Desicritics Category: Culture: Society

The Floating Generation - Picking Pieces of our Scattered Life

Vinod Narayan — Thu, 22 Jul 2010 05:55:59 EDT

Though we all long for our home once we are away from it, we all have our own small and private ways to feel home when we are away.

I know of friends who make it a point to visit their country every year at least once. Many make it a point to call and talk to their dear ones every week. Some make sure they remain close to the community so that kids grow up knowing the culture and speaking the language. Some bring pieces of memory and artifacts back from their native place and adorn their walls so they could have a better feel of home.

Whatever you do your longing for home lingers on and you are stuck between the want to go back and the need to stay away. Many have broken this framework and headed back, many are contemplating and some brood that they can’t seem to make a choice.

But can we really feel at home even if we are back?

This question came up when I had the chance to talk to a dear friend of mine sitting oceans apart from me. Our generation is the floating generation, we don’t live in one place but we float in time and space and exist in pieces scattered all around the world through the relationships we have built.

And so even if we head back to our hometown we can’t bring all these small pieces of our existence together ever again. These pieces of our existence are by itself moving. Being carried away by the people we have built relationships with.

I can never be in my hometown in its complete sense because all my friends are on the move and parts of my life are with them. A sad but true look at how we physically move in one piece but get globally Torn.

But I have always been an enthusiast of Social media and I believe that the internet has opened up the possibilities to relive all pieces of our existence in many ways.

My Social Media account now connects me with my mom to my kindergarten mates. My professors to college mates. The groups in there have created small sections of my life where I can go back to my fifth grade, or engineering class or anywhere i want when ever I want.

Virtualization is hitting us without even us knowing. Our concepts of reality is redefining its boundaries so as to include our nature of flotation. We are rebuilding our life slowly piece by piece on the internet and it is a fun time to be doing that

“Life will never be judged by the glories we achieve, but by the relationships we build”

It is all scattered but if we want we can pick up the pieces and rebuild it

Book Review: The Beast With Nine Billion Feet - Anil Menon

bevivek — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 11:33:20 EDT

I have never eaten a buttered scone. I came close once, at a baker's in a hill station in the Western Ghats, but the woman behind the counter, who looked like she had an appointment with a coffin, exclaimed, "Scones!" as if I'd asked if she stocked porn. I didn't get the scone.

But why did I want a hard rock-like baked object that is not one of the world's great gastronomic delights?

Good question.

Because of Enid Blyton and her ilk of course, and the many evenings spent with the Secret Seven or with the Five Findouters or with Billy Bunter of the Remove. I knew 20th century England, public school England and what passed for English cuisine, better than I knew anything in India, urban, rural, pedagogic or culinary. Over time American pulp replaced the English, the court battles of Gardner, the laconic private dicks of Chandler, the LA cops of Wambaugh. And a wish was born.

A wish that we could read great desi pulp fiction where the action is set in Dadar or Basant Nagar or Greater Kailash or Esplanade or Indira Nagar or Marredpally or Senapati Bapat Road. Where the characters would be called Ravi Manikandan and Manisha Gupta and TVS Reddy and Zaheer Ansari and Baby Kutty and Rohinton Irani. Finally, a decade or so back it happened. Publishers from Penguin to Rupa published books by desi authors, set in the sub-continent and with desi characters that rang true and were not caricatures. It is one of life's lingering mysteries why it is impossible for a non-South-Asian author to create desi characters who are not called Singh or Khan. A recent travesty by the otherwise impressive detective fiction writer Peter James in his novel Dead Simple is a character named Suresh Hossain. The fatwa is in the mail.

While mainstream fiction in India has thus lumberingly got off the ground with the execrable Ashok Bankers, Shobhaa Des and Chetan Bhagats, speculative fiction, i.e. mod science fiction or fantasy set in India has not. Indian bookstores equate fantasy with Indian mythology especially the luscious graphic art of Amar Chitra Kathas. But modern desi speculative fiction or desi sci-fi (we will cafll both SF) is invisible in the bookstores. Of course for bookstores to stock-em, authors have to write-em and there have not been many. Prior to 2000, only a handful of spec-fic books were published, Amitav Ghosh's The Calcutta Chromosome (1997) and Boman Desai's The Memory of Elephants (1988) being two.

Thankfully, the first decade of the 2nd millenium, is seeing an increasing trickle of SF novels be it Payal Dhar's Shadow in Eternity series (2004), Samit Basu's Simoqin Prophesies (2004), Rimi Chatterjee's Signal Red (2005), Priya Sarukkai Chabria's Generation 14 (2008) and Vandana Singh's recent anthology The Woman Who Thought She Was A Planet and Other Stories (2009).

In a further welcome development, a few desi SF authors based abroad are trying actively to share their experiences and educate prospective desi authors not just in pushing their own writing but on the craft of getting published. In mid 2009, two US based science fiction writers, Vandana Singh and Anil Menon conducted the First workshop for desi speculative fiction writers at IIT-Kanpur. The workshop modelled on the iconic Clarion West program in the US was a hit with about 16 authors attending the workshop. The impact of the workshop has been immediate with the closing months of 2009 seeing a spike in the number of spec-lit short stories published by workshop alumni in international spec-lit magazines. Some of the workshop alumni have even begun work on books.

All this is a prelude to taking a peek at Anil Menon's science fiction novel set in India, The Beast with nine billion feet which was published last year.

The Beast, set in 2040 in a suburb of Pune, tracks the lives of 2 pairs of siblings, Tara and Aditya (Adi) and Tara's friends Razia (Ria) and Francis. Tara is 13, Adi older by 4 years while Ria and Francis are twins Tara's age. Tara and Adi are Puneris while Ria and Francis have just moved in from Sweden, well, or so they say. Behind this benign foreground is a deadly shadow tug of war going on between two genetic camps. Those who want to make genetics affordable in an ethical for-public-good way and those who wish to monopolize the IPR. Tara's father Sivan a famous genetics scientist is in the former camp while Mandira aka Vispala, is in the other camp.

Tara is a social creature and soon she, Ria and Francis form a troika. Anti-social Adi on the other hand is hooked on to virtual worlds. Adi also wants to emigrate to Nurth, an artificial island near the North Pole. Mandira / Vispala, whom he knows as a friend in a virtual world, has promised to help him in realizing the dream. What Adi does not know is that Mandira has a hidden agenda that involves him and Sivan.Years ago, Sivan and Mandira were both a part of the same genetics group but have since gone in very different directions. Sivan came home and founded the Free Life genetics movement aimed at making genetically modified seeds available free of cost, through open licensing of gene research. Mandira on the other hand works with a genetics corporation that ties the farmer forever to the organization. Sivan succeeded in his movement but has been forced to go into hiding to escape trumped charges. But now, on the aftermath of the Vermillion party's win at the polls, Sivan returns to Tara and Adi. Tara is delighted to have Sivan back but to Adi, Sivan is a stranger and the years of resentment at having an absent parent spills over into the relationship. Meanwhile the shadow war between Sivan and Mandira is gathering pace. It is left to 13 year old Tara to singlehandedly to sort things out.

The Beast is an extremely readable book, crammed with ideas about the future and with a fascinating and intriguing story line that makes this a compulsive read for YAs. The icing on the cake is Menon's masterly use of English, in beautiful and understated prose that is often lost with normal Indian English pulp. Here's a Saki like snatch, "Adi hadn't apologized. It is annoying when one is ready to accept an apology but none is forthcoming".

The book operates at 2 levels. The first at the level of Tara and Adi and Ria and Francis where the concerns are day to day, from Tara's dislike of her dark skin pigmentation to Adi's difficulty in preventing Aunt Sita with whom they live from discovering that a genetically engineered very articulate parrot is lurking in their house. It is this level that shows a different world. Just by hanging around Tara and friends we hear about nictitating eyelids, Lynx, an emotional hover car that needs praise to perform well, Illusion Pods that transport you to a touchy feely 3 D virtual world where your avatar can do fun stuff with your posse, the avatars of other players, and my personal favourite, the Experience Room, a virtual reality environment that allows us to actually participate in historical events as any of the main actors of those events.

The second level is at the level of the major social and ethical and global issues that exist in 2040 and the battle for minds and control. A bleak level where the parents of these children are among the Guderians and the children, the foot soldiers, either blissfully ignorant or being forcefully manipulated. Sivan, heads the Free Life movement while Mandira is trying to kill this movement. Mandira is also convinced that Sivan knows the secret of longevity and determined to wrest it from him.

Three things differentiate the Beast from other SF books. The first, the setting in India, in a milieu and context familiar to most urban Indians. Thus Tara and her friends eat ice cream at Appa Balwant Chowk and the Vermillion party wins at the Lok Sabha polls. It is unclear whether Menon is hinting at the evolution of today's Hindutva parties to the vermillion of tomorrow but the intriguing possibility is another hook with which he snares you into tomorrow's India which also features a tongue in cheek peek into the political rally of the future with 6 story tall holograms of grinning political figures. The second aspect, the book being set just 30 years away, a future that one can almost reach out and touch. Third, the central characters and events in Menon's book are normal human beings. One finds not aliens with quivery antennae asking to be taken to our leader or Zx121 being teletransported to the planet Zog but human beings being human (well, mostly human). This genre of looking at the near future is called mundane SF and Menon is forecast by many to become one of its high pandits.

In sum, the Beast is a great book and a wonderful read. Go and grab a copy.

A few observations and would-have-likeds.

Wish that Menon had made the future just a tad more recognizably different from today. Menon's other works such as Harris on the Pig, Archipelago, Love in a Hot Climate and Dopplegestalt display a prodigious imagination so it is not a problem of ability but perhaps him holding himself back. Wish he had let it rip.

The equation between the West and today's developing world has not changed. The centroid remains the West attracting the best talent of the East. Graduate studies are done abroad and emigration is the desired option for Indians. One would have liked some of these positions to be questioned.

From the point of characterization, Tara, Adi, Francis, Ria and Mandira are well etched and believable. Most of us have met a dominatrix like Mandira and a troubled adolescent like Adi.

But Sita, Sivan's sister and Tara and Adi's aunt is a strangeness. Sita, around 70 in 2040 would be about 40 in 2010 and like any modern urban woman so to my mind, perhaps a little unlikely to be that stereotypical 20th century aunt. Her language too is odd involving Oxonian cricketing metaphors last heard from AFS Taleyarkhan. Sivan could have been more fleshed out. He remains a ghostly figure to the end.

There is always the line between critique and what is best stated as "if I had written the book, this is what I'd have done". We cross over to the latter.

Pune, the locale for the book, is a city with a rich history, a distinct Maharashtrian personality and some of its quirkiness and millenial history could have been weaved into the book.There is a tantalising mention of Shaniwarwada, the old seat of the Peshwas but the Beast merely flirts with it. Some of the gastronomic offerings that typify Pune too could have featured. No misal pav, no pitla bhakri, no bhel, no sabudana khichdi, no Chitalebandhu bakarwadi or Laxminarayan chivda. Personally I'm happy that pitla has disappeared off the menu in 2040 but the others will be sorely missed.

While there are these bits, they are blips because the book time shifts you into the future and keeps you there most of the time. The oddities occasionally disturb the segue but within a few minutes you are back in 2040, wearing your nictitating eyelids, riding on Lynx and hoping the darn hover would not get too upset at having a stowaway.

The Tears Of Our Children

gautampatel — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 03:08:24 EDT

Not a week passes when in the pages of every national daily there isn’t a report of some horrific atrocity against a child. A 6-year-old raped in Shahapur (7 July); a 16-year-old gang raped in Ghaziabad (23 June); a 5-year-old gang raped in Chennai (4 November 2006); another in Panvel (4 January 2010); a six-year-old raped and murdered in Bhayander (13 June 2010). This month, a young man has been arrested in Kurla, suspected of having raped and killed three minor girls. In June, a 41-year-old man repeatedly raped his teenage daughter, impregnated her, forcing an abortion (13 June 2010).

Between November and December 2009 the media reported at least eight cases, one worse than the next: two teenagers raped a girl just over four years old in Kherwadi, Bandra (3 November 2009); in Mumbai, a father raped his 9-year-old daughter (4 November 2009); two teenagers raped a 4-year-old at knife-point in Mumbai (4 November 2009); a 17-year-old sodomized his 6-year-old neighbour (5 November 2009); a 40-year-old watchman raped a 7-year-old girl in Malwani (9 November 2009); a 12-year-old was gang raped in Delhi (18 November 2009); a 7-year-old was raped in Thane (27 December 2009); a 16-year-old was raped by eleven men over three days in Himachal (28 December 2009).

Every day, the news nauseates. We turn the page. Perhaps the problem will go away. Life will go on. For us, maybe.

Each one of these cases defies all comprehension of humanity. What kind of creature is sexually aroused by a child? Are these perpetrators fit to be called human beings? Some animals in the wild hunt, kill and eat the offspring of other animals, sometimes even their own kind. None do it for pleasure. None are sexual predators. Is this what most distinguishes us from animals, that we are the only creatures to sexually prey on our young?

Many countries, have reasonably well-established laws that deal specifically with child abuse, including physical abuse and sexual abuse. Amazingly, despite its welter of laws on almost every conceivable subject under the sun, India has no specific law on child abuse. The same criminal law on rape and molestation that applies to adults is made to apply to minors, because there just isn’t anything else.

Our statute on rape is prehistoric. A woman cannot be raped by her husband if she is over — this is incredible — 15 (though the age for statutory rape is 16). Other sections of the Indian Penal Code are peculiar: S.372 (“selling minor for purposes of prostitution, etc” actually uses the phrases “let for hire”. There is no specific law against child porn.

In the past, our courts did not exactly cover themselves with glory in dealing with rape cases generally. Here’s one gem from 1979:

“A philanderer of 22, appellant Phul Singh, overpowered by sex stress in excess, hoisted himself into his cousin’s house next door, and in broad day-light, overpowered the temptingly lonely prosecutrix of twenty four, Pushpa, raped her in hurried heat and made an urgent exist having fulfilled his erotic sortie.”

That extract needs no emphasis.

In the infamous Mathura case, where a girl of about 14 was raped by policemen in custody, the trial court acquitted the accused, holding, among other things, that she was “habituated” to sexual intercourse as she had a lover. In a sensitive and measured decision — the horror and pain comes through — the High Court reversed the decision and convicted the accused. In a judgement that was widely criticized the Supreme Court overturned the High Court’s decision. The words “habituated to sexual intercourse” appear in the Supreme Court decision too. As exculpation for rape, this is simply bizarre. It is like saying that if you leave your front door open, you can expect to be robbed or assaulted, and that’s no crime. Fortunately, the recent trend, though gradual, has been to treat rape victims with a gentler hand, and the perpetrators with greater severity.

In 2007, the Government of India’s Ministry of Women and Child Development published an outstanding report on child abuse. Its findings are shocking, the more so because they are set out with such clarity and objectivity. Children between 5 and 12 are the most vulnerable. Over 50% children in all 13 sample states were found to be physically abused, and an equal number sexually abused. Andhra Pradesh, Assam, Bihar and Delhi consistently reported the highest rates of abuse in all forms. One in every five children reported facing a severe form of sexual abuse. Street children, those forced into labour and those in institutional care reported the highest incidence of sexual assault. Half the reported sexual abuses were by persons known to the child or in a position of trust. In 2005, there were over 4000 cases of rape against children. Between 2002 and 2005, the number of minor girls sold into prostitution increased by a staggering 163%.

The WCD report recommended a revision of the National Policy on Children, one that is now 36 years old. It also recommends a national legislation to deal with all forms of child abuse: especially sexual abuse including commercial sexual exploitation, child pornography and grooming for sexual purpose; and physical abuse including corporal punishment and bullying, economic exploitation of children, trafficking of children and the sale and transfer of children. These numbers are frightening. But even more terrifying is the finding that over 70% of child victims do not report sexual abuse.

As a subject for discussion the issue has never occupied centre-stage. It remains the concern of a minority, albeit a persistent and dedicated one. Most of these child victims are desperately poor, and therefore in greatest need of protection. Those of us who can, and should, act prefer not to confront reality; it is much too grim. Our children do not, by and large, have such experiences; these things only happen to the children of others. But we should look again: being born to privilege is an accident, not an excuse, and it carries with it a greater degree of responsibility for those less fortunate. We should look again and say to ourselves, there, but for the grace of god, go I. The more appalling argument is that this is a matter of numbers: there are just too many of us, and when you have these numbers, such things happen.

Child abuse as we now know it isn’t new. It has existed from ancient times when Greeks and Romans routinely kept catamites, young boys for the sexual pleasure of older men. Very young girls were married off or used as sex slaves. More recently, in Victorian times, children were routinely used as cheap labour, forced into sweat shops, beaten, starved and sexually abused. To judge history by the social and ethical mores of today is pointless; and should we judge older literature from a modern perspective we might well have to abandon much that is of value. The world of Dickens is full of the most awful instances of what we now consider child abuse, and yet he is not just read, but his work is made into movies. But the fact that child abuse has its own history does not validate its continuance.

I have an apparently bizarre theory that dumbfounds planners when I put it to them: that illicit sexuality and particularly sexual abuse are directly related to the urban form; specifically, to the urban form in which the poor live. In areas that are cramped and without any form of privacy, places that fit no definition of the constitutional right to shelter — slums, shanties, jhuggies — there is no space available for that most basic of human function. Stir into the pot a restrictive, unyielding and antediluvian sexual morality and you have all the makings of an uncontrollable situation. The structural form also has its other traumas: noise, congestion, financial stress, just making it through a day. When getting a bucket of water is a fight with your neighbour, a child’s tantrum or screaming is apt to trigger a disproportionate reaction. The easiest target in either situation is a child, precisely because she or he is the most vulnerable and the least capable of a meaningful self-defence. Even in Dickensian London, the abused children were always the ones who were poor. There is probably a direct correlation between poverty and a high incidence of child abuse, though it is incorrect to attribute child abuse only to financial status. Certainly there is child abuse — much of it sexual — among the well-to-do but for the most part they are better shielded. Protecting a child takes time, energy and, often, money. It is the poor who are the most vulnerable.

Prolonged and repeated civic strife also seems to blur distinctions between right and wrong in matters of child abuse. War-torn societies, inured to atrocities over a period of time, see the infliction of pain or violence as a matter of compelling obedience. Consider the impact of both, poverty and strife: in 2002, a Cambodian mother nailed her daughter’s foot to the floor in an attempt to discipline her. The child was later made to draw water from a distant well. The authorities were slow to react, saying the mother was overworked, looking after four daughters.

Another perspective is that the entire case on child abuse is primarily Occidental, a western-import sought to be grafted onto cultures that have no such sensibility and yet have managed perfectly well. Societies may have tolerated, or even encouraged, acts that we now regard as abusive. But in a world that has changed and is no longer what it was, to say that some things should be allowed to remain in a time-warp is no argument at all. Child abuse, in any form, is a violation of the basic human rights of the most defenceless among us. For that reason alone that every civil society, or any society that aspires to being called civilized, must protect its children.

The WCD report was made three years ago. It recommended a dedicated law to deal with child abuse. Our children still wait for that law. Child rapists and murderers do not. Between banning a book and interviewing a ghodiwala at a cricketer’s wedding we have more important matters to engage us, forgetting that a society that does not care for its children is a society without a future. A line from the American poet, Hilda Doolittle, is today a question to our government: “to what child are you pitiless?”

A-vivek of N-Arundhati

Vivek Sharma — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 10:32:16 EDT

When Narundhati treks through the jungles as a guest of Maoists, her biases
ignore the blisters on her city feet. The mosquitoes that relish blood, heedless
to the age of their victims, serenade to her, in a 'thousand star hotel'.
What Narundhati says is part fact, the part where she describes guns
and explosives in a region termed Pakistan by leaders and policemen --
a Pakistan within India where followers of Mao seek a bloody revolution!

When she quotes a Harvard returned politician or a Naxal leader verbatim, she stays partly
in right, stating their high-headed thoughts about cost of progress and freedom at midnight.
I root for her when she describes the plight of farmers, counterfeited by a green revolution,
or when derides the blind march into globalization or the abject immorality of the corrupt.
When Narundhati asks if a fact is a fact in her fiction, or if our judgment of Maoists is right,
or suggests that India need 'feral poetry', she is enchanted by her wordplay. Her fiction
writer’s instincts laud her, as she pens lines lyrically in a cinematic setting to die for (not in)
and her protagonists are Davids fighting a 'higher caste, fascist' Goliath-state.
In episodes that trek her journey with lilting rhythms, every typed word is paid for, is wanted
by a popular magazine, and she anticipates the applause she will get from the Eastern left,
and the Western right.

She is partly right when she describes how CIA's jihad
of late eighties in Afghanistan finished off Russian communism and spawned
Taliban style communalism in Afghan & Indian territory, bringing Kashmir its tensions
(and some intellectuals their liberal pretensions). She appears partly bright
when she describes the rise of Hindutva as a political force in that nineties disquiet.
Since her writing is tight, she urges connotations to bare themselves and subtleties
of diction in this colonial language, appeased by her 'hysterical rhetoric', look like ecstatic,
climactic arguments, but what interests me always is what escapes her,
or what she omits or leaves out.
Like Kashmiri Pandits, who don't feature in her computation of what went wrong in 1988-
89, though historically speaking, those lands belonged to those hundreds of thousands:
now refugees in their own country, driven out by 'Azadi guns'.
When she forgets is that in this Indian Palestine, the oppressed is the Hindu, whose homeland,
memory of forefathers is being wiped out, and there is no Darwish to sing of this loss!
But her reading of the historic is undone by her histrionics. She ignores
what she dislikes, and in her surreal imagination, Gandhian protest is a vice.

Hinduism, which gives her name, but deserves only her distaste, is the problem she must cite.
Her unintelligent comments about Kashmir or Taj Mumbai siege (as Rushdie called them),
her howl: "justice or civil war" reflect she’s Narundhati: yet her prestige persists in spite of her sleights,
for a country she calls a Nazi-like police state by tolerating her, belies the atrocities she cites:
while she sees only death and shadow lurk on our stage
Isn't she surprised, why she is still unscathed and alive?
Truth is seldom as black or white, but my stanzas seem stunted for I am imitating Narundhati's style.

See I am stumped by her contradictions, though as an Indian, I am deemed capable of reconciling
the opposites. Narundhati, the embedded journalist, describes rapes, arson, murder by police as malice,
yet urges us to sympathize with Maoists who count mutilated corpses as a prize.

Years back, on the shores of Narmada, she cried hoarse with non-violent protesters,
"Narmada bachao, bachao" "Narmada bachao, bachao"
and now in Maoists camps, she despises those methods.
"Lal salaam comrade! Guns uthao, uthao"
She cites Charu's and Mao's affection for gore, and tells us, in her Delhi accent...
O don't be a bore,
look at these tribals dancing, look at their songs and folklore...
who'd think they have killed a score.

When she writes, "I tell them Delhi is a cruel city that neither knows nor cares about them,"
she forgets that the Indian city destroyed the most number of times, never though by pacifists,
is the city of Hindu memories, of Ghalib, Mir and Sufis, of Sikhs and seekers of many faiths,
but our city-girl thinks cities as contraband
and like Mumbai, her 'karmabhoomi' is ostracized from her skies.
Likewise, millions of children born into consumer cultures, are vultures
as per her writing, which insists world markets are ulcers, progress = prosecution,
pro-Hindu idealism = fascism, police = thieves/rapists, leaders = hate-mongers. If her arithmetic of India,
America, World is really that simplistic, and caustic, I wonder, what qualifies her to be a critic?

As a teenager, I volunteered one summer for teaching the slum children in Delhi. As a reward
for my sincerity, I was led into a small, unlit room one afternoon, to talk to a high-ranking Maoist.
"We must rid our nation of these intellectuals, professors, politicians, landowners, high castes,
scientists, and wipe out the rich.
Blood is the only water than can wash the strains of anguish
that distinguish my people," he said. He quoted Marx, Majumdar, French revolution, Russians, Mao.
I looked like an ancient cow quoting Gandhian or Buddhist or Hindu philosophy,
and the forgotten principle of Christian non-resistance: of turning the other cheek.

I tried to decipher why I was an enemy. "You represent the worst of elitists, Sharma;
studying in a fancy engineering college, Convent educated, Brahmin, or course you’re a fascist".
My distinct unease told me I was condemned by the prejudice of this self-appointed jurist!
I lacked potent phrases to debate with him, so I described how I had toiled hard all my life
under extreme family pressure and my success was fruition of the daily, honest sweat
of my parents who had risen from Himalayan poverty, which doesn't ask your caste
when it affects you, though employers cite it when they reject you.
"Many innocents must die too. The fire of sacrifice, the Goddess
calls for a bloody revolution."

That three hour meeting still baffles me. I am at loss for words,
it hurts. For him, Chinese excesses or Stalin's policies are justified. The morbid horror of it,
rages within me, and as I devour literature from all times -- Tale of two cities, If this is a Man,
Doctor Zhivago, Train to Pakistan or Manto's stories -- I realize every activism and ideal
that strives to reverse biases, by justifying repressive policies and atrocities of present day
in the light of past excesses, rationalizes exactly what it criticizes. War begets war, lust, lust,
hate spawns hate. I agree markets lack compassion and conscience, but collectives can be callous
as well, Dickensian crowds can turn into mobs and guillotine,
and Achebe’s tribals are capable of being innocuous or fascist!
If only we had the right acumen, we would triumph over ourselves and turn human,
but we lay down a landmine, we turn our holy lands into Palestine, we outline
new charters of hate, wiping Jews or Tutsis or Hindus or Red Indians or Muslims
or Cambodians, or Tibetians or Armenians, priests and pilgrims, ultra-rich and urchin,
wiping whole generations off our slate!

I don't know why Narundhati's mother thinks India needs a revolution, or why
Narundhati listens to grasshoppers and they speak her mind, about 'democracy
as a demon-crazy'. I lived in Chekovian villages, in beat-up small towns,
in places where people don't worry about abstract isms and nouns,
rather stick to their daily needs, banal fancies and follies, ageless celebrations and strife.
We are the poor or middle classes, our daily living supplies more solace and sorrow to our lives
than the craving rich can conceptualize.

When I read dream-like sequences of rural, joyful life, I realize,
even Tolstoys can lack the facts, and that ignorance leads to lies.
See the Soviet history, witness its birth, youth and demise!
Yes Naom Chomsky's is a learned man, and Howard Zinn knew his People’s history,
but when N-Arundhati talks their language, she lacks their informed gallantry,
their reverence for their national ideals, their ability to denounce propaganda, backed with facts.
Not every ape is a Hanuman, for it takes a lot of spirit, guts, grime and gyaan.
To be a Zola, rather than a bhola, requires more than a kurta and a jhola!

In Narundhati's analysis of India: there is a civil war-like situation
between Muslims and Hindus, tribals and corporations, Maoists and state machinery,
dam builders and those displace by dams. And of course, Narundhati is the liberal star
smug, satiated, saturated by her own self-defined idioms of calamity and causality.
Her writing shows, how she deifies the episodes of carnage, and her urge is to disgrace
the land on which she stays. In her prose, terrorists get rationalized, and as she breaks
into outbursts, aimed at foreign readers, buyers of her books, admirer of her looks,
who lap up what she writes, especially her calling much maligned Hindus -- fascists,
or thinking of Kashmir as Palestine or her support for bloody revolutions. Half-truths are half-lies,
and my lament is... many trust her, and thrust biased policies on Indians using her near-sights.
Her rhetoric: 'Mumbai people asked for it, people who are neither in government, nor rich,
nor Maoists asked for it, Kashmiri Pandits asked for it, Hindus & Sikhs killed in past centuries
asked for it, the children of twenty-first century asked for it, Americans killed in 9/11 asked for it,
the races and regions continuously misrepresented by colonial mentality Orientalists like her
asked for it, asked for it, asked for it".

Why Suyodhan is called Duryodhan, why my write-up is full of A-Vivek, and why N-Arundhati,
who I support for her activism on many issues, is the locus of my ardent criticism?
While Narundhati has a Booker and I haven't even won a cooker, I still am an argumentative
Indian, as Amartya Sen would call me. Trust me, it takes more than a token speech to appall me.
Tell me, if I can be considered discreet if in my words, there is no middle ground, no layers, no gray.
Too much talk, and too little thought, too much debate, that too without consulting the proletariat!
Too many victims, too little praise, too much rhetoric, without perspective of the current or the historic!
Anger is easy, but solutions are harder, and in India, where bureaucratic cobwebs usher
answers at the pace of a lazy snail and facts are files buried in dust or disgust somewhere:
her urging us to burn down our the storehouse and file-keepers too leads us nowhere.

My voice falters in any discourse. My lament: I am innocent. If I cite Hindu philosophy,
I am labeled fundamentalist; if Islamic, labeled terrorist; if Jewish, Zionist. If I state
my thoughts, my name says I am a Brahmin, also my education was in Catholic school.
I am my father's son, so related to the government. I live in United States, so I represent the empire.
I am a poet means I am fanciful; an engineer, which implies I limp in humanities,
and by the sheer luck of being the son of a honest man, and a scientist, after a lifetime of toil,
I am still struggling to earn a foothold on our soil. But while I cannot even represent
my own self, how and why does a Narundhati triumph as a correspondent?
If Maoists win their mineral-rich forests, Kashmir gains independence, minorities and castes vanish,
will we reach the state of param-sukh: absolute solace and prosperity, will it be end of our anguish?
If democracy isn't right for us, how do we know unlike in Russian heydays, comrades will fight for us?
Why don't you forsake it Vivek? You don't know what you don't know. Half-truth only parasites on us!

(Inspired by: “Walking with Comrades by Arundhati Roy”)

NOTE
1. (A-vivek: Absence or lack of the ability to determine what is right and wrong, fact and fiction, fair and unfair, sacrosanct and rubbish, ephemeral and eternal. Arundhati was Vasistha’s wife, and name of a vine; but it also means ‘kundalini‘ or supernatural facility, and N-Arundhati therefore is a negation of the Arundhati; i.e. lack of faculty to look at the factual and at the intellectual, and since Arundhati is associated with fidelity, N-Arundhati also has lack of fidelity as a meaning).
2. Arundhati Roy gave a lecture tour after the article in Outlook, and my poem was written after hearing a lecture at MIT, where it was clear that her content and concern were, for most part, motivated by grabbing attention.
3. The poem like this one is considered politically motivated by most poetry journals. Most newspapers cannot publish it for my own political affiliations are unknown, and I come with no recommendations.

Poetry: Beaten But Not Bruised, For Black Stars in 2010

Vivek Sharma — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 10:47:34 EDT

I am here to say what score-lines, statistics will not show, not say
on July 2, 2010, the Black Stars played as a pack of tigers on attack,
like disciplined Ashanti warriors, covered the battleground with shots
not one of which was let out without a soaring roar from a spirit
that will not cower, that will not submit. With the honor

that swells and raises every supporter's fist,
I declare you Ghana, the beloved at the tryst,
with your sweeping runs, you earned inch
after inch, and your rousing extra-time play
was almost like a masterpiece from an artist.

Almost!

But greatness, when it begins in men and women, transcends
the moment when they acquire it. Enlightenment stays with us,
the dream and its expense remains in us, and Black stars, that ability,
that gift you claimed in your veins, will win you the moon if you aspire it.

When the men take the ground, run around, like children chasing
a ball, many pen-paper-men ask, is it a worthy task
for the best built bodies? How will the empty stomach celebrate,
or the living conditions change, if the poorest nations win
in a match of kicks and tricks this season?

The gambit of hope, of advancing no inheritance, just skill,
with team-play, by action, and sheer faith to fight:
the excellence on field parallels the best of human qualities...
In the houses where cooking produces just ashes of despair,
healing hymns and rhymes of sport show you if you have the flair,
you can be a famed gladiator in the rich-man's dreamlands.

Chinua says, things fall apart, yes, they do, but like autumn
sheds leaves, seed to start afresh in spring, the bruised
will heal. Gyan! Why you missed one you mustn't ask,
the bar of expectation was too low for your task,
but there won't be such a surprise again,
when the Black Stars will strike again.

Gita says: "You control only actions, but not the results,
even if the results are adverse, continue your actions."
Since the victory is in action, irrespective of the result,
Fold your jerseys bathed in your golden sweat, kiss your boots
and accept a bow from fans who cheer across the world for you.

There will a day Ghana when no hand, no bells and whistle,
no intervention, human or divine, will stand to stop you.

Indian Railways: The World's Largest Loo Network

Being Cynical — Fri, 9 Jul 2010 13:27:24 EDT

Why can't we be little sophisticated, if not sober is all what I think whenever I travel by Indian Railways. When we are capable of sending an unmanned toy to the moon, calling it as the Chandrayaan and tout ourselves on the verge of manufacturing our indigenous Cryogenic engine, can't we think of a better way to give our loos a modernised look in our Railways? If not for comfort at least shouldn't we develop a better disposal mechanism, rather than making all our Railway tracks along with the platforms perhaps the largest and longest toilet network of the world?

Anyone who had travelled via our Railways would have some reservation in calling those obnoxious looking small cabins at the end of the boogies as toilets. A steel base with a hole down which would help you see the moving tracks below when the train is in motion is far from termed as a toilet. All what the patrons left to do is to spread out above that hole and drop down whatever they can. The quantity is never a concern, so does the location. Thanks to this legendary loo engineering even a blind man can spot the Railway station in any city as the aroma of fresh drops on the platform would hit your nose the moment you are anywhere near 200 meters of the station. The beauty that this natural artwork adds to our already filthy Railway stations is for anyone one to see and worth appreciating. But to amuse all our Railway authorities think we Indians are sober enough (even when we are travelling) to read the scribes written on the door advising individuals to refrain from the dirty work when the train is in stations. That's too much of an expectation when we are not even considerate to our constitution and flaunt it in every level that too openly to agree to some idiot's suggestion written on the door panel. I have seen entities give their bladders and bowels a lock and eagerly wait for the stations to come, so that they can do away with their dropping exercise without bothering for the unwanted jerk that a moving train provides. In fact the toilets are found mostly occupied on stations with few more in line in the wait list to contribute generously to the beauty of the platform.

Other than the platforms this loo mechanism works as a mayhem for the general populace of the city who might have got nothing to do with the moving train or the entity inside the loo. Every time the train passes over a bridge in the city area the bikers apply their brakes as hard as they can and stop few yards before the bridge - A part out of respect and another part out of self respect. Our trains might be painfully slow but the stuffs flying out of it are oppositely faster. Even our over bridges have adequate size strategically placed openings to let the drops go through them with ease ornamenting the unfortunate individual on the road who might not be aware of this trick. Just wondering why to have bridges ? Let there be the old fashioned level crossings as the traffic comes to a grinding halt whenever a train passes over the bridge on both side, much like the level crossings.

Our stride towards having the world's largest loo network was cut short when Mamta Didi suggested something called green (I always thought them to be yellow though. My mistake) loo. I am not sure how far green we became but the whole idea failed miserably. After the green thing was announced I happened to travel in one of the trains which was marked to have a green loo on experimental basis. More than my journey I was excited to have that honour of having a glance at that green loo. No sooner I entered the loo, I was disappointed to see the same steel base with a slightly bigger (chances of toddlers going down to the track below) hole. Is this the green thing (a bigger hole) Mamta Didi was talking about, I asked the attendant. I don't know what I got as a reply but for sure I was more confused than I were to begin with and had that sudden urge of relieving myself down that hole to the track below.

Keep this in mind, the elaboration is for the AC boogie toilets. How devastating our sleeper coach toilets are is any one's guess. Can't we think of someway of storing the unwanted stuff somehow and getting them disposed on stations in some civic way? Perhaps we are capable of finding water on moon surface but not brilliant enough to contain this water and last nights rotten Railway food extract from flying out from all directions of our Railway boogies. Till we get to that green loo thing it's better to have a deodorant bottle handy while on stations or if at all you see a train going over a bridge stay away from it and pray to God that the things flying out are not fast enough to splash your face from that distance and you look more civilized when you are back at your home.

Can We Trust The Medical Specialists?

Purba — Thu, 8 Jul 2010 04:06:06 EDT

Caveat: This is going to hurt just a little

Long, long ago we used have family Doctors. Whenever you fell sick you went running to your guardian angel expecting him to cure you of your misery. Mostly a bespectacled, benign looking old gentleman, his clinic was usually an annexe to his house. A few gulps of that ugly pink, bitter tasting oral liquid and you were up and running, back to your pranks. If your eyes hurt from too much of reading in the dark you went to the eye Doctor and to the Dentist to get your cavities filled. They were more like family members reprimanding you for your indulgences. In college our “Guardian- Angel” was a rather good looking fellow, far from old, but you usually don’t get attracted to men who smell of Dettol.

How life has changed. Your eye Doctor has a fancy new title “Ophthalmologist”. If your vision is getting hazy you go to the Optometrist. Tummy ache? Which part? If it’s the kidney you rush to the Nephrologist not to be confused with the Neurologists meant to calm your nerves. Your liver is taken care of by the Hepatologist and not the Haematologist meant for your bloody troubles. For your intestinal woes you need to rush to the Gastroenterologist. Does it mean that we can now fall sick without a care in the world and expect miraculous recovery? After all there is a specialist tending to each miniscule part of our achy-breaky body. Newer, spiffier five star hospitals are mushrooming all over the city. So is your Doctor, he/she with a-tough-to-spell title still your guardian angel?

In this age of specialization, the General Physician is almost dead. If you are unfortunate enough to fall sick, the Doctor despite his many degrees will be more often be as clueless as you are. Rarely will he dare to diagnose your condition. I guess after all these years of fancy sounding diseases; he doesn’t trust his judgement anymore. Instead you are expected to undergo a battery of unnecessary laboratory tests. Hey, how about utilizing our knowledge and making Hippocrates a little proud?

You may have guessed by now, my brush with the medical fraternity has not exactly been pleasant. The husband doesn’t fall sick too often, but when he does the virulent viruses fall so deeply in love with him, that they refuse to let go. They grow, touching unfathomed heights and try to forge a long term relationship with him. We rush teary eyed to the Doctor, expecting deliverance. But that rarely happens. With a grim expression- Your condition is indeed very rare (I have no frigging idea). Let me prescribe the strongest, the most expensive antibiotics for you. A week later.... Uh O, you look even worse. Let’s try another line of treatment now-gullible guinea pigs are hard to come by.

We are living in paranoid times. Each new year ushers in a brand new disease and constantly mutating ailments. Unfortunately most denizens of the medical fraternity feed on our paranoia. Oh you have high blood pressure at such a young age, that’s a very serious condition.....With a sombre expression....We need to hospitalize you as soon as possible. You are saying it is a hereditary condition? Ha, are you trying to tell me you know more than I do? You need EEG, ECG, Echo Doppler tests...... Dear boy you might even have a brain tumour. Why don’t we run a few more tests on you? We will have our panel of specialists drop by in the evening for a little tet-a-tet, chargeable per appearance of course. Ah... the reports just came in. Oh Dear, there’s nothing wrong with you. Hmm, I guess it is a hereditary condition, but we just wanted to be sure.

How many stories I have heard and experienced; of gynaecologist whose patients always end up a with a C section, of a reputed paediatrician whose incorrect medication had my 4 year old daughter vomiting blood, simple procedures being unnecessarily blown out of proportion. Armed with information, experts can create an unspoken fear. Fear, that you might die of a heart attack if you don’t get the angioplasty done. What if your fibroid are malignant? Is your kidney giving you too much trouble, let’s just remove it.

I am not saying good Doctors do not exist anymore but their number is dwindling alarmingly. Exorbitant medical care ensures that health is a luxury that only the rich can enjoy. Ironically medical insurance is available only to the young, fit and the healthy. Dare to have a medical condition and no Insurance Company will touch you even with a barge pole!

Why even as an outpatient I am expected to give medical insurance details? When a Doctor sees a patient, is he looking at someone to cure or is he eyeing his pay-check. Me, I only go to the Doctor as a last resort because I know this will only be the beginning of a long, agonising ordeal. But this has only reaffirmed my faith in God. I pray that my near and dear ones never fall sick and if they do, God save them.

Which Bandh Was it - Bharat, India Or Hindustan?

Being Cynical — Tue, 6 Jul 2010 08:31:12 EDT

I am not sure of the facts, but I don't think there would be any other country on this planet which has more than one name, leave alone three. Now this multi-naming convention of a country brings about a problem or two when somebody tries to attach the country with something. Just like yesterday's 'Bharat Bandh'. Why not an 'India Bandh' or 'Hindustan Bandh'? For that matter why not all three at once?

Before going into the details of the last bandh, it would be good if we could do some analysis on our triplet naming convention. On a micro level, I feel all three names represent a set of different populace of our country respectively.

Bharat :- Representing the set of poor chaps which many financial bodies (including our armchair advisory body - The Planning Commision) believe are not earning more than Rs 20/- per day and agony of these chaps in fact prompted all opposition parties to orchestrate this massive nation wide band. Roughly you can say this particular name represents the mamooli type fellows.

India :- Represents the chaps of the middle class or to say - a notch below the upper middle class. In short, guys like me, who blog around all nonsense and folks like you having enough time at hand to read this nonsense. These are the same entities who believe malls and multiplexes are the second best thing happening to mankind after the invention of Balaji Telefilms. We get annoyed and vouch against Gandhi Jayanti as sheer nonsense - not because one day's national productivity is going for a toss but because it is a dry day. This represents a considerable chunk of the nation.

Hindustan :- While Muslims (they have a different set of demands) don't seem to appreciate this jargon, the other side group do adore it more than their life. This name represents Folks from the camps of BJP, RSS, VHP and many similar like minded geniuses. As per them it was Hindustan from the time those two terrestrial elements collided somewhere in the sky to give birth to our universe. The king 'Bharat' of the Mahabharat fame can take a back seat and shouldn't shout or claim his name is the name of our country.

When there is so much diversity in the name of our country itself, it is bound to bring in some confusion when there is a Bandh called for it. So this bandh was for whom? The Bharat-vasies, the Indians or the Hindustanies? I am not sure of the other two species but it definitely hit the Indians the wrong way in terms of some unwanted discomfort. I had to drive down some 10 odd kilometers to my office without knowing what might be the official take on this whole strike. No sooner I was comfortable at my desk I got a mail from our HR head of complying with what L.K. Advani wants on that particular day and we were advised to take our ass out of the office premises sooner than later. Not to mention I had to drive back the same distance to my home and had a boring day all through without any cricket, Wimbledon or FIFA world cup match. That's certainly is disturbing. Isn't it?

Keeping aside the name of the Bandh or the minor suffering I had to go through, I do have my own set of perceptions for this particular event. Even if I am a sufferer, I still support this bandh, as truly being pointed out by few leaders that the bandh is all about the issues affecting all sections of the society, more so the Bharat Vasies (Aam- Aadmi). To gain something substantial, the history is a good proof that innocents had to bear some brunt. If this bandh is a matter of inconvenience to all those daily wage labourers as pointed by leaders of the ruling party then I don't think it is at all any convenient for the same labourer when he had to cough out Rs 90/- for per K.g Tur daal on daily basis. Don't believe then ask the chap in discussion which he feels is more inconvenient - the bandh or this daily extra coughing.

What we would achieve by this bandh, or if the food prices are going to get down the ladder after this, is a different discussion which might need few economists of Lord. Meghnad Desai's caliber to discuss. But for we lesser educated Indians it is all about having an off day with a possibility of having to turn up in the office over the weekend. I am not blaming the netas for this bandh call either. It is their fundamental right and I am also not questioning on their full time profession of worrying for the Aam-Aadmi. But to throw a bandh on all sorry faces by virtue of force as shown in few video clips is certainly not going to help much. The whole idea behind this bandh is well appreciated across all quarters and there are many who voluntarily joined the protest. Much more than anything it is a wake up call for few arrogant brats in our Finance as well as Agriculture ministry.

I am at the bottom of this post but still couldn't manage to find out why it is only a 'Bharat Bandh'. Perhaps I need a 'India Bandh' or 'Hindustan Bandh' next time around to figure out the difference.

An Evening With Aurangzeb

Being Cynical — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 17:26:37 EDT

Some days back one of my office friends sent out a mail on the very attitude of we Indians glorifying entities of history more than what they deserve, and ornamenting them with a larger than life image. In the same way, we malign few others to the core making them look no lesser than Amrish Puri of Mugambo fame.

What drives us to be so judgemental and conclusive without knowing the facts? Is it the bad and wrong history that been taught via the millions of government supplied history books, where truth is far fetched as history is fabricated to support someones ego and wants? The fact is good history is rarely about good guys and bad guys but unfortunately we follow this simplistic logic while going over our history, resulting in putting on a perception pair of glasses while engrossing it. I believe that history should be presented as it is, no biasing, no fabrication or no forced conclusion and the readers should be left to decide the good or the bad for themselves. I was sure that our text books are being pathetically modified, God knows for what and whom, so I always had a fascination for all those controversial & bad characters or so being pictured in books.

Do you remember the emperor who was a religious Muslim, anti Hindu? Who tried to forcefully convert them and taxed them for visiting their religious place? You got it: The poor snobbish chap, the Aurangzeb. I had a long fascination of meeting this brat, just to see how a person can be so cruel and bad. Thanks to Albert Einstein and his Time-machine which I could lay my hand one fine day accidentally. Punched all the red, green, yellow buttons as shown in some old hindi movies. Boom!! there I go. Out of nothing I found myself in front of the Red Fort in Agra in a jiffy. Goodness gracious, there is the emperor himself sitting at the top left block of the fort and stitching caps the Muslims put on. I can easily see the outline of his face through the illumination of the lamp in front him. I must have made some noise on my time defying arrival, I thought as the emperor looked at me and visibly astonished with my look, artier and the funny looking stuff I am riding. Being aware of his attitude towards we Hindus, as per the books I was dearly fearing for my life. No sooner my thoughts started to take wing, the main door opened with a Khali looking guy jumped out asking me to accompany him as the Sultan himself wants to see me in close ranges. Oh God, save me. Save me from getting converted or worst loosing my life is all I was thinking while moving to the front door of the fort.

As I entered inside, I could see the small temple at the corner with a lady lightning a Diya. The lady must be from this bad guy's harem I thought, which later on was clarified to me that the temple is there as the belief of the Sultan is to respect all religions equally. Once the introduction was over I was comfortably being placed in front of the emperor, he enquired about my locality and place. I don't know if the Sultan did understood much about the time-machine but could easily tell that I am from a future time. When asked about the purpose of my visit, I begged for my life before explaining all the history that we are taught and my subsequent fascination of meeting a real bad guy. A huge laughter followed which we can only associate with a Sultan. Let me correct your history a bit, if you are ready to believe me said the emperor. I couldn't decline this generous offer. Could I? Shoot your queries ordered the Sultan..

It is primarily suggested that you were an anti Hindu and believed in forced conversion. What is the ratio of Hindu and Muslim at present he asked. 4:1 I replied. That's the same now also. He looked happy. See if I am so fond of conversion then let me assure you, there wouldn't have a single Hindu roaming around in this part of the world, let alone being four times than the Muslims. I am ruling for last 50 years and Mughals for last 1000 years, if I had wished all would have been converted to Islam long back. I hope I answered this query of yours, ended the Sultan politely. But you were never a pro Hindu either, like your forefathers: Akbar or Jahangir, in fact you hate Hindus, I argued. Is it? he said. If I am guilty of such a bigotry then how come I have a Hindu as my military commander-in-chief? when I could have easily kept an efficient Muslim for the same post. In fact today all my state policies are formulated by Hindus, he added. For your info two Hindus hold the highest post in the state treasury. He looked somewhat upset.

After a brief silence he started again. Even some prejudiced Muslims question my decision on keeping non-Muslims in such high posts. But I believe in Sharia, which demands right persons in right position. This is the reason why Jaswant Singh, Raja Rajrup, Kabir Singh, Arghanath Singh, Prem Dev Singh are all holding high administrative posts. He ended this long sentence with a shy. I don't know why my forefathers are shown in a brighter light for their multi-ethnic culture of their court where Hindus were favored, when they had only 14 Hindu Mansabdars (High officials), I have 148 of them. He finished, still breathing heavily.

But our history says that you have demolished many temples, I asked. With a smile in his lips he said, same goes here also. If I had such an intention then, there would have been no temple standing by now, let alone the small one that you are seeing at the corner of this fort. He then suddenly asked one of his orderly in Urdu to bring some documents. On the contrary I have donated huge state estates for building temples and supports thereof in Benaras, Kashmir or elsewhere. He said this while showing me the documented proofs that he has just asked for. Go to Balaji temple and there you would find a stone inscription showing it is me who has commissioned the construction of it, he added. In fact I have granted land for Kasi, Varanasi temples, he said this with frustration while showing me another set of documents.

But didn't you re-install the Jizya tax on Hindus for travel to religious places which were abolished by your forefathers ? Which tax on what ? He seemed bewildered. Oh God. Jizya was never a tax for holy visit but it has something to do with state's development or best you can say a war tax. It is only collected from able-bodied non-Muslims of this state who did not want to volunteer in the defense of the state. He explained. We even don't collect it from women, immature male, old male or guys who are fighting for the safeguard of the state. The tax is to make sure that the lives of the tax payers is safeguarded during war. If by any manner the state fails to protect a tax payer then the total tax is returned back with interest. let me add to this he said. The Zakat (2.5% of the savings) and Ushr (10% of the agricultural product) were collected from Muslims who have some wealth, of course after a certain threshold called Nisab.The Muslims also pay Sadaqah, Fitrah and Khums, which are never charged from Hindus. As a matter of fact the per capita collection from Muslims are many fold than what we collect from Hindus. He explained while showing me another set of documents as proof of his explanation. In fact I have abolished 65 different type of taxes on Hindus there by incurring a 50 million loss to the state treasury. Now he was visibly upset over us on fabricating the history intentionally to show him in a bad light. As I was still with a huge fear within sitting alongside, perhaps the best, scholar, magnanimous, tolerant and far sighted emperor India has ever had, I though it is best for my health and well being to stop this questionnaire then and there.

Not before I was treated with all the Muglai delicacies, I wasn't allowed to leave. But before I could leave the great emperor back in history I didn't forget to ask him the reason on why he himself is stitching the caps when he replied his household runs on the money he earns from this stitching and the Korans that he sells which he himself again writes in his own hand, as he never consumes a single penny from state treasury for his personal reasons. Hats off to this great emperor and I strongly feel, it is high time we change or rather correct our history for good. Sir I admire you.

P.S :- I am a hardcore, orthodox Hindu.

Rhetoric?

Kaushik Chatterji — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 09:49:24 EDT

More than 77% of our country's population lives on less than 20 Rs per day. This is not any random statistic I just came up with - it is the official figure provided by the NCEUS. The top 1% - the rich - control a ridiculous amount of wealth. The figure's probably not as obscene as the USA, but it's more worrisome given our population. Then again, 1% of 110 crore - 1.1 crore - can hardly be termed as insignificant. Even the top 0.01% - the bracket that is ordinarily called "super rich" - constitutes 1.1 lakh people, but it is only when we have a look at those levels that we get even a vague idea of concentration of wealth and the associated disparities.

But we, who are firmly rooted in and around the middle of that 22% bracket, continue not to give a damn about that 77%. Instead, we scramble to lap up whatever little crumbs are thrown our way by that 1%. Some of us vote (many of us don't even do that), plan (but don't evade) our taxes and work hard (and while we are at it, step over tons of people who are in a similar position as us if not worse off). We work hard just so that our overlords feel pleased and in a moment of weakness decide to marginally increment the amount of crumbs to be thrown our way. Our overlords - a bunch of people who are amassing wealth by multiples of thousands of crores and openly competing against each other in terms of their personal collections of private yachts and jets, and have the clout to get away with genocide over and over again, let alone something as petty as murder. Our overlords - the owners of big businesses, the industrialists, the corporates, the capitalists; the parliamentarians and other so-called democratic politicians, as well as the highest circles of bureaucracy; the media, redundant as it is to mention it separately since it is nothing but just another really big business.

Rhetoric? Yes. Each and every aforementioned word, nay, character even. Close your eyes and close this tab/window. Immediately. Do not, I repeat, do not snap out of the dream. Pay 200 bucks to see a film that cost 60 crores to make and market in a plush multiplex. Be fooled by clever advertising, give in to temptation and spend your hard-earned money on things that do not matter. Better still, adopt a pseudo-liberal stance, optimize your social media presence and make yourself heard - on blogs, forums, Twitter, Facebook, online, offline, newspaper readers' opinion columns, news channel talk shows, etc. etc. Shun religion, caste, region, language, community, gender and all those other entities that cause biases and divides. All but one, that is. Money, 'coz if it weren't for the economically privileged, how would these biases persist and how would we be made privy to their existence?

Once upon a time, it might have been the White Man's Burden, but as things stand now, especially in our country, tearing down the walls that stand between people is the Rich Man's Burden. All we - we who are not yet rich but who aren't exactly struggling to make ends meet - need to do is support them, and maintain just this one partition - the one that is root cause of each and every other one of them.