 |
| The Kerala-Tamilnadu Border |
 |
| Munnar |
 |
| The house I stayed in at Munnar |
 |
| One of the many paths I took - trusting God and Mallu hospitality |
 |
| 400sqft of luxury and sumptuous sights beyond it - as if nature dressed up specially for me |
Friday, June 15, 2012
Keralogue
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Dei Dei !!
Mumbai, 2040
A sprawling bungalow in suburban Bandra. Kabir and Aliya
are in the vegetable garden, sitting on swings on a pleasant January afternoon.
Kabir is busy rolling a joint and Aliya is chatting with her latest boyfriend
on her BBM.
Kabir – It was good to meet dada and dadi. We should try
and meet some of these people dad asks us to meet sometimes. Dada is a little
uptight but dadi is just awesome. Such wonderful tales they have of their
times. It seems kinda other-worldly.
Aliya looks up from the BB to put in her two bits
Aliya – Yeah man. Innocent folk too. Quite unaware of
what the world is upto. But really good tales.
Kabir – Dude, I think if they had dad’s ability for
telling a story, they would be even more interesting than dad. Coz they really
have very interesting stories to tell. I mean, just look at those dudes they
were talking about. What were their names? Krishna and Ram and Mahavir and what
not. Some ancient version of gods it seems. As if we don’t have our share of gods
already. What with Sachin and Gandhi and Sarkozy.
Aliya, tying a pony tail with a yellow rubber band
Aliya – What was strange was the extreme reverence they
had for them, yaar. I mean, its ok, they were gods and all. But whats the big
deal! They are fallible too, right. Like look at Sachin. For all the greatness
that dad talks about, he still was involved in that sex racket, right? Doesnt
mean he isn’t a god. He was awesome at his work, right? Thats what counts, right?
Kabir, proudly admiring a well-rolled thin, tight joint
Kabir – Ya sis. These gods have some awesome advantages,
yaar. Look at the women that Sarkozy bangs even at 80! Iv decided, Im going to
do whatever it takes to become a god. I knew about all the fun our gods have
had, but look at Krishna dude. He is actually a double god in my opinion. He
acts all pious and gives long sermons about moraility like Aamir Khan and then
gets all lovey-dovey with gopis in the garden like Shahrukh Khan. Awesome
double life, dude! He had the chakra permanently in one hand, i’ll have a
joint.
Aliya – Hehe. Such a dumbfuck you are. Becoming a god
cant be the ambition. That should be an underlying theme in whatever you do. My
ambition is to become a dancer. I will do it so well, that i become a goddess.
So being very good at something makes you a god. Look at this Mahavir dude. He
knew some 2500 years ago that there are living things smaller than what the eye
can see. Now did he find it out coz some hottie whispered it to him in his
sleep or he had some extra special microscopic eyes, I don’t know. But he knew
something that science could prove only 2000 years later. I mean, thats real
pioneering work. Cool dude too. Comfortable in his own skin. Never cared about
fashion.
Kabir – Ya, ya. If he were in Bombay today, even he, in
all his naked splendour, wouldn’t be
able to put up with this heat. But you are right, in all the stories, one thing
that troubled me too was how both the oldies weren’t willing to hear a single
bad thing about them. They didn’t like my analysis of how Shive sounded like
another Sunny Deol, but with better dancing skills. I mean, come on, both seem
to get angry really fast. One beheads his son and the other beheads his
brethren. Oh and there was another one – this Ram and Yudhisthir sound like Hank
Rearden from Atlas Shrugged – taking the full burden of the family and trying
to do what is right. But Hank Rearden sure was nicer to his wife than these two
guys. I mean, simply bcoz they are gods doesnt mean everything they do is right!
Aliya, recalling something important – Yaaaa. And thats
exactly what I said to granny in the kitchen. And she looked around worried.
Asking me if any of the attendents here were affiliated to, what was it?, Shiv
Sena or something. Coz if they overhear us, they will get us killed. I was
like, dude, dadi must have seen some very disturbed times to experience such
paranoia.
Kabir, letting out smoke after taking a deep drag from the
doobie – Paranoia is the word! You remember how they reacted when we told them
we found this old Krishna sculpture while digging in the neighbourhood garden.
They told us some long tale about how once such a thing led to so much
bloodshed across the country. I understand if you destroy that Sachin temple in
Kolkatta and erect one for Ravindra Jadeja at the same site, the Sachin fan
club will be damn pissed. But bloodshed? Riots? Rapes? Thats an old man’s
imagination gone wild!
Aliya smiled – But good stories yaar! Sweet people, both
of them. Infact, I wouldn’t mind if for some days they allow them to come meet
us instead of dad. It might help them too. Poor things mistake that higher
being that made the world for all these gods. I think people become naive as
they grow older. Look at dad’s obsession with making money – like thats going
to cure us! Hehe. Oh I have to go. Meeting Zooni upstairs for coffee.
Kabir – Ya alright. I am off to offer my daily prayers to
Pamela Anderson. By the way, do you think this higher being that made the world
would want someone to take over at some point of time? Id like that job.
Aliya – Why would you like to do that? I guess he must be
this hairy, pot-bellied, unkempt unshaven guy who sits on his dirty couch
having greasy snacks and pints of beer all day – watching his creations
bumbling through life. He cant become a god even if he wants to! All he has to
do is sit there and laugh at this farce down here.
Kabir – Precisement!
And outside, the
madness continued. |
| Photo source: www.indif.com |
Thursday, April 19, 2012
A Letter To My 16 Year Old Self - Lessons From Up Here
Smokers and drinkers are not all bad people
They are good people with bad habits
Sometimes, they are also the right people
You pretended when you studied and you pretended when you had fun
All you had to do was not pretend and you would have done much better, chosen much better
You did not let yourself dance enough
You did not let yourself write enough
You did not let yourself play enough
You thought that people would take you seriously coz you took yourself seriously
Well, its laughable to take yourself seriously even at 26, forget 16
It is ok to be arrogant when you have become something
You were arrogant by the thought of what you can become
Well, all you became was a joke
You never loved someone deeply enough
You never experienced hurt, you never experienced pain
You never experienced sleepless nights while she had already moved on to the next in line
You inflicted all of that on someone else
Your obsession with Ayn Rand was like a pimple - which disappears in your 20s
My obsession with Pink Floyd is like the bald spot - it keeps expanding till it takes over your entire head
You wore strange clothes bcoz they were cheap replicas of SRK's last movie
I wear strange clothes bcoz they are what society thinks is in fashion
You got drunk on water and wreaked havoc on the dance floor
I get drunk on more potent stuff
You played more cricket on the street, I play more Hangman on the ipad
You were a smug asshole for no reason
I am a smug asshole for some reason
You pretended you were in love when you werent
I pretend I am not in love when I am
You lied to exaggerate, I lie to play down
You never traveled the world - you never had the money
I never travel the world - I never have the time
I am still paying for all the relationships you ruined at your age
At an interest compounded daily
You made friends with an agenda in mind
I am befriended with an agenda in mind
You wrote letters when in love and never got replied to
I get replied to but with layers of meaning too difficult to comprehend
And yet, you were nothing compared to me
You were a mere shadow compared to me
Obsessed with all the wrong things
Oblivious of all the right things
You did not see Umang, you did not see MICA
You were the better dancer
You were the better writer
You were the better cricketer
But I am the better you
They are good people with bad habits
Sometimes, they are also the right people
You pretended when you studied and you pretended when you had fun
All you had to do was not pretend and you would have done much better, chosen much better
You did not let yourself dance enough
You did not let yourself write enough
You did not let yourself play enough
You thought that people would take you seriously coz you took yourself seriously
Well, its laughable to take yourself seriously even at 26, forget 16
It is ok to be arrogant when you have become something
You were arrogant by the thought of what you can become
Well, all you became was a joke
You never loved someone deeply enough
You never experienced hurt, you never experienced pain
You never experienced sleepless nights while she had already moved on to the next in line
You inflicted all of that on someone else
Your obsession with Ayn Rand was like a pimple - which disappears in your 20s
My obsession with Pink Floyd is like the bald spot - it keeps expanding till it takes over your entire head
You wore strange clothes bcoz they were cheap replicas of SRK's last movie
I wear strange clothes bcoz they are what society thinks is in fashion
You got drunk on water and wreaked havoc on the dance floor
I get drunk on more potent stuff
You played more cricket on the street, I play more Hangman on the ipad
You were a smug asshole for no reason
I am a smug asshole for some reason
You pretended you were in love when you werent
I pretend I am not in love when I am
You lied to exaggerate, I lie to play down
You never traveled the world - you never had the money
I never travel the world - I never have the time
I am still paying for all the relationships you ruined at your age
At an interest compounded daily
You made friends with an agenda in mind
I am befriended with an agenda in mind
You wrote letters when in love and never got replied to
I get replied to but with layers of meaning too difficult to comprehend
And yet, you were nothing compared to me
You were a mere shadow compared to me
Obsessed with all the wrong things
Oblivious of all the right things
You did not see Umang, you did not see MICA
You were the better dancer
You were the better writer
You were the better cricketer
But I am the better you
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Hypocrite
So there was this guy
Who loved to work a lot
Because it kept him busy
Too busy to think 'bout what he really wants to do
He was a helluva liar
So he lied to friends, parents and himself
That this was what he was always meant to do..
This "working a lot" thing
But one day something cracked within
He walked into his boss's cabin
And told him exactly what he thought of him
And went back home and told his dad
That he is off to a north-eastern log cabin
He will be back soon - to his prospective jobs and prospective brides
He booked his tickets for the 36 hour train ride
His dad smirked and asked him to book the return for a week later
Now he found his log cabin, overlooking the Teesta
He found good scotch, and a packet of cigarettes
He found pen and paper
He lost his laptop and ipad
He found Gilmour and Lennon and Knopfler
He lost the internet and the TV and the newspaper, even!
And he wrote and wrote and wrote
He wrote through sobriety, drunkenness and stonedness
He wrote through depression and joy and anger
10000 words, 30000 words, 60000 words
6 months passed and the return ticket never got bought
And then one night, he read all that he wrote
He read through that night and day
Then laughed and burnt it all away
He came back and got a "respectable job"
He came back and got a "pretty wife"
And never did anybody know
How those 6 months did go
Who loved to work a lot
Because it kept him busy
Too busy to think 'bout what he really wants to do
He was a helluva liar
So he lied to friends, parents and himself
That this was what he was always meant to do..
This "working a lot" thing
But one day something cracked within
He walked into his boss's cabin
And told him exactly what he thought of him
And went back home and told his dad
That he is off to a north-eastern log cabin
He will be back soon - to his prospective jobs and prospective brides
He booked his tickets for the 36 hour train ride
His dad smirked and asked him to book the return for a week later
Now he found his log cabin, overlooking the Teesta
He found good scotch, and a packet of cigarettes
He found pen and paper
He lost his laptop and ipad
He found Gilmour and Lennon and Knopfler
He lost the internet and the TV and the newspaper, even!
And he wrote and wrote and wrote
He wrote through sobriety, drunkenness and stonedness
He wrote through depression and joy and anger
10000 words, 30000 words, 60000 words
6 months passed and the return ticket never got bought
And then one night, he read all that he wrote
He read through that night and day
Then laughed and burnt it all away
He came back and got a "respectable job"
He came back and got a "pretty wife"
And never did anybody know
How those 6 months did go
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Rahul Dravid
He must be sitting in his living room watching one of the movies today.
He dare not switch to a news channel.
He is good at this 'not switching to a news channel' thingy.
He has done it at many junctures over the years.
He will have an early dinner and go to bed so that he can hit the gym early tomorrow morning.
Just the way he has been doing for donkeys years now.
He has toned every muscle, every joint, strengthened every sinew over the years.
His high perspiration levels meant he lost water too fast and constantly needed liquids.
Every shot he ever played was practised like a fanatic in the nets.
Every thought process, every reaction to every ball was calibrated to perfection.
There were so many balls played.
In the matches, in the nets, then again in the mind.
There were balls bowled by opposition bowlers, practice bowlers, imaginary bowlers.
And there were millions of cover drives, straight drives, square cuts, on drives, pulls and hooks.
So many that the body knows only that as natural movement, as a general state of being.
There was injury, dejection, failure, match-fixing, loss of captaincy.
But always, there was the next ball to be played.
For a team sport, this was always his own struggle with himself, his asking questions of himself and then answering them.
There were pretty girls, fancy cars, massive endorsement deals.
But always, there was, above all, the next ball to be played.
There were strike rates, run rates, win rates, and all sorts of rates to be worried about.
But there was a bat in his hand and that was all that mattered.
There were stars, egotists, prodigies, megalomaniacs all around him.
But, as always, there was, most importantly, the next ball to be played.
There were numbers which seemed to be going faster than him
And there were numbers which seemed to be going slower than him
But numbers meant little
There was that night at Wellington, that evening at Headingley, that morning at Adelaide
And then there was that heartbreaker at Queens Park Oval Trinidad 2007
No one in his team played bounce was well as him
No one in his team played swing as well as him
No one in his team showed as much improvement in playing spin over their career spans
No one in his team would have dared to take that wicket-keeping job, that opening slot, that declaration call
He has been a fine example of what human endeavour can achieve
He stands for what an ordinarily talented man can make of himself by sheer character
He might well be the only genuinely nice guy of our generation who finished first
He will be one of the very few my child will have to hear a lot about from me when he is born
Tomorrow he will announce the end of it all
Just as has been the case his entire life - he doesnt have much say in this matter either
There might be awards, commentary stints, political rallies, administrative posts
There might be many family outings, annual days, coaching camps, expert interviews, ad campaigns
There might be a prosperous paunch, a fancy estate, a scotch at the end of the day
But there wont be the next ball to be played
Mr Rahul Dravid, some things need to be said even if they have become cliches
You are, to my knowledge, the pinnacle of human ability and enterprise
Id pay to watch you play cricket in your backyard with your son
He dare not switch to a news channel.
He is good at this 'not switching to a news channel' thingy.
He has done it at many junctures over the years.
He will have an early dinner and go to bed so that he can hit the gym early tomorrow morning.
Just the way he has been doing for donkeys years now.
He has toned every muscle, every joint, strengthened every sinew over the years.
His high perspiration levels meant he lost water too fast and constantly needed liquids.
Every shot he ever played was practised like a fanatic in the nets.
Every thought process, every reaction to every ball was calibrated to perfection.
There were so many balls played.
In the matches, in the nets, then again in the mind.
There were balls bowled by opposition bowlers, practice bowlers, imaginary bowlers.
And there were millions of cover drives, straight drives, square cuts, on drives, pulls and hooks.
So many that the body knows only that as natural movement, as a general state of being.
There was injury, dejection, failure, match-fixing, loss of captaincy.
But always, there was the next ball to be played.
For a team sport, this was always his own struggle with himself, his asking questions of himself and then answering them.
There were pretty girls, fancy cars, massive endorsement deals.
But always, there was, above all, the next ball to be played.
There were strike rates, run rates, win rates, and all sorts of rates to be worried about.
But there was a bat in his hand and that was all that mattered.
There were stars, egotists, prodigies, megalomaniacs all around him.
But, as always, there was, most importantly, the next ball to be played.
There were numbers which seemed to be going faster than him
And there were numbers which seemed to be going slower than him
But numbers meant little
There was that night at Wellington, that evening at Headingley, that morning at Adelaide
And then there was that heartbreaker at Queens Park Oval Trinidad 2007
No one in his team played bounce was well as him
No one in his team played swing as well as him
No one in his team showed as much improvement in playing spin over their career spans
No one in his team would have dared to take that wicket-keeping job, that opening slot, that declaration call
He has been a fine example of what human endeavour can achieve
He stands for what an ordinarily talented man can make of himself by sheer character
He might well be the only genuinely nice guy of our generation who finished first
He will be one of the very few my child will have to hear a lot about from me when he is born
Tomorrow he will announce the end of it all
Just as has been the case his entire life - he doesnt have much say in this matter either
There might be awards, commentary stints, political rallies, administrative posts
There might be many family outings, annual days, coaching camps, expert interviews, ad campaigns
There might be a prosperous paunch, a fancy estate, a scotch at the end of the day
But there wont be the next ball to be played
Mr Rahul Dravid, some things need to be said even if they have become cliches
You are, to my knowledge, the pinnacle of human ability and enterprise
Id pay to watch you play cricket in your backyard with your son
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Dharavi Set To Music
My office is 15 mins away from my house on early Saturday mornings. At any other time-day combination, it is atleast 40-45mins away. Between my office and my home lies Asia's largest slum. And considering it takes so long to get back in a cab, the internally stingy and externally obese person that I am, I have made it a regime to walk home everyday from work. It takes me the same amount of time, I get some exercise and above all, I get to listen to some awesome music (Yes, I am that weird guy you see dancing while crossing the traffic signal)
This theory that our senses get heightened when we close down a few others has always fascinated me. Till the time I can walk blind-folded through the tricky streets of Dharavi so that I can take in more of the sounds, I will have to make do with shutting out Dharavi's voice with music and take in the sights.
Getting right down to business, Pink Floyd and Indian Ocean have both fascinated me over the years and I listen to them an awful lot lately. And because I believe you can never have enough of a good thing, I tend to be loyal to either for the entire length of my walk.
In the order of seniority, I will go with Indian Ocean first - the water body, silly!
So Indian Ocean's link to the place is so much clearer - its music is Indian, contemporary and talks about the broader national issues which Dharavi represents in a microcosm. As the music starts working its magic, pay attention to the faces - the daily dejection, the glimpses of guilt, the hopelessness, the betrayed Bombay dream writ large on their faces. Pay attention to the speed at which people walk by, the bikes and cars honk from all directions and people still keep walking like manic zombies, unaware of their immediate surroundings - too taken by their larger troubles. Notice the loud political posters above run down houses - if you can call them houses in the first place. How the posters proclaim promises, glorify hoodlums and religious thugs; and then look at the people walking by - their heads down - sometimes in reverence to them but mostly oblivious to them. Then let Raghuram and his team take over with the guitar and the drums and tablas. Then just look at the environment - the urban waste, ramshackle shops; the naked kids, the malnourished kids, the deformed kids, the defecating kids. A lot of Indian Ocean's music asks the listener to question his current state, what he is looking for, his condition of absolute decay. At the same time, the music is sometimes reverential to a higher being - asking for his help. In that sense, Indian Ocean's music still believes that a place like Dharavi can rise above this, it wants the guy from Bihar to question whether this depravity is worth it all.
I have walked through this slum during the 26th July 2005 deluge. And the memory still visits me sometimes. The open gutters, the chest high waters, the thought that my mouth has never been this close to human waste before. Hehe, surely, "Kudrat hans padegi"
And then there is the psychedelia of Pink Floyd. Its music says more with guitar riffs than with words. It's lyrics have historically oscillated between politically charged and positively absurd. Pink Floyd's music is simultaneously both: more pessimistic and more colorful, than Indian Ocean - assuming ofcourse that pessimism and color are ironic bedfellows in the first place.
Set to Pink Floyd, Dharavi transforms into this brightly lit cemetery. Pink Floyd's music glorifies the past and casts an even darker shadow on the present. You look at people's faces and see the early aging, the years that should never show on a 15 year old girl's face but they do because drain water is not the best moisturiser. Here there is no hope, there is just pain, dejection and an abhorrance for one's current self. The anger, the frustration is simmering on the surface as BMWs speed by to fancy multi-level parking lots at the other side of the city, in its wake leaving the people scurrying for space to walk to their dreary homes. So I sometimes imagine Gilmour, Waters, Mason and Wright giving a live performance right there in Dharavi - with the entire set-up done on the road divider - if the ruins of Pompeii stand for a great civilisation now destroyed by nature, Dharavi stands for a great civilisation being destroyed by man.
And the release is in forgetting about it, its in losing oneself in the bright colors of shanty walls, the fanciful lighting of leather goods stores, the stone and stick kiddie games next to the dump - the way the lyrics get lost in the grand guitar solos in Pink Floyd's music.
And yet, sometimes I walk without my music. Those days when Dharavi is set to its own choice of music. Bollywood chartbusters blended with Hindu bhajans during Ganpati and Bollywood chartbusters blended with Sufi Qawwalis during Id. On those days, I see these people the way they see me everyday - it is their own version of 'Dharavi Set To Music' and they trip on it big time!
This theory that our senses get heightened when we close down a few others has always fascinated me. Till the time I can walk blind-folded through the tricky streets of Dharavi so that I can take in more of the sounds, I will have to make do with shutting out Dharavi's voice with music and take in the sights.
Getting right down to business, Pink Floyd and Indian Ocean have both fascinated me over the years and I listen to them an awful lot lately. And because I believe you can never have enough of a good thing, I tend to be loyal to either for the entire length of my walk.
In the order of seniority, I will go with Indian Ocean first - the water body, silly!
So Indian Ocean's link to the place is so much clearer - its music is Indian, contemporary and talks about the broader national issues which Dharavi represents in a microcosm. As the music starts working its magic, pay attention to the faces - the daily dejection, the glimpses of guilt, the hopelessness, the betrayed Bombay dream writ large on their faces. Pay attention to the speed at which people walk by, the bikes and cars honk from all directions and people still keep walking like manic zombies, unaware of their immediate surroundings - too taken by their larger troubles. Notice the loud political posters above run down houses - if you can call them houses in the first place. How the posters proclaim promises, glorify hoodlums and religious thugs; and then look at the people walking by - their heads down - sometimes in reverence to them but mostly oblivious to them. Then let Raghuram and his team take over with the guitar and the drums and tablas. Then just look at the environment - the urban waste, ramshackle shops; the naked kids, the malnourished kids, the deformed kids, the defecating kids. A lot of Indian Ocean's music asks the listener to question his current state, what he is looking for, his condition of absolute decay. At the same time, the music is sometimes reverential to a higher being - asking for his help. In that sense, Indian Ocean's music still believes that a place like Dharavi can rise above this, it wants the guy from Bihar to question whether this depravity is worth it all.
I have walked through this slum during the 26th July 2005 deluge. And the memory still visits me sometimes. The open gutters, the chest high waters, the thought that my mouth has never been this close to human waste before. Hehe, surely, "Kudrat hans padegi"
And then there is the psychedelia of Pink Floyd. Its music says more with guitar riffs than with words. It's lyrics have historically oscillated between politically charged and positively absurd. Pink Floyd's music is simultaneously both: more pessimistic and more colorful, than Indian Ocean - assuming ofcourse that pessimism and color are ironic bedfellows in the first place.
Set to Pink Floyd, Dharavi transforms into this brightly lit cemetery. Pink Floyd's music glorifies the past and casts an even darker shadow on the present. You look at people's faces and see the early aging, the years that should never show on a 15 year old girl's face but they do because drain water is not the best moisturiser. Here there is no hope, there is just pain, dejection and an abhorrance for one's current self. The anger, the frustration is simmering on the surface as BMWs speed by to fancy multi-level parking lots at the other side of the city, in its wake leaving the people scurrying for space to walk to their dreary homes. So I sometimes imagine Gilmour, Waters, Mason and Wright giving a live performance right there in Dharavi - with the entire set-up done on the road divider - if the ruins of Pompeii stand for a great civilisation now destroyed by nature, Dharavi stands for a great civilisation being destroyed by man.
And the release is in forgetting about it, its in losing oneself in the bright colors of shanty walls, the fanciful lighting of leather goods stores, the stone and stick kiddie games next to the dump - the way the lyrics get lost in the grand guitar solos in Pink Floyd's music.
And yet, sometimes I walk without my music. Those days when Dharavi is set to its own choice of music. Bollywood chartbusters blended with Hindu bhajans during Ganpati and Bollywood chartbusters blended with Sufi Qawwalis during Id. On those days, I see these people the way they see me everyday - it is their own version of 'Dharavi Set To Music' and they trip on it big time!
Friday, January 20, 2012
A Nation of Toothless, Humorless, Selfish Bigots
One lesson which some of my best teachers have managed to teach me is that patriotism is not so much about being proud of your nation as it is about identifying what makes it difficult for you to be proud of it and going about rectifying it.
I attended 2 awesome weddings in the last month or so. 2 weddings which were as unlike each other as chalk and cheese. One was in a quaint little town in MP and the other was in badass Bombay. One baraat was attended by the entire town, albeit from their rooftops and the other was attended by a few who managed to make it on time in the rush hour evening traffic. One was so noisy that many city-slicker friends of mine refused to walk too close to the band and instead stopped over for a sutta on the way and the other had to quieten down every time it went past a major govt office building in South Bombay. One had awesome food made by humble women and served fresh by their men and the other had the most awesome spread of vegetarian food made by the best caterer in town. One was a love marriage between long time college sweethearts and the other was an arranged marriage between two Gujju diamond trader families. The one thing common between the two was the greed on the band master's face as he went hard at his drum with every passing beat. With every 20 buck note wagged in front of his nose, he went on and on with all the strength his malnourished arms could muster. He would thrust his right breast pocket in front of you just so you would put a couple of those notes in his pocket. What is a few 20 buck notes for the diamond trader's son who carries millions worth of diamonds in his pockets and travels from Mumbai to Surat to save some duty? If you find money being thrown at women to make them dance vulgar, I dont know how just because the gender has changed it becomes any less vulgar.
Which brings me to the essential point. In our mad pursuit of that prophecy of becoming the next superpower, are we even conscious how many values, ideals and most importantly, people are just falling by the wayside?
We are waging so many battles on censorship which are basically battles on how we want to be perceived. So there is a Kapil Sibal-social media row, a Salman Rushdie-Jaipur Litfest row, a Top-Gear India row, a Hussain painting row which did not let him die on his homeland; and millions others that the likes of Shiv Sena fight on a daily basis. We as a nation have no sense of humour, no willingness to see another view. If a democracy has no space for multiple opinions then what differentiates us from China? And if nothing differentiates us from China then remember that our Tiananmen Square has still not happened. That civil unrest has never really consolidated into a proper threat yet. And that is something we are setting ourselves up for with this sort of climate.
I can imagine a show as harmless as Boston Legal can never be Indianised as it will raise in our middle class living rooms on a daily basis the caste issue, the sexuality issue, the Hindu-Muslim issue - now we dont want the "upwardly mobile, aspirational, nuvo riche" middle class questioning these things, do we? What sort of pathetic nation wouldnt even let a director/writer/painter put across his opinion without fearing for his life?
And we arent even done with building a nation yet and we are spending so much time building a perception? Lets first build a nation that works and then go about window-dressing it so that we look nice to ourselves and others.
So i am sure you have heard of how peasants in Maharashtra commit suicides unusually often. So on an unsually cold winter evening in Bombay, there we were chomping down with vigour on our Pav Bhaji on the most awesome Pav Bhaji place i know. The kind that i missed so much in Delhi that i spent an obscure amount at Kingdom of Dreams to just experience a semblance of that taste. But I digress! Being a rather slow evening as Bombay doesnt know what to do with so much cold just as Delhi doesnt know what to do with so many puddles, we got to talking with the stall-owner and he told us how the vegetable prices in the markets crash every year during this time. How the farmers always have a bumper crop this time of the year and there really isnt a good price they get as the supply far exceeds the demand with China stuff flooding the market. So imagine this family of farmers sitting in Vidarbha somewhere staring at a pile of ripe tomatoes in their field. (I could imagine in a Kissan ad, the farmers should suddenly start celebrating Tomatina fest with that pile, right?) Imagine them staring at them during the day and during the cold winter nights. "Winters in rural Vidarbha can be particularly cruel," the MTDC brochure says. "Temperatures can go down to even 5 degrees in the nights." Imagine the farmer's son peering at the pile of tomatoes thinking surely those should be worth something. Surely they could get him rotis and rice and onions and potatoes. He doesnt even know people who eat chicken are also people like him. Instead he is shivering on this sleepless night as tonight its his sister's turn to use the single rag of a blanket the family owns. Now imagine the farmer looking at his son's quizzical eyes. Wouldnt it be easier to die than to give him false hope? Wouldnt we all do the easier thing if we had the choice? How many ever social media companies Kapil Sibal sues, he still wont change that kid's perception of the pile of tomatoes.
And then we say we should kill those bloody Maoists. Hehe, we are funny!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)