was like the nation was getting left behind in the scramble to ”exploit” Antarctica.
There was one moment during the slide show that was particularly revealing. There was a ’science cartoon’ of a penguin talking to a scientist (presumably an Indian) set against the icy, frigid landscape. The penguin says, “Looking at you I feel I have wasted my life here. No job, no money, no comforts. When you next go home to New Delhi take my son along with you so that he can become a scientist.”

There are several narratives that can be interpolated from this cartoon: science as the ultimate aim of society, looking at the things outside the realm of science as essentially “wasted”, scientific research or achievement as the desired goal, looking at a ”non-scientific” way of living, and all the imagined attributes that accompany it like ’sloth’, ‘carefree’, ‘easygoing’, as undesirable and a desire to correct this.

There was another revealing moment. Giving the reasons for harmony in the Indian station, as compared to other countries’ stations, he said that “the great women of the Indian nation hold together the family bonds for the progress of the nation.” Harmonious social relations and infact even the progress of the nation has been yoked to the women of the nation, like a cart is hitched to a bullock for its physical progress.

Science is supposed to be liberating; it was born in the crucible of enlightenment values and opposition to religious dogma. But has science now itself become a dogmatic religion which sees the world lying outside its realm with disdain, to be colonised, for the purpose of progress, progress of the nation?

Antarctica is the last wilderness on Earth, a land untouched by man or science. The icy, bleak landscape is threatening and exhilarating at the same time. Is this one reason that Science wants to colonise this continent? Why can’t penguins live their boring, unscientific lives? Why can’t the mountains and moss and seals live in peace? Why does progress of the nation depend on women performing a particular kind of role; that of holding the bonds of family togeher and civilizing the brute man?

The Bird

2006-06-30T11:30:00.000+05:00

As i hover in the maroon twilight zone between sleep and wakefulness,
A black headed mynah enters the white space of my consciousness,
and insinuates herself in the 3-D 70 mm screen behind my eyes,
bird twitters echo inside my head as that little head bobs to and fro,
the hippity hop of tiny feet, the cool breeze of rustling wings, the silken smooth down,
make up the vivid strands of my technicolour dreams,
some may call me poetic, but others will call me bird brained.

A Celestial Spectacle

2006-06-30T11:26:00.000+05:00

Alone on my bare terrace at night,
staring up towards the heavens,
I see a vast black easel embedded with cherry white dots of sparkling light,
like a patchwork of colours splashed carelessly on a canvas, the night sky glows bright,
a shooting star, two falling stars,
like streaks of dripping wet paint on an unfinished painting,
or tears of the artist on a work of art well done?

Cyclerickshaw

2006-06-30T11:25:00.000+05:00

Cyclerickshaws are one of the modes of transport in Lucknow.

You can’t be very finicky about transport here because the public transportation system is so bad. Public buses were introduced a year ago and are still infrequent. There are no bus stops, so to board a bus you just wave your hand when you see one approaching and the driver stops just enough for you to hop in. Similarly to get off you yell at the driver to stop and jump off when he slows down.

Then there are the ‘vikrams’, basically motorised three wheelers that pack humans in like sardines. The Sumo SUV jeeps are even worse in this regard. You can barely breathe in one, let alone move. The stench of human sweat is nauseating.
There are ’share’ autorickshaws, but these ply only on the major routes. So, despite personal misgivings and morals, you cannot afford to be too choosy about your transport. It is mix and match that gets you from point A to point B.

I first encountered the cyclerickshaws and felt a personal aversion to riding in one. A cyclerickshaw is basically a three wheeled contraption which resembles a bicycle with a large carriage at the back to carry people. The rickshaw is peddled by the driver who is thin and emaciated from the physical toil. There are thousands of cyclerickshaws on Lucknow’s streets.
Now this is the problem I had: There was an odd sense of guilt in riding one. The rickshaw driver cycles all day and late into the night in all seasons. And in Lucknow the seasons can get pretty extreme with brutal bone jarring summers and frigid mind numbing winters. Moreover, the rickshaw driver gets paid pittance for the amount of physical work he does. One rickshawallah told me he earns Rs 100 a day.

I am not being overly moralistic. I can’t afford to because I don’t have the complete picture yet. But the issue of human dignity keeps cropping up in my mind. Riding on someone else’s toil, sweat and, dare I say it, tears. But as I said I don’t have much choice, so I end up rickshawing quite a bit.

Before getting onto a rickshaw, I negotiate with the driver, which basically means haggling over the price. When he demands 10 Rs I am willing to pay 8 and when he pleads for 6 I say 4. The price fixing is not in his favour because there are so many of them willing to undercut each other. If this on demands 2 rs more there is always the next one eagerly waiting to poach customers.

The rickshawallahs have little bargaining power. They know it, I know it and they know I know it. People like me ride these rickshaws and haggle for every rupee like this is our last ride. And yet, when we walk into a store, showroom or mall, like the ones that increasingly dot the urban Indian landscape, we look at the ‘Fixed Price’ notice on the saffron walls and pay up without questioning.

That then is the dichotomy.

The Power of Woman

2006-06-30T11:22:00.000+05:00

The sun is scalding the dusty streets outside as I walk towards the administration building. I curse my luck on getting some of the lousiest beats in Lucknow as a rookie reporter. Can’t be helped, since I am the juniormost.

I am covering Lucknow University and it’s not a pretty beat. Posters of 35 year old student leaders stare hostilely at you from every wall. These neta’s do samaj seva and use bombs, guns and knives to persuade the recalcitrant. I met Vinod tripathy and had an almost meeting with Ranjeet Singh Baghel, two worthies of LU. The gentlemen are members of the Student’s Union and hate each other’s guts. Their supporters regularly shoot and hurl bombs at each other in every imaginable place; outside the VC’s office, inside the hostels, under the bike sheds, in the ladies toilets and occasionally in jail as well.

I walk into the Pro-VCs room without knocking. I need some quotes from him. He sits in a run down room with red paan stains on the wall. I sit opposite him. He is talking into the phone and to two people at the same time. Once he finishes he stares at me from behind his half-moon glasses. Next, the pan stained mouth opens and he asks me what I want? I reply I am from the ’meediyah’. He is instantly ingratiating. I begin asking him routine questions for my story and he parries wonderfully. He talks without revealing anything.
The room has a stale smell about it and the overhead fan whirrs disconsolately. His chaprasi is hovering behind him like a cork bobbing in the sea. He has a worried look on his mousy little face and a spitton ready for when his boss will put two fingers to his mouth and spit out a red stream of pulverized pan and beetel nuts. The air conditioner in the room is on the verge of break down.

The door opens and a woman walks in. She is pretty and petit, in a vernacular kind of way. A typical UP behenji. Slim and lithe. Her small boobs peek out from the black chunni. her face is sharp and carries an uncanny sense of awareness and guile. She sits down and crosses her legs slowly, delibrately, but not fully. Five men walk in with her. They look menacing and ready to kill, her bodyguards. The hooligan outriders sit around her. They have the Pro-VC completely surrounded.

There is something exciting brewing in the room. I stare at the girl. I am presuming that they are all students. The girl is the centre of attention in the dull room. She is sexually stimulating; She knows this and makes full use of it. Her demenour is mildly menacing, this is what makes her alluring.

She addresses the Pro-VC, poor chap, with barely concealed contempt. Her tone is not too loud, but ‘dont mess with me’ at the same time. I wonder which of the guys is having a tumble with her between the sheets and feel mildly jealous. Her voice has me in rapt attention. She wants the Pro-VC to give her ‘group’ some university contracts. When she finishes her rant the room is silent, except for the echo of her voice in my mind. I look at the Pro-VC, he’s sweating. the light beads of perspiration on his brow reflect the white light from the tubelight. But he brazens it out well. He tries bluster, she’s not amused. He hums and haws about rules and regulations. She gives him a final look of scathing proportions, gets up and walks out of the room, her hips swinging to the beat of her goons footsteps.
It is moments like these that I love; the hidden dynamics in the air; the unexplained, but perfectly understood vibes; the raw sexuality that pierces the mundane moments of life like molten metal.

post script: The lady is apparantly a junior librarian. She’s called ‘juli’. The name comes from combining the first syllables of the two words, junior and librarian, written in hindi.