(Excerpts from an imaginary conversation between a twenty-something Indian, female and her mother on her (i.e. the twenty-something Indian female) birthday)
Mother: (sulking) Happy birthday.
Daughter: Thank you! It is nice to see you so happy that I’ve lived to see another year.
M: Sure, make jokes. You’ll see, all the nice guys will be snapped up before you know it.
D: (aside) With the sex-ratio so skewed in favour of guys, I doubt that’ll ever happen. It’s probably 3 guys to 1 girl. OMG, what a dream- one to cook, one to clean and another to carry all the shopping bags, pure bliss. (Aloud) Don’t worry Ma, you’ll find that someone special.
M: (marking a newspaper matrimonial in red) This one’s good. Listen, CA guy, lives in Singapore, wants engineer, doctor or MBA girl from our BB (don’t even ask) community.
D: (ever the artful dodger) Ma, don’t you want me to live nearby? Why ship me off all the way to Singapore? (aside) That’s right, play the emotional blackmail card; the tears welling up were a nice touch. If she picks a local guy, say you want to see the world and are looking for a global life-partner. I love mind-games. (aloud) I wonder if I should buy those shoes I saw yesterday.
M: (momentarily distracted) The black and silver ones? They should be a perfect fit. (Peering into the newspaper) Hmm, sounds reliable, good family, well-educated…
D: Are we still talking about shoes?
M: You are approaching your (shuddering and almost in a whisper) mid-twenties. Mid-twenties. Mid- twenties. Don’t be so flippant about these things. Your aunts, uncles, their second cousins and the neighbours and their cousins are looking too. Can’t you cooperate a little?
D: By “cooperate” you mean “don’t kick and scream while you are being led to the gallows”?
M: Don’t be morbid. Look at your cousins, they are so happily settled. (eyes averted heavenward, probably in a reverie of seeing D married)
D: (aside) They didn’t have the spirit to stand their ground. Given a chance now, I bet they’d rethink their decision to get hitched. (aloud) I’m sure they are. Ma, I want to live my life. Is that so bad?
M: There’ll be plenty of time to live your life after you are married.
D: What about my career? What if I have to relocate? How am I to be sure of the guy? What if he moon-lights as an axe-murderer? What if…?
M: Of course, it has its risks (as though conceding a minor point), but you’ll learn the ropes.
D: Ropes? Ropes? It’s my life we’re talking about! How did “ropes” enter this conversation?
M: It’s different for girls. It would be so good for your father and me to see you settled.
D: (humming No Doubt's "Just a girl")
(Enter, the father, a.k.a. the voice of reason)
Father: Why’s the newspaper marked in red?
D: Ma’s on a man-hunt. (winking)Right, Ma?
F: Again? Let D be. She needs to figure out her life before taking the …ahem, plunge, so to speak.
D: (aside) My hero!!!!!! (aloud) My hero!!!!!!!!!
Saturday, December 29, 2007
My brown-eyed girl
Their eyes met across the dimly-lit, crowded room. She was with her gaggle of friends, finishing the last remnants of a cheese cake. He was alone, as usual- the lone wolf, strong, silent and rugged, moving with a quiet grace.
She had heard about him, his fame had traveled far and wide. Legend had it that he had survived a nuclear holocaust. His struggles had made him cynical, world-weary. He had seen turbulent times- she could make out the ever-so-slight limp with which he walked.
In the room, crowded with so many eligible, sprightly young males, she had eyes only for him. She was drawn to his wry smile and odd manner. He liked her wide-eyed innocence, her naiveté, the demure way she stole glances at him and how she hung on to his every word. It was love at first sight.
They would meet in secluded corners, away from prying eyes. But she would scurry away frightened, when daylight washed over them. Times were lean and resources in short supply. He would save her a slice of stale pizza, hardly gourmet material. But in the first flush of love, even such slim pickings seemed a lavish feast.
Theirs was a whirlwind romance, the stuff of legends. Soon, they settled into connubial bliss with sanction from the elders of their community. The going was good, at first. Then came trouble in paradise.
The exacting demands of life and parenthood, took their toll. Her wide-eyed innocence became jaded. He realized that she was no longer was regaled by the tales of his adventures. The harder he tried, the remoter she became.
She no longer had eyes only for him. He saw her ogle the new guy in town, nonchalant about the effect her betrayal was having on him. He realized that “fidelity” was a dirty word and monogamy, a myth.
He sometimes wished he were an elephant or a sparrow and not a cockroach. Filthy mammal and bird though they were respectively, and proud as he was of his insect heritage, elephants and sparrows were known to practice monogamy, unlike cockroaches whose affections tended to be fickle.
There she went, antenna-in-antenna with her new found love. He played the helpless bystander, his heart broken to smithereens. He would be no match for this young, alpha male. He would not even try to win her back; he had too much dignity. So what if he was only a scavenging cockroach. She had not even spared a thought for the kids.
Whoosh! He scampered under a couch and into a nearby crevice as fast as he could, his head just peeping out of the tiny aperture. New guy wasn’t so lucky and, had caught the chemical spray right in his face and collapsed in a heap.
He hoped she had the good sense to run away. He would take her back and all would be forgiven. Wishful thinking never pays. He heard her scream and all was quiet. So, this is how it ends, he thought. Well, Karma’s a b****, he smiled wryly.
No woman, no cry, he sang softly as he crawled out of his hiding place, when he deemed it safe.
Their eyes met across the dimly-lit, crowded room...
She had heard about him, his fame had traveled far and wide. Legend had it that he had survived a nuclear holocaust. His struggles had made him cynical, world-weary. He had seen turbulent times- she could make out the ever-so-slight limp with which he walked.
In the room, crowded with so many eligible, sprightly young males, she had eyes only for him. She was drawn to his wry smile and odd manner. He liked her wide-eyed innocence, her naiveté, the demure way she stole glances at him and how she hung on to his every word. It was love at first sight.
They would meet in secluded corners, away from prying eyes. But she would scurry away frightened, when daylight washed over them. Times were lean and resources in short supply. He would save her a slice of stale pizza, hardly gourmet material. But in the first flush of love, even such slim pickings seemed a lavish feast.
Theirs was a whirlwind romance, the stuff of legends. Soon, they settled into connubial bliss with sanction from the elders of their community. The going was good, at first. Then came trouble in paradise.
The exacting demands of life and parenthood, took their toll. Her wide-eyed innocence became jaded. He realized that she was no longer was regaled by the tales of his adventures. The harder he tried, the remoter she became.
She no longer had eyes only for him. He saw her ogle the new guy in town, nonchalant about the effect her betrayal was having on him. He realized that “fidelity” was a dirty word and monogamy, a myth.
He sometimes wished he were an elephant or a sparrow and not a cockroach. Filthy mammal and bird though they were respectively, and proud as he was of his insect heritage, elephants and sparrows were known to practice monogamy, unlike cockroaches whose affections tended to be fickle.
There she went, antenna-in-antenna with her new found love. He played the helpless bystander, his heart broken to smithereens. He would be no match for this young, alpha male. He would not even try to win her back; he had too much dignity. So what if he was only a scavenging cockroach. She had not even spared a thought for the kids.
Whoosh! He scampered under a couch and into a nearby crevice as fast as he could, his head just peeping out of the tiny aperture. New guy wasn’t so lucky and, had caught the chemical spray right in his face and collapsed in a heap.
He hoped she had the good sense to run away. He would take her back and all would be forgiven. Wishful thinking never pays. He heard her scream and all was quiet. So, this is how it ends, he thought. Well, Karma’s a b****, he smiled wryly.
No woman, no cry, he sang softly as he crawled out of his hiding place, when he deemed it safe.
Their eyes met across the dimly-lit, crowded room...
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Taare zameen par: A review
This movie resulted in a self-discovery of sorts. I realized that I’m a sentimental shmuck, for all my bravado. The tears were always close to the surface and I had to duck low in my seat to maintain some semblance of dignity, so I wasn’t exposed for the sissy that I am. But the curious glances of the other audience members during the intermission told me that my façade wasn't fooling anyone.
Bollywood grapevine has it that this movie was actually Amole Gupte’s brainchild and Aamir Khan usurped the chair of director and poor Amole was relegated to the position of “creative” director. Whatever the facts, I’m glad this film was made. I’m thankful that it had none of the hype of OSO or Saawariya, so the fluff could be separated from real cinema. I am grateful that those affiliated with the film shunned appearances in reality TV shows and other props to promote the movie. It speaks volumes about the sheer confidence and passion they had for the film and its message. Hats off to them.
I admit that I wanted to see Khoya Khoya Chand and not this film. I also grumbled about shelling thirty bucks (not a huge amount by any standard, considering that I’ve shelled out twice the actual price of a movie ticket for atrocious seats) more for the scalper tickets. I had to eat humble pie after all. The film is a gem and I take issue with anyone who thinks it is mediocre, motor-mouth RJs included.
Taare zameen par deals with a child’s struggle with dyslexia. More importantly, it underlines the cruelty, indifference and insensitivity “normal” people use to deal with those differently-abled. It’s also a lesson in humanity, good parenting and compassion without being too preachy. The film sensitively portrays the harsh world a child of eight inhabits, his confidence shattered by constant taunts of teachers, peers and parents who don’t understand his problem. Living in the shadow of an overachieving elder sibling, with whom he is forever compared doesn’t make matters easy for the poor kid. The child, however, is gifted and of above-average faculties, and lives in the beautiful world of his imagination. He is just not what our society considers “normal” or even functional. Of course, such dreamers have never had it easy. Remember Leonardo da Vinci? And predictably enough, our education system and societal yardsticks which define a person’s worth by the marks he/she scores, by his/her rank in class, by the amount of money he/she makes, manage to stifle the child’s creativity and break his spirit, but Aamir Khan saves the day!
The movie also makes a point about how little we respect those talents which can result in little or no monetary gain, about how, to be considered “settled” and secure in life, one has to be an engineer, doctor or have an MBA, about how we should treasure children and nurture them just because they are. And how, as influential people in an impressionable child’s life, teachers and parents have a great responsibility- that of making or breaking a child’s life.
Darsheel Safary, the kid who plays the main role in the movie, is the discovery of the year. (Sorry boys. He pipped Deepika Padukone to the title because my loyalties lie with real talent and not with pancake). His reactions are instant, un-studied and un-tutored. He doesn’t get to say much in the movie, but his body-language and expressions speak a thousand words. He has such unsullied innocence, that you want to reach out and protect him from harm. You have my vote for best actor of the year, kid!
The music score is unusual and I cried throughout the Ma song (yes, snicker away. Let’s see how you hold up while watching this movie). The whole theatre kept still even when the credits rolled by, because there was a heart-wrenching documentary about children in the end. That means we still can be salvaged right? That we still have compassion and humanity? That the movie touched a chord somewhere in the Mumbaikars present, so anesthetized to emotions?
It takes colossal strength of convictions to make a film like this, especially in this day and age of item numbers and sculpted six-pack abs. Please, please, please watch this film and make it "run successfully all over".
Bollywood grapevine has it that this movie was actually Amole Gupte’s brainchild and Aamir Khan usurped the chair of director and poor Amole was relegated to the position of “creative” director. Whatever the facts, I’m glad this film was made. I’m thankful that it had none of the hype of OSO or Saawariya, so the fluff could be separated from real cinema. I am grateful that those affiliated with the film shunned appearances in reality TV shows and other props to promote the movie. It speaks volumes about the sheer confidence and passion they had for the film and its message. Hats off to them.
I admit that I wanted to see Khoya Khoya Chand and not this film. I also grumbled about shelling thirty bucks (not a huge amount by any standard, considering that I’ve shelled out twice the actual price of a movie ticket for atrocious seats) more for the scalper tickets. I had to eat humble pie after all. The film is a gem and I take issue with anyone who thinks it is mediocre, motor-mouth RJs included.
Taare zameen par deals with a child’s struggle with dyslexia. More importantly, it underlines the cruelty, indifference and insensitivity “normal” people use to deal with those differently-abled. It’s also a lesson in humanity, good parenting and compassion without being too preachy. The film sensitively portrays the harsh world a child of eight inhabits, his confidence shattered by constant taunts of teachers, peers and parents who don’t understand his problem. Living in the shadow of an overachieving elder sibling, with whom he is forever compared doesn’t make matters easy for the poor kid. The child, however, is gifted and of above-average faculties, and lives in the beautiful world of his imagination. He is just not what our society considers “normal” or even functional. Of course, such dreamers have never had it easy. Remember Leonardo da Vinci? And predictably enough, our education system and societal yardsticks which define a person’s worth by the marks he/she scores, by his/her rank in class, by the amount of money he/she makes, manage to stifle the child’s creativity and break his spirit, but Aamir Khan saves the day!
The movie also makes a point about how little we respect those talents which can result in little or no monetary gain, about how, to be considered “settled” and secure in life, one has to be an engineer, doctor or have an MBA, about how we should treasure children and nurture them just because they are. And how, as influential people in an impressionable child’s life, teachers and parents have a great responsibility- that of making or breaking a child’s life.
Darsheel Safary, the kid who plays the main role in the movie, is the discovery of the year. (Sorry boys. He pipped Deepika Padukone to the title because my loyalties lie with real talent and not with pancake). His reactions are instant, un-studied and un-tutored. He doesn’t get to say much in the movie, but his body-language and expressions speak a thousand words. He has such unsullied innocence, that you want to reach out and protect him from harm. You have my vote for best actor of the year, kid!
The music score is unusual and I cried throughout the Ma song (yes, snicker away. Let’s see how you hold up while watching this movie). The whole theatre kept still even when the credits rolled by, because there was a heart-wrenching documentary about children in the end. That means we still can be salvaged right? That we still have compassion and humanity? That the movie touched a chord somewhere in the Mumbaikars present, so anesthetized to emotions?
It takes colossal strength of convictions to make a film like this, especially in this day and age of item numbers and sculpted six-pack abs. Please, please, please watch this film and make it "run successfully all over".
Monday, December 17, 2007
Jab we met: A review.
I know, I know, Jab we met released ages ago and I saw it ages ago. Nevertheless, here goes:
The most striking thing about Jab we met is Kareena Kapoor. This is entirely Bebo’s film. She has outgrown her decorative bimbo roles which required her only to bat her eyelashes and dance around trees. This is her meatiest role yet, although there were flashes of her immense talent in Dev, Omkara, Yuva and Chameli. Kareena plays Geet, a Sikh-ni(to use her own term) from Bhatinda. Geet is vivacious, chirps non-stop, is scatterbrained and, in love with life and herself. Sometimes the bubbly act was a little OTT, but otherwise Geet’s non-pragmatic, I-take-things-as-they-come and innocent, even inane attitude towards life was thoroughly entertaining. Her mantra was simply to embrace life and get messy in the process. Kareena plays the effervescent girl to the hilt and is very believable in the role of Geet.
Shahid Kapoor did not disappoint either. His character was the perfect foil to Kareena’s character. He plays the quiet, practical, strong and silent Aditya who is disillusioned with his life and meets Geet when he is at his lowest point. Geet’s joie de vivre manages to rub off on the dour Aditya, gets him out of his blue funk and transforms his life. I thought Shahid was perfect for the role and that his formidable acting genes stand vindicated. I think he is a highly under-rated actor and should be given better roles, although he does manage to shine even in the worst, most sketchily scripted movies.
I am an unabashed, gushy fan of the film’s music. I was eagerly waiting for Pritam Chakraborty’s next after Life in a metro. I like almost all the songs- right from the energetic Naggara, Naggara and Mauja hi Mauja to the melodious Tera na hona to the unusual Yeh ishq.
The movie is a definitely worth a watch.
The most striking thing about Jab we met is Kareena Kapoor. This is entirely Bebo’s film. She has outgrown her decorative bimbo roles which required her only to bat her eyelashes and dance around trees. This is her meatiest role yet, although there were flashes of her immense talent in Dev, Omkara, Yuva and Chameli. Kareena plays Geet, a Sikh-ni(to use her own term) from Bhatinda. Geet is vivacious, chirps non-stop, is scatterbrained and, in love with life and herself. Sometimes the bubbly act was a little OTT, but otherwise Geet’s non-pragmatic, I-take-things-as-they-come and innocent, even inane attitude towards life was thoroughly entertaining. Her mantra was simply to embrace life and get messy in the process. Kareena plays the effervescent girl to the hilt and is very believable in the role of Geet.
Shahid Kapoor did not disappoint either. His character was the perfect foil to Kareena’s character. He plays the quiet, practical, strong and silent Aditya who is disillusioned with his life and meets Geet when he is at his lowest point. Geet’s joie de vivre manages to rub off on the dour Aditya, gets him out of his blue funk and transforms his life. I thought Shahid was perfect for the role and that his formidable acting genes stand vindicated. I think he is a highly under-rated actor and should be given better roles, although he does manage to shine even in the worst, most sketchily scripted movies.
I am an unabashed, gushy fan of the film’s music. I was eagerly waiting for Pritam Chakraborty’s next after Life in a metro. I like almost all the songs- right from the energetic Naggara, Naggara and Mauja hi Mauja to the melodious Tera na hona to the unusual Yeh ishq.
The movie is a definitely worth a watch.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
The best things in life are free…
…Or don’t burn a huge whole in your pocket. For instance:
1. The smell of freshly cut grass.
2. Walking on fresh dew early winter mornings.
3. Curling up with a nice book and hot-chocolate on a rainy afternoon.
4. Talking the night away with your best friends.
5. Making perfect rotis for the first time.
6. A child’s laughter or smile at something you said or did to make her happy.
7. Getting wet in the first rains of the year and tucking into piping hot bhuttas, coffee and pakoras.
8. Singing to yourself when you drive to work.
9.Basking in the full moon’s light, which floods through the windows of your room.
10. Playing on the swings you barely fit into.
11. Burying you feet deep in cool sand.
12. Waking up to your favourite song.
13.Meeting an old friend with whom you haven’t stayed in touch.
14. Having your mother fuss over you when you are ill.
15. Watching a cricket match on TV with your family and friends.
16. Waking up before your alarm rings and realizing that you still have 15 mins of sleep.
17. Reaching the end of a torturous trek, the exhilaration at enduring the rigours and finally making it to the top, where the view is breath-taking.
18. Visiting a place for the first time and being mesmerized by it.
19. Having your parents narrate their childhood tales.
20. Your culinary ventures being mistaken for your mother’s.
Feel free to add to the list.
Friday, December 14, 2007
I figure:
That I’m always going to be a cry-baby/wet-fish about unattainable things and chase after mirages and elusive goals. Also, I will always have someone to drive up the wall with my incessant whining.
That the grass will be greener on the other side. People I meet will keep getting younger, smarter, thinner and richer and, I will wonder what I have been doing with my life all this while.
That I was wrong when I thought that one automatically grows up and turns wise when one starts earning a living. Man, was I wrong. I figure there will be enough heartbreaks, disillusionments, loves, losses, victories, sorrows and you will always do some growing up with each.
That I will regard lightly that which I get easily and take it for granted till I have lost it. And then I will kick myself for the sheer idiocy of the situation.
That I will envy those who say that they would change nothing about their lives and live the same way if given another chance.
That I will always seek adventure but then my life will be staid, hassle-free, mundane and …you get the drift.
That I will never have interesting stories/life-changing circumstances for the benefit of posterity, unless I stop being so straight-laced.
That I will never be able to dance with gay abandon (although I am a trained dancer) just for the pure joy of dancing and will never be able to wander aimlessly.
That my parents will always bail me out, regardless of my age.
Phew!
That the grass will be greener on the other side. People I meet will keep getting younger, smarter, thinner and richer and, I will wonder what I have been doing with my life all this while.
That I was wrong when I thought that one automatically grows up and turns wise when one starts earning a living. Man, was I wrong. I figure there will be enough heartbreaks, disillusionments, loves, losses, victories, sorrows and you will always do some growing up with each.
That I will regard lightly that which I get easily and take it for granted till I have lost it. And then I will kick myself for the sheer idiocy of the situation.
That I will envy those who say that they would change nothing about their lives and live the same way if given another chance.
That I will always seek adventure but then my life will be staid, hassle-free, mundane and …you get the drift.
That I will never have interesting stories/life-changing circumstances for the benefit of posterity, unless I stop being so straight-laced.
That I will never be able to dance with gay abandon (although I am a trained dancer) just for the pure joy of dancing and will never be able to wander aimlessly.
That my parents will always bail me out, regardless of my age.
Phew!
The folly of Modi’s operandi
Not that I’m unaware that Modi bashing is en vogue, but, clichéd as it sounds, this is different. This isn’t about outrage expressed at religious bigotry, or an argument in favour of Mr. Modi, or scrutinizing the validity of his claims of development in Gujarat, or about advocating a change of government. I have two very specific points of contention, which have left me non-plussed.
First, how could a shrewd politician like Mr. Modi tarnish his election campaign, that too at the fag end, by raking up the Sohrabuddin issue and justifying the brutal, cold-blooded killing of Sohrabuddin and his wife? Wouldn’t it have served his interests better to have concentrated on his success at moulding Gujarat into a preferred destination for private investment and if he had let sleeping dogs lie? With his trusted aide and star campaigner Vanjara behind bars and being investigated for the murder of Sohrabuddin and Kauserbi, the disapproval of the post-Lyngdoh, toothless EC notwithstanding, the move to capitalize on the Sohrabuddin killing was singularly maladroit and uncharacteristic of a political stalwart like Mr. Modi. A neophyte politician could be forgiven for this gaffe, but it is simply unacceptable coming from Mr. Modi. If he thinks that whipping up frenzy in the rabble by painting an innocent man a terrorist would translate into votes, then he is seriously off the mark. Culling collective conscience in the last elections may have worked, but the situation seems different this time. Mr. Modi should just have used the “vikaas”(development) defence and be done with it. His charisma, even though some consider him a mass-murderer, should have tided him over.
Second, why didn’t Mr. Modi try to quell the dissension in the ranks of his own party? Why didn’t he clip the wings of his rivals within the BJP and try to address the causes of dissatisfaction? In India, people vote for personalities and not ideologies. Mr. Modi, the crowd-puller, simply has no equal worthy of mention in the opposition parties. So winning the elections would have been a veritable cakewalk for Mr. Modi, if only he had tried to do something about Kesubhai Patel, his biggest, most vociferous critic in the BJP. Mr. Modi places too much credence in Hindutva and Hindu fanatics. Besides, even among the proponents of Hindutva, Mr. Modi has become quite a villain for his policies which seem to have ignored the interests of certain sections of Gujarat. I think this oversight and complacency may well be Mr. Modi’s undoing in these elections.
First, how could a shrewd politician like Mr. Modi tarnish his election campaign, that too at the fag end, by raking up the Sohrabuddin issue and justifying the brutal, cold-blooded killing of Sohrabuddin and his wife? Wouldn’t it have served his interests better to have concentrated on his success at moulding Gujarat into a preferred destination for private investment and if he had let sleeping dogs lie? With his trusted aide and star campaigner Vanjara behind bars and being investigated for the murder of Sohrabuddin and Kauserbi, the disapproval of the post-Lyngdoh, toothless EC notwithstanding, the move to capitalize on the Sohrabuddin killing was singularly maladroit and uncharacteristic of a political stalwart like Mr. Modi. A neophyte politician could be forgiven for this gaffe, but it is simply unacceptable coming from Mr. Modi. If he thinks that whipping up frenzy in the rabble by painting an innocent man a terrorist would translate into votes, then he is seriously off the mark. Culling collective conscience in the last elections may have worked, but the situation seems different this time. Mr. Modi should just have used the “vikaas”(development) defence and be done with it. His charisma, even though some consider him a mass-murderer, should have tided him over.
Second, why didn’t Mr. Modi try to quell the dissension in the ranks of his own party? Why didn’t he clip the wings of his rivals within the BJP and try to address the causes of dissatisfaction? In India, people vote for personalities and not ideologies. Mr. Modi, the crowd-puller, simply has no equal worthy of mention in the opposition parties. So winning the elections would have been a veritable cakewalk for Mr. Modi, if only he had tried to do something about Kesubhai Patel, his biggest, most vociferous critic in the BJP. Mr. Modi places too much credence in Hindutva and Hindu fanatics. Besides, even among the proponents of Hindutva, Mr. Modi has become quite a villain for his policies which seem to have ignored the interests of certain sections of Gujarat. I think this oversight and complacency may well be Mr. Modi’s undoing in these elections.
We are like this only
Not to be unpatriotic or anything, but we, by which I mean Indians, take ourselves too seriously. Our sense of humor and our indefatigable optimism is what delivered us from the British oppression, the Emergency, assorted bomb blasts, wars, riots and what have you. I think we have lost our sense of humor. How else would you explain the following:
1. Manoj “Bharat” Kumar taking umbrage at a spoof made at his expense in OSO
and threatening to file a defamation suit against the film-makers.
2. Madam Mayawati calling for an all-India ban on Aaja Nach Le, because she felt that the lyrics of a song in the film insinuated caste distinctions and would definitely hurt sentiments.
3. Violent protests against Tasleema Nasreen’s book. The same Tasleema of mediocre talent and her books soft-porn, at best.
Whatever happened to tolerance. Lighten up people!
1. Manoj “Bharat” Kumar taking umbrage at a spoof made at his expense in OSO
and threatening to file a defamation suit against the film-makers.
2. Madam Mayawati calling for an all-India ban on Aaja Nach Le, because she felt that the lyrics of a song in the film insinuated caste distinctions and would definitely hurt sentiments.
3. Violent protests against Tasleema Nasreen’s book. The same Tasleema of mediocre talent and her books soft-porn, at best.
Whatever happened to tolerance. Lighten up people!
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Unteachable
I’m told that I’m too old to start learning how to drive. I am something of a veteran learner, having gone through four and a half trainers. The “half” is for the weak-hearted, lily livered coward who made a run for it when he realized that I was, ahem, “unteachable”. The rest of the brave hearts stuck their grounds, but advised me not to get rid of the learners’ “L” in a hurry. So, this is the tale of my stigmata (read: “L” sign).
The funny thing is that I’ve had a drivers’ license for more than two years. Not that being awarded a license by the RTO (Regional Transport Officer) really certifies your driving skills; in fact anyone can get a license. You are required to drive some hundred metres and take a U-turn and voila, the drivers’ license is yours, unless you have a dodo’s IQ and your motor nerves are as coordinated as a six-week old baby’s. It is as simple as that. (And we wonder why we have so many road accidents.)
My dad, aware of the lame rite of passage for a certified driver in our great city, decided that my brother and I needed a stricter, more rigorous initiation into the world of driving. In the interest of public safety, unless the trainer appointed by him gave us the go-ahead, we couldn’t be trusted to drive a four-wheeler. He claims that his concerns were public safety and the safety of his own flesh and blood (not necessarily in that order), but I suspect the caution had more to do with preserving the erstwhile pristine status of his precious white four-wheeler. (Dad, S needs fifty stitches and I broke my neck, but the car’s fine). I’m sure the word “erstwhile” tipped you off. Now, our car wears yellow and black stripes it earned in a battle with a yellow and black pole next to our parking space. My dad, who was driving at the time, claims that his driving was faultless. The impudent pole got in the way.
So, we went through trainers in quick succession, because none of them gave us the much-coveted green signal, all too afraid of my dad’s ire. I suppose we just wanted a second (and then third and then fourth) opinion. I must admit that I was an indifferent pupil and played hookey on the driving lessons quite often. Lazy as I am, I was quite content to have my brother chauffeur me around. For the record, I’m “unteachable” not because I lack the requisite skills but because I simply didn’t care enough to learn. And for all those who think women can’t drive, I have this- sexist pig (no, it’s not a gender slur. A slur on the pig may be). I can drive, only I didn’t like the idea of road rage, of colourful abuses when the driver behind you cuts you off, of back-seat driving by the aforementioned simpletons who think women can’t drive, of traffic jams, of crowds, of speed-demons, of little kids/stray dogs/kittens who rush out in front of you from nowhere and you hit the brakes, your heart going at six-hundred beats per minute, or of the constant danger you are in when you drive.
Now I have a new trainer and he seems nice and amenable to giving me the go-ahead. Only, he seems baffled that I wait for cyclists, dogs, kittens, tortoises, snails etc to cross the road. Also, he can’t, for the life of him, see why I panic on seeing stationary HMVs fifty miles away and hit the brakes in a wide, spacious road. Slowly, but surely I am getting over my reluctance to drive and a bad case of nerves everytime I see another vehicle hurtle down at me. See, I have this picture of myself driving a convertible (with its top down) at a great speed, my hair flying behind me, the sun in my gleeful face and my passengers not praying for dear life. So, until such time as I can fulfill this dream, training it is for me.
The funny thing is that I’ve had a drivers’ license for more than two years. Not that being awarded a license by the RTO (Regional Transport Officer) really certifies your driving skills; in fact anyone can get a license. You are required to drive some hundred metres and take a U-turn and voila, the drivers’ license is yours, unless you have a dodo’s IQ and your motor nerves are as coordinated as a six-week old baby’s. It is as simple as that. (And we wonder why we have so many road accidents.)
My dad, aware of the lame rite of passage for a certified driver in our great city, decided that my brother and I needed a stricter, more rigorous initiation into the world of driving. In the interest of public safety, unless the trainer appointed by him gave us the go-ahead, we couldn’t be trusted to drive a four-wheeler. He claims that his concerns were public safety and the safety of his own flesh and blood (not necessarily in that order), but I suspect the caution had more to do with preserving the erstwhile pristine status of his precious white four-wheeler. (Dad, S needs fifty stitches and I broke my neck, but the car’s fine). I’m sure the word “erstwhile” tipped you off. Now, our car wears yellow and black stripes it earned in a battle with a yellow and black pole next to our parking space. My dad, who was driving at the time, claims that his driving was faultless. The impudent pole got in the way.
So, we went through trainers in quick succession, because none of them gave us the much-coveted green signal, all too afraid of my dad’s ire. I suppose we just wanted a second (and then third and then fourth) opinion. I must admit that I was an indifferent pupil and played hookey on the driving lessons quite often. Lazy as I am, I was quite content to have my brother chauffeur me around. For the record, I’m “unteachable” not because I lack the requisite skills but because I simply didn’t care enough to learn. And for all those who think women can’t drive, I have this- sexist pig (no, it’s not a gender slur. A slur on the pig may be). I can drive, only I didn’t like the idea of road rage, of colourful abuses when the driver behind you cuts you off, of back-seat driving by the aforementioned simpletons who think women can’t drive, of traffic jams, of crowds, of speed-demons, of little kids/stray dogs/kittens who rush out in front of you from nowhere and you hit the brakes, your heart going at six-hundred beats per minute, or of the constant danger you are in when you drive.
Now I have a new trainer and he seems nice and amenable to giving me the go-ahead. Only, he seems baffled that I wait for cyclists, dogs, kittens, tortoises, snails etc to cross the road. Also, he can’t, for the life of him, see why I panic on seeing stationary HMVs fifty miles away and hit the brakes in a wide, spacious road. Slowly, but surely I am getting over my reluctance to drive and a bad case of nerves everytime I see another vehicle hurtle down at me. See, I have this picture of myself driving a convertible (with its top down) at a great speed, my hair flying behind me, the sun in my gleeful face and my passengers not praying for dear life. So, until such time as I can fulfill this dream, training it is for me.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Anatomy of a Bong
No, this is not about the pipes used for smoking narcotic substances. So, read no further if you misinterpreted the title (I guess anyone could be mistaken. No one I know, but still, we make allowances, we are tolerant.)
The Bengali (Bong, for short) has been widely caricatured in Hindi movies (Of course, not as widely as the Madrasi- a member of the populace which lives south of the Vindhyas. No Malayalees or Tamilians, just Madrasis. Strangely enough, Madras is not even the valid name of a city anymore). The Bengali is a portly, paan-chewing, philosophy-spewing, jovial, lotus-eater, rather incidental to the storyline and introduced primarily for comic relief, which his hilarious accent and very Bong intonations are intended to bring about. As with most stereotypes, this picture is somewhat incomplete.
Now, I assume that you are eager to know the distinguishing features of Bongs, in case you ever encounter one and find yourself at a crippling loss for words, (which is fine, for during most of the conversation you won’t be able to get in a word edgeways) and wish you had spent more time learning about Bongs than you wasted on your loved ones. Never fear, I always champion worthless causes. See, being a Bong myself, I can poke fun at them. You on the other hand have no such privilege, so do arrange your facial expression to one of dignified neutrality- which means you can’t snicker, in the event that I pull off this intended humorous piece. Well, here’s the lowdown on Bongs:
We love food: And food loves us, which explains our ever expanding girth (Corpulence is a sign of opulence, is what we console ourselves with). Of course, a Bong’s culinary preference starts and ends with macher jhol (curried fish). All Bongs eulogize their mothers’ macher jhol. Secret family recipes are handed down from generation to generation and stored in a vault with the family jewels. Imagine a lawyer reading out the will of a rich, recently deceased Bong- “To my eldest son I bequeath the estate worth a gazillion dollars. To my younger son, I leave the family recipe of the macher jhol”. You would think that the eldest son would rejoice and the younger one would curse his fate. Au contraire, people would have to work like beavers to console the crestfallen eldest son and the younger one’s happiness would know no bounds. I bet wars were fought over macher jhol. Bongs tend to be touchy about fish, which would make me a faux Bong. When I tell a Bong about my impeccable record of staunch vegetarianism, he/she does the Ally McBeal eye-popping and jaw-dropping routine. What? No fish? My mother still cries silently into the night, pained about my affliction and prays for full recovery. If a Bong ever takes you out for a treat (which will be seldom) or invites you home, do not turn down the invitation, come what may. You will have the most exquisite, lavish food of your life. Bongs don’t believe in skimping when it comes to food and even the most scrooge-like Bong will turn generous in a restaurant.
We love sports: I think an amendment is due here. We love watching sports, or khela. We have seen every game, know every little detail, every little trivia about every sport, but mostly cricket and football. We know the history of cricket and football, right from the days they were conceived. Again, I’m only a farzi (fraudulent) Bong. I’ve only recently been able to distinguish between Test and one-day cricket and only after India’s twenty-twenty victory have I realized that normal cricket matches are fifty overs long. My knowledge of football is limited to the fact that a ball is kicked around by some men and the point of the game is to kick the ball into a netted thingy. A conversation between a real Bong and me would go thus:
R.B: So, what do you think of David Beckham’s move to L.A?
J.D: David Beckham? Is he related to Victoria Beckham, a.k.a Posh Spice of Spice Girls fame?
R.B: (going on, regardless of my ignoramus status. Turns out, R.B just wanted to show off his own sharp observations) I think….
We love politics: The Bong is a very political animal. He will know even about the most obscure regional parties. He will tell you exactly why someone should win or lose the general elections and will brook no difference of opinion. He will become tremendously hot under the collars while discussing politics and hold a lifelong grudge against you if you don’t support his political party. The homegrown Bong will extol Jyoti Basu and the rest of the reds. How the Commies have managed to stay in power in the state of West Bengal is a mystery, since Bongs are acutely aware of class distinctions and would uphold them at any cost, something contrary to communist ideologies. The Bong will tell you why India is going to the dogs and sit back smugly with an I-told-you-so every time his dire predictions come true and they generally do come true. The Bong will be a Machiavelli in the office arena and get away with playing politics, given his rotund face (it’s been scientifically proven that people trust round faces more easily than other face types).
We love culture: We love books, music and films. Bongs start quoting Nietzsche, Dostoevsky, Kafka etc at a very early age. Name a book and they have read it. Ask them something as innocuous as “Who are you?” and they will tell you what deconstructionists, post-modernists and so on theorize. Music means Robindro Songeet, every thing else is noise or distraction. Uttam Kumar was the greatest actor that ever lived. Bongs watch films which are scarcely heard of and will look at you askance if you don’t recognize a film from Kazakhstan which won an award in East Timor. Bengalis are a proud community and will name a Bong of consequence in every field. For instance, say you are discussing a particular enzyme produced by the Dominican Republican sea-gherkin. The Bong will name a third cousin who has a doctorate in the field. Bongs like to think, dream and articulate their ideas, which brings us to their next trait.
We love to talk: The Bong institution of adda has been immortalized in a Manna De song. The word adda has no English or Hindi equivalent that would do justice to this great Bong pastime. The word conversation would suffice, but even as I write “conversation”, the potency of adda is diluted. Bongs simply love to talk. What do they talk about? They talk about any of their aforementioned passions. They will catch hold of hapless pizza delivery guys and advise them on ways to improve the efficiency of their deliveries. They will discuss art with the fellow they just met on the bus or train. They will discuss politics with the taxi driver. The Bong’s milkman, postman etc have all been at one point blessed by the Bong’s verbal largesse. When two Bongs meet, their conversation could fill the pages of the Encyclopedia Britannica and still go strong. They go to great lengths to make their addas gratifying. There’s almost always food, comfy cushions, sometimes alcohol but always a profusion of words.
I know that I stand an excellent chance of being disowned by my own family and being ex-communicated, after this blog. But, I hope some community will adopt me with my vegetarian credentials. Any takers?
The Bengali (Bong, for short) has been widely caricatured in Hindi movies (Of course, not as widely as the Madrasi- a member of the populace which lives south of the Vindhyas. No Malayalees or Tamilians, just Madrasis. Strangely enough, Madras is not even the valid name of a city anymore). The Bengali is a portly, paan-chewing, philosophy-spewing, jovial, lotus-eater, rather incidental to the storyline and introduced primarily for comic relief, which his hilarious accent and very Bong intonations are intended to bring about. As with most stereotypes, this picture is somewhat incomplete.
Now, I assume that you are eager to know the distinguishing features of Bongs, in case you ever encounter one and find yourself at a crippling loss for words, (which is fine, for during most of the conversation you won’t be able to get in a word edgeways) and wish you had spent more time learning about Bongs than you wasted on your loved ones. Never fear, I always champion worthless causes. See, being a Bong myself, I can poke fun at them. You on the other hand have no such privilege, so do arrange your facial expression to one of dignified neutrality- which means you can’t snicker, in the event that I pull off this intended humorous piece. Well, here’s the lowdown on Bongs:
We love food: And food loves us, which explains our ever expanding girth (Corpulence is a sign of opulence, is what we console ourselves with). Of course, a Bong’s culinary preference starts and ends with macher jhol (curried fish). All Bongs eulogize their mothers’ macher jhol. Secret family recipes are handed down from generation to generation and stored in a vault with the family jewels. Imagine a lawyer reading out the will of a rich, recently deceased Bong- “To my eldest son I bequeath the estate worth a gazillion dollars. To my younger son, I leave the family recipe of the macher jhol”. You would think that the eldest son would rejoice and the younger one would curse his fate. Au contraire, people would have to work like beavers to console the crestfallen eldest son and the younger one’s happiness would know no bounds. I bet wars were fought over macher jhol. Bongs tend to be touchy about fish, which would make me a faux Bong. When I tell a Bong about my impeccable record of staunch vegetarianism, he/she does the Ally McBeal eye-popping and jaw-dropping routine. What? No fish? My mother still cries silently into the night, pained about my affliction and prays for full recovery. If a Bong ever takes you out for a treat (which will be seldom) or invites you home, do not turn down the invitation, come what may. You will have the most exquisite, lavish food of your life. Bongs don’t believe in skimping when it comes to food and even the most scrooge-like Bong will turn generous in a restaurant.
We love sports: I think an amendment is due here. We love watching sports, or khela. We have seen every game, know every little detail, every little trivia about every sport, but mostly cricket and football. We know the history of cricket and football, right from the days they were conceived. Again, I’m only a farzi (fraudulent) Bong. I’ve only recently been able to distinguish between Test and one-day cricket and only after India’s twenty-twenty victory have I realized that normal cricket matches are fifty overs long. My knowledge of football is limited to the fact that a ball is kicked around by some men and the point of the game is to kick the ball into a netted thingy. A conversation between a real Bong and me would go thus:
R.B: So, what do you think of David Beckham’s move to L.A?
J.D: David Beckham? Is he related to Victoria Beckham, a.k.a Posh Spice of Spice Girls fame?
R.B: (going on, regardless of my ignoramus status. Turns out, R.B just wanted to show off his own sharp observations) I think….
We love politics: The Bong is a very political animal. He will know even about the most obscure regional parties. He will tell you exactly why someone should win or lose the general elections and will brook no difference of opinion. He will become tremendously hot under the collars while discussing politics and hold a lifelong grudge against you if you don’t support his political party. The homegrown Bong will extol Jyoti Basu and the rest of the reds. How the Commies have managed to stay in power in the state of West Bengal is a mystery, since Bongs are acutely aware of class distinctions and would uphold them at any cost, something contrary to communist ideologies. The Bong will tell you why India is going to the dogs and sit back smugly with an I-told-you-so every time his dire predictions come true and they generally do come true. The Bong will be a Machiavelli in the office arena and get away with playing politics, given his rotund face (it’s been scientifically proven that people trust round faces more easily than other face types).
We love culture: We love books, music and films. Bongs start quoting Nietzsche, Dostoevsky, Kafka etc at a very early age. Name a book and they have read it. Ask them something as innocuous as “Who are you?” and they will tell you what deconstructionists, post-modernists and so on theorize. Music means Robindro Songeet, every thing else is noise or distraction. Uttam Kumar was the greatest actor that ever lived. Bongs watch films which are scarcely heard of and will look at you askance if you don’t recognize a film from Kazakhstan which won an award in East Timor. Bengalis are a proud community and will name a Bong of consequence in every field. For instance, say you are discussing a particular enzyme produced by the Dominican Republican sea-gherkin. The Bong will name a third cousin who has a doctorate in the field. Bongs like to think, dream and articulate their ideas, which brings us to their next trait.
We love to talk: The Bong institution of adda has been immortalized in a Manna De song. The word adda has no English or Hindi equivalent that would do justice to this great Bong pastime. The word conversation would suffice, but even as I write “conversation”, the potency of adda is diluted. Bongs simply love to talk. What do they talk about? They talk about any of their aforementioned passions. They will catch hold of hapless pizza delivery guys and advise them on ways to improve the efficiency of their deliveries. They will discuss art with the fellow they just met on the bus or train. They will discuss politics with the taxi driver. The Bong’s milkman, postman etc have all been at one point blessed by the Bong’s verbal largesse. When two Bongs meet, their conversation could fill the pages of the Encyclopedia Britannica and still go strong. They go to great lengths to make their addas gratifying. There’s almost always food, comfy cushions, sometimes alcohol but always a profusion of words.
I know that I stand an excellent chance of being disowned by my own family and being ex-communicated, after this blog. But, I hope some community will adopt me with my vegetarian credentials. Any takers?
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Noxious Vapours
See, I’m mostly quite a docile ewe-lamb. I shy away from conflicts. I let myself be bilked of a coupla bucks (without so much as a whimper), by crooks of autowallahs who shrug “Chutta nahi hai” (No change, to the uninitiated) when I hand them more than the fare money. I don’t wish a pox on the house of the #$%&* who steps on my toes while squeezing his way to his seat in the theatre, without so much as a quiver of a lip in my direction, by way of an apology. I don’t even protest when a generously endowed middle-aged woman, barrels right through me in a crowded public bus and takes the seat I had been politely waiting for a nice, old gentleman to vacate. But, I do draw the line at being rudely roused from the rare, fortuitous nice dream I may happen to have. I mostly have incredibly dull dreams, so you’ll understand my annoyance at being woken up before it could get…er, interesting.
There I was, dancing with Hugh Jackman(of X-men fame, without the hideous Wolverine sideburns, of course. Sheesh, what do you take me for?), to the tango theme from Scent of a woman; dancing the slow, sweet tango (suitably altered for a “U” certificate. I’m an incorrigible prude, you know). See, it doesn’t matter if you are snorting now because you think Hugh and I can’t dance. That was my dream and this is my blogspot, so shut your yapper. (And please, please, please read on). And pop! went my dream. (Oh, Hugh don’t go!).
It is one thing to be woken up by the invigorating smell of freshly brewed coffee and quite another to be shaken awake from your R.E.M sleep by cigarette smoke. I knew the perpetrator of this egregious crime. It was the grungy fella who lives in the apartment below mine- his teeth bearing tell-tale nicotine stains. I rubbed my eyes, no not in disbelief, but because that’s what people do when they wake up (Geez!) and because my pupils were dilating. The blasted fellow had the gall to smoke at 6. am. 6 a.m., no less. I sleep with my windows open (I’m a fresh air fiend, so sue me) having become wise to carbon-di-oxide (or was it carbon monoxide from burning lamps? Why take a chance, anyway? Di- , mono- , are the same to me) poisoning very early in life. So the smoke had found its way out of Grungy’s windows, up one floor, in through my windows and into my unsuspecting nostrils. Dear God, can’t a girl get her eight hours of shut-eye without needing a gas-mask?
While still on smoking, what gives? Discerning, intelligent, educated adults fall prey to a cigarette’s smoky, seductive charms. You would think that the frightening consequences of smoking cigarettes (cancer, emphysema, hypertension, to name a few) would sufficiently deter would-be smokers and impel present smokers to quit. But we vertical walkers, the most rational beings on this planet need to be warned by messages- “Statutory warning- Cigarette smoking is injurious to health.” An amoeba has better survival instincts. Those mute, lower life forms know which animal of prey or plant to stay away from. I’m rather attached to my healthy lungs, so do feel free to enlighten me if I don’t understand why cigarettes are cool. It’s like being the only one not in on an inside joke. What am I missing here? Why do people think it’s alright to smoke in public places when passive smoking kills more people than actual smoking does? What right do they have to treat someone else’s life so cheaply?
Why pay the big tobacco companies your hard-earned money to slowly poison yourself to death? Here, I’ll do it for free.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
The break-up song.
It's by Sarah Brightman and from an Andrew Llyod Weber musical, Song and Dance.
Don't write a letter when you want to leave
Don't call me at 3 a.m. from a friend's apartment
I'd like to choose how I hear the news
Take me to a park that's covered with trees
Tell me on a Sunday please
Let me down easy
No big song and dance
No long faces, no long looks
No deep conversation
I know the way we should spend that day
Take me to a zoo that's got chimpanzees
Tell me on a Sunday please
Don't want to know who's to blame
It won't help knowing
Don't want to fight day and night
Bad enough you're going
Don't leave in silence with no word at all
Don't get drunk and slam the door
That's no way to end this
I know how I want you to say goodbye
Find a circus ring with a flying trapeze
Tell me on a Sunday please
Don't want to fight day and night
Bad enough you're going
Don't leave in silence with no word at all
Don't get drunk and slam the door
That's no way to end this
I know how I want you to say goodbye
Don't write a letter when you want to leave
Don't call me at 3 a.m. from a friend's apartment
I'd like to choose how I hear the news
Take me to a park that's covered with trees
Tell me on a Sunday please
Let me down easy
No big song and dance
No long faces, no long looks
No deep conversation
I know the way we should spend that day
Take me to a zoo that's got chimpanzees
Tell me on a Sunday please
Don't want to know who's to blame
It won't help knowing
Don't want to fight day and night
Bad enough you're going
Don't leave in silence with no word at all
Don't get drunk and slam the door
That's no way to end this
I know how I want you to say goodbye
Find a circus ring with a flying trapeze
Tell me on a Sunday please
Don't want to fight day and night
Bad enough you're going
Don't leave in silence with no word at all
Don't get drunk and slam the door
That's no way to end this
I know how I want you to say goodbye
Don't run off in the pouring rain
Don't call me as they call your plane
Take the hurt out of all the pain
Take me to a park that's covered with trees
Tell me on a Sunday please.
MOVING ON...
Right. They (they, again!) say that there are five stages of grief- denial, anger, bargaining (the grieving person may make bargains with the powers that be, asking, "If I do this, will you take away the pain?"), depression and acceptance. I would like to think that I’ve gone through them in fast-forward mode- something I do with annoying, fit-for-rickshaws songs in a DVD. I would like to follow the unscrupulous Scarlett O’Hara- I’ll not think about it now. I’ll think about it tomorrow when it doesn’t hurt so much. I would like to think that acceptance has come, suspiciously prematurely, but is here to stay. Acceptance, not resignation, mind you. The world moves on and so must I. I would like to think that this newly revived hope will float.
To kill a mockingbird is my favourite book on earth. And Atticus Finch my favourite character(only after Scout, of course). And he helps me again in this dark hour, like he had ages ago. He refuses to be trumped by pessimism and strives to trounce Luck and Fate and Destiny. He does not agree with me. Well, I’ll admit that the ramblings of the previous post were dark and sulky- but I’m coping. This too shall pass. And as for Atticus, well, I have this- You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view, until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it. Besides, it’s rather creepy to have one’s parents adopt the expression of people visiting the terminally ill. It’s sheer selfishness to put them through this, to drag them in your misery. So, I put an end to this once and for all. The show must go on.
I tried, but I failed and that’s that. I’ll let Rudyard Kipling sum it up for me:
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those impostors just the same.
(If you can )watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it.
Amen.
"I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do."
- Atticus Finch to Jem Finch (To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee)
To kill a mockingbird is my favourite book on earth. And Atticus Finch my favourite character(only after Scout, of course). And he helps me again in this dark hour, like he had ages ago. He refuses to be trumped by pessimism and strives to trounce Luck and Fate and Destiny. He does not agree with me. Well, I’ll admit that the ramblings of the previous post were dark and sulky- but I’m coping. This too shall pass. And as for Atticus, well, I have this- You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view, until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it. Besides, it’s rather creepy to have one’s parents adopt the expression of people visiting the terminally ill. It’s sheer selfishness to put them through this, to drag them in your misery. So, I put an end to this once and for all. The show must go on.
I tried, but I failed and that’s that. I’ll let Rudyard Kipling sum it up for me:
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those impostors just the same.
(If you can )watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it.
Amen.
"I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do."
- Atticus Finch to Jem Finch (To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee)
Sunday, November 18, 2007
SHIT HAPPENED…..
It’s like losing a child. Actually, that was a singularly insensitive statement. It cannot possibly be commensurate to a mother’s grief on losing a beloved child. But how do you measure the pain when all your dreams come crashing down? What is an appropriate analogy? May be being impaled by a dull knife, twisted by an invisible hand? Or being two inches away from the finishing line and having the line pulled farther away from you? You are bludgeoned by Reality. Your sense of self worth crushed to nothing, watching all your ambitions become impossibilities. The tantalizing reality becomes a distant dream- an illusion that you had about your capabilities. When you told yourself, “I can”, you merely lied to yourself- a lie which cost you dearly.
You are told that hard-work and dedication are all that are required for achieving your goals. But no-one talks about the X-factor. I wish I knew what that was. Whose propaganda was it? Who taught you to dream? Who gave you hopes? Ha, but you did it yourself. You were the one who invested your blood, sweat and tears. You could have taken the easy way. No one else impelled you to take this step. You are a big girl. Surely, you should have known what you were doing? You gave it life, nurtured it, watched it flourish and Poof, saw it being snuffed out in one, quick motion- as spontaneously as you had gambled. Ever heard of hedging your position? Ha, fool. What price all the fuss?
So shit happened. It has been happening for the last two years. Not that I mind- I am enlightened about ying- yang. There is balance in the world, they say. They must know. Most cocky sayings have been attributed to “they”, after all. Sure, give me eighty percent of the shit in the world- hell, I feel masochistic, give me the whole hog. But I wouldn’t mind it so much if it were interspersed with non-shit, once in a while. If there is balance in the world, why don’t the scales ever tip in my favour?
Ah, but that is life. C’est la vie. They nod wisely (And yes, let’s not forget Que sera, sera. We don’t want to be accused of playing favourites). Clichés,all. Designed to make you more fatalistic, to explain away all the shit, to make you feel all noble and forged in the righteous fire of glorified suffering- like the saints burned at stake. Hell, I ought to be Beatified. Makes you hate life even more, doesn’t it? Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you. All this is supposed to make you stronger, build character (although, I doubt if anyone spouting the virtues of suffering ever felt so much as a pin-prick) or effect something equally abstract, that none ever understands or attains. Of course, that doesn’t stop them from advocating misery for character building.
That was just a dream, just a dream, just a dream...dream.
P.S- Quite a departure, from my usual non-Saturnine self. Oh, well.
You are told that hard-work and dedication are all that are required for achieving your goals. But no-one talks about the X-factor. I wish I knew what that was. Whose propaganda was it? Who taught you to dream? Who gave you hopes? Ha, but you did it yourself. You were the one who invested your blood, sweat and tears. You could have taken the easy way. No one else impelled you to take this step. You are a big girl. Surely, you should have known what you were doing? You gave it life, nurtured it, watched it flourish and Poof, saw it being snuffed out in one, quick motion- as spontaneously as you had gambled. Ever heard of hedging your position? Ha, fool. What price all the fuss?
So shit happened. It has been happening for the last two years. Not that I mind- I am enlightened about ying- yang. There is balance in the world, they say. They must know. Most cocky sayings have been attributed to “they”, after all. Sure, give me eighty percent of the shit in the world- hell, I feel masochistic, give me the whole hog. But I wouldn’t mind it so much if it were interspersed with non-shit, once in a while. If there is balance in the world, why don’t the scales ever tip in my favour?
Ah, but that is life. C’est la vie. They nod wisely (And yes, let’s not forget Que sera, sera. We don’t want to be accused of playing favourites). Clichés,all. Designed to make you more fatalistic, to explain away all the shit, to make you feel all noble and forged in the righteous fire of glorified suffering- like the saints burned at stake. Hell, I ought to be Beatified. Makes you hate life even more, doesn’t it? Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you. All this is supposed to make you stronger, build character (although, I doubt if anyone spouting the virtues of suffering ever felt so much as a pin-prick) or effect something equally abstract, that none ever understands or attains. Of course, that doesn’t stop them from advocating misery for character building.
That was just a dream, just a dream, just a dream...dream.
P.S- Quite a departure, from my usual non-Saturnine self. Oh, well.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
An ode to Auden
It's part of Auden's Twelve Songs. Here goes:
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Treading on hallowed ground
I read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows recently, the seventh and purportedly, the last of the stupendously imaginative Harry Potter series. It was quite a page-turner, with very few dull moments. Potter Inc.’s antics had me at the edge of my seat. However, the grand finale of the seven book long struggle of our bespectacled hero with his arch-nemesis Lord Voldemort was a little too predictable.
No Potter fan worth his or her salt would want Harry to die. There would have been an inevitable public outcry were the teenage wizard to be killed in a fight with the Dark Lord. Throughout the series there were tantalizing hints as to the outcome. Neither can live while the other survives, was the constant refrain. One character in the book augured Harry’s untimely demise. Every act, every word indicated that Harry was a Horcrux (non-Potter aficionados go read the book). And so it was revealed towards the end of the seventh book. But killing off Harry, would go against vox populi. And not doing so would falsify the entire mythology of The Boy Who Lived. So J.K. Rowling took the middle ground. Harry did die, but chose to come back to life to finish off Voldemort, restoring our faith in the age old maxim, “good over evil”. Besides, it would not do for Harry’s courage, perseverance and righteousness to go unrewarded. We have always been taught that these virtues are highly desirable. The boy had already lost his parents at a tender age. It wouldn’t do to kill him off at age seventeen. He had pity on his side. Hence, he lived to sire cheesily christened Potterlets.
Nevertheless, J.K Rowling’s genius in crafting this masterpiece cannot be gainsaid. The invention of a whole new sport (Quidditch) is just one example of her wonderful imagination. She was successful in sustaining the interest of children and adults alike. She captured the imagination of millions all over the world and spawned what journos have termed, Pottermania. But it is her marketing acumen that is the most commendable. There was always this will-she-won’t-she, cliffhanger like quality to the book. The hints in the book generated immense curiosity and left people wanting more. Die-hard Potter fans were glued to the book trying to second guess and speculate about what lay in store for Harry, whether Snape was indeed evil and so on. The book had the quality of a cleverly designed peep-show, revealing just enough to pique people’s senses and building up to an extravagant climax in which all the loose ends were tied up. People bought the books to find out if their theories were right. All this guaranteed readership and also a position in the list of best-selling authors. Futhermore, by introducing a new generation of Potters, Weasleys and Malfoys, Rowling has left open the option of continuing the Potter series; the new generation of wizards and witches could be passed on the mantle.
And those who dismiss the series as children’s books are in for a surprise. True, the young protagonists, the world of magic and the surreal, mind-boggling adventures appeal in a large part to children. But, the emphasis on sublime virtues of loyalty, courage, honor and determination and the importance of love, friendship, family, lend the books an admirably universal quality. There are clever references to mythology. For instance, Hagrid says that he got the three-headed dog, Fluffy from a “Greek chappie”, in an obvious reference to Cerberus, the creature which guards the gates of the underworld. Remus Lupin, a character which turns into a werewolf every full moon, is named after brothers Remus and Romulus, who built Rome and were raised by wolves. Interestingly, Lupin is derived from Lupa, meaning wolf in Latin. The name of another werewolf in the book( Fenrir Greyback) is derived from Norse mythology. In Norse mythology, Fenrir or Fenrisulfr is a wolf. Also, the Philosopher’s Stone, known to bestow immortality upon anyone who owns it, is said to have been the property of a Nicolas Flamel, who lived a hundred years. Nicolas Flamel was, in fact , an alchemist.
Moreover, there are other complex concepts and subtle undertones in the book which are altogether too advanced for children to grasp. The persecution of and hatred towards “Mudbloods”, mirror real life. “Mudblood” is a derogatory term used for those witches and wizards whose parents are non-magical or “Muggles”. They are thus discriminated against. Some pure-blooded wizards in the series advocate a complete annihilation of these “Mudbloods”. This intolerance is quite analogous to the anti-Semitism of Nazi Germany, the rampant racism in certain nations, the Varna system in India and the ethnic cleansing in Bosnia. Some of the horrors wrought on the victims of such bigotry is paralleled in the book. For instance, all “Mudbloods” are ordered to register their names with the Ministry, an act reminiscent of the Nazi orders to Jews to register with the SS and to wear the Star of David as a distinguishing mark.
Still think it is child’s play?
No Potter fan worth his or her salt would want Harry to die. There would have been an inevitable public outcry were the teenage wizard to be killed in a fight with the Dark Lord. Throughout the series there were tantalizing hints as to the outcome. Neither can live while the other survives, was the constant refrain. One character in the book augured Harry’s untimely demise. Every act, every word indicated that Harry was a Horcrux (non-Potter aficionados go read the book). And so it was revealed towards the end of the seventh book. But killing off Harry, would go against vox populi. And not doing so would falsify the entire mythology of The Boy Who Lived. So J.K. Rowling took the middle ground. Harry did die, but chose to come back to life to finish off Voldemort, restoring our faith in the age old maxim, “good over evil”. Besides, it would not do for Harry’s courage, perseverance and righteousness to go unrewarded. We have always been taught that these virtues are highly desirable. The boy had already lost his parents at a tender age. It wouldn’t do to kill him off at age seventeen. He had pity on his side. Hence, he lived to sire cheesily christened Potterlets.
Nevertheless, J.K Rowling’s genius in crafting this masterpiece cannot be gainsaid. The invention of a whole new sport (Quidditch) is just one example of her wonderful imagination. She was successful in sustaining the interest of children and adults alike. She captured the imagination of millions all over the world and spawned what journos have termed, Pottermania. But it is her marketing acumen that is the most commendable. There was always this will-she-won’t-she, cliffhanger like quality to the book. The hints in the book generated immense curiosity and left people wanting more. Die-hard Potter fans were glued to the book trying to second guess and speculate about what lay in store for Harry, whether Snape was indeed evil and so on. The book had the quality of a cleverly designed peep-show, revealing just enough to pique people’s senses and building up to an extravagant climax in which all the loose ends were tied up. People bought the books to find out if their theories were right. All this guaranteed readership and also a position in the list of best-selling authors. Futhermore, by introducing a new generation of Potters, Weasleys and Malfoys, Rowling has left open the option of continuing the Potter series; the new generation of wizards and witches could be passed on the mantle.
And those who dismiss the series as children’s books are in for a surprise. True, the young protagonists, the world of magic and the surreal, mind-boggling adventures appeal in a large part to children. But, the emphasis on sublime virtues of loyalty, courage, honor and determination and the importance of love, friendship, family, lend the books an admirably universal quality. There are clever references to mythology. For instance, Hagrid says that he got the three-headed dog, Fluffy from a “Greek chappie”, in an obvious reference to Cerberus, the creature which guards the gates of the underworld. Remus Lupin, a character which turns into a werewolf every full moon, is named after brothers Remus and Romulus, who built Rome and were raised by wolves. Interestingly, Lupin is derived from Lupa, meaning wolf in Latin. The name of another werewolf in the book( Fenrir Greyback) is derived from Norse mythology. In Norse mythology, Fenrir or Fenrisulfr is a wolf. Also, the Philosopher’s Stone, known to bestow immortality upon anyone who owns it, is said to have been the property of a Nicolas Flamel, who lived a hundred years. Nicolas Flamel was, in fact , an alchemist.
Moreover, there are other complex concepts and subtle undertones in the book which are altogether too advanced for children to grasp. The persecution of and hatred towards “Mudbloods”, mirror real life. “Mudblood” is a derogatory term used for those witches and wizards whose parents are non-magical or “Muggles”. They are thus discriminated against. Some pure-blooded wizards in the series advocate a complete annihilation of these “Mudbloods”. This intolerance is quite analogous to the anti-Semitism of Nazi Germany, the rampant racism in certain nations, the Varna system in India and the ethnic cleansing in Bosnia. Some of the horrors wrought on the victims of such bigotry is paralleled in the book. For instance, all “Mudbloods” are ordered to register their names with the Ministry, an act reminiscent of the Nazi orders to Jews to register with the SS and to wear the Star of David as a distinguishing mark.
Still think it is child’s play?
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Musings of a weird chick.
The balcony of my house quite lends itself to philosophical musings and is quite inviting to budding Platos. You see verdant wilderness, broken here and there by the ubiquitous concrete buildings, everywhere you look. The recent rains have rendered the barren hills dark green. Wispy clouds waft over the said hills; I am pensive. Rainy days and Mondays always make me blue. Yet again, I have given up cold comfort for change. Yet again, my life careens towards some undefined, uncertain, nebulous goal. Yet again, I have left things to chance. Yet again, I have gambled.
It is quite uncharacteristic of me, this risk taking. I have always lived within the boundaries that people draw for themselves, crippled by self-doubt; one bird in hand is worth than two in the bush. I would say it is better than the two in the bush. I wonder what happened to playing it safe. How lightly we regard that which we obtain easily!
Am I just so blinded by the obsession to attain these impossibly high standards? Is there a larger picture that I’m missing? I wish one had all the answers to uncomfortable questions. I wish taking a chance had some sort of collateral, some insurance. But I do know that I would kick myself years from now if I chose not to explore this chance given to me, that the point of life is to test your limits. You rage against the unfair hand that Fate deals you and you make your own destiny. You don’t go with the flow. You are not satisfied with what you achieve and you strive for more. Do you not cease to exist when smug complacency sets it?
But where does it stop? Is there a logical conclusion to this endless war that you wage? Are you ever content with what you have? I know these answers will evade me. Or life wouldn’t be as interesting. Neither would you hold on to life so dearly, if you understood its meaning or essence. Life would be simple. You would take it for granted, as you take those closest to you. If you knew all of life’s secrets and mysteries, life’s outcome would be predictable. But where’s the fun in predictability? We are drawn to that which we don’t understand; it’s almost a challenge to decipher the inscrutable. It is triumph we feel once we have solved the mystery. That’s what I am aiming for, anyway.
Stormy days lie ahead, full of both possibilities and disappointment. I hope I marshal the strength to get through each day.
Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, Martini in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO HOO what a ride!"
It is quite uncharacteristic of me, this risk taking. I have always lived within the boundaries that people draw for themselves, crippled by self-doubt; one bird in hand is worth than two in the bush. I would say it is better than the two in the bush. I wonder what happened to playing it safe. How lightly we regard that which we obtain easily!
Am I just so blinded by the obsession to attain these impossibly high standards? Is there a larger picture that I’m missing? I wish one had all the answers to uncomfortable questions. I wish taking a chance had some sort of collateral, some insurance. But I do know that I would kick myself years from now if I chose not to explore this chance given to me, that the point of life is to test your limits. You rage against the unfair hand that Fate deals you and you make your own destiny. You don’t go with the flow. You are not satisfied with what you achieve and you strive for more. Do you not cease to exist when smug complacency sets it?
But where does it stop? Is there a logical conclusion to this endless war that you wage? Are you ever content with what you have? I know these answers will evade me. Or life wouldn’t be as interesting. Neither would you hold on to life so dearly, if you understood its meaning or essence. Life would be simple. You would take it for granted, as you take those closest to you. If you knew all of life’s secrets and mysteries, life’s outcome would be predictable. But where’s the fun in predictability? We are drawn to that which we don’t understand; it’s almost a challenge to decipher the inscrutable. It is triumph we feel once we have solved the mystery. That’s what I am aiming for, anyway.
Stormy days lie ahead, full of both possibilities and disappointment. I hope I marshal the strength to get through each day.
Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, Martini in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO HOO what a ride!"
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Of Guilt….
You are generous, like your obscure namesake
from a lost era.
Pure of soul, heart of gold.
Courageous, like a tragic hero.
My brave knight, my best friend.
My solace in times of gloom.
The morning light, that broke
after an interminably long,
dark and murky night of desolation.
My hope in times of despair.
The bearer of joy and mirth.
The kiss of life, on my moribund lips.
How I take from you!
And, how you rejoice in it!
How I pillage your life,
and how you forgive.
Your unconditional love knows no bounds.
You pour it into a flawed ,fickle soul.
There it festers and guilt brims to the surface.
Why the wanton lavishing of your love’s largesse, angel?
Why the forgiveness for the pain I cause?
Such a recipient is, surely, unworthy of your sublime devotion?
The lost hope rears its ugly head yet again.
O! Its treachery.
Like a virulence that strikes ever so often.
Stealthy, insidious…
It has me in its thrall.
It releases me, (only to come claim me at a later date.)
But not before it drains me hollow.
Such power it wields, so potent its lure.
And the wicked heart, the wicked heart
has its weaknesses.
It craves for another.
Another, quite out of reach.
Shunning you , disparaging your love.
Why then does that love not cease?
Why does it go from strength to strength?
The good come to good, they say.
And the evil, to evil.
What good has your goodness come to?
Tragedy has struck again.
You are a tragic hero once more.
History repeats itself.
Can God be so cruel to a darling child?
A child so innocent?
So star-crossed and forsaken, as to
battle the ravages alone?
What is kind cruelty?
How do I make it painless?
How do I make you numb?
Has a kind knife been forged?
Does time heal the scars?
And the memory of the pain?
Will the phoenix rise from its devastation?
I cannot, in good faith, stay.
I will not ,while my thoughts lie elsewhere.
Goodbye, my angel.
My dear one,
It wasn’t meant to be.
P.S. Self-indulgent poetic extravagance or emotional catharsis? You decide.
from a lost era.
Pure of soul, heart of gold.
Courageous, like a tragic hero.
My brave knight, my best friend.
My solace in times of gloom.
The morning light, that broke
after an interminably long,
dark and murky night of desolation.
My hope in times of despair.
The bearer of joy and mirth.
The kiss of life, on my moribund lips.
How I take from you!
And, how you rejoice in it!
How I pillage your life,
and how you forgive.
Your unconditional love knows no bounds.
You pour it into a flawed ,fickle soul.
There it festers and guilt brims to the surface.
Why the wanton lavishing of your love’s largesse, angel?
Why the forgiveness for the pain I cause?
Such a recipient is, surely, unworthy of your sublime devotion?
The lost hope rears its ugly head yet again.
O! Its treachery.
Like a virulence that strikes ever so often.
Stealthy, insidious…
It has me in its thrall.
It releases me, (only to come claim me at a later date.)
But not before it drains me hollow.
Such power it wields, so potent its lure.
And the wicked heart, the wicked heart
has its weaknesses.
It craves for another.
Another, quite out of reach.
Shunning you , disparaging your love.
Why then does that love not cease?
Why does it go from strength to strength?
The good come to good, they say.
And the evil, to evil.
What good has your goodness come to?
Tragedy has struck again.
You are a tragic hero once more.
History repeats itself.
Can God be so cruel to a darling child?
A child so innocent?
So star-crossed and forsaken, as to
battle the ravages alone?
What is kind cruelty?
How do I make it painless?
How do I make you numb?
Has a kind knife been forged?
Does time heal the scars?
And the memory of the pain?
Will the phoenix rise from its devastation?
I cannot, in good faith, stay.
I will not ,while my thoughts lie elsewhere.
Goodbye, my angel.
My dear one,
It wasn’t meant to be.
P.S. Self-indulgent poetic extravagance or emotional catharsis? You decide.
The Poetry of Grief…..
Sometimes, I think my Grief has nine lives.
Each time I bury it, it is resurrected.
Its strength compounds with every life,
as it draws from mine.
Hope is a flighty mistress.
She could survive on mere assumption.
She thrives in speculation.
But reality bores her.
And boredom kills, so she dies.
Hope never floats.
Hope sinks without a trace.
“Pshaw!” says petulant Reason,
tapping her foot impatiently.
“Hope was but your creation”
I see her pallid and waifish.
It’s en-vogue, I’m told.
She bursts with health, come Joy.
But Grief is a different story.
My Grief purrs contentedly.
Its licks its paws and
smiles its Cheshire smile.
Stripped of Hope,
with an ailing Reason,
I am but sitting duck.
But Grief has its merits.
No one wishes ill of one grieving.
The world reserves its ill-will
for the joyous.
Sometimes, I think my Grief will
make a poet of me.
Aye, I think it has.
Each time I bury it, it is resurrected.
Its strength compounds with every life,
as it draws from mine.
Hope is a flighty mistress.
She could survive on mere assumption.
She thrives in speculation.
But reality bores her.
And boredom kills, so she dies.
Hope never floats.
Hope sinks without a trace.
“Pshaw!” says petulant Reason,
tapping her foot impatiently.
“Hope was but your creation”
I see her pallid and waifish.
It’s en-vogue, I’m told.
She bursts with health, come Joy.
But Grief is a different story.
My Grief purrs contentedly.
Its licks its paws and
smiles its Cheshire smile.
Stripped of Hope,
with an ailing Reason,
I am but sitting duck.
But Grief has its merits.
No one wishes ill of one grieving.
The world reserves its ill-will
for the joyous.
Sometimes, I think my Grief will
make a poet of me.
Aye, I think it has.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Limbo
Not for me the grim certainty of Hell,
Nor the sure bliss of Heaven.
I may have been here a day,
Or a lifetime, who knows?
There’s no telling.
Halfway between Heaven and Hell,
Time stagnates in Limbo.
One instant could mirror the next,
Or the one before.
Or the thousands before or after it.
Who knows?
There’s no telling.
Minutes turn to hours, hours to days.
One moment spills over to the next quite seamlessly.
Night and Day fuse together.
Summers are no different from winters.
It knows no sorrow or pain.
It’s ageless, timeless and aimless.
A state of prolonged uncertainty, they call it.
Am I alive?
I breathe, I bleed.
I hurt, I laugh.
I muse, I sigh.
But, which of these is the touchstone for Life?
Who knows?
There’s no telling.
Care, worry, of what use are they?
When what Time may come,
Will never be distinguished from the Time Past
Or the Time Future?
There is no doorway to salvation.
But is this so unbearable?
Life, sans souci.
But, is this a life at all?
Who knows?
There’s no telling.
P.S. : Morbid, aren't I? But, I swear I was raised right!
Of Human Bondage and other horrors.
I doubt that W Somerset Maugham had quite the same connotation in mind when he wrote his masterpiece Of human bondage, but this is what I think of service agreements, bonds et al. What are you walling in or walling out? You wall in your employees’ resentment and wall out growth. Why do you penalize them when they leave for greener pastures? Is it a crime to seek better opportunities? Change is constant. So, why leave a bitter aftertaste in your former employees’ mouths by your draconian policies? You reason that you have the right to recover the large amounts you invest in your employees. I agree. But what of the sacrifices they make of their personal lives and health to provide dedicated service? They more than compensate for that investment by enduring Carpal tunnel syndrome, insomnia and lumbago. Service agreements are effective in stemming attrition. But are they really? You make fugitives, “absconders”, to use your own term, of innocent, law-abiding citizens. Why not invest in retaining your employees through a good work culture, better management and care about their growth prospects? If they are provided a work-environment to their satisfaction, why would they consider other options? Everyone wishes to take away beautiful memories of the organization for which he or she has worked. Why ruin this for them? OK. This is enough ranting. But it’s tough to resist when injustice hits too close to home.
As a software developer, you are at the bottom of the food chain; the lowest rung of the ladder, as it were. Ours is not to reason why; ours is but to toil and die. There is no respect for your time, services or resources. You are a drone; one which keeps its head down and nose deep in work. You schmooze with the bosses and hope they’ll remember you during that crucial “performance rating” which decides your worth to the company. You slog and slog and slog some more, with nary a whisper of protest. God forbid should you so much as dream of insubordination. You form cliques, cartels even, with your managers; each cell takes care of its own members. Heaven keep you if you are perceived an outsider by the countless little “office-gangs”. They look out for their own; you are small fry. You play along, or perish.
I resigned recently. Weathered resignation veterans chimed, “HR wale sab kuch kar sakte hain. Bond waiver bhi”. OK. So the HR officers (HROs) in my branch are genuinely nice people. So much so that you would actually want to be friends with them outside the office, socialize with them even if you gained nothing from the “affiliation”. But, as the world works on the principle of ying and yang, all this sweetness and light is mitigated by, er, the opposite of s. and l. No prizes for guessing which HRO I got for processing my resignation. So far, so ghastly.
To say that she has the disposition of a snapping turtle, would be a gross understatement of which I’d rather not be guilty. So scratch that analogy. Attila the Hun, for all his ferocity, seems like a petulant toddler of indulgent parents; Hercules had it easy with the Hydra. But not I. Give me an alligator pit filled with hungry alligators any day of the week and twice on a weekend.
It transpired that I would end up paying a whopping fifty grand and this, when there was less than a month to go for the bond period’s expiry. Others who left before me paid a pittance to be released from this bondage. I would have to pay-up if I wanted the much-coveted “work-experience certificate”; unless the project management “recommended” me for “bond waiver”. Pshaw, said the veterans, the HRO has all the powers, she can do everything. So, I tried every trick in the book to have my bond waived. First, there was the docile, look-at-me-I’m-so-helpless act. When the Bambi routine fell through, I turned on the old charm. Kabhi-kabhi, gadhe ko bhi baap banana padta hai, nodded the veterans wisely. She shrugged off the politeness and spurned the smile. In the same breath, she cooed like a brooding pigeon when she spoke with a male colleague and answered all his queries with the patience of a monk. Oh, well.
I wish “Love thy boss” was a diktat I had followed. Yours truly had burnt all the bridges with the project management and drilled holes in the boats. Besides, being hydrophobic didn’t help either. I will someday write a treatise on Good bosses: An endangered species. But let’s dedicate that to some other entry. Coming back to my original whine, my tryst with the HRO was an exercise in patience; this particular one is in dire need of a beginners’ course in common courtesy. Given her rudimentary grasp on civility, you can well imagine my travails. So there I was, prepared to be set back by an astronomical amount. But, someone from the top management (God bless him!) saved the day and my recommendation came through.
Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles,
God took a Daniel once again.
Stood by his side and miracle of miracles,
Walked him through the lion’s den.
As of July 16th , 2007 , 6:00 pm Indian time, I am officially unemployed.
Free at last, free at last. Thank God Almighty, I’m free at last.
As a software developer, you are at the bottom of the food chain; the lowest rung of the ladder, as it were. Ours is not to reason why; ours is but to toil and die. There is no respect for your time, services or resources. You are a drone; one which keeps its head down and nose deep in work. You schmooze with the bosses and hope they’ll remember you during that crucial “performance rating” which decides your worth to the company. You slog and slog and slog some more, with nary a whisper of protest. God forbid should you so much as dream of insubordination. You form cliques, cartels even, with your managers; each cell takes care of its own members. Heaven keep you if you are perceived an outsider by the countless little “office-gangs”. They look out for their own; you are small fry. You play along, or perish.
I resigned recently. Weathered resignation veterans chimed, “HR wale sab kuch kar sakte hain. Bond waiver bhi”. OK. So the HR officers (HROs) in my branch are genuinely nice people. So much so that you would actually want to be friends with them outside the office, socialize with them even if you gained nothing from the “affiliation”. But, as the world works on the principle of ying and yang, all this sweetness and light is mitigated by, er, the opposite of s. and l. No prizes for guessing which HRO I got for processing my resignation. So far, so ghastly.
To say that she has the disposition of a snapping turtle, would be a gross understatement of which I’d rather not be guilty. So scratch that analogy. Attila the Hun, for all his ferocity, seems like a petulant toddler of indulgent parents; Hercules had it easy with the Hydra. But not I. Give me an alligator pit filled with hungry alligators any day of the week and twice on a weekend.
It transpired that I would end up paying a whopping fifty grand and this, when there was less than a month to go for the bond period’s expiry. Others who left before me paid a pittance to be released from this bondage. I would have to pay-up if I wanted the much-coveted “work-experience certificate”; unless the project management “recommended” me for “bond waiver”. Pshaw, said the veterans, the HRO has all the powers, she can do everything. So, I tried every trick in the book to have my bond waived. First, there was the docile, look-at-me-I’m-so-helpless act. When the Bambi routine fell through, I turned on the old charm. Kabhi-kabhi, gadhe ko bhi baap banana padta hai, nodded the veterans wisely. She shrugged off the politeness and spurned the smile. In the same breath, she cooed like a brooding pigeon when she spoke with a male colleague and answered all his queries with the patience of a monk. Oh, well.
I wish “Love thy boss” was a diktat I had followed. Yours truly had burnt all the bridges with the project management and drilled holes in the boats. Besides, being hydrophobic didn’t help either. I will someday write a treatise on Good bosses: An endangered species. But let’s dedicate that to some other entry. Coming back to my original whine, my tryst with the HRO was an exercise in patience; this particular one is in dire need of a beginners’ course in common courtesy. Given her rudimentary grasp on civility, you can well imagine my travails. So there I was, prepared to be set back by an astronomical amount. But, someone from the top management (God bless him!) saved the day and my recommendation came through.
Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles,
God took a Daniel once again.
Stood by his side and miracle of miracles,
Walked him through the lion’s den.
As of July 16th , 2007 , 6:00 pm Indian time, I am officially unemployed.
Free at last, free at last. Thank God Almighty, I’m free at last.
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