Sankat Dwaar

Black Man Does Better Than Monkey

2009-02-25T14:42:00.000+05:30

The increasingly oppressive presence of the Taliban in Afghanistan and its recent penetration into Pakistan has most definitely worried America. US President Barack Obama has approved the proposal for sending 17,000 additional troops to boost the flagging war in Afghanistan and to deal with the Taliban effectively.

"This increase is necessary to stabilize a deteriorating situation in Afghanistan, which has not received the strategic attention, direction and resources it urgently requires," Obama said in an official statement. A deteriorating situation it certainly is. The lack of ‘strategic attention, direction and resources’ is a clear indication that Obama does not agree with Bush’s policy in Afghanistan and that he is not going to pursue it. Obama’s, now iconic, ‘change’ is much needed, considering the situation in the region, and in Bush’s favourite playground, Iraq.

If Obama’s plan to reduce the number of troops in Iraq comes through, then it would release the number required in Afghanistan, which is considerably more than the 17,000 currently approved for. The US Commander in Afghanistan, General David McKiernan, had asked for 30,000 additional troops in Afghanistan. If Obama sends the requested number, he would almost double the number of American troops there. Currently, around 37,000 American troops are present in Afghanistan.

If the signs in Afghanistan and Pakistan are anything to go by, each and every one of the additional troops will be needed. The Taliban in Afghanistan is growing ever stronger and poses a growing threat to the US-led NATO forces there. In Pakistan, the Taliban in a blatant assertion of its strength has come out of the small tribal areas it had previously occupied and has moved into small cities like Peshawar. The implementation of Sharia law in the Swat Valley region of Pakistan puts the Taliban in indirect control of that region as well.

In Iraq, the situation is very different. In an interview earlier this year with NBC, President Obama said that the successful and relatively non-violent provincial elections held in January in Iraq were very heartening. “We are in a position to put more responsibility on the Iraqis," he said. The strategy review of the war in Iraq should be completed in a week or two, after which a more decisive policy regarding the number of troops in that country will be implemented.

Obama is showing promise, if only a promise of good sense, something his predecessor could not deliver. An increase of troops in Afghanistan right now is needed so that the Taliban can be effectively quelled. Once this is done the troops can be gradually withdrawn. The government in Iraq is showing some signs of stability, a clear indication that the foreign troops are no longer a vital entity there. In this light, the imminent pull-out of troops from Iraq and the sending of additional troops to Afghanistan are both sensible decisions.

Bush left Obama three gigantic disasters. Obama seems to be sdealing with Iraq and Afghanistan well. Only time will tell whether he can revive the reeling American economy as well; effectively erasing George Bush’s legacy.

A Cause For Concern

2009-02-18T13:18:00.000+05:30

Pakistan is in trouble. This is not the first time somebody is saying this, and it won’t be the last, considering the direction in which the country is going in. In the last few days, there have been a series of troubling incidents in Pakistan that have worried the world, especially India. Pakistan seems to be going through a serious internal crisis, worse in its newly-established democracy than in Musharraf’s military regime. The Taliban is extending its tentacles into the country and is increasingly destabilizing Zardari’s hold on the nation.

Not all the problems in Pakistan are due to the Taliban, however. Other ‘non-state actors’ like the banned Lashkar-e-Taiba (LeT) have also played a major role in discrediting and embarrassing Pakistan on the world stage. The latest such occurrence was in the aftermath of the 26/11 Mumbai attacks when Pakistan’s Interior Minister Rehman Malik admitted that a part of the conspiracy related to the attacks was planned in Pakistan.

This was a heavy blow to Pakistan’s international image and credibility. America, in particular, will now be wary of Pakistan, especially in the light of its next admission.

"The Taliban do have a presence in huge amounts of land in our side. Yes, that is the fact," said Zardari in an interview to the CBS television network. He also said that the Taliban was now extending its reach much further than the tribal area bordering Pakistan and to larger cities like Peshawar and Swat Valley. Earlier, the Taliban was confined to attempted strikes against the US-led coalition forces in the tribal areas and in Afghanistan. Its recent urban penetration will not be welcome by the US government.

More alarming still is Pakistan’s acceptance of the situation. The Chief Minister of Pakistan’s North West Frontier Province (NWFP), Amir Haider Khan Hoti, announced the government’s decision to impose Shariat or Islamic law in the Malakand region, which includes the Swat Valley, in a deal meant to appease the Taliban. This decision is troubling to the US as well as India. This region, where Pakistan’s state laws will no longer apply, will become a safe haven for militants just around 80 miles from Islamabad. Also, this move will now provide a corridor between Afghanistan and Pakistan-occupied Kashmir.

This policy of appeasement seems much like the one used by France and Britain to try and quieten Hitler’s growing demands in the prelude to World War II. Needless to say, that policy did not work at all. Hitler took all that Britain and France had to offer, and then some more. It will be the same with the Taliban. NWFP Chief Minister Hoti said that ‘those who adopted militancy should move towards peace now that an agreement has been reached.’ This is highly doubtful. Give the Taliban an inch and they’ll take a yard. Give them a small city, and prepare to hand over the entire country.

Riding With the Cops

2009-02-14T11:08:00.000+05:30

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeoooooooo! The police siren cut through the usual noise and bustle of the street. “Lights out by 11”, the bull horn from the patrol car blared. This seemed like a daily occurrence, since everybody ignored the directive.

The police car was conducting its daily rounds of patrols, on Saturday night. It was roaming the streets at a seemingly leisurely pace, making sure that the shop keepers and their customers knew that closing time was at hand.

Sub-Inspector Palani Sami and Constable Ramesh Babu, the two police men on duty tonight, are patrolling the Mambalam area of Chennai, which lies under their jurisdiction. Chennai is divided into various sectors, where the law is enforced by designated police stations. SI Sami’s area of patrol is bounded by Thyagaraya Road on the north, S P Garden to the south, Duraisamy Sub-way to the west and South-west Boag Road junction to the east. The boundaries of the police stations are not private information. The details are printed on a large board in every police station in the city.

SI Sami’s has night duty only once a week, otherwise his shift is from 8 in the morning to 10 at night. Ramesh Babu, on the other hand, is not so lucky. A shortage of drivers in the Mambalam Police Station means that he has to drive around the city during the dead hours of the night every alternate night.

Suddenly, the radio crackles to life, and an incoherent voice issues an order. Palani Sami, obviously able to understand the voice reacts instantly. He pulls the microphone to him and answers the call. “We need to get to Mahalakshmi Street immediately,” he says to Constable Ramesh Babu. He seems unperturbed that that’s all the radio said. “We’ll find out when we get there,” says Sami, as if to say that receiving these abrupt directives was a part and parcel of police life.

On the corner of Mahalakshmi Street we see a man hurrying away from something. The patrol car eases to a standstill near him, and Constable Babu lowers his window. “Ay, what’s happening out there?” he asks the man in Tamil.

“A bunch of us were sitting around drinking when about four or five people entered the party and started bashing us up,” the scared man replied.

“Police are already here?” Babu asks abruptly.

“Yes. The Inspector also came and joined the guys in beating us up,” the man replies.

Constable Babu accelerates to the house in question. That the police was already there meant that a senior officer was present at the scene. As SI Sami reaches the door of the house, the Inspector of Police (Crime), G Palani Selvam, comes striding over and assures him that the matter had been taken care of and that the patrol should continue on its way.

As the police car pulls away, Constable Babu remembers that the house belonged to the younger brother of a senior DMK leader. “That is probably why the Inspector didn’t want us to stay, especially since there are journalists with us,” he says to Sami.

Thus the night’s only excitement fizzled to a boring end. The patrol, which started at 10, was meant to make sure that all shops were closed by 11. So, the car continued its night-time prowling. Every once in a while, when he would see a shop showing no signs of closing, Babu would bark an order to them via the bull horn and also assert his presence by turning on the flashing red and blue light mounted on the roof of the car.

They pay special attention to certain areas like S V Garden, where 8 of the 13 registered rowdies of Mambalam Station reside, Natesan Street, a crime prone area, and Ranganathan Street and Usman Road, the commercial hub of their beat.

As they drive through the streets, the police men talk among themselves, and to us, to relieve the boredom. They recount how, in a series of encounters, all the major gang leaders were killed, rendering the area relatively crime free.

Their patrol is interrupted, at around 10:45, by a harassed looking man who waves the car down. Apparently, his two-wheeler had been stolen outside Lakshmi Wedding House. He was a photographer and had left his red TVS Suzuki outside the wedding house when he went in. When he came out, it was gone. Sami takes a preliminary report and asks the man to come to the police station the next morning. Sunday is a working day for the police, obviously.

“Motorbike thefts are common on the weekends,” Babu says. “More often than not, though, someone has had too much to drink and just rides off on the wrong bike.”

At around 12, Sami and Babu settle themselves under the Usman flyover. Now starts the second phase of their patrols: vehicle inspection. They randomly hail down motorists and ask them their business so late at night. An ingenious ploy that they use is to stop a bike rider and ask him the number of his bike, without him looking at it first. While most people can do this, there are those unlucky few who never thought to learn the number.

Vikram, a trainee at the Residency Tower hotel, is one such person. He is immediately asked to get off his bike and park it on the side. SI Sami, with all the authority he can muster, asks the scared boy for his license and registration. Vikram quickly shows his license, but tonight was not his night. He had forgotten his registration papers at home. SI Sami was unrelenting. He asked Vikram to leave his bike and go home to get the papers.

After dealing with more minor cases such as these, the patrol car moves out again. Now, the third phase of the night patrols begin. The car is supposed to traverse every street in their area while SI Sami signs the register of each and every security guard at every building. Even at this late hour of the night, around 2, the policemen have to remain alert. At the HDFC Bank ATM, the guard took a while to come out. While he was getting his register signed, Constable Babu entered the ATM to have a look around. It would be highly embarrassing if there was something amiss in the bank while the patrol car was right outside.

As this monotonous section of the ride continued, it struck me that this is the way the police want it. Any excitement would be unwelcome. Also, it is because of these men doing their boring and tedious job that we, the common citizen, can sleep soundly at night.

(This was an assignment I had to write, after riding all night with the police in their patrol car. as you can see, there were no rapes or murders, but that's good, i suppose.)

And They Say I'm Home (2)

2009-02-10T16:33:00.000+05:30

So, I have returned, amidst groans and moans from you, I know. But screw you, who’s asking you to read this shit? Actually, it’s probably me, so forget it. Now don’t distract me, I was in the middle of something, wasn’t I? Ah yes, now I have to talk about my experiences and the people here as I had promised to do in my last post. But do you really want to know? I thought not. If you do, then call me and I'll tell you to bugger off. I don't feel like writing about this. And even if I did, most of what I would have written would have been heavily censored, especially in the 'Experiences' part of it. Work this out for yourselves. About the people, I have made friends with many people here + I don't make friends with chooths (in the people sense, not the object) = Many people here are not chooths, which is probably the best compliment I can give them.

This blog has turned into a release for the absolute bullshit in my head. There's lots of it, and it cannot go into my assignments, which take up the bulk of my writing. The result is that all the crap in my head must find its release in this place. Well, good luck to you, read on.

I shall tell you a story. Or maybe not now, but I will, at some point. I’m planning on writing a book of short stories for children, which should be fun. The thing about writing for children is that you have no constraints, just like the child’s mind has no constraints. They are unbounded by real events or physical possibilities or impossibilities. Their imagination is still free enough to allow anything, and so it is easiest to write for them. Adults are too caught up with ‘hey, that’s not possible, you’re talking shit!’ to really enjoy the story. So, basically, my stories are going to be magical, completely fictional and not at all believable, but they don’t need to be.

Also, since kids are kids, with low attention spans, I’m not going to write long stories. They will not be very short, either, not like the ‘Ek Tha Raja…’ story. A decent length for kids shouldn’t be hard to do, since I can’t carry a story forward past that length, anyway. I have no idea when I’ll be able to start this, but it should be soon. I have some ideas…

... And They Say I Am Home

2008-08-12T16:37:00.000+05:30

I am in Chennai, the god forsaken city of dosas, mad auto drivers and ACJ students (also mad, especially one in particular). I fail to recognize the point of studying something, which I must forget to be a great journalist. But 2 lakhs say I must persevere. 'Hum Hongay Kaamiyaab, Ek Din' kind of thing. ‘Hum Hongay Bhikaari, Ek Din’ kind of thing also. The good thing is that it's fun work, which is something I have never said before in my life. 'Fun work' seems like an oxymoron, no? It has to be either one of the two, not both. Anyway, I digress.

So, I'm here, amidst tragedy, comedy and psycho killers (really). And I'm having a good time. Six students to a flat, two flats per floor and nine floors in the building. I don’t believe ACJ could be that stupid! There’s no supervisor guy also, just a caretaker who chills with the guards and drinks their booze. The poor guards then come and ask us for our stock, which is usually always full. Both cigarettes and alcohol. We’re aspiring journalists after all. An inebriated state is a prerequisite. They don’t seem to really care about the psycho killer whose main aim in life seems to be to smash unsuspecting guards on the head with a big rock, and then proceed to set them on fire. If I was a guard, I would be more concerned that such a guy was on the loose, I think. But they are not. I see them and ‘anna, cigarette?’ pops into their mouths, as if I look like a panwadi. If Bhooki read this, she would say that I do, anyway. But who cares what she thinks?

Anyway, so, residence and transport (see above, reference to mad auto drivers) is taken care of. What else is left? Food. We eat shit. Not literally, you fools, but it comes close. Breakfast and lunch is in college, and it’s not too bad, just monotonous. We have no idea where our dinner is going to come from, and our choice is limited to 1) bad south Indian food , 2) bad south Indian-trying-to-be-north-indian food, 3) bad north Indian food, 4) bad Chinese food and 5) good home cooked food (a rarity). They tantalized us with the offer of getting a boxed food service that delivers to our apartments, but as soon as we leapt at the idea, all evidence of the project disappeared. Fun, that. ‘We will give you all that you want by way of clean and regular food, but it shall be an offer never to be availed of. Aren’t we nice’? Bloody college.

Right, so now we come to the crowd in college. This could take a while. It’s amazing how much variety you can pack into 120 kids. The usual variations of height and weight are obviously there, but it goes a lot deeper. Regional variations and weirdities are ever present. Mallus from Punjab, Tamilians from Delhi, Bongs (non-smokeable) from Bihar and all kinds of other shit. But that doesn’t tell you much about the people themselves does it? Have patience, I’m getting to it. I ramble, and you read it, that’s the way this works.

So, now to get to the people and all the interesting things that have happened to me since I got here (eg. I now know that a cuticle is not a follicle. I pretended to be interested, for fear of life and limb). To know more, read the next post. Hee hee.

Of Fate, Hermaphrodites and Me...

2008-06-30T15:52:00.000+05:30

Disclaimer: This is purely a work of fiction. None of the events have happened to the author, and not all the views expressed above are his. This work should merely be regarded as a flippant piece written to break the monotony of work. I hope it does the same for you.

Fate is an interesting thing. Sometimes it works in such simple ways that nobody recognizes its role in how events turn out. The birth of a baby, the meeting of those destined to love, all poignant examples of fate working in the background, unobtrusively. With me, however, fate, destiny, karma, whatever it is, seems to have a quirky humour. I’m sure there is a plan for me, but that great Decider up there must be a little irritated with me, because it seems to me that I have to run all over the place to wind up with someone who was always right in front of me. Why I couldn’t see the fact before I started the twisted marathon that is my love life, I do not know. Maybe it’s my sense of humour He don’t like, your guess is as good as mine…

I’ll meet a girl, all pretty and intelligent, and just my type. Sounds good, no? No. It’s not that simple, it never it. Obviously, she’s with someone else, something I’ve become quietly resigned to. Now, all of you there, I can almost hear you thinking ‘so what if she’s with some other guy, you live only once’. A valid statement, that, but it brings me to the second thing I believe in. Luck. My luck being what it is, firstly, I’ve been cursed with a very high sense of morals. I don’t care what most other people think of me, but I really care about what I think of me. I would never forgive myself for doing something I considered immoral, a real curse in this world. Secondly, even if I did make a move on her, it would invariably turn out that she was a closet lesbian, psychotic, a hermaphrodite or all three if he/she/it could manage it.

But luck is just how chance affects you. If random events come together in such a way that it is fortuitous for you, then you call it good luck. If not, and everything turns out like crap, then its bad luck. But the events themselves are random. Fate is just the Decider being a nosy busybody, trying to mould these random events into a pattern. Which leads me to believe that He is actually a She. But that is a debate for some other time. Personally, I wouldn’t really mind if there were just ten guys and a billion women, I’m all for women’s superiority (in numbers).

But yes, back to the women/hermaphrodite thingy. In this case hermaphrodite is an apt word, since it’s a hermaphrodite who looks like a woman. HERmaphrodite, get it? Sorry. Right, so after getting kicked square in the nuts by said hermaphrodite, I hobble over to the nearest bar, drink myself silly trying to forget that I just hit on something that was not female, pass out (or so I think) and wake up with some strange woman in my bed. She also wakes up, turns around, instantly making me wish that it were, in fact, the hermaphrodite there, instead of her. Beer goggles are incredible that way. With enough alchohol in you, I’m sure you’d find road kill attractive, and try to do dirty things with it.

Okay, back to ‘a day in the life of me’. With a swift kick in the nether regions, the monstrosity is evicted from my house, leaving me with a dirty feeling. On my way to the shower, I receive a phone call from a friend in need. She must be a friend indeed, if I was going to answer right then. I answered. It was one of those friends that every guy has. You know, the one who could be the love of your life, but she’s a friend, so that’s all she is. All romantic feeling are squashed with a vehement ‘no dude! She’s just one of the guys’. But you know, and she probably knows, that if things had been different, and you had randomly met somewhere, then that great Decider in the sky would have started ringing wedding bells with wild abandon. Women love weddings, even if it’s not theirs. Men think weddings are just an excuse to drink, especially if it’s theirs. The Friend In Need (FIN) tells me that she’s having problems with her boy friend (who had cheated on her) and that she needs to talk. Okay, fine, which means that she will talk, and I will listen, all the while thinking ‘I told you so’ (which I did, but won’t say it right out. At least not right then). After lots of bitching about my gender, she asks me the question, ‘Why, why are all you guys such bastards?’ A question, even if accurate, is completely unanswerable by the likes of me. So I say the well used defense ‘Not all guys are bastards’ to which she says ‘find me one non-bastard guy!’ as if the very fact that I was listening to her bash my gender did not automatically make me eligible for non-bastardity. (no, it’s not a word. But it got the meaning across, no?)

Anyway, enough about her problems. After all, this story is about me. The point is that it will no doubt turn into a situation where she finally realizes that I am the man (something all of you should realize, too) and that she loves me, and not only in that plutonic kind of way. I’ll realize that I’ve loved her all along, and we get married. The happily-ever-after doesn’t happen, but it comes close.

So, now, tell me. If the answer was right there, staring me in the face, why does Fate conspire to keep the wool over my eyes, right through all kinds of unpleasant experiences that I would rather not have gone through? And don’t tell me about it being a learning experience, alright? What could I possibly have learnt from a psychotic hermaphrodite kicking me in the nuts? I fervently believe that the Decider is a perverse being, and that the only prayer we should all utter is that She doesn’t look at us when she’s going to have her period, is in the middle of it, or right after it. In fact, I would be the happiest man if She just minded Her own bloody business and just messed around with Her own life.

Dreams Are Free

2006-10-25T14:40:00.000+05:30

The gun is a cowardly and cheap weapon because killing a man should come at a price. In the old days, you had to go to a guy and stick a sword in him to kill him. The chance that he had a sword or some other nasty sharp weapon was quite high, so the risk of being dismembered was equal, discounting skill with the weapon. Now you can stand far, far away and blow the head of some guy who you can barely see with a naked eye. What the hell? It’s too easy now, to take a life, so consequently, the price of life has been discounted so much that a killing, or a murder just arouses the mildest interest or curiosity in you, if that. Unless, of course, you’re directly related to the incident i.e. if you or somebody you know has been killed or grievously injured.

A sad state of affairs, wouldn’t you say? I’ve even heard people say, when they heard about a few hundred people dying in a bomb blast or some other tragedy, that the population is so huge anyway, what’re a hundred people here or there? It’s a valid argument, hundreds and thousands seem pretty meaningless when dealing with millions and billions of people. But what is happening here is that we’re getting lost in the collective, we’re forgetting the individuals. If you take all the people dying or getting injured collectively, or just as a number, like 47 killed and 300 injured as mad gunman rampages through building, then you lose the real impact of what has happened. 47 people are now dead, their lives extinguished, all that they have achieved or dreamt of achieving is just dust and memory now. 300 people are injured. For a lot of them, it might be a debilitating injury. Livelihoods lost, any kind of efficient mobility lost, intense dependence on others. That is what you get when you look at the impact on each one of those people. And don’t forget their families and loved ones.

But now, there are so many of these ‘incidents’, that they have lost all meaning to us. It’s a continuous assault that bombards you until you just block it out.

A related point is the penalty for murder and rape, the two worst crimes I can imagine, murder, well it affects everybody, and rape for the women. I think, if you kill a man, then you should die, call it old fashioned, I call it efficient. Self defense is different. If you rape someone, then your relevant bits should be chopped off. If you can’t use it right, then you can’t use it at all. You see how that reduces the number of murders and rapes. It’ll work, trust me. And no guns. Take everybody’s guns away. Projectile weapons as a whole should be removed. If you want to kill somebody, go to his face and poke things in him, lets see how willing you are to do it then.

Lead On, O Elders!

2006-09-02T16:25:00.000+05:30

Over the last few days, I’ve read many articles and blogs posts on how India is the pits, and that the Indian youth today are just a bunch of thugs who think violence and money is the answer to everything. All of the arguments are persuasive and are based on past examples of the misconduct of the Indian youth. The Ujjain killing, the violence over reservation, to name a few. All of this is true. The Indian youth, or what is shown to you of the Indian youth by the news, is heading for trouble.

My point is that along with looking at what is happening, we have to look at why it is happening too. We aren’t like this because we were born this way. We follow by example. They say that we use the ‘System Sucks’ excuse to explain away all that we do. What they do not understand, is that a lot of this agitation and violence is a result of deep seated frustration that we have held within us, since we became old enough to think for ourselves. The number of times the system has failed in doing what it was supposed to do is astounding. I do not mean to harp on a point already extensively made, but look at the Jessica Lall case. Seven years, and nothing. Nothing has happened, nobody has been punished, and we are supposed to believe our judiciary is doing its job? And that is a case that has been well publicised, scrutinized, disected and what not. What about the hundreds of cases you don't get to hear about? How can you fault us if we have no faith in our system?

They say that the Delhi University elections have been reduced to gang wars between the two largest parties, the NSUI and the ABVP. Looking at the state of India during national election time, and considering the fact that the NSUI is Congress backed and the ABVP has the BJP behind it, what can you expect? Most of our politicians are criminals. They put on a benign public image, and order murders and extortion behind our backs. They get away absolutely free. What is the average student supposed to learn from all of this?

You might say that there are a lot of good things that the government has done over the last few years. This too is true. But what you have to see is that as a government, it is supposed to do these things for us. It is meant to be for the welfare of the people. The attitude of the MPs is that in doing some good for us, they’re doing us a favour.

I am not defending the actions of the students in Ujjain or elsewhere. It’s absolutely disgusting that anybody, be he a politician or a student, should have such disregard for life. All I’m saying is, and I borrow from Cream here, “Before you accuse me, take a look at yourselves.”

Music : That Great Communicator

2006-08-17T15:56:00.000+05:30

Strip away all of man’s inventions and creations to the single most beautiful, inspiring and self less one, and you will have music.

For all those, like me, who have grown up listening to music, it’s absence is something that is most keenly and immediately felt. It just becomes a part of life, as much as eating or sleeping. The original drug, the soaring of the mind that can be achieved by becoming lost in the music far surpasses the feeling achieved by any artificial drug. It could be any kind of music, there is no superior or inferior genre. I used to believe that the music I listened to was just far batter than what my friends liked. Classic Rock, as opposed to Punjabi or Hip Hop. To me, Classic Rock is still the best, but that does not mean that that genre is better than any other. For some, I’m sure that Daler Mehendi is at par, or surpasses Mark Knopfler. Eminem vs. Paul McCartney? It’s a comparison that cannot be made, it is meaningless. You know, apples and oranges, and so on.

Now, I’m not saying that there should be no credit given to skill. Of course there should be. Just like in anything else, you have grades: the bad, the average, the good, the brilliant, and The Beatles. There is a saying, albeit a rather bad saying, as I just made it up on the spot, but it goes like this: for the listener, good music is music that sounds good. I told you it was quite bad, but it got the point across. Beauty is in the eye, er…. ear of the behearer, or something along those lines.

The very act of creating music, whatever type, brings it at par with any other form of art. For, what is art, if not the expression of the imagination in a way so that it can be appreciated by others? It is such an inspiration to us in so many ways. Music and musicians have led to the creation of the world’s cheapest and most widely played instrument till date: the air guitar. How many people have you come across who have no idea how to play the guitar, but are plucking imaginary notes, playing flashy solos, all in their head, with their fingers frantically playing the air? They all want to be Joe Satriani or Slash or any one of those ‘cool’ guitarists. Even if they don’t learn an instrument, at least they’re enjoying themselves, all thanks to that wonder of creation, the creation of wonder itself…Music.

Life Is A Competition

2006-08-14T16:20:00.000+05:30

I dislike competition. This is not because I'm scared I'll lose, it's because it requires too much effort to win. I agree that some competition can be healthy and that it makes you want to better yourself. The problem starts when you better yourself, because then your competitor goes a step further and outdoes you. Then it starts getting pissing off, because there's no end to it. You just go on and on, trying to go one up on the other guy. There's never a time to relax, to just sit back and do nothing. Even if doing nothing isn't your style, there isn't too much time to do what you want to, either. This is because while you're doing nothing, or doing something that you want to do, some other guy is working his butt off, and the results show.

In school, it's exams. You just have to beat the other guy. No matter how well you did, if somebody did better than you, then you didn't do well enough. In college, you have to do really well so you can get to where you want to go after that. Even then, there are millions of kids who want to go exactly where you want to go, and so you're competing again. At work, needless to say, if you don't beat the next guy, then he gets paid more. That's incentive enough, i guess, but no thanks.

Two points come to mind after reading this. The first is that work becomes fun if you're doing something you enjoy. My point is that even if I enjoy my work, I wouldn't want to do it as intensively as required. Even if I love doing something, there are days when I just want a change, I want to do something else. It might even be weeks before I get back to it. The point I'm making is that of free will. I want to do what I want to, on my own terms, not those set by somebody else. I know that this will only lead to mediocrity, which takes me to my second point. I don't have that fire in the belly to be the best of the best. It's good enough for me to be good at what I do, that's it. Being the best requires too much work and effort and time. I prefer using that time and effort on something I really want to do.

I'm not scared of hard work. I've worked my butt off when I've needed to. Given the choice, though, I would rather not be the best than be the best. I wouldn't even try. The sad bit about life is that, one way or another, most of us don't have that choice.

The Birth Of A Boy

2006-08-14T13:23:00.000+05:30

He staggered ahead, half carrying and half dragging his wife. She was heavily pregnant and almost unconscious from the pain and the intense cold. He knew it was late into the night, but the stars were unusually bright, and the sky was clear. In a haze of exhaustion and worry, the two of them had struggled on, looking for some kind of shelter in which to brave the night. They were in some sort of field, he knew, but where that field was, he didn’t. They were lost, and if he didn’t get his wife out of the cold he was sure that she would die, and with her, the baby that slept inside.

In the distance, he finally saw a structure. It looked like a barn, but he was willing to take anything. Suddenly energized by a surge of hope, they hurried towards it and entered the much welcome warmth. He lay his wife down on a stack of hay and covered her with his coat. Her lips and fingers were blue from the cold, but he already saw signs of recovery in her face. She was a strong woman, he knew, she would not give up, especially not until she gave birth to the much awaited baby.

During the course of that night, his wife gave birth to a healthy little boy. Considering how difficult it had been to get where they were, the delivery itself seemed remarkably easy. His wife and the baby were now resting, and so he stepped outside for a short while. As he gazed at the stars, overwhelmed by the joy of being a father, he couldn’t help feeling that there was something special about the boy, he surely was destined for great things. He knew that these were just the hopes of a father, but he still spent a while dreaming about the boy.

As always, though, when he thought about the baby, a familiar, nagging thought also arose in his mind. Whose baby was it? He had long ago come to the conclusion that he was not the father, he wasn’t around when the baby should have been conceived. He also knew that his wife loved him, and what she did was done more out of necessity, than choice. They had tried many times to have a baby, but had remained unsuccessful. Then one day, his wife came to him with the joyous news that she was pregnant. He never questioned her. He knew that what she had done had caused her as much pain as it had caused him. He wanted a son, and she had given him one.

After this, his devotion for her knew no bounds, he would do anything for her. He was a carpenter by trade, and a poorly paid one at that. During the course of her pregnancy, he had managed to get commissions from three wealthy men for him to build furniture for them. His pay was to be decided according to the quality of work he produced. He was in no position to argue. Over the better part of a year, he worked tirelessly day and night, somehow keeping it from his wife. The result was, what he knew, objects of great beauty. He had poured all his love and devotion for his wife into his work, in the hope that he would be rewarded handsomely. He wanted to buy his wife beautiful presents that they would not have been able to afford otherwise. She deserved it.

As it turned out, though, the men he worked for were hard taskmasters, and what he finally received was much less than what he expected. Dejected, he bought his wife a vial of perfume and a bottle of fragrant oil. He had some gold left over, but he chose not to spend it just yet, he would need it once the baby was born.

What followed was a period of dark memories. Their landlord had thrown them out of their house, due to the non payment of their rent, and they had been forced to take to the streets. He spent many nights hungry, giving all the food they had to his wife. He never let her find out, she would worry too much about him. He had already decided not to tell her about how he got the bottles, she already worried too much about their finances.

Pushing these thoughts aside, he went inside quietly, and opened the sack in which he carried his belongings. It was time to give her the presents. He took out the two bottles for his wife, and went to her. As he approached her, she awoke, and seeing him, smiled. The bottles brought a questioning frown to her face, though.

“I got them from three rich men I met earlier. They took pity on me, and presented me with these. They even gave me some gold”, he quickly told her. He knew she wasn’t convinced, but he hastened to change the subject. “So, my dear, what are you naming our son?” he asked.

She smiled and looked at the sleeping baby’s face, and said, “I shall name Him Isa.”

Such Is Life

2006-08-13T13:21:00.000+05:30

He woke up early. It was worth it, today was his day. And a beautiful day it was. The birds were chirping, sun was shining, and a cool breeze was blowing. Perfect. He sprang out of bed and hurriedly got dressed. Today of all days, he could not afford to be late for work. He had waited for this day too long to let anything go wrong. As he got dressed, he couldn’t help humming a tune. Looking in the mirror, he admired the haircut he had got the day before, especially for that day. He shaved carefully, and used his best aftershave. He had saved it for times like this, when he wanted to put forth the best impression he could. Wearing his best shirt and trousers, he ate a hurried breakfast and left for work.

The reason he was so excited was because today was the result of forty years of hard, hard work. He had slogged at his job for that long only so that he could get to where he was now. Today was the day he was going to be promoted to CEO of his company. It was unofficially, unanimously agreed that he was the man to be promoted, but official recognition didn’t hurt, especially if it involved a hike in his salary. In one jump his salary, after today, would shoot up to six figures, discounting various allowances he was entitled to as CEO and a private jet at his disposal. Hard work pays off, he thought to himself, now this is the way to live.

With excitement and such happy thoughts coursing through him, he stepped out of the lift and left his apartment building. On stepping out, he looked fondly at his car parked across the road. It was a blue Mercedes, and his pride and joy. Though he loved it to bits, he knew in his heart of hearts that he would have to upgrade to a better car, once he was promoted. Well, from tomorrow onwards he’d be able to afford more than one car, at the very least. There was no chance of him selling this one.

He crossed over to his car, got in and started off towards his office. It wasn't too long a drive, but nevertheless, he turned on his music, and was soon nodding his head to the beat. On reaching his office block, the first thing that struck him was all the police tape. No, No, No, not today, please not today, don't ruin this day for me, he pleaded with God. He parked his car and jumped out. He ran to one of the seemingly hundred police men and asked what happened.
It had been a fire. The firefighters had reported that it seemed to have originated on the fifteenth floor, and had quickly spread upwards, gutting all the floors above it. The fire had started in a dustbin on the fifteenth floor.

Shock overcame him and his knees almost buckled under him. Somehow, he staggered back to his car and got in. He just sat there, one memory playing over and over in his head. Last night, tired from work, he had smoked his usual cigarette, carelessly flicked the burning butt into his dustbin, and had left for home.

Such is life.

Going On A Night Train

2006-08-12T13:17:00.000+05:30

The train was late. He decided he would wait for it, he had nothing better to do anyway. Laying there, he started thinking back to the last few days that had led him to this situation. Why did he do it? He had had a perfect relationship with her, but he said the wrong things at the wrong time, and ruined it. Why? Because he took it for granted. As it was with most things like this, he realized the true value of what he had moments after he destroyed it. She was out of his life now, forever, and he realized he wanted to be with her now, forever. She wasn’t one to forgive, not him.

The train was never this late, he thought, this was very strange. As he thought this, he saw it, a distance light on the horizon. He lay back, relieved, it was time for him to leave. He watched as the light from the train grew closer. He looked back at his town for what he knew would be the last time. Goodbye, he thought, and felt a momentary pang of sorrow at leaving his home. Gritting his teeth, he got ready for his departure.

The train had almost reached him. He had chosen a night train for a specific reason. As it neared at a furious pace, the driver didn’t even see him lying there. The passengers in the train didn’t notice the slight bump that shook their carriage ever so slightly, as the train thundered inexorably forward.

Ants Marching

2006-08-11T13:13:00.000+05:30

Worker #1 walked at a steady pace down the hard path that led to his home. It had been a long and tiring day which saw him looking for food, evading hungry predators, crossing wide chasms in the ground and wading through waist high water. It was hot. He was hungry. He could feel the heat that had been pounding down on him since the time he left the cool shade of his home more keenly now. Hunger had been gnawing at him for a little while longer, and showed no signs of respite. All the food at home was being diverted to the Queen’s children. They needed to eat, or they would die. That could not happen. He had failed to bring back food for the third time. The Queen would not be happy.

He came across another jagged gash in the ground that he had to cross if he wanted to get home. This was the last one, he knew. He climbed down the steep cliff side and up the other end, when he saw it. It sparkled like a firefly, white as the sun with the light glinting off its edges. Food! But how had it come here? No matter, it was food and good food at that. He would be praised by the Queen herself if he brought this in. He scurried towards it in glee, his miniscule mind working furiously. He would be praised by the Queen and that it was really, really hot now. Forget that #1! You have work to do, do it! This is the sweet food, it’s special, you don’t find it too often, take the opportunity to make a name for yourself, forget the heat!

As he carved the delicious food into smaller, more manageable pieces, he realized that the food itself was turning to liquid. It must be the heat, he thought, I’d better get it home quick, before it becomes impossible to move. As he thought this, he suddenly burst into flames and was reduced to nothing more than a black, charred husk of what he was, in an instant.

What he didn’t see, or if he saw, did not comprehend, was the small boy crouching over him, in the sunlight, magnifying glass in hand.

Life As Usual (again)

2006-03-24T12:30:00.000+05:30

Ah, back to the daily grind! What joy to wake up at 6:30 again, it's brilliant, especially in winter. The bus ride is absolutely refreshing! What with the wind entering all the various cracks in the bus and freezing you, and cramped seats, you almost don't feel like getting off...almost. You enter DU to the usual drop in temperature, that place is a LOT colder than it's surroundings, I dunno why. Then you go through the pleasurable exercise of attending class, it's an absolute delight, I tell you, with all of the professors threatening to give you your exam marks, what more could I ask for? It gets better. One of them sees you, and your heart plummets, relocating itself at your feet.

"So, how do you think you did?" asks he,

" Pretty well, I think, why?" asks I, very stupidly.

I haven't got my marks back yet, but the evil grin on his face just spells my doom, I can see it.

Anyway, so classes end, which is a good thing, and I have to get into the bus for the long and tiring journey home, which is not. Heading home is fine, but in a cramped bus, filled to overflowing with other students? Not my idea of luxury transport, I can tell you.

Then I reach home. At that moment, my two best friends are my lunch and my bed. I eat and then sleep, the best part of my day.