freebird

laughs at most of us

Does it matter, thought the ashes? I have been dead for so long. 60 years isn’t it? The million specks asked themselves and didn’t even bother to answer. Long, in fact, all of them agreed.

I have been here, in darkness. Why was I kept and why am I being set free? Am I being set free? Well, I can’t do much, can I? I shall stay where they put me and go where they send me. Air, water, muck everything’s the same for me.

But inspite of these and many more suspicions and apprehensions, the ashes woke up; ready for the final journey. No bath or towel, just stay put, it advised itself. As the morning gave birth, birds could be heard. Some unfamiliar sounds and some completely new. But I remember all of them. From tomorrow I will not be able to hear any of them. So long, my friends, the ashes said, silently and wondered if anybody hears anything silent? A little while later, footsteps could be heard. The light was switched on in the room and more than usual activity could be thinly guessed. What is going to happen?

Incense. Can’t they stick to the old ones? These smell synthetic; are they? Too many questions, old man, came the internal rebuke. O.K let me sail through today and then…

These footsteps are different, small…ah some kids have been marshaled. Will they sing songs?

Noises, more noises, who are these people? Some noises I know. Do they still love me or is it all? Why are you so suspicious, Gandhi’s ashes asked Gandhi? Just relax. You are dead, gone and they are laying to rest your last remnants. Be happy, you can sleep peacefully from today. You will take less space on earth. Lesser people will remember you, exploit you and your belongings and life…well, it will move on.

O.k from now on silence, vowed Gandhi.

Garlands…their smell mixing with the incense. Feet. Phones, so many ring tones. Murmurs. Bhajans. That little girl has a good voice. Dignitaries I think by the tone. Now what? I am being lifted. Is this my last day here? These walls, curtains, Mani Bhavan, my friends, I will miss you all, always.

Ah, the sun. So the journey begins again. Are there many people? Traffic and horns, too many horns. Am I on a hearse, again? Am I blocking traffic? the horns must be for a reason. Do they know that I am going forever today? Move on old man.

I hear the waves. Is it Girgaum? Must have changed in these years. I am enjoying this in fact. Why this silence?

Oh the sun stings. Haven’t seen rays in 60 years. Thanks for opening me up to the radiance. I love it. I thank you all.

The water looks dirty. Those days…they are gone, it’s o.k.

Water is cold. I am traveling. Where will this lead me? Ah, it’s the deep end of the ocean. Fishes. Beautiful.

There is talk all around me. Loud talk most of the time. It’s an open office. Supposed to send energies back and forth, a syncretic approach so that the disparate creatives floating around the work place, mingles, fuses and a new birth takes place…all purportedly for the benefit of the organization. I like the idea. It is very democratic. Makes the lowliest of worker feel, not important, but not bad. That the boss in Mercedes also sits in the same undivided space and not behind glass or Venetian blinds. Democratic, as mentioned earlier. It’s not democratic, there are some 10 cabins where mother and father superiors sit and do stuff.

 I have complained a couple of times against this to my colleagues and superiors. They laughed at me. You think you are superior, they asked me? They themselves are behind the Venetian blinds I talked about. I said no, but words, laughter, exclamations floating from all around doesn’t particularly help in focusing or channeling energies. Ad agencies are like that. Bombay O&M is like that I was informed. Have you ever worked in O&M, I was asked? I have not. I didn’t feel bad and wondered whether I should suffer from a superiority complex?

 People are even now talking all around me. Various ideas are swimming and some of them sensational. Some of them are not. Some of them are outright pathetic, but the atmosphere is given. Can’t change that. Even if you don’t have focus, live with it. Is solitariness important to think creatively? Some people wouldn’t agree. Some can work best with a lounge playing at the back. Some can read with the tv on mute. Great copy can arise from hearing a cross-current of idle chatter or gossip if one’s ears are pricked enough.

 But that can’t be the RULE in an organization that specializes in content. People have rubbished my desire to bargain for some solitary confinement. Be a part of the group, of the mass, television is mass, can’t cut your roots etc etc.

 
Well, the roots are tearing me apart.

After a particularly impressive victory at the hustings, the winner was all humble. He thanked God, his loved ones, relatives and his favourite cook. It was all because of the above mentioned people that he could become what he did become, at least some of it for sure.

Anyways, the winner took oath. He took oaths rather and pledged his allegiance to a whole lot of abstract ideas, thoughts…peace, love, god, honesty, integrity etc.

The large section of the audience had by then forgotten about peace, love, honesty, integrity and such abstractions. They were left scratching their heads when they heard the words. Sounded familiar, some nerve thought fleetingly and then moved on. God, they still remembered. God came in handy and the majority couldn’t benefit from forgetting god. So they remembered him.

He, the god that is, was still a He. God as she was still unthinkable. They did research as to why they could never unite behind a female god. Gods are gods they had been taught, but apparently some gods are more equal than other gods. So, female gods didn’t inspire the population.

And life went on. What could life do? It was not as if everybody supported this man who won. But most did. Most were happy to have him around. Their reason – we need a strong leader. A leader who can lead and do things for the common man. The common man / woman wanted…they didn’t know what they wanted. They are still trying to figure out what they want. In fact, they are happy with whatever is provided to them. They are happy with chitrahar, Balaji, India losing, Doordarshan news, tornadoes, riots.

Yes, they are happy with death also. Strange, but true. Give them large scale rioting and after the initial hesitation, their instincts are stung into action and they even start participating. They suddenly realize that life on the edge is quite interesting. It makes them happy to see others getting knifed, killed basically. For so long they were unable to figure out what they wanted. Suddenly, it seems, as if the dream of a lifetime is coming true.

Catharsis. They pay obeisance to the man who made it all possible. Who made them take revenge. They pay their respects to the man who even 5 or more years after those days and nights, still protects them. Why not? He made us kill, he made us believer’s again. What would happen if he goes? Probably land in jail. So, election after election, this man emerges victorious. After all he has to thank his people. After all they have to thank the leader.

After all they have to thank each other.

WE, THE PEOPLE OF INDIA,  having solemnly resolved to constitute India into a SOVEREIGN SOCIALIST SECULAR DEMOCRATIC REPUBLIC and to secure to all its citizens:

 JUSTICE, social, economic and political;

LIBERTY of thought, expression, belief, faith and worship;

EQUALITY of status and of opportunity;

and to promote among them all

FRATERNITY assuring the dignity of the individual and the unity and integrity of the Nation;

 IN OUR CONSTITUENT ASSEMBLY this twenty-sixth day of November, 1949, do HEREBY ADOPT, ENACT AND GIVE TO OURSELVES THIS CONSTITUTION.

did I miss something or have we forgotten somethings…?

Sometimes 24 hours is not enough. Sleep pulls us down and along the way we remember all the things that were not done, half-done or still to be done. The phone call, the letter, the mail, the smile, the document, the sign, the freshly baked bread, kiss, hug, abuse.

And then we forget. Only to wake up the next day without any memory. The day already weighing down on us; calling and pulling us in different directions; begging for our attention. And we give it all; loving the day, but hating the sun or snow, hoping that these 24 hours will be lived to the full, to the brim, praying that it will overflow into the night and tomorrow.

But we don’t because we can’t. Because it’s nature; simple. The spirit, body, all fails at the last mile and we sleep.

But some are not lucky. They can’t sleep. No matter what they try, they cannot. Even if it comes, it is fitful. The sleep more awake and irritating, never complete. And then the small bottle, next to the bed, comes in handy.

Deep sleep it promises. Peaceful slumber. The old comforting arms of a friend and lover. The body’s kindered. We love to sink in it and when we wake up we are reborn.

Dear Heath what did you want?

How do they sleep?

Bilkis Bano has got justice, the headlines proclaimed. Her rapists have been sentenced to life imprisonment. Some, mostly cops, have been acquitted.

 
What justice?

 Her baby was killed and every trace of hers was eliminated.

 She lost how many…5, 8, 10, 12 no…14 relatives, including her 3 year old son, 2 sisters.

 
Justice.

The cops who should have protected her then, stood silent, helped and participated in her rape and the slaughter of her relatives.

 
They are out now, set free by the courts, because of lack of evidence. They are back in the saddle. There powers have been restored. And they have not repented.

They participated in a pogrom without any provocation some years back. Now they have reasons. Where does Bilkis go? Back to her village? Will she be safe?

Yaqub, her husband, was with her through-out. And so were other activists who stood by her in the darkest of times.

In the meantime Gujarat marches ahead. Gujarat has twin figure growth rate. Gujaratis make money all over the world. Gujaratis own a lot. Gandhi was from Gujarat. Development will wash away all sins. Show them growth, flyovers, malls, television and no questions will be asked.

Well, dead people cannot ask any questions. Can they?

Another tennis player lost to Roger Federer. Nothing new. Wrong. Hear the loser.

The 35-year-old Santoro, playing in a record 62nd Grand Slam singles tournament, had no answers to Federer’s mastery as he lost 6-1, 6-2, 6-0.

“Everything looks easy to him,” the Frenchman smiled. “There is no space to play. There is no space to hit aces because he’s returning everything.

“I’d love to play him once again. Because it’s so beautiful, what he’s doing,” Santoro added.

Is tennis not a game. Played between individuals, pairs and also between nations. There are more tennis playing nations I am sure than cricket playing ones. Or are tennis players weak, meek and don’t know what gamesmanship or strategy is all about. They do not or cannot play the game of attrition? They just serve, hope to hit an ace, or volley and sit on their chairs, sip energy drinks or have bananas, take bows and walk to the locker rooms in an almost servile manner.

Is that so?

Is it possible for us to love the game so much that we don’t start hating its players?

It is. If we start looking at beauty. In everything.

Yesterday I paid 250 rupees to watch Cronenberg’s ‘Eastern Promises’. I had waited eagerly for the film. I knew beforehand that it was not his best film. A couple of my friends had already seen it on DVD, I had read online reviews and had a fair idea of what to expect. I had also heard of the apparently seminal ‘sauna fight’ sequence, a hand to hand fight, some critics are calling one of the best action sequences ever.

So the film began with a mobster’s throat being slit. Bloody Violence. It was a violent film and Cronenberg is no timid director. That was the end of liberalism. What followed was a wave of happy sniping by the censor authorities.

The ‘sauna fight’ doesn’t exist. Not a single blow is exchanged. VM lands directly in the hospital covered in cuts and bruises. I was bristling at this injustice. I have paid the full entry fee…250 bucks. Doesn’t it have any value. Post this umbrage I was still angry.

What country do we live in, I wondered? Is India a country in which we can freely express our views? Can we write, speak, paint and not be censored. What a question? Thre is censorship everywhere, live with it, I reasoned. Can somebody explain to me the wisdom of giving the film an ‘A’ certificate, play it post 11 p.m and then censor it to such an extent that the key scenes don’t exist? Is there anything called emotional, contextual, narrative journey, continuity?

Are we supposed to understand art, high or low, doesn’t matter a whit, after it has being mauled by nincompoops sitting in Air conditioned offices, who measure morality by their own immorality? It is so stupid and irritating. I am still bristling although it doesn’t make any difference.

Mr. Ponting is an honest man. He is being uneccesarily targeted by the Indian team. What are a couple of bad umpiring decisions and few lies by the Australian cricketers. Come on, grow up to the real world.

As for Mr. Ponting, he is the perfect role model for all kids, Australians or otherwise. Parents across continents should buy posters of Mr. Ponting and hang them on their walls. Pray to the lord of success to bless them…how to play hard and win at all costs. All this is not sarcasm.

Mr. Ponting after all is an honest man. He is after all a the national asset of Australia and of all ambitious people across the world. What is a little bit of abuse?

A little bit of abuse should be part of school curriculum in fact. Will toughen up kids who want to make a mark. A bit of verbal and in the coming days, physical also, is good. Makes you win. And that’s all that matters.

You have no option but to win.

So you think you can play?

Play like us, that is.

Can you abuse? Can you taunt? Can you ridicule? Can you rile? Can you irritate? Can you make me lose my focus? Can you make me lose concentration?

This is the way we play. Can you play like us? You can’t? No matter, we will still play the way we do. We are what we are. We will abuse your mother, father, your kids, your wife, your country, your honesty and integrity.

We will not stop at anything. We have to win because that’s all that matters. Who cares for the way you play. I don’t. I hae to defeat you. I have to rub your nose in the ground. I have to prove that I am superior to you. You are nobody. Your talent is irrelevant. Your skill is of no importance. I don’t clap when I see you doing good. I am not awe-struck when I see perfection at what you do.

I cringe. I hate myself when I see you succees. I loath the ground you walk on. How can you be better than me? How can I let you defeat me? Because my country will hate me. My fans will hate me. The Board will throw me out of the team. The advertising agencies will disappear. How can I not win everything I participate in?

My wife too shoos me away when I lose. She fails to understand that it’s just a game. My kids shoot me down with their toy guns when I don’t emerge victorious. Chants of sissy engulf me in the locker room if I am not like the others, shouting, cheering, inciting, cheating, lying. They will throw me out if I don’t become like them.

Success at all costs. The Australians are good at it. Do they have a nuclear arsenal also? They might just get riled and decide to bomb it because like Hemingway said ‘ the world is a fine place and worth fighting for’. The Australians too, like Morgan Freeman in 7, will most likely agree with the 2^nd part, and kill everything in its wake.

That’s the sign of the times. It’s time Indians stop complaining and just play. Cheats will be seen as cheats, even by fans. And there will be a time for everything… a time for war and a time for peace, a time to win and a time to lose.