31.12.07

Everyone is the age of their heart

Confession: I sort of lied. When I wrote in Seeing and seeming about the “grey bag”, it was not quite the truth. The bag is not really grey. It is silverish. Why, then, did I change the shade while writing? I was embarrassed. I love it, I walk around with it, it feels just fine, but…

A few months ago someone was talking to me about general trends and I mentioned in passing that I used silver nail-polish. His immediate reaction was, “Then you have got to be young.”

Don’t know why, but it felt a bit strange. I use silver on my nails because whatever jewellery (mainly rings and a watch) that I wear is always silver/white gold. I cannot stand yellow gold. Therefore, the silver nail-varnish goes with everything…the other choices I make are translucent white and a light toffee that sort of merges with the skin tone.

“I am not young,” I told the person. “Is silver a young colour?”

“It is hip.”

I don’t know why I began to feel guilty. Yes, guilty. As though I were misleading the world.

That has not stopped me from wearing the colour, though, but it is less frequent and I am more conscious.

I read about ageism, and it has always appeared to be something quite other-worldly. I cannot identify with this growing old business. Keeping the kindness of nature aside, I just don’t feel the burden of accumulating years. I am not the giggly girlie type, so that isn’t the reason.

Is it that there is always a newness around me, a sense of resurgence? Even the morbidity has life! Well, I think so…

And yes, there are my young friends. I had once written an article about young men and old men…today let me tell you about the young guys.

I like them. No, not because they make me feel like a teenager, but due to the absolute trust they display. They do not make me feel like a freak for giving people the benefit of doubt. Always.

We get on great. Sometimes I have to deal with their girl-friend problems, I have to answer questions about “how chicks operate, man?” or “why can’t these babes talk sense?” It is fun because I have to go back into some flashback and wonder what I had done in such situations, and I tell them those girls are just fine and they say, no, you would never have done that. And I tell them that I still do, which is when they say, “Hey, then you are my type.”

I have to remind them that is exactly what pissed them off about the others. That is when I get that clincher, “But you are different…I like older women.” Sure, kid, and I like the Pope. But, honest, it is no ego-boosting exercise, for again they know where they figure and I know that too. Here, then, two gems from the dudes:

  1. “Don’t lose that wide-eyed wonder. Even if someone your type does not appreciate it, it will still help you discover the world.”
  2. “If you can make a pimply guy with overworked hormones not feel like a jerk, and even respect him later despite his behaviour, then you will always be my friend.”

And these are the guys who get sozzled, spend most evenings at discs…but these are the same fellows who used to call me on New Year’s Eve and say, “Come with us. We promise we will not get drunk, we will go to a nice decent place where we can chat and if you want to get home at 12.30, we’ll drop you back and return for hard partying.”

I’d say, no, this year I want to be so happy that I feel like being by myself. And they’d reply, “Can we call you every hour to check how happy you are getting?”

This last blogpost of the year is for them and for all of you…may you be the mothers and fathers of a hundred hopes.

- - -

The headline is a Guatemalan proverb

I ain't so bad that I've got to be good

I don’t say sorry easily. So when words are exchanged by me and another that are hurtful and the other does apologise, I don’t say sorry in return. I tell the person there is no need to apologise because I have been equally vile. It is a bad episode that may not be forgotten but should not be brought up again.

I stand by that decision and although the words were immensely hurtful I do not feel the need to rake it up. There is no reciprocal sensitivity. It is whipped out, indeed whipped up into a gourmet meal, garnished and dressed. A tragic persona is born.

A ‘sorry’ is wasted or perhaps it is the fine linen on which the meal will be placed.

My act of keeping quiet may or may not register as anything of importance, but it does make me feel that I kept my end of the deal.

- - -

It has become fairly obvious to people I know that I lack diplomatic skills. And I just cannot bring myself to convey nice gestures. I have become acutely aware that these visible things matter. Even if I have spilled milk, cried and written a blog, if you ask me whether the milk is okay, it works as a nice gesture according to prevailing theory.

There are few who can see the difference between courtesy and empathy. Being courteous and polite are social skills, as good as keeping the elbows off the dining table or eating with your mouth closed. These come naturally to most of us and are not made into a production or seen as one. However, when an attempt is deliberate one can see it. Public displays are the equivalent of preening or getting territorial.

There are things one can do quietly, and I shall not talk about the major ones because this would defeat the very purpose of what I am writing. Suffice to say that setting up the alarm so you can call at a convenient time to check on a friend’s visit to the doctor, making time to talk when someone loses a family member away from the country, being accessible at unearthly hours…I have not made a list and this is not to score brownie points. For, I will be the first to acknowledge similar gestures. But in my case I know that the bitter words uttered have always appeared to represent me and overtake everything else. I wish they would understand, but how many wishes can one make with one fallen eyelash?

Next year I shall endeavour to ask people how they are and hope they are well. I can already hear the response, “Oh, so you are being sarcastic, aren’t you?”

Well, so be it.

- - -

A friend was very disturbed. She had to deal with someone who was going through some emotional turmoil. In the heated discussion, she was shocked that the friend started abusing her. “Why?” she asked. I thought about it for long. Finally I wrote to her, “We often express anger towards others when we are most angry with ourselves for having expressed and bared our feelings.”

The other person feels exposed. I have been through it when I discovered some things. The anger manifested itself in a manner that I find difficult to understand, and now even condone. Research projects were started on what may be dirt. What was once commended now became cause for agony and potshots. Why?

I have led a life. And will lead a life. I am not answerable to anyone because I am not doing anything behind anyone’s back or hiding my reality from those I share my life with.

These words are finally coming out because the year that is to end did bring a lot of turmoil. No big deal. It happens to everyone…it just happens very intensely with me.

“F, you will have to live it, you will attract all these sorts,” said my friend.

Of course.

- - -

A few weeks ago I decided to pamper myself and relax, so I went to get a facial. I hate it, but I like the idea of a dark room and eyes shut and to be still. I thought that was how it would be. Kay who does not know me (I dislike beauty salons) said, “Ma’am, can I talk to you?” And there she was unburdening her problems. I had this face mask and my lips would part in creamy layered meanings to convey how I felt. After I was done, I did not even look into the mirror. I just told her that it would be all right. She smiled.

On the way out I did not feel like walking home although it is a 7-minute walk away. I waited to hop into an autorickshaw. Cars, cycles, people rushed past…from the under-construction building across there was noise and soot flying. My face that had just been cleansed was greasy once again. It took a while till I found transport. When I reached home I got some cottonwool and wiped away the stains. Black on white. Black and white. Life. However colourful we imagine it and find it, beneath the surface the basics remain as stark as these two shades.

That is the reason I love them.

I love my reality more than I imagine because it has been formed by my wayward dreams.

Imran-e-insaaf


Imran Khan left his country in these turbulent times to holiday in Mumbai at socialite Parmeshwar Godrej’s bungalow.

India should back our democratic process.”

Sure, and it is the right to be where you want to be when you want to be.

Other earlier quotes of Imran that are pertinent in the given circumstances of his country and his version of democracy.

“If your house is burning, wouldn't you try and put out the fire?”

The hose-pipe is in my city?

“It's more important to try to do something for the crores of poor people of my country.”

Yes…later, honey. No rush.



29.12.07

The writ fetish

"Don't you ever suffer from writer's block?" she asked intently.

I suppose it was one of those polite curiosity-type questions. But I do not understand these polite, curious-type things.

At one level I can peel layer-upon-layer; at another, I am quite literal. So, if someone asks me if I ever suffer from writer's block, I will tell them.

It starts with a simple, "No."

But that is not the only answer. There are times when I cannot write the way I want to...so I do the equivalent of spluttering. I just jot down disjointed words.

Unlike an amputation where the limb is cut from the rest of the body, this disjointedness maintains a thread of connectivity. I can see the bones, or the tissue, often some flesh hanging loose and drops of blood.

I am told I am morbid.

That is funny. If one is morbid, would one think so lucidly about the imagery of one's parts being torn to shreds?

I may not go through a writer's block, just a mental block. I may want to wear blinkers, rose-tinted glasses, hide behind doors, barricade everything.

This is writing, I know, but what I really want to say is being held back. It is hidden even from me. It may take two hours, two days, maybe more...who knows?

Sometimes things snap. It can make one think and write or put one at a loss for the particular words to convert those thoughts.

I don't mind that. But those thoughts assail me and they come veiled. The moment I try to remove that curtain from their faces, I find a skull staring at me – a hideous smile-like look. I poke into the hollows of the eyes.

My fingers move about helplessly. I can say nothing, see nothing.

"lab-e-khamosh se afshaa hogaa
raaz har rang mein rusvaa hogaa"

28.12.07

Benazir and Indira as Papa's Puppets

Benazir and Indira as Papa's Puppets

The Complex Electra
By
Farzana Versey
December 28, 2007, Counterpunch


Brave and courageous. These words have not yet been applied to Nawaz Sharif who returned to a turbulent Pakistan, but Benazir Bhutto was honoured with such terms. She died on what people will now see as those terms. As the first Muslim woman to become head of state, she came with a readymade bonafide of martyr-rebel.

“Despite threats of death, I will not acquiesce to tyranny, but rather lead the fight against it,” she had said recently. If she would have got the opportunity, it would have been the third time. Politics is about erring often enough to be human.

Benazir may have identified with India’s Rajiv Gandhi, but those were superficial similarities. Her real mirror, if it may be called so, was Indira Gandhi.

Aside from the fact that both were ambitious women, they shared complete devotion to and obsession with their fathers. While Ms. Gandhi was India’s first Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru’s only child, it is rather interesting that despite the politics of the subcontinent, as indeed the world, being heavily patriarchal Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto chose his daughter over his sons as his political heir.

The two male parents became Svengali and nemesis, their ghosts continued to not merely haunt but hypnotise their daughters. When Indira first came into politics, she was called “goongi gudiya” (the dumb doll). Her whole political credo was therefore designed to hit back.

She was Papa’s puppet. Naturally, in that small stage she had to move according to a pre-set rhythm. Katherine Frank’s biography talks about her paranoia regarding those she considered Nehru’s enemies. She felt that they were “out to trap her father and bring him down”. What was happening is that she was fearful for herself. Even as puppet she wanted to be on centre-stage. Perhaps, by getting her father to move away from the clique, she was subconsciously trying to claim complete ownership.

Psychology would describe this as the Electra Complex that combines penis envy with castration fear. Symbolically, the desire for impregnation would manifest itself in being able to internalise the father’s ideology.

Neither Benazir nor Indira managed to strike out on their own in terms of policy or altering the role of the family as ‘monarchy’. Benazir, had she lived longer, would have brought her children into the political arena just as Indira Gandhi did.

Dynastic rule in democracies or quasi democracies has been about perpetuating the name of the father. (The widow as successor is essentially legitimised only as ‘carrier’ of the husband’s progeny.) The spouse is a prop, often a convenient one to act as buffer and even bear the brunt of blame. Indira’s marriage to Feroze Gandhi was a façade that went through moments of turmoil to keep it alive. In all likelihood, she took his name to try and be her own person and not merely the offspring of Nehru.

Feroze was known to be a womaniser. Indira was aware of it. Her humiliation would be avenged only if he felt that while he had proved his manhood, he had lost out as the “nation’s son-in-law”.

Asif Ali Zardari came with similar credentials. Benazir settled into arranged matrimony and baby-producing to give Pakistan the sort of woman who did regular things and had descendants to perpetuate the royal pure blood.

With such delusions, these women till the very last posed a threat only to themselves.

Indira Gandhi saw imaginary demons. The result: The Emergency. Like all frightened people, she camouflaged her baseless theories about others trying to plot against her government and stall its functioning beneath self-righteousness, declaring that democracy was not more important than the nation. She could not even tolerate a peaceful resistance movement. She was found guilty of corrupt electoral practices by the High Court.

Benazir Bhutto was exiled to escape corruption charges. The pretence of being the people’s princess had to wear off once it was realised her father had been the emperor with no clothes. The veneer of statesman was wearing thin.

Is it any surprise that Ms. Bhutto blatantly supported the Taliban regime in its initial years to make certain that the Afghans did not breathe down her neck?

This was similar in manner to Indira Gandhi propping up Sant Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale as a leader in Punjab, when he was a non-entity. She and her younger son Sanjay used him till it was convenient.

The mistake we make is to confuse populism for popularity. There is no doubt that both these women had their ears to the ground; as opposed to the sons of the soil, they were the mothers of the earth. This again works well in the Electra Complex where the daughters aspire to replace the mother. In villages and remote towns it can have tremendous appeal. The poor and illiterate in our subcontinent like to be seen as loyal subjects being the benefactors of largesse. Political coquetry is a trait that comes with the territory.

To make the situation even better, both these women had the benefit of a western education and an urbane lifestyle. This seems a bit ironical for they insisted on holding steadfastly to the dying socialist principles of their fathers. These principles were for the most part straw pillars meant for the masses; these families remained committed to feudalism in their own lives. They had the luxury of encouraging coteries without seeming to court anyone.

In India, Ms. Gandhi took away the privy purses, but kept the princes. She spoke about rationality, but had a hedonistic ‘godman’ as a close confidante. She was suave and sophisticated, but she encouraged greasy middlemen. She spoke about “social democracy” but blatantly gave a fillip to underhand financial dealings that came to be known as ‘the license permit raj’. And she thrived on strife. This is how she came to support the Mukti Bahini in what was then East Pakistan and became Bangladesh.

A goddess was born. A few years later, she had internalised the spook and revelled in the praise, “Indira is India, and India is Indira.”

Benazir did not have to deal with such a coinage, perhaps because heading an Islamic country meant no idol worship. Instead, she deftly marketed herself as the broadminded, non-jihadi face of Pakistan. Her version of social democracy too was embedded in the old-fashioned ideals of dignity of other people’s labour while she sat back as her husband made the money and got to keep the change.

It takes some sleight of mind to master the act of playing both distressed damsel and the dominatrix-matriarch fiercely protective of everything around them and, as a consequence, their own position.

While most women in ‘tough’ roles are accused of mimicking men, as the ‘Only Man in the Cabinet’ and ‘Ms. Virgin Ironpants’, Indira and Benazir demasculinised themselves. Talking about woman power, what they really did was to build a cottage industry of being wronged. Politics became not just a playground for suppressed emotions but a serious arena for catharsis.

Both women were elected to office twice. Indira Gandhi was shot dead by her most trusted bodyguard. No one has as yet suggested that it could well have been a Pakistan People’s Party (PPP) sympathiser who did Benazir in. She was the visible face of the party, but the ideology was dictated by the spectre of Zulfiqar Ali. Some say that her niece Fatima Bhutto, who has made serious allegations against her aunt for the murder of her father Murtaza, could possibly play an important role.

If that were to happen, we would have one more “mind-controlled victim” avenging her father’s death and dreaming his dreams. Individual voices in Pakistan are being muffled by echoes of old thoughts.

27.12.07

Benazir Bhutto: The final exile...

Benazir Bhutto has been killed. The news was she was injured, but the television channels confirm she is dead. 15 others have died in the suicide attack.

Having maintained that she was wrong on several counts, I feel that politics requires different voices and it might have been an interesting fight to see where Pakistan would go from here.

This is not to be, with one important player gone. It is unfortunate what this country is going through, and I am sorry but I do blame the United States of America for using it for its proxy wars and its leaders as convenient puppets to send messages to other nations.

Update at 7.45 IST: Called up a friend in Islamabad. Karachi has broken out into violent reactions; Islamabad is tense. Martial Law again predicted and elections likely to be on hold.

As always, the common people will suffer the most. I do hope everyone is well and safe.

A tumultuous way for the year to end.


fariyaad katghare mein
ro ro ke tadapti thi
qaanoon ke rakhavaale
kal le ke gaye jis ko
ab us ko yahaan laayein
vo naash to dikhalaayein

-Fehmida Riyaz

Please excuse my basic translation:

The plea that cried in the witness box
Was taken away by the keepers of law
Bring it back to us
At least show us the corpse

26.12.07

Redux

With blood lips
I touched the mud
The grave
Freshly-dug
Cried in pain

The earth loosened
A toe peeped out
Then the feet
Hardened soles
Like tough travellers
Moved out

A body arched
Aching to meet
I ran my hands
Over your frozen torso
Stiff muscles, stiff flesh
Skin as taut as asbestos
Sheets
Guarding against the heat

You smelled of soil and roses
Not yet dead
I inhaled your still breath
And poked into your pores
To bring out sweat
How you sweated
Each time
My nails gnawed deep
You would lick my fingers
Clean

You loved yourself
Your scent
Your teeth marks
Your wine
Poured over me
To make me look
As drunk as you
And sway like a snake
As you tugged at the hair
With butter fingers
Slipping through them
Right till the tailbone
Where they ended

There you’d rest your hand
As if on sand
To create a sculpture
By burrowing
Sticks and stones
Into the niches
And then let the waves
Ride over them
To destroy

I woke up to see
They had buried you instead
Now we are in the grave
Together
Your face is covered
The sheath refuses to part
I tug at it
My hands loosen from my wrist
A bone has broken

I bend down
With blood lips
To find yours
Suddenly your arms
Strangle me
They are tentacles
Two, four, six, eight
I stop counting
I am encircled

Choking
I find my way out
Vein-like trails run along my body
The skin is covered with mud
Eyes are shut
Into a forced reverie
Trying to walk
I find my feet have turned to lead
There is not a strand of hair on my head
A passer-by asks
Are you dead?

I point towards you
Your toe is still moving
Your feet kicking
They can see your arched body
He is alive
They say

They try
No one can bring you out
You promised you would return
I did not know it would be as soon as you left
I have made the bed
Fluffed up the feather pillows
Snuffed out old candles
Sprayed fresh fragrances
Splayed out
For you to play out
Another life

Redux

~FV

- - -

In memory of the year gone by and a welcome to the year ahead


25.12.07

Surprise?

You never fail to surprise people... or is it deception?

I was told this in good humour.

Every surprise is a deception because it betrays your expectations.

You might then say, but surprises are often good.

And I will say, yes, but you were surprised. It meant it was not what you thought it would be. Therefore, it went against your idea of what is or ought to be. If it turns out to be nice, we feel good about it. If not, we are disappointed. Therefore, the deception lies in not what we get but what we want.

As usual you are going round in circles, you will say.

And I will say, yes. You can see that, so it is not a surprise. Therefore, not a deception.

Those who deceive others are deceiving themselves, for the recipient may have to merely adjust her/his expectation and either accept it or deny it, but the giver is stuck with it.

Surprised?

Hello woman! This one's for you...

....forget the paunchy, white-bearded bloke with a sack trying to give you something. The one who matters is the one who gives of himself. He may not drive a Ferrari or a Porsche, he may not gift you solitaires or take you on holidays to sun-kissed beaches, he may not quote poems, but he stays by your side when you need him the most. As for filling your stockings, honey, nothing looks better in them than your own legs.

Tony Blair and the Hawking of Religion

Where's Dante?

Tony Blair and the Hawking of Religion
By Farzana Versey
December 24, 2007, Counterpunch

Tony Blair has become a Catholic. Had it been seen as a personal decision, it would be fine. However, it already sounds like political canonization. According to a report, Blair, now a Middle East peace envoy, said he had prayed to God when deciding whether or not to send British troops into Iraq.

Cardinal Murphy-O’Connor, the Archbishop of Westminster, who led the service, said, “…in another sense it’s a beginning, because when you become a Catholic, as so many people who have become Catholics have said to me, it’s like coming home.”

What is worrying is this: A Vatican spokesman said such an “authoritative personality” choosing to join the Catholic Church “could only give rise to joy and respect”.

It brings us to the dilemma religion has always faced – how does it sell itself? The moment god images are used in consumer advertising there is a hue and cry for abusing religious symbols. What about the marketing of whole belief systems?

Years ago, the Church of England decided to sell Christianity like “beans and the banks”. Seven thousand pounds sterling were to be spent on 10 TV slots. One ad showed a suited smiling man holding the Bible in one hand while an angel – female – dangled on his other arm; the copy promised: “An hour this Sunday will leave you feeling good all week.”

One is not sure whether the gods were amused or not, but can advertising make religion more palatable? According to one agency head, “The Church has to make itself a more interesting, relevant and even a more entertaining product.”

Does all this bode well for our concept of religion? Is faith not a matter of personal belief? Or are we only fooling ourselves? After all, we believe because we have been brought up in a certain faith, or as in Blair’s case it seems to be a gift to his wife and children who are all Catholic, or because we have seen devotees throng to places of worship and, like with everything else, the herd mentality prevails: if everyone does it, then it must be right.

In that sense religion does not need advertising. It is advertising. It follows all the marketing rules. The brand comparisons regarding which religion scores over which other, whose product has greater appeal, which market can be captured.

In fact, many of our superficial concepts have been sold to us by constructed faith. Temptation, for example. Were it not for Eve, the serpent, the apple, and the Garden of Eden, we might have all succumbed to the worst and not been held sinners for our trespasses.

Monotheistic religions come with an inbuilt mechanism that is the super-ego. To those who often accuse outsiders of misinterpreting Islam, I think greater injustice is done to it by the so-called believers, who take every legend literally and use it as their Unique Selling Proposition (USP). Recently, the Islamic world celebrated Eid-al-adha to understand the greatness of sacrifice, of how you must be willing to give of your own. When Prophet Ibrahim willingly agreed to sacrifice his son, the goat was replaced by a holy injunction seeing the selflessness. It ought to be taken as symbolism.

Today, it is just another occasion for a feast, for I do not know what a Muslim can learn while watching an animal bleed to death. Does touching the knife to the neck gingerly teach about the virtue of readily parting with something personally precious?

No. Quite the contrary. It is an event that is reminiscent of early Islam. According to Alfred Guillaume, “Sacrifices, which were for the most part communal feasts, were popular; but at heart the Arab cared little for these things. He was, as he still is, fundamentally an individualist, and if a heathen god did not or could not help him to get what he wanted in life, so much the worse for the god.”

Among the five Pillars of Islam - prayer, fasting, alms-giving, faith in Allah and the Prophet and pilgrimage - animal sacrifice figures nowhere except in certain cases when on Haj at Mina, where the ‘stoning of the devil’ ceremony takes place animal sacrifices are made, though not compulsory.

In this light it would be interesting to note that in the original ritual of kissing the black stone, pilgrims were required to be nude, but the Prophet ordered that two plain sheets be used instead.

This itself proves that religion must perforce be amenable to adaptation. The Quran, which is seen as an occurrence to meet the various crises/occasions in the Prophet’s life, was in its entirety perhaps apt in the 7th century AD, but was it destined to govern millions of lives so many centuries later? Guillaume gives one example to highlight the difficulty of following rules steadfastly, “How could a Muslim keep the fast of Ramadan from sunrise to sunset in the Arctic Circle where in the summer the sun never sets?”

In fact, many of the Quranic verses have been changed. Of special note is one which refers to those who accept a religion other than Islam as being the lost ones when Prophet Mohammed himself believed that uncorrupted Judaism and Christianity were early manifestations of Islam.

The problem is that devotion in contemporary society has become a means of displaying status; the fatter the goat, the more you can show off. Many of the early Muslims practised asceticism, contrary to the image of Islam as an indulgent religion. The Prophet himself belonged to an impoverished family, which is why it is said that “his subsequent success must be accounted the greater in that he converted his opponents without help which prestige and a high social position would have given him.”

As the poet-philosopher Iqbal interpreted the story of the fall of Adam as “man’s rise from a primitive state of instinctive appetite to the conscious possession of a free self capable of doubt and disobedience and the emergence of a finite ego which has the power to choose.”

The point then is why does religion need to sell itself when its task is to further sell other things? Is it only about making a leap of faith? How different would this be from converting people through missionaries and other old-fashioned avenues? Would not the same subtle forces be at work? Would not the hidden persuaders be upto the same dirty tricks trying to reach the innermost recesses of our consciousness to find areas of darkness deliberately in order to lead us unto light? Would the Church truly find its feet with so many lost souls that have drifted in perchance, like in a shopping mall where you end up buying things only because they are displayed so attractively and strategically?

The Church of England is falling prey to celebrity endorsement. Can you do so for selling a god whose omnipotence and omniscience you believe in?

These things did not worry the Reverend Robert Ellis years ago: “Our aim was to keep alive the rumour of god. It is not about bums on pews.” This does not speak too well about god or his staunch advocates. If a rumour is all there is to it, then why not sell Satan, or fairytales and myths?

Religion already has us by the collar. What more does it need to sell? If advertising faith is to be a huge thing, then one must pose the query applied to marketing principles:

Would there be censorship code and how would it be operative? Can the advertising council accept complaints about people that have tried the ‘product’ but are unsatisfied and feel cheated by the hype? And what about issues like exploitation? In the advertisement mentioned earlier, a female angel is dangling from the arm of a devotee. Is this abuse of the female form? Why is the male not shown to be seeking salvation and getting it? And what about the copy: “An hour this Sunday will leave you feeling good all week?” How different is it from a quick-fix or an exercise regimen where you are urged to spend 30 minutes a day to knock off a few pounds?

Even if one stops nitpicking, the crucial query remains. How can the very home of god be sold as a product, which it is not? Can you sell the Almighty as the Complete Man? Or as Superman who drives away evil? These are not products but the sentiments they wish to convey.

Religion is well and truly on its way on the billboards, hoardings and shelves. There will be more brand wars and consumer surveys. The soul has no choice but to wait to play its role as the confused consumer.

24.12.07

Latched

We got locked inside the house. Either the milkman or the newspaper guy, while trying to prop up the bag in the door handle, bolted the door from outside.

It is a strange feeling. You are not quite a prisoner because you are already there; you are not being held to ransom for nothing is being asked of you. In fact, no one even realises what has happened.

However, had someone decided to visit and seen the latched door with a bag (holding a packet of milk or a bunch of folded newspapers) they might have wondered: There is no padlock, so have the inhabitants gone out for a bit to return soon? If not, will the milk turn rancid? Won’t the news become stale?

Would it strike anyone to ring the bell? It rarely does. We see something closed and we never imagine there is an opening, there is a possibility. We give up.

As we tried to open the door to bring in the milk and the papers, it would not open. Even from inside, it was assumed that something was jammed. There was much pulling and pushing. We called out to the watchman. Which is when we realised that by a small movement of hands we had got locked in.

It takes just little inadvertent mistakes to get imprisoned by and, unfortunately, with.

23.12.07

O...oh...

Yesterday, at 11.39 AM, I should have had an orgasm. The time is fixed and the world co-ordinates it at Global Orgasm Day on December 22. Trust me, I forgot. To make reparations, I shall reproduce what I wrote a year ago, a month in advance to prepare all of you…

Got an orgasm to spare?

Ok, I have figured out one way to make myself a peace activist. Get an orgasm. Now that isn’t awfully tough, is it? Hmm…the problem is I will need all of you to be with me. Don’t worry, only in spirit. You'd have to stay at home (or wherever you think you can snatch a few moments of privacy) on December 22 and get an orgasm. We will have to co-ordinate and time it, or else there will be no peace in this world.

All those who are concerned about the state of the universe must join in The Global Orgasm for Peace. Donna Sheehan and Paul Reffell have studied the concept in depth: “The orgasm gives out an incredible feeling of peace during it and after it. Your mind is like a blank. It’s like a meditative state. And mass meditations have been shown to make a change.”

I figure it makes more sense than sitting in a lotus position or chanting prayers or going into a self-obsessed trance. This is definitely greater fun, but I have an issue. While the orgasm by itself is all about this blankness for a nanosecond, how you get there requires a whole lot of activity, some of which can be quite animalistic. Would a bit of gnawing, biting, jumping, screaming be acceptable? I suppose it would, for animals are not known to wage wars, colonise other people’s territories or become terrorists. But I’d still like some clarification in this matter.

For, if the above-mentioned behaviour is not permissible, then one has to be on one’s own. Now that is a peaceful state, anyway.

Donna and Paul also believe that “war is mainly an outgrowth of men trying to impress potential mates, a case of ‘my missile is bigger than your missile’.”

Ah well, I guess we will have to all do it alone because if you are with a partner, then the male would be trying to impress and the whole world would erupt into a war-like situation. Talk of finding weapons of mass destruction right in your home…

Having said this, I love the deadpan tone of the duo. They have more to say: “Religion, science, art, medicine—you name any great accomplishment that the human race has made and none of it has stopped war and aggression. We thought, ‘What’s the next unbelievable, untested biological gift that we’ve all been given?’ The orgasm.”

So if you think it will work, then we have a date. On December 22, we shall come together…you know what I mean…

PS: No post-mortem about my orgasm was better/longer/more peaceful than yours, understood?

Ifs (about X'mas) and buts (about butt)

Barf: “Happy Holidays”…If you are getting gooey about Santa, shopping for X’mas presents and getting the tree and the mistletoe ready, then stop this baloney about non-religious specific terminology. You are celebrating Christmas, so stop all the ooh, I don’t believe in all this…

The same applies to any other festival. At least in our subcontinent we don’t have these pretensions. This whole Happy Holidays thing started to keep the Jews happy, and the Jews decide what Santa and the Republican candidate in America looks, sounds and feels like. So, have a good one.

- - -

Barf: Saving the environment…Will Smith is very concerned about cleaning his butt and the environment. No, he is not letting it out in the open - hey, who would get excited at the sight of someone doing it out?. It makes me feel really sad when I think that in my country there are several poor people who have to do so…and the women come out after dark, some bring along umbrellas to cover their faces…

Mr. Smith has got a fancy Japanese loo which not only disposes of bodily waste but also cleans the waste-carrier. Said Will, “They're paper free. Wherever you sit on the toilet, somehow it hits the bull's eye perfectly. It cleans and then dries you. It is just water and then air."

So he is saving paper but wasting water. And what happens when he travels? Does he carry it with him?

How much more does the West have to learn from us…what we have been doing for centuries, these guys make it sound like Columbus on a discovery trail. Piss off.

22.12.07

Quote uncoat - 9

“Iss rishte ka koi naam nahin hai”*

This relationship has no name.* Heard it? Been told this? Have you ever uttered it?

Why?

Do we lack the courage to name what we feel and experience? Since this is usually in a male-female context, it shows just how cowardly we are. If you are spending enough time with a bloke to reach the stage where these words can be uttered – and rishta is relationship, which you may share with your dog or cockatoo as well – then why hesitate to name it?

Is it in the territory of non-commitment? How can one say that? What is commitment? A piece of paper? Watching the same shit on YouTube? Is it physical intimacy? Heck, even when people use the services of a commercial sex worker, there is a name to it.

So, why can we not name what we engage in with people we know, meet, share things with?

“Oh, what we share is beyond labels,” you may hear. Yeah, sure. No one is asking you to take a hot iron rod and brand me or yourself. A label does not constrict you. Unless you are wearing that Versace gown held together with safety pins. And, anyway, that too is a choice – to squeeze into it and then get fixed up.

A label is an identity, and an identity works with the label and can take it to new and greater heights. Mount Everest is the peak. How you get there depends on your stamina, your drive and your luck…weather, equipment etc being the factors.

Incidentally, these supreme words of sagacity usually come from men.

“humne dekhi hai in aankhon ki mahakati khushboo
haath se chhooke ise rishton ka ilzaam na do
sirf ehsaas hai ye rooh se mehsoos karo
pyaar ko pyaar hi rehne do koi naam na do”

Now, Gulzar wrote these lovely lyrics for the film Khamoshi.

The protagonist here is female (voice: Lata Mangeshkar) and she is saying that the scent of eyes has been seen and by touching it one would accuse it of a relationship…it is a feeling to be felt by the soul and love does not need a name.

Gotcha! You call it love and then say it does not need a name. What rubbish. Are we talking about degrees of preparation or reparation? Perhaps, she is just being queasy. And when has anyone seen the scent of eyes? And who can touch any fragrance?

What is wrong with being tactile? Does it reduce what is there?

If I were Gulzar saab I would have written:

Humne dekhi hai in aankhon ki masti
Haath se chookar ise rishton ka anjaam de do
Eik ehsaas jo rooh tak pohunchti hai
Ab usey nikhaar kar pyaar ka naam bhi do

PS: A female acquaintance was once asked in an interview why she married a certain gentleman and she said, “For lust.” It was quite a successful marriage.

Come on, boys, say it…

Modi Blues

Does anyone doubt that Narendra Modi will win the Gujarat Assembly elections?

I would like to quote from Swapan Dasgupta’s column in the TOI. Let me respond to some of his points.

To the average Indian, Narendra Modi inspires tremendous curiosity. It is not every day that a chief minister is called a ‘‘mass murderer’’ or described as a ‘‘merchant of death’’ in stilted Hindi. Is Modi the monster he is made out to be? Or does he represent a new phenomenon?

Yes, monsterism.

When it comes to Modi, it is hazardous to swim against the tide of liberal consensus. Yet, there is a big divergence between how Modi is perceived in Gujarat and how he is painted by the intellectual and editorial classes. In Gujarat, Modi is not just a politician; he is a combination of folk hero and superstar. Many of his election rallies are akin to rock concerts, marked by spectacular exhibitions of mass frenzy.

That is true of all demagogues. The intellectual elite (and I don’t mean the academic-types who write papers) does have the courage of go against the established norms. People have not seen the frenzy during Bal Thackeray’s rallies, and his party ruled several times at the heart of the commercial capital.

Narendra Modi is the creation of an India that is fed up with sloth, inefficiency and the missed opportunities of the past 50 years. This is an India that found its voice after socialism was junked in 1991 and has steadily grown in confidence with every percentage rise in the growth rate. Gujarat is one of the principal citadels of this explosion of suppressed energy.

Oh yes? Then why does he need to bring in all the elements of Hindutva in his speeches? If he is so confident about progress, then why resort to such low tactics? If Gujarat is in the financial forefront it is despite Modi and not because of him. It always had the best entrepreneurs and traders. Modi in fact tried to botch it all up by trying to mesh religiosity with money, but then money is religion for many and the difference between the two is rather slim. “Show me the money” and “Show me your faith” work in tandem.

And then the writer comes up with this really lame sexist comment:

In addition, Modi invites aesthetic disdain. When beautiful people like Mallika Sarabhai and Aditi Mangaldas sneer at the Modi dispensation, they do so with all the condescension that Old Money reserves for the nouveau.

Hello? How many of our politicians are attractive? Do these two ladies command a fan following in political terms? Are they just good-looking? Old money is classy, but all of India respects those who make it. Dhirubhai Ambani is a prime example. Hate him as much as we wish, but he was a pioneer, and he did not need Modi for that.

If, as the writer states, Modi is the voice of the future, it is not because India is reaching the global market – please tell us what this global market is first? Call centres? Guys joining multi-nationals? People getting admitted to Ivy League colleges because their papas have made a killing in the stock market?

Modi is the future, according to some misguided folks, because he and his ilk have messed up the political scenario and made it into something horrible and vile. This man ought to be behind bars in any civilised society. But he rules. Hail Indian democracy….this is our idea of free expression.

One day we will pay the price for it.

21.12.07

Suicide attacks, cows and other animals

54 people have been killed in a suicide attack on a mosque in the North West Frontier Province in Pakistan while they had gone to perform Eid prayers.

Why are people surprised?

If terrorists want to make a point they always choose an auspicious day. That brings them attention. Everybody knows Muslims kill Muslims, and Pakistan is no exception. This isn’t the first attack on a mosque in that country.

And what are we in India doing? The Dar-ul-Uloom Deoband in Uttar Pradesh asked Muslims not to sacrifice cows as it would disturb peace and harmony. According to a report, this has been welcomed by not just clerics but common Muslims as well.

Am sure, the cows too.

In the year 1999, when Bakr Eid and Mahavir Jayanti were to fall on the same day I had written well in advance that why were Muslims not being asked to be large-hearted and refrain from slaughter on that particular day?

But I am not a cleric, not even a really common Muslim. No one gives a damn. Well, they did and said I did not know anything about Islam. Or Hinduism. Or anything.

Good. I don’t want to know.

We are animal enough and get sacrificed all the time at some altar or the other – emotional, intellectual, physical.

Santa's little Muslim helper?

Today is Eid-ul-Adha. Most of the newspapers in India wish the readers for all festivals. Today's issue of The Times of India had a token crescent-star in the masthead.

This is the picture they had on the front page titled 'SANTA GETS HIS LITTLE HELPER' with the caption: "CLAUS AND EFFECT: A young girl shops with her mother for a Santa Claus figure for her school’s pre-Christmas party in Powai".

I love the idea of cultures meshing, but I am sorry I found this utterly devoid of any sense, forget sensitivity. A woman in a veil, her face completely covered, is with her little kid, also wearing a hijab.

Several messages go out here:



1. Eid is of no consequence and poor Muslims need to be
helpers.

2. Muslim women cannot be shown without the veil or else they won't be recognised.


3. For Muslims to be seen as part of the mainstream they have to do all these lovely things; no one shows people of other communities doing one damn thing on Eid. (And I say this because in India we do go on and on about how we have so many religions, castes and ethnic types and yet remain a thriving democracy.)


4. Powai is a newly-developed area (where this picture is purportedly taken) and hardly a ghetto, so the veiled women do stand out.


5. I went to a Christian school and we had a Christmas party a day before the festival, so this pre-Christmas shopping thing is only a ruse.

I have said this before. Only because newspapers occasionally bash up Modi it does not make them secular. Do not forget that the TOI had stopped covering the hearings of the Srikrishna Commission regarding the Bombay riots in its early days and had not wished its readers for Eid on an earlier occasion.


Time to wake up and smell the stink of fake gestures.

20.12.07

Intoxication:Nasha

Nasha

Mujhse chheenon nahin woh nasha

Jaam le jaaiye, saaqi le jaaiye
Chahiye tau mehfil ke chiraag le jaaiye
Ashar le jaaiye, guldaste le jaaiye
Honthon se muskurahat le jaaiye
Aankhon se shabnam le jaaiye
Zindagi ke ras ko nichod kar pi liya hai

Mujhse chheenon nahin woh nasha

Dagmagatey paaon jab uthenge
Darwaaze ki taraf
Aur ladkhadayegi awaaz
Zabaan par naachte hue
Ehsaas hoga
Kaanch par chalne ka
Aur lafzon ke marne ka

Mujhse chheenon nahin woh nasha

Taqdeer meri khazane ki tarah
Sandook mein mehfoos basee hai
Phir zamaana kya moonh phairega
Kiski himmat hogi nazrein churaane ki
Kaun chor aayega ussey dhoondhte hue
Yeh taqdeer rishton ke jaise
Itni kamzor bhi to nahin
Usme ab koi tashnagi baaqi nahin

Mujhse chheenon nahin woh nasha

~FV

Divine?

She is just back from Haj. I don’t know how many times she has gone on Umraah. I never question her. She is a doctor. Often, she has to deal with suffering.

How, I used to wonder, does she retain her sanity and composure? She seems to make time for everything. And she is a hip person, but her belief in unshakeable.

We have often had discussions. One time she was deeply upset about a 15-year-old on his death-bed because he was going through excruciating pain. Such complete innocence, he had not done anything to deserve this, though I do not think these are destined things.

Should I rave and rant because I fall ill? After all, it could be due to my carelessness; I have neglected my system. None of us can control allergies, viruses, infections. And terminal illnesses are a warning sign of what is imminent…and no one can escape that.

But I could not stop myself from asking her about that boy. “Why is he suffering? Why wait for the after-life? Why can there be no justice here?”

“There is,” she said, her face as calm as it always is.

“How? See, despite everything and all my flaws – the main ones being anger and impulsiveness – I do not wish anyone ill. I do not see it as something noble. I just think it is a bit déclassé, like serving house wine in a bottle of Bordeaux.”

“That is a strength.”

“But this is about me. What about divine justice?”

“You may not be able to see it.”

I kept pondering over the invisibility of this divine justice.

It took me a while to grasp it. I have the capacity to move on and since I do have a memory I work at recalling the good things.

Invisible justice is when people are doomed not to forget the eminently forgettable. They are doomed to get stuck within the circumference they have drawn and get trapped in it. What starts as a chalk line grows into a fence and then into flaky concrete.

There is no escape when you don’t want it.

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