Come, play dice.

For some reasons, which I cannot eloquently describe, over a period of time, I have developed immense hatred towards the media (read: newspapers and news channels). Earlier the same feeling of loath was limited to the biased and childish approach of these opinion distorting, truth-bending and deceptive media personnel; when they went about beating the secularism beat every time something saffron, separatist, Islamic, leftist, anti-Modi (NaMo), etc. became a USP. And with bias creeping further into everything they report, the hatred has snowballed into perpetual anger.

Correct me if I am wrong and I am not presenting my unwarranted verdicts on who is guilty and who is haloed. Shashi Tharoor seems to have lobbied for his girlfriend getting a share of the equity pie of an IPL franchise in return for her consultancy services. Interestingly, the same media which pitched forward numerous articles to support Tharoor’s UN Secretary General candidacy, which ‘lobbied’ for him through odes to his intellect and educational background, has placed him on the same dais where they have seated the supposedly unscrupulous IPL Chairman, Lalit Modi. They have dubbed the ‘act’ as shameful and unconstitutional and have callously printed about his political inadequacy.

Prannoy Roy runs NDTV. Arundhati Roy is his niece. His wife is the sister of Brinda Karat, who along with her husband Prakash Karat, is a key member of the CPI(M). NDTV endlessly aired debates in which pro Indo US nuclear agreement speakers were cornered by the Leftists. Arundhati had all the time to write about the ongoing insurgencies in India a day after 26/11. She wrote of how the Kashmiri Muslims are suffering under the yoke of the Indian Army. She wrote about how apathetic the state governments are towards tribal peoples of the Naxal infected areas and Christians. However, leaving aside the validity of her claims, there were no articles from her condemning the recent Dantewada massacre of Indian convoys. No articles on the recently surfaced shenanigans of some priests around the world. Likewise, these journalists took pains to find out the expenses incurred by Narendra Modi’s air travels. But there were no sting operations to discover the source of the pecuniary gifts bestowed on Mayawati. They were able to pin Manu Sharma down, but dared not to investigate (like they normally do) Satyendranath Dubey’s murder. They cussed Ram Jethmalani for choosing to defend Manu Sharma, but considered him as a divine intervention in Afzal Guru’s trial. And FYI, Afzal’s plea is being voiced by none other than Arundhati Roy.

These apparently powerful scribes have placed their sleuths everywhere, from the IT department to the CWG Committee and their job is to come up with a sellable article which can ‘sting’ and ‘enlighten’ people with previously unheard facts and disclosure of well-kept secrets. To them, with respect to the IPL, I need to ask a question. Where were you when you wrote and yapped about IPL becoming a television behemoth, crossing $2 billion in value and giving a neck and neck race to English Premier League? About a year back, Lalit Modi was a champion for saving a potential debacle by moving IPL to South Africa in little time, when security concerns plagued India. It is a different story now.

Everybody lobbies for one’s own personal interests. Why the double standards then?

How can opinions change in so less a time span? It is a slap on the discerning reader’s face. It confirms that our very unconscious assumption, that every article from a journalist’s pen is true to the core, is basically flawed. And yet we continue to let our beliefs be distorted. The fact that the media does help in reporting the otherwise unreported is undeniable. But the scales are tilted much in their favour, beyond redemption. And that is wrong. The same argument applies to surgeons. Sewing up a patient’s body while leaving behind a pair of scissors is still considered careless and criminal. No matter how many lives they might have saved.

Bored? Sorry.

Universal Adult Suffrage

2004 Lok Sabha Elections. Those India Shining ads. Those Incredible India poster brigades. Those newspaper editorials strewn with pseudo-secularist ideas and excerpts from the so-called Modi debacle. I was 17 then and little did I know about the significance of the small black dot on the wiener finger observable after people voted. Nevertheless, the idea of being 18 and being able to make someone represent me in the bigger picture enticed me.

In the four years to follow, I have seen people seeing documentaries, writing blog entries, debating enthusiastically over the patterns of governance in India and the associated follies. Newspapers gave their share of cake to the newly born political parties formed by young graduates (Remember Lok Paritran after the ‘reservation’ fiasco?). I have seen a bimbo of the Raj Kapoor era, getting worked up on live television and suggesting that India should nuke Pakistan. I have read about Christian Missionaries on a conversion spree as much as I have read about churches being burnt and nuns being raped. I have felt the innocent indifference of IITGians towards the gazillion blasts in Guwahati in these four years. But then, we cannot blame anyone, can we?

With the elections awaiting us again, let me not ask how many people actually vote. Let me not ask which party, the ones who do vote, vote for. Let me not ask why people who don’t vote, expect anything at all. Let me ask why I cannot vote this time.

The website of the Election Commission of India answered my query.

Q 6. If I am working and living in Delhi, can I be a voter in my native village?
Ans. No
If you are working in Delhi and residing there, you are an ordinary resident of Delhi in terms of Sec 19 (b). Therefore you can be enrolled at Delhi only and not in your native village.(click here)

I would have loved to vote, but voting here in Guwahati for a constituency I won’t be a part of 5 months from now, does not seem to be a bright idea.

Okay, let me present a picture of how many are in the same bowl of soup with me.

Indian institutes for higher learning produce approximately 3.1 million graduates every year. (click here).
Assuming;
1. That these colleges are all 3 year courses.
2. That the number of 2nd year students (above 18 years of age) is the same as the figure for the annual graduation rate.
3. That 50% of these students are outside their place of domicile.
Then we have 3.1 million ‘potential voters unable to vote‘ or PVUTVs currently studying somewhere in India.

Over 150,000 students every year go overseas for university education (click here). Since the past elections, over a span of 5 years, 0.75 million more can be safely added to the list of PVUTVs.

Out of the 3.1 million who graduate each year, after accounting for issues of unemployment (20%) and of workplaces being outside places of domicile (50%), in these 5 years, the total number of PVUTVs with a job can be adjusted to 6 million. These are the same people who have never had a reason to get a new certificate of domicile during the tenure of the current government.

To conclude, approximately 10 million Indians under the age of 25, deemed, although overhyped, to be the ‘future of India Inc.’ will not vote this year. That puts us in the 35% of the 650 million strong Indian electorate which does not vote. Leave alone the oldies, the rural population, the uneducated, the destitute and likewise.

We do have an option. To think ‘ghanta kuch hoga’.

Outlook

This is the 5th session in the ‘Find Your Alter Ego’ interview series. He is renowned for his tenacity as well as his potency to amuse people. He is known to the public as a highly spiritual personality. His humble beginnings and the subsequent sojourn-free rags-to-riches story has been inked about quite many a times in the recent past. Nicknamed ‘High Flier’ by the media after witnessing his rapid ascent in the open-air sector, here is Mr. Henry Kite on a tete-a-tete with us.

How are you Mr. Kite? How does it feel to be interviewed mile high?
Kite: I’m good. Actually, I am in high spirits. (smiles)

It has always been under curious scanners. Your early life. Could you shed some light on it?
Kite: Well, I was born in a family of paper kites. My parents had a modest fortune and unlike my friends, I couldn’t sport the precious glistening look. Most of them got bought for good prices while I waited and watched them go places in the sky. Eventually I did get bought by an orphan. He apparently liked me because of the absence of the useless frills and zing on me.

Any upsets, setbacks then?
Kite: Yes. Many. I was being readied to fly by my owner. During the initial attempts I suffered major falls and casualties. I nose-dived. Hit rock bottom. Almost gave up. Gradually I learned to face the tide and be less stubborn. With intermittent falls and calculated risks, I managed to climb the gradient. I wouldn’t be where I am, if it wasn’t for the wind impeding my motion. I grew wiser and starting using it to my advantage.

Have you always been a God-loving person?
Kite: I would say I am spiritual. I have always felt a thin thread-like connection with a supreme being. Someone tied to me. Someone who drives me in the meanest of winds. Someone who helps me seek reason.

What is your biggest fear?
Kite: I fear the rains. My owner hasn’t flown me during one. But I dread it.

Do you have any regrets?
Kite: Yes. My connection, like that of others, with God, has been a real cause of concern. Many of my kind have strayed away to distant lands or rather ‘lost their Gods’ because of filthy attempts by marauding elements, to cut one another’s faiths. I feel, I was indirectly responsible for many such weak threads being severed.

But you still believe in God.
Kite: I do. Without this belief I would be lost in the wilderness, guided by the wind alone. With it, I get a sense of direction.

Hmmm. After gracefully taking to the air and having tasted the sweet and bitter of success, are you still welcome to facing the wind?
Kite: Why not? I love challenges. They help us all inch closer to the chimera of being very high someday. Literally high. And the kites who fail to stand the wind, end up battered and stuck up atop trees. While the others, swing in the air defiantly against gravity.

Finally, any message to our readers?
Kite: Sure. People, it’s tried and tested. Sky is really the limit.

Thank you for your time.
Kite: You are most welcome.

I Remember

Note: Give this a casual read. You might just get bored.

First, let me chalk out a possible outline as to how in the world, the omnipresent divisive ideologies have crept into the minds of Indians. Cut to our good old preteen days when we carried little 100 pages of theories meant to be crammed into our heads. Only to be conveniently forgotten as we grow up and enjoy foreplay with the other beautiful nuances of life. The book belonged to a subject called Civics. It had all the details as to how villages work and cities thrive. How the rich become richer and how to poor learn to survive. We raised one of our hands and albeit ignorantly, pledged to lead 1.2 billion fools to paradise. For those with tired grey cells, here’s some glucose.

India is my country and all Indians are my brothers and sisters.

I love my country and I am proud of its rich and varied heritage.

I shall always strive to be worthy of it.

I shall give my parents, teachers and all elders, respect, and treat everyone with courtesy.

To my country and my people, I pledge my devotion.

In their well being and prosperity alone, lies my happiness.

– Jai Hind

Never mind, we landed up in an IIT. Consolations! The same book taught us about the 9 religions of India, about 4 castes in Hinduism, about 2 major sects each in Islam, Christianity and Jainism, about the 29 (then 26) states of India, about the 3-tier economic hierarchy of this nation, about the need for gender parity, about the age/psyche specific gaps and other similar lines of division with equally pronounced responses.

Needless to say when it comes on paper we aren’t worried about the unbound diversity. But given some food for thought and lucid mathematics we will hopefully make truce with reality.

Communal/Casteist/Sectarian Groups: 9 + 4 + 2 + 2 + 2 – 4 = 15

Regional Streamlining: 29

Separatist Policies: 2

Born out of Economic Disparity: 3

Gender Specific: 2

Age: 2

By the time we learnt how to shag, this nation saw the emergence of 10440 (15 x 29 x 2 x 3 x 2 x 2) chunks of ‘likeminded’ people, ready to bleach our insights and outlooks. The number’s increasing. You may shake your head in denial of your allegiance to these parties. I can wish you happy realization. Intolerance is now neatly cast as an essential color of the social fabric. It has made a whore out of our brains and our morals malleable.

We depict a phenomenon like brain-drain and pimps trading our country in our dance themes, at a time when people are busy with their 1400+ GRE score festivities. Plunging stock values create the loudest of furor while the agony of the destitute and unfortunate is drubbed. Somewhere, amidst this white-noise of guile, confusion and single-minded greed, the call for help from the needy is deemed unheard. And we keep walking on the aisle to catch a flight away from reality.

But there’s nothing we can do. Or can we?

P.S. It is amazing to know how easy it is to get goosebumps.

This is not a Topic

Before zeroing in on this topic, I was baffled with the option of writing on a few other topics. Mind you, this is an attempt in boredom and goes on to prove that you, the reader and I, the blogger are jobless. My inspiration, Jhakar, the muis, who somehow manages to whiff up blog after blog without compromising on the typical Jhakaresque articulacy and humor. (I have read all of your posts, Jhakar). Forget about dozens of blogs, I haven’t completed my 7 page project report while my professor was in Germany.

Coming back to the topics of concern for which I opened MS Word onceuponatime and neatly closed the application later.

1. The cultural shock. Too lame and overdone.
2. The day I got mugged. I would sound stupid after writing that.
3. Using your National Language – A vehicle for success (Focused on Italians). Too jingoistic and judgmental a topic, considering I have stayed only for a month here in Italy.
4. Status messages. Yawn!
5. Cleavages – Dorsal and Ventral, Episodes from Rome. Unfortunately I am not Pandey and I have more than 0 girls on my friends’ list.
6. Euro 2008. Unintelligent. Would be like Miandad speaking English.

And then there were these trivial issues and quandaries, unanswered and endlessly enticing me to write something about.

Why the Nike brand has proliferated so much into the Italian fabric. A ride on an ATAC bus or a scour for seats on a metro train here, would make you believe me. My canvas shoes, half-torn because of some wild moshpits at a local metal gig, were humbled by the opulence of the golden Nike owned by a not-so-hot gypsy chic sitting besides me.

Why Bangladeshis speak in Italian with their fellow country men here in Italy, even when they are selling cheap women undergarments with the ever-prominent Made-in-China tag.

Why Italian Goths listen to umpteen American black metal bands when they are unable to reply back to me in English upon asking them the directions to the box-office.

I still haven’t made my point. I am bored. But I think you were relieved from about 10 minutes of YOUR boredom by reading to this very word.

Ciao.

Unkilji

“Hello”, said the gatekeeper to the 53 year old Unkilji.

I stood in the line patiently, judging the others in the line and those who proceeded to the antechamber for personalized interviews. The bespectacled officer at the table kept a scepter alongside him for no apparent reasons. But I assumed it was to cut short the job of the interviewers in case of untoward acts of desperation from those queued up. The myths I heard however claimed it was rarely used.

Unkilji didn’t feel disturbed about the fact that after signing the papers he would never see us or anything earthly ever again. Or that it was the last we would see of him.

The air was damp yet it hardly strained my lungs as it used to in the hospital ward. When I arrived here for the first time (3 days back) it took me quite a while to come to terms with what had exactly happened; to me or to the world minus me. There were two batches of hundreds of cells not exactly jailish but much cleaner and bigger. In one of the batches all rooms were unoccupied. I remember waking up in my cell after I went off to sleep in the ward. Curious and confused, I ventured out to explore the place and gather my seemingly defiant senses.

Soon I realized that the other inmates too were taken aback with their new domicile. There were no messes, kitchens or food centers. But that never worried us because not a single soul felt hungry. The speech volumes were disturbingly low.

Yesterday we were given fliers which, to our amazement, were instruction manuals. It read:

1. You are dead.

2. At least now be yourself.

3. Letters are the only modes of communication here.

4. Sign against your name when asked to do so tomorrow.

5. An interview will follow.

I comprehended that chemotherapy had failed in its purpose and I had succumbed to the cancer that bred in me. And there I was recollecting point 4 of the manual, unfazed, as I saw Unkilji sign the papers and proceed to the Grill. I and my friends had conferred upon him the pseudonym of Unkilji, back during our college days. We used to fondly call him by that name along with some occasional greetings.

He used to sell cigarettes.

 

…to be continued

DaLe

I trod the desolated aisle,
I was searching for a glow amidst,
The motionless air,
The aura of timeless despair,
With the perplexity in my mind,
What good in me, the mortals find.

You came, you smiled, and you blossomed,
For me, amongst those in the wreath
Taught me, The Art,
Infused within me,
An elevated confidence.
I yearn to touch you,
While the silkworms envy me,

The thousand miles seemed trivial,
The bonding grew surreal,
Yet you were there,
Holding your sceptre,
Healing me and my issues.
Be my world, for without you,
Rhyme would evade me forever.

Happy Realization

That it took 27 months for someone to come to terms with a fact; losing a girlfriend is a step closer towards finding the next one. And that narcissism and egocentricity aren’t exactly the two faces of the same bruised bronze coin, but both help woo ambitions and how!

 

That faith transgresses religious bigotry. Period.

 

That people spend cash and wallow incessantly upon confirmatory thoughts to prove the righteousness of what they believe in. Was I looking peachy in the classroom? Was the libido good enough? Does the SENSEX crossing 18k mean I’ll earn enough to afford a Cartier? Did the young lady throw a glance at me? Am I not supposed to be overweight? Which is more hip? Dying my hair blonde or changing my status message more frequently than I change my undies?

 

That Manthanising two precious months of your fifth semester was a bad idea. That a bagful of ideas accumulated over 360 days, 2 pairs of Chancellor 5B and days of shredding on a freshly baked Ibanez were just not enough. Enough? Exactly, for what? I still brood.

 

That writing a blog entry to prove the aforesaid to on looking readers is diluted futility.

 

Here’s wishing you Happy Realization.

Sun Goes Down

 

 

Breathing virtues no desire,

Memories embody a crimson pyre,

The leaves turn dry,

The clocks tick by,

 

We remain, where we belong

The sun goes down

The heart keeps throbbing,

The winds refuse our words,

And yet we run in the sands of time.

 

Faithless love, endless treason,

Mindless wars, seamless scars,

Nothing’s changed, nothing’s remained

Shadows of sorrow, the buoy of hope,

With them we live,

Forlorn and waiting for redemption.

 

Episodes

 

In the aisle of episodes bygone,

I cry like a baby,

Sitting in the grove, thoughts caress me,

I stand to feel the breeze,

And it embraces me without rhyme.

 

There’s a surge in my veins,

I digress from reality,

She walks in the canvas I paint,

Blotting out every color,

Leaving me numb,

As I try to hold her.

 

I confront several images,

With no love lost,

And eyes dreamy,

Sometimes lost in the wilderness,

Of answers unsaid.

 

But I wander around,

Hands reaching for freedom,

Of belonging to one’s own soul,

I walk,

I seek,

Yet I am lost.