The Rambler

Sob Story

2010-08-16T00:26:00.002+05:30

As I made my way towards my abode after a hearty luncheon with old friends, I made my costomary stop outside the double-doors of the building elevator. As I whistled the familiar refrain to "With a little bit o'luck" from the motion picture adaptation of Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion which gained immense popularity under the name My Fair Lady, I became aware that someone was providing an odd accompanyment to it -- one that missed the beats and did nothing to add to the mood of the moment.
Upon investigation, I came upon a little girl sitting on the stairs, sobbing and sniffling -- that's where the intrusive, off-beat percussion emanated from.
"What happened? Why are you crying?" I asked, adopting what I considered to be a suitably sympathetic tone.
"My parents think I'm stupid because I didn't get good grades on my science test," she responded, with appropriate pauses for sobs and sniffs.
"But being stupid is not a reason to cry; it's your parents and teachers who should be crying," I offered.
She didn't get it.

Oh Baby, Baby!

2010-07-13T20:16:00.003+05:30

I have nothing against infants. My pet philosophy of “Live and Let Live” fits in perfectly where these puking, gurgling blobs are concerned.
That being said, I do take umbrage when these little critters are treated like circus animals. Pride in your progeny is one thing, but I think parents should give filial pride a chance -- even if not filial piety -- not to mention allowing the yet-uncoordinated objects of their affection a fighting chance at self-respect.
My objection is not really to what the kids or their saintly parents go through – that’s their business. What gets my goat every time is when the charade plays out in my presence, or Heaven forbid, in my honor.
I was put through just such an ordeal a few days ago, when I called a friend to wish him on his birthday. Now this friend and I go way back (primary school), and while I dutifully attended his wedding, I have not had occasion to set eyes on him (or his better half) since that fateful day 4 years ago. And while I congratulated him on his virility in achieving fatherhood three-and-a-half years later, I have never been gripped by either the curiosity or the need to make the acquaintance of the scion of that family. Truth be told, I actually do not remember the kid's name; nor his mother’s, for that matter.
So imagine my chagrin when after the initial pleasantries were done with, and I was looking for an opening to hang-up and get on with my day, the father uttered the words that sent a chill up my spine: “Hold on man, Dippy wants to say hello!”
The chills held off for a bit, as my mind tried to decipher this ominous uttering. Was “Dippy” what he called his wife? And if indeed it was, why would he introduce me to her under the aegis of such a goofy name? The name her parents bestowed on her would surely have done just fine – it would also have nudged me into recalling her name; I am pretty sure it would transverse all lines of propriety to address her as “Dippy”, not to mention that the name itself was quite stupid and downright nauseating.
Now I have no objection to said female, but why he thought I would like to talk to her when my sole objective in connecting with him was to wish him on his birthday, I could not fathom. But good upbringing forbade me to decline his invitation, so with forced gaiety, I braced myself for the ordeal.
The verbal babble that accosted my ear in the seconds that followed the transfer threw me.
“Goo bwalllle aaa eeeeennnnhhhh sutg gsa…”
It took me a second to realize that the jabber I was hearing was nothing any adult could claim to understand.
It then dawned on me: Dippy, was what they called their heir!
And over this babble, I heard my pal’s voice saying, “Say Hello uncle, how are you??”
He repeated this directive three more times, and every time, the little brat continued to dish out a series of spluttering noises that in no way even remotely resembled the coherence the patriarch had achieved.
I was out of my depth, but I can honestly say with pride that I put up a valiant front, responding to the noises emanating from my telephone with a gutsy “Hello!!! How you doing, little fellow? Are you troubling your parents yet???”
That was about all I could take. I had barely resolved to hang up and blame it on poor connectivity when the dad came back on line.
“See, he’s so smart!!! He actually talks on the phone.”
The pride there, though completely misplaced, was touching. I agreed with him, and as I hung up with promises to catch up soon, there was just one thought running through my mind: Love is not just as blind as a bat, it also gives an adder a run for its money on the deafness scale.

Recharged & Reloaded

2010-02-11T21:45:00.001+05:30

So rare these stolen moments of solace and warmth
away from mechanical, prying eyes and ears
away from those wonders of science
that human imagination made possible.

But now I must to reality return,
where communion with machines
of varying size and colour and texture
make me a lesser man --
domesticated and chained in bonds of ones and zeros
as an animal snared in the wilderness.

And I return to answer those urgent summons
sent out by impatient masters;
Whizzing e-mails and buzzing phones,
those tools that rule our world today,
that once were created to be just slaves,
are Titans in their ever-changing image.

Cheers! Prost! Salud!

2010-02-11T21:36:00.001+05:30

To Survival:
An instinct more deeply embedded in the gene pool than any other.
An urge that makes the unimaginable possible.
An echo of time past and lost; memories, ashes and dust.
A simple state of being.

One Of A Million

2009-12-04T16:44:00.000+05:30

Every now and again, a gust of wind blows over me, enters and swirls around, fighting to find a way out, like a zebra that wanders into a lion’s den and realizes it too late. The sudden bursts of activity within me are not silent, echoing the frustrated travails of the beast trapped within, its fears, its desperation, its panic, its struggle… and the noise rattles around inside me, and escapes from any crevice it chances upon, emanating as wheezes and moans and groans from my parched lips.
Slowly, the noise dies away; the animal within has given up, embracing captivity with a shudder and a sigh. Maybe it’s trying to summon up that last vestige of energy and zest to try just one more time. But the initial pause is all that’s needed to make its prison walls close in on it, constrict it, suffocate it, and master it.
Its breathing becomes shallower by the passing moment, becoming more erratic.
It dies.
It festers.
It withers away into nothingness, leaving no trace. Its momentary existence, its valiant struggle, its fears, its hopes, its dreams, its past known to none.
I remain unrepentant, resolute, immobile and unfeeling. The wait is now on. The next gust is on its way. Soon… very soon…
I am a shell: hard on the outside, empty inside.

An Exercise In Futility

2009-11-07T16:25:00.001+05:30

The irony in comtemplating the futility of your actions is not that the actions were futile, but that your contemplation is...

Starry Starry Night

2009-08-12T15:50:00.002+05:30

She walked up to me at this party as I stood chatting with a friend about the horrors of waking up before 10:30 in the morning and interrupted our conversation with: “What’s your sign?”
I gave her a quick once over and inferring correctly that she was asking after my zodiac sign, said, “cancer.”
She sniffed, turned, and walked away, mumbling. I would have liked to say her words were “Oh crap!”, though I’m pretty sure she said: “Ewww. A Crab!”
My friend explained, with a roll of his eyes. Hers was the fire sign Aries, and quite incompatible with my water sign. Bewildering, I know.
Weird?
Definitely!
I still found her behaviour unreasonable and uncalled for. I was miffed.
I turned and yelled after her, so the whole gathering could hear: “Who let the Mutton Chop in?”
I feel much better now.

Wired Up

2009-06-11T16:05:00.004+05:30

A few days ago I got to fulfill a long-standing desire: sticking my tongue out at a doctor, in his office. The desire, when it started, didn’t feature a doctor specifically. It merely entailed being rude to someone on their own turf; someone senior. It is something I have harbored since childhood; ever since my parents, in the course of their parenting duties, told me it was rude, wrong and not the done thing. It so happened that a doctor happened to be handy, and I seized the opportunity with both hands.
Now it so happened – and it can happen to the best of us – that I was in need of a doctor’s services. Nothing major, just an electrical accident, and I don’t really mean the shocking kind.
Before we go any further, I must give you some background on this. It all began many years ago, when I chose electrical studies as an elective in school. Don’t ask. The point was to learn how circuits and gadgets work, and be capable of fixing small electrical glitches in and around the house without having to reach for the phone book, and looking under “E” for electrician. Like changing a light bulb, attaching severed wires, that sort of thing. I learnt quite a bit in that course, finishing in the top 3 in a class of 4.
So when many years later (I’m now talking about a few minutes just prior to the escapade I’m now chronicling) I came up against a reading lamp that needed a new plug, I felt equipped and empowered. I moseyed down to the hardware store, and picked up one after a lengthy discussion with the storekeeper on “amps” and “Earthing” and “Phillips screwdrivers” and “line testers”. I would like to believe he found me quite knowledgeable on the aforementioned subjects, though his deadpan face would have shamed a seasoned poker player. Anyway, no accident so far.
I got down to the ‘fixing’ bit of the exercise: unscrewed the defective plug and separated it from the wire, then opened up the new plug. That’s when I realized that the sleeve cutter I had would not cut it. So after a quick mental debate on the pros and cons of expending energy in getting up for a knife or a blade to separate the insulation from the wire, I decided my teeth would do.
The plastic sleeve of the green wire came off without too mush of a fuss. The sleeve of the yellow wire protested momentarily, but soon bowed to the pressure. The red wire was adamant. And as we wrestled, the wire and I, I realized I’d underestimated its obstinacy and its determination to fight off any advances my jaw might make. After a few seconds of intense negotiations -- through gritted teeth on my end -- it found itself losing the argument, and took one parting shot. As the portion of the sleeve between my teeth came away, it brought with it a few strands of the fibrous metal that it houses. These strands, annoyed at being so rudely exposed to an alien atmosphere, and seeking to rectify said exposure, drove deep into my tongue, which was watching the proceedings with rapt attention.
It hurt. There was no blood, and I could distinctly feel the end of the wire embedded into my tongue if I ran my tongue against the teeth on my upper jaw. I tried looking in the mirror, and using my fingers to pull the intruder out. No Cigar!
And that’s how I found myself visiting the white-coated gent with a string of alphabets after his name. He listened with rapt attention to my tale, and barely managed to hide the smirk on his face, as he no doubt thought: “What a moron!”
That smirk I was so certain he was hiding did the trick. I was no peeved. He had no right to judge. It could have happened to anyone.
So as he proceeded to examine my punctured oral muscle with a magnifying glass under a bright light, and ran a rubber-gloved finger to determine the exact position of the offending wire, the long-suppressed member of my mental “To Do” list get a check against it.
I stuck my tongue out at him, and kept it there for a good 3 minutes, as he wielded forceps and tongs to return my tongue to its original, unadulterated state. For three minutes, I cocked a snook at a doctor, in his office.
And if you ask me, the pain and the momentary discomfort were absolutely worth it.

Past Perfect

2009-06-08T21:42:00.001+05:30

Nothing haunts us with more ferocity and elicits more horror that the ghost of our past. Those memories bind us more securely than the chains that adorn the August members of the shadow-realm. There is no escape; no exorcism that will free us, no fire that will ease the cold chill that billow towards us in a constant draft, no salve that will erase the scars left on the soul.

Stay The Course, Mr. Obama!

2009-03-07T17:32:00.003+05:30

Barrack Obama has problems. Big Problems. The “Great American Dream” is in danger of being shattered. Indeed, for many, it’s already in smithereens. A few have also found, much to their utter despair, that picking up the pieces will only push slivers into their flesh, drawing more blood.
People are finding they can’t keep up with their mortgage payments. Foreclosures have left many homeless. The loan defaults have screwed with the banking system. So much so, that the banks which possessed the houses from defaulting owners no longer exist. Salaried people are finding that their pay packets are suddenly lighter. Some are finding – well, in February alone, 165,000 people found – that they no longer have a job to go to. Unemployment is at its highest in 25 years. Firms that think they can keep their employees, aren’t hiring any more. Investments that at one time promised solid returns, are now not worth the paper they’re printed on. But prices aren’t falling as fast as they should… or could. The average American is finding that loans aren’t easy to come by any longer. In short, the juggernaut of an American economy seems on the verge of disintegration. All the President’s workhorses and all the President’s men are scratching their heads over how to put it together again.
These are not the kind of problems that can be fixed with a call to a customer service number. So the advocate of change decided on a simple course of action: get rid of those irksome call centres. He chose to bring these jobs back home, and offer them to his people. No more foreign nurses, he said. Lo and behold! More jobs for the Americans.
He came up with a plan to pour over One Trillion Dollars in tax-payers’ money into rebuilding the economy. One Trillion Dollars is not chump change; that’s another Indian economy right there!
His decisions have pushed many people across the world -- especially India, Phillipines, and Malaysia -- into a cantankerous state. This was not a change they wanted, when they watched America get its first African-American President. “It’s not fair,” they say.
But why not?
Why should he worry about some family in a dark corner of Asia, when millions of families are fighting to survive the night right at his doorstep? The man is fighting to save his country from an economic holocaust. The most powerful man in the free world only seems to be following what Spidey said not too long ago: “With great power comes great responsibility.” His first responsibility is to his People. It’s perfectly natural that he chooses his country’s welfare over someone else’s.

Bravo, Mr President!

Voices We Hear

2009-02-16T12:43:00.005+05:30

“Sorry! All our customer care executives are busy attending other calls… your call is important to us… please hold the line… your call will be attended in approximately… Seven… minutes… Fifty-three… seconds…”

So that’s nearly 8 minutes added on to the 4-odd minutes I’ve spent entering banal numbers, and information as instructed by a different voice.
Cutting-edge technology, they call it!
As the metallic voice squawks in my ear, I resign myself to a long, tiring and fruitless wait. My problem is simple: over two weeks ago, I followed the instructions given me by a voice at the other end of a phone line, and tendered in a request for a change of communication address.
Two weeks… and nothing.
I just want to find out what happened… and so I wait.
An inane, tuneless, drone fills the eardrum positioned next to my phone’s speaker. After a while, my brain recognizes it as a lame -- and failed -- attempt to recreate Beethoven’s 5th Symphony.
For my listening pleasure, no doubt. But if it’s meant to be soothing, it’s failing… miserably!
The metallic voice comes back, rudely cutting into the third movement. Beethoven would turn in his grave, I think, as the voice assures me monotonously that I’m a valued customer… and with a twang of triumph, relays that I have now just 6 minutes and 45 seconds to wait.
Am I supposed to be ecstatic? I wonder.
And as Beethoven’s genius filters through again, a thought strikes me:
This company has a misplaced sense of pride. It sounds happy that it has the technology to calculate how long it will take for my call to be answered.
But shouldn’t it be ashamed that it’s making me wait?
Shouldn’t pride come from an immediate response?
Won’t that be a declaration that there are fewer irate customers calling with problems?
Won’t that also indicate that whatever the problem, it’s not severe, and is being solved in the flash of an eye?
It’s all about Customer Care… the customer’s the only one that cares.

O Tempora, O Mores!

2008-08-20T16:54:00.001+05:30

The seconds tick by. Relentless. Monotonous. Laborious.
The pendulum swings lazily, but it doesn’t stop.
The spring must unwind.
The man paces restlessly, his steps keeping pace with the ticks. The rhythm quickly settles into a dreary tempo: Tick tock tick tock; Left right left right.
Legs grow weary. Muscles strain. Dull ache turns to throbbing pain. Brain cells scream in protest. Bones clamor for rest. Eyelids water silently.
The body welcomes nauseous motion sickness. Tendons give way.
Collapse.
The head drops back.
Pupils dilate.
Eyelids close.
Limbs go limp.
Breathing slows.
The blood slows in the veins.
The day’s over… finally!
The brain recharges, readying for another day.There’s lot more pacing in store.

FOUR, AND COUNTING

2008-02-02T18:09:00.000+05:30

Feb 2, 2004
Three kids woke up at the unfamiliar house of a friend, took turns at the shower, drank a cup of tea and grabbed a sandwich at the stall down the road, and headed off on foot to "join work". It was an unknown city. It was a new adventure. It was scary. It was exciting. Hands and knees trembled, beads of perspiration fused, forming a stream that charted its own course down their backs. In their mind, dreams danced the tango to the beat a racing heart. But each masked his inner fear with a joke, a laugh and inane conversation. Small talk masked jittery nerves. It also felt "cool". Student life had ended. Welcome to the corporate world.
Upon arriving at their destination, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (at least each believed himself to be in that frame of mind), they were told by the receptionist that the Admin Dept was on leave. Welcome to the corporate world, indeed! They each now had a whole day to do their own thing. But each of them pushed wanton thought out of ntheir head, and congregated on a common objective: find a house. The day was spent exploring unknow streets and locales in the company of a betel-chewing, stale-tobacco-smelling chappie dressed in a stained shirt and patched trousers, sporting a Rs 6,000 gold-plated watch.

Feb 3, 2004
The early-morning routine was the same as the previous day. This time, however, the hallowed Admin Depty was working. After being asked to fill up a mound of forms, and then introduced to people in the department we were to join. Hellos-and-Hi's exchanged, we were again left to our own devices. And again, the latter-part of the day was spent in the exalted company of the same gent as the previous day. He looked like he'd not gone home at all, let alone showered, or brushed his teeth. On the plus side, we rejected some 4 examples of architectural accidents.

Feb 2, 2008
I woke up at 10:30 am: familiar bed, familiar room. Yelled for tea. Snoozed. Came to life when my man-Friday brought a steaming cup of brown liquid for my consumption. Pushed a little canine off my chest, getting a glare and a growl for my troubles. Switched on the telly, and gaped at the moving images. Cursed the cable guy for switching the frequency for 'Star World'. Grumbled when the door bell rang and the caller asked that my car be moved, as construction work had to begin above the ground it covered. Checked my phone for messages. Found one from a colleague seeking permission to take the day off due to ill-health. Answered in the affirmative. Fielded a call from some unknown voice enquiring if I wished to arm myself with a credit card. Request Denied. Showered. Drove to work along familiar roads, noticing a hoarding that had sprung up overnight, featuring a scantily-clad siren directing the passer-by's attention to a new brand of perfume. Yelled obscenities at some hapless pedestrian who'd decided he'd tempt fate by racing wheeled-traffic with the muscles belonging to his hind limbs. Steered into a large gate emblazoned with the name and logo of my employer. Handed the keys to the inhouse valet. Strung a dog-tag with my name and designation around my neck, and headed to my assigned desk: one I've occupied for the better part of 4 years. Answer e-mails from bosses, delete unwanted notifications and inter-departmental memos, call up Admin to ask if reimbursements have been credited. Sign a leave application from a member of my team.
I'm now a four-year old veteran at this place. The place is, in spirit, the same one I walked to four years ago: familiar faces, familiar sounds, familiar problems and solutions.
I've now been here four years. It's different: new faces, new responsibilities, new problems promising new headaches and obstacles.
The old and the new merge.
It's a normal day at work. Boringly routine and run-of-the-mill. Nothing extraordinary. Worryingly mundane.
Surprisingly exciting.

FOOD FOR THOUGHT

2008-01-12T19:40:00.000+05:30

So it was a colleague’s birthday, and after work, a group of us decided to head to a nearby watering hole, sit around a table and stuff our faces. Regular stuff. Nothing fancy. Down some moonshine, partake of some cheerful parley, cut a cake… What else was there to do?

Such trips are, I’ve learnt, a lesson in patience, debate, compromise, and eventually, making the most of the given situation.

It all started with a simple question, asked nonchalantly when the group assembled in a corner of the workplace, after the inbox had been cleaned out, desk lamps turned off, and workstations shutdown: “Where are we headed?”

It was a question that had to be asked, but one that opened Pandora’s box. For those four simple words strung along in an innocuous-sounding query, set the scene for a drama that only those chaps who sport long-flowing white beards and saffron robes can survive. I think this ability has largely to do with the diet of nuts and berries found along the remote slopes of the Himalayas that they dig into with gusto at the end of a long day spent day-dreaming of better times.

Returning to the Res Gestae: the question could only be answered by surmounting certain conditions. The first one we came across, was that the august premises in question be close enough to make it there before lights out – a vital criteria, considering the normal working day extends well into the night and past the witching hour. I mean, there is no point in pulling up at the door and being met with a stiff collared night watchman telling you that you could get a bite to eat if you don’t mind moseying on to the back door and fight off hordes of cats and dogs and rats and other of god’s blessed creatures, before putting your nose into one of the many black bags left there by the hard-working staff, containing items the sous-chef’s assistant’s assistant’s deputy himself couldn’t stomach, or the sommelier decided would lead to embarrassing and trying times, if presented to the bill-paying public. A quick survey found there were no less that twelve such establishments to choose from.

And as we dithered and bickered, trying to pick a common destination, the next factor reared its ugly head: The Economy.
One thing we all agreed upon, thank the lord, was that the management shouldn’t be too greedy. To put it succinctly, it must allow the mug that visits, the satisfaction of a full stomach, well-pickled gills and still leave enough in the pocket so he isn’t forced to turn to the blessed parent to make rent for the rest of the month. And here it was, that the next problem arose: one individual did not possess the funds required for a spot chosen by another. And establishments that fell within the budgetary abilities of a majority of the gang, were alas, frowned upon by some as dens that don’t deserve to be granted the honor of ushering in the next year in a blighter’s life.

As options were tossed back and forth, one thing led to another, and we found ourselves discussing something entirely different: Décor.
While some favored the shout-all-you-want, sit-where-you-will kind of place, others preferred to put on the nosebag in locales frequented by gentry sporting somber colors, accompanied by ladies with gowns screaming allegiance to stables set up by beings considered the salt & pepper of present-day fashion, all frowning upon a strand of hair that defies the clips and insists on hanging about doing its own thing, or a spine that decides that “upright” is not the most comfortable posture after all.

As we held palaver on the utopian setting of choice, the debate meandered into a new territory: Cuisine.
The menu dictated by the proprietor had to pamper the palate and digestive system of the entire assembly… well, a majority of the populace, at least. So shouts for Chinese were drowned out by people arguing that Agi-no-moto sent their innards into spasms, while some others alleged that the worm-like appearance of the noodles made for a fortnight of nightmares that eventually sent people off the prescribed diet. These people offered an alternative in the form of Italian cuisine – and in a not-so-nice way, were told off on grounds that the only difference between Spaghetti and Noodles was the spelling. Mexican dishes were too spicy, Indian food too mundane, American victuals like Burgers & Fries were too uninspiring, the Thais used too much sugar or coconut-oil, depending on the preparation, the Japs believed in under-cooking their fare… the objections would have made a hunger artist proud.

And the dialogue would have gone on, till some wise soul decided to glance at the watch adorning his wrist and saw fit to point out that the last hour-and-a-half spent on infighting and thought-up-on-the-spur-of-the-moment arguments blocking other constructive suggestions had made the whole agenda of the evening moot, as all the places under discussion had downed shutters, and the ants were setting about cleaning up the floors with renewed energy, in the absence of human intervention.

With that crisis looming large and rendering all other argument and thought irrelevant and immaterial, and empty stomachs raising their voice in disapproval, demanding immediate attention, we settled on a place that might still serve up something that might still make the evening salvageable. That is to say, one person threw out a name at random, three others agreed to the suggestion with a “Right-o!” and the rest of the group, for want of any better suggestion, fell in line.

So we trooped off to the joint, stood around for a table to be vacated and upon the subject of our wait becoming available, and suitably wiped of the victuals it had been fed by its prior occupants, slid in. We ordered. Or rather, we asked what was available at the late hour, agreed to the paltry 3 preparations the waiter rattled off (apparently, no one else had wanted them, and the kitchen staff had decided the raw materials for these had to be exhausted, and never purchased again), and made attempts to keep the spirits alive with aimless banter and forced humor.

All in all, a birthday celebration no one, especially the star of the evening, would forget in a hurry, despite repeated sessions of hypnosis and strong doses of doctor-prescribed morphine.

WAIT... AND HOPE

2008-01-01T20:21:00.000+05:30

One year, and nothing much has changed. The day still starts at the same time, work is unyielding as always, routines are etched in stone, goals and plans persevere… barring slight, inescapable modifications.

Ah, but there is one change: people, are different.
No, not that they are all more-or-less a year older. Not that they have changed in their nature to a significant, remarkable degree. It’s the whole “Once a thief…” syndrome at play.

Sidebar: Marginal changes are evident; expectedly so. Some habits have had more time to ingrain themselves in the veins. Some habits have faded. Some looks have changed. Hair has been dyed or streaked. Earrings have increased exponentially. Glasses have appeared, given way to contacts. Phones have changed. Diets too.
But these are just superficial morphs.
Irrelevant. Immaterial. Sustained!

Friends circles have changed. Some of the old ones have been weeded out –unintentionally, at times. Purely because some distances in geographies, tastes and ideologies have proven too large to bridge. Not impossible, just impractical, given current circumstances. Some have been pushed out with great effort, all for want of peace and quiet.

Some acquaintances have been upgraded. Some new inmates have put their uniforms and plates on newly emptied or newly built bunks. And cell doors have slammed shut. It’s now a question of whose name gets called the next time the doors swing open. Place your bets!

The heart has mourned those who’ve left. For some, it grieves still. The eyes have smiled at the immigrants, and left them to their devices, offering occasional pointers when solicited. Life has meandered around immovable events and circumstances. Water under the bridge -- precious fluid nonetheless. What’re a few tears among friends? What, indeed?

My cynicism rears its head yet again... undying, unrelenting, immortal and invincible. The hands of time may turn steadily; the sands of time may pour out effortlessly, on cue, much like clockwork; life may drain out of the very pores: one continuous ooze that shows no signs of clotting.

2008 looms ahead. Will it bring back all that’s lost? Will it bring forth new pleasures? Will it revive dying dreams? Will it heal old wounds? Or will it draw fresh blood and leave more scars?

The gut says: “Bosh, and nonsense!”
The heart cries: “Spare me!”
A tiny voice squeaks: “There’s always hope!”
The soul drowns them all out: “There’s one whole year to find out!”

THE FORGIVEN

2007-10-30T13:52:00.000+05:30

Mistakes happen. To err is, after all, a human trait. But forgiveness… that’s a whole new ball game.

People who err, forgive themselves. It doesn’t take more than a few minutes, however heinous the fault. There’s a justification for everything. The milk of human kindness gushes forth to wash away every wrong in the blink of an eye. It’s amazing. It’s survival.

It takes a little longer to forgive someone who’s wronged you. For there, the bigger battle is not that you’ve been wronged and someone needs to be forgiven; it’s that your Ego can’t take the betrayal and the pain and the ease with which your trust has been taken with a smile and kind words, lovingly caressed and kissed as you watched, but crumpled heartlessly, had a knife thrust into it to the hilt and turned, and squashed under the foot the moment your back was turned. So forgiveness takes its time. And the wait can be a long one. For memories of the deception keep the Ego hurting and the heart bleeds silently, and tears well up in the eyes, only to evaporate into thin air before they spill over, and that slow torment crushes the spirit. But the forgiveness does come.

But the biggest irony of them all – the one thing that punches through the spirit time and again with ever-increasing venom and exponentially rising force and ruthlessness -- is that those who have been wronged are never forgiven. For though they may forgive and extend the olive branch again and again, even at the risk of leaving themselves open to becoming the subject of that same betrayal one more time, the betrayer knows the consequence of his/her action. Knows the pain and the suffering it has caused. And that pricks the conscience. A more powerful emotion is also at play here. The betrayer feels guilty and indignant and angry that someone he/she has wronged has a bigger heart and is more resilient. Weighed down by a feeling that this person holding up the olive branch is a constant reminder of their dark deeds, the tormented soul reacts with a cold shoulder and vinegary comments designed to hurt even further and extend the distance, and burn the bridge before it’s built.

Remorse is a lonely road; and a self imposed one at that. And in the end, the soul is condemned to endure Hell for far longer than it is originally destined to.

WHO AM I?

2007-10-03T10:14:00.000+05:30

I am a sinner. I am saintly.
I am the devil. I am divinity.
I am hatred. I am love.
I am misery. I am joy.
I am turmoil. I am serenity.
I am despair. I am hope.
I am chaos. I am order.
I am irrational. I am reason.
I am stoic. I am emotion.
I am skepticism. I am gullible.
I am discord. I am union.
I am rustic. I am sophistry.
I am a tomb. I am festivity.
I am wrath. I am affection.
I am deceit. I am honest.
I am the rock. I am the particle of dust that is tossed about by a sunbeam.
I am folly. I am intelligence.
I am futility. I am direction.
I am deception. I am truth.
I am hunger. I am satiation.
I am the destroyer. I am creation.
I am cacophony. I am melody.
I am indifference. I am compassion.
I am ugly. I am beauty.
I am the storm. I am tranquil.
I am pain. I am succor.
I am treachery. I am faithful.
I am fickle. I am steadfast.
I am a vagabond. I am work.
I am intoxication. I am sober.
I am disease. I am health.
I am the question. I am the solution.
I am doubt. I am sure.
I am poverty. I am treasure.
I am real. I am imagination.
I am mute. I am language.
I am darkness. I am sight.
I am numbness. I am touch.
I am tyranny. I am democratic.
I am night. I am daylight.
I am life. I am death.
I am the hunter. I am the prey.
I am void. I am time.
I am envy. I am camaraderie.
I am lost. I am the quest. I am discovered.
I am human. I am a miracle.
I am nothing. I am something. I am everything.

I am…. I think.

FOR ETERNITY....

2007-09-08T16:02:00.000+05:30

Nothing lasts. Nothing. Happiness and peace are just states of mind, that change as quickly as people change their clothes. Love and loyalty and trust are merely words… vague and overrated concepts at best. Feelings of joy and effervesence vanish without a trace, like salt in water, leaving only a weird aftertaste. Fantasies and dreams of a great life that we build around ourselves, burst like bubbles in a bath after a body immerses itself in it. Castles in the air, no more -- hazy ones at that. And when the mist clears and the fog lifts, and clarity reestablishes itself, all you have is yourself.
Promises are meant to be broken. Faithlessness is a norm. For what someone does not know can’t hurt them… until they find out. The bitterest pill to swallow, is the one we set up ourselves, psyche ourselves up to take, making ourselves believe we need it and we’ll enjoy the result, and nothing can go wrong. Sometimes, we call this process hope. Sometimes we are so successful in our endeavor that hope transforms into belief. But the real truth is that all these exercises amount to are tears and heartache.
But something emerges from these experiences. Something indelible. Something that does not fade with time. Memories. Bittersweet memories that recur with an uncanny consistency and regularity. The mind keeps these memories alive and rolls them around, much like a tongue playing with that gap in the teeth. But this experience is different in one way. The tongue does not draw blood. Memories, on the other hand, slash open old wounds, keep them raw, and ensure there’s no clotting. And the stupid heart keeps pumping blood to the nerve endings that are now exposed to the air out there, and scarlet foam and froth mingle with the spit and dirt and grime and sweat and drop to the ground, leaving a trail that’s a constant reminder of the path traveled. But the beating heart does not stop, till there’s nothing left to pump.
And then, just as suddenly as it started, the heart falls silent.
But only if you’re lucky.

INVITING THE END

2007-07-23T16:58:00.001+05:30

Death, be kind. Come knocking at my door. Come fast, be sure, and leave no mess.
For all the times I laughed, when others cried. For all the times I smirked when I heard of the misfortunes of others.
For all the times I stood by, and watched my handiwork wreck other lives.
For all the times I tore hearts out and stamped on them, drummed my fingers as screams rent the air and whistled as sobs and sighs lent the rhythm.
For all the times I played with sentiments and emotions and feelings and trust – things given to me without any expectation, other than that I keep them safe, treasure them, and exalt in them.
For all the bodily and mental hurt I have left in my wake, as I stumbled and rampaged through life.
I’ve gone too far. Done too much harm -- Irreversible harm.
All that was asked of me, was that I make room for some others in my life. All that was expected of me, was unconditional love. All that was desired of me was that I sympathize, empathize, and lend a shoulder when required. All I did, was add to the pain.
Enough.
No more.
Such a failure has no place on this earth.Death, be kind. Come knocking at my door. Come fast, be sure, and leave no mess, if it please you.

BLACK...

2007-07-23T15:25:00.000+05:30

Hello, darkness…. Old friend. Banished once, but persistent in your desire to weld yourself to my life.
How long will you stay this time?
Till I turn you out again?
Till you find yourself so indelibly imprinted on my soul that there’s no light left to blot out?
Till you decide to make way for the light?
Or have you learnt from your past error, and decided not to bow out at the brilliance you encountered a few months ago?
Did you miss me so?
Really?
Why?
Was there no one else who could please and satiate you more?
Why are you silent and brooding? Or is that just your nature… a nature I knew so well, but have forgotten in recent times?
You’ve begun your work I see… The light that once beckoned at the end of the tunnel dims. The shadows grow longer, and the tunnel elongates itself, reveling in your company.
For a few days now, I’ve felt you trying to claw yourself back into my life, my soul. Congratulations.
Your persistence is awe-inspiring. Your efforts have not been futile after all.
I grow resigned to your presence. You grow stronger.
Run your course. I doubt there’s much time left. So be quick.
But promise me you’ll torment only me. Let your vengeance be appeased with me. Do not turn to the source of the brilliance that once ran you out of my life. It was pure. It was good. It is so, and does not deserve you.
My life, as you well know, has been lived on the run. A month premature when I entered this world; 6 months to begin mouthing words; 10 minutes to pick up a dog; half-a-day to find my dog a home; 2 days to decide on a career; 6 months to climb up the ladder; A day to shift houses every time… the clock is ticking. There’s not much time left. Do your worst…. Your best.

TRULY COMMERCIAL

2007-06-23T17:47:00.000+05:30

He stopped by the doorway, hefted his jeans higher, pushed his Stetson higher up his brow, and proceeded to pull out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Out came a Zippo, and its flickering flame gave life to 2 curling tendrils of blue smoke. He inhaled deeply, and the creases on his brow vanished, a smile appeared on his lips and he leant his shoulder against the doorframe as 2 fingers closed around the stick and pulled it away from his lips. The tip of his tongue swept over his lips and a moment later, billows of smoke blew the wisps of smoke emanating from the end of his cigarette into nothing.

His horse, stamping the ground behind him, shifted its weight and tossed her head. The whites of her eyes stood out wildly in the dark. She strained against her harness, whinnied loudly, stamped her foot, and fell over in slow motion. The screen went black. And out of the oblivion, appeared jagged words in white “Passive Smoking Kills… Too.”

Simple, yet hard hitting.

They don’t make commercials like that anymore.

These days, the commercials on air, barring a scanty few, seem to showcase more tongue-in-cheek humor as in the naukri.com advertisement; extravagance like the horde of Rajasthani villagers lighting up a palace in the HappyDent advertisement, or skin. They also appear more than willing to play with a person’s aspiration – the “wear a white shirt and get a promotion” syndrome, or tug at the heart strings a la the “Hamara Bajaj” ad.

Creativity, I think they call it. Want a more colorful phrase? Try ‘lateral thinking’. But how is it that such “creativity” has become so run-of-the-mill? How is it that all those creative thinkers, who get to warm seats in a plush air-conditioned office, drinking pots of coffee billed to the client, and paid shit-loads of money to think up “fresh” ideas, invariably end up going for tried and tested scenarios that hold the viewer’s attention for around 3 seconds, and leave no brand recall?

Some ad-men are quick to argue that these ideas, stale as they may sound, work… at least when it comes to picking up a few Lions and Leaves at international advertising forums.
But if that’s the case, and the rule-of-thumb that the advertising world has come to follow, it’s myopic at best.

Others put forth a theory that the client takes the final call, and tried-and-tested is the order of the day. Plausible, but a little hard to believe… because as a student of management, one of the first things that’s drummed into heads is that the life and recall of a product will be directly proportional to the factors differentiating it from its competitors.

It’s a blame-game that has no end in sight. But from the perspective of a layman who’s subject to these visuals every time he turns the tube on, “something new” is definitely “top of mind.”

And so it appears, that a harsh, matter-of-fact re-look at the trash clogging the airwaves is in order. Maybe it’s time to go back to the drawing board and really put the gray cells to work. Or maybe, it’s time advertisers went home and really thought about how the present commercials dilute the value of the product, giving it an “also available on the shelf” persona, and come up with better ways to push their products to the world out there.

PEACE AT LAST...

2007-05-29T15:54:00.000+05:30

“I am a sinner. Please forgive me.”

Such simple words.
So powerful.
But what gives them this power? Is it the sincerity? The resignation? The confidence? The desperation? The self-realization? Or is it just the humility to acknowledge that one has slipped up, and needs help?

Whatever be the emotion behind these words, there’s no denying that they call out to the listener. Fill his heart with compassion. Captivate him with their eloquence. Remind him that he too is human, and prone to err.

But it’s the greatest gift of them all. For with these simple words, one seeks absolution, and with them, one feels himself pulled to the Bosom of the Good Lord.

For the response that follows, be it in Latin, or Greek, or English, or any other tongue known to man, offers the sweetest relief imaginable:
“Ego te absolvo in nominee Patris et Fillee et Spiritus Sanctii.”
“I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.”

And a dying man will know peace, and feel himself lifted, and secure.

For man is a fickle creature, in need of constant reassurance that he is headed to a better place. That there is peace and happiness in the afterlife. That the Lord created him in His own image, and so a part of Him he is.

Call it folly. Call is blind faith. Call it what you will. But the greatness of our forefathers, who conceptualized this ritual, cannot be denied. For with one sentence, they put the dying man and his kith and kin in a state of peace, drawing the anguish out like sucking out a snake’s venom.

The quest for peace, ends, with success.

THE IDIOT AND THE BOX

2007-03-03T16:48:00.000+05:30

It was the day my friend was having a big bash to celebrate his first TV, and the new Tata Sky connection. “DTH cometh, it’s finally time to make life ‘Jhinga la la’”, read the SMS he’d sent around. “See you at 10 am sharp, Sunday” it had concluded.
The blessed Sabbath dawned. I woke up, as usual, at 10:30, and lazily crossed the street to his pad.
I walked in, and my senses were assaulted by the loud electronic voices of people chattering on TV. No human voices to speak of.
I wade through the hall into the room housing the latest bit of gadgetry to grace his 4 walls, and behold my friend watching TV… all alone. Packets of junk food – some full, some empty – played the role of a carpet. Crumbs of potato wafers, biscuits, popcorn kernels, interspersed with empty coke bottles made up the detailing… I felt lucky I hadn’t kicked off my footwear.
“Where’s the rest of the crowd?” I asked. “Got bored, went home,” came the reply. His eyes never leave the screen. My puzzled expression was lost on him. So I put it into words: “Why? What happened? Something wrong with the TV or nothing interesting on air?”

“Oh, lots of great stuff’s on… but we couldn’t watch anything completely.”

His eyes still haven’t left the screen. I realize I’m screaming to make myself heard. The remote’s lying next to him, beside to a limp arm. But I dare not pad up to the screen and touch the knobs there, lest I irritate him.
But strangely, he’s not feeling bad that he’s alone… but it’s a question that’s been niggling me for a while now:
“So they came, they ate, and they left?”
“No. None of them wanted to eat.”
“So you ate all that by yourself?”
“Hmmmm.”
“Dude, how much of that stuff did you eat?”
“Pshawfghhhhh.”
“That’s not a word, man. You feeling ok?”
“Grmbhhhhhh”
“What?”
He turns his head… looks at me… turns back to the TV… sighs…. Lifts up the remote and switches it off… turns back to me…

“Huh?”
“Did you eat all that junk?”
“Yeah, the others didn’t want anything.”
“But there must be 700 bucks worth of junk food on the floor.”
“850, actually.”
“So what happened to the other guys?”
“Yeah, see there’s only one TV, so we couldn’t decide on something everyone wanted to watch. There’s only 1 remote, and we couldn’t decide who should control it. So they all pushed off.”
“Oh....... So I guess I’ll go too then, let you watch what you want. Sorry I disturbed you.”
“Naah man, it’s cool. The ad break’s over…. I’ll turn it on in 5 minutes…”
“You’re watching ads?”
“Yeah," he says matter-of-factly. "A movie interrupts them only once in 15-20 minutes, and that’s just for 5 minutes or so.”
I can’t believe my ears: “So you switch the thing off when the movie starts?”
“No, flip channels.”

He looks at his watch, turns back to the TV, and click’s it on again.

CLEANLINESS FREAKS!

2007-02-20T16:33:00.000+05:30

It’s common perception: A bachelor’s pad will be messy. And why not? The concept of cleanliness has been hammered into the chap since he was knee-high to a grasshopper. And ever since, his one ambition in life has been to let loose and not follow the norms laid down. Let’s be clear about it… One of the most-hated phrase/instruction a lad grows up hearing is “Clean your room.” These three words fester in him, to an extent that they can give him the rash. They spell doom. They spell misery. They spell drudgery. They spell an evening of imprisonment. They spell boredom. And most importantly, they spell the beginning of an evening that could have been spent doing things that are far more interesting.
Scientific arguments that messy rooms can lead to a myriad of disease mean absolute bollocks to him. Ergonomic arguments that a clean room means knowing exactly where things are don’t make sense at all. The only “tidy” he’s interested in is the packet he’s going to make at the football game that evening.
Trust me. I speak from experience.
I have never had to look at my room and wonder: “Now where do I start looking for my blue Umbro jacket with the red and white stripes running down the arms?” The moment I look into my room, I know where it is: Under the bed, towards the top left hand corner, behind that pizza carton, and on top of my tennis racquet which has 2 strings missing, which in turn, lies on a cushion made up of my old white socks with the Nike swoosh on them.
It’s simple.
Ok, you can’t find anything if you walk into my room… but maybe that’s the way I want it. If you need something, ask me. And if I want you to have it, I’ll tell you where to look. But don’t you dare walk into my room and try to pick through my stuff on your own… Not only do you end up making a mess of my living space, you screw up my entire life as well.
A bachelor has other things to worry about than a clean room. Sure, when you walk into it, he may be polite and say something along the lines of “Sorry about the mess.” But he’s just being polite.
And he’ll thank you for not shrieking like a banshee, if you enter the room and spy a cockroach talking a stroll. Believe me, he knows the little guy lives there. He may not necessarily be ok with it, but it’s his way of practicing a life where “Live and let Live” is the guiding force. Please remember, the roach has been walking around since before the Dinosaurs walked the Earth. He’s survived meteor showers, two ice ages, 2 world wars, the atomic bomb, the holocaust, the nuclear storm, and is likely to continue on his regular evening tours of the facility long after your bones are excavated and hailed as the biggest archeological find of the millennium. Such a resilient chap deserves to be saluted, not become the subject of your tonsils doing a hearty jig and breaking the sound barrier with their oscillations.
Yes, there are some chaps who live the “clean” life. But they are aberrations… freaks of nature… exceptions that cannot be used as examples. In all probability, they suffer from a mental disorder: maybe they had too many feminine influences during their formative years. Maybe they were the kind that got bullied at school and were told, on pain of death, that fighting back would mean being sent up to bed without dinner. Maybe they were given too much love as a child. Maybe they were not loved enough. Whatever the reason for their quirky behavior, it must be remembered that these specimens don’t belong in the real world, but in a museum, or better still, an insane asylum.
But I digress.
The room that resembles the site of the last War Of The Worlds, is heaven to a bachelor. And that’s the reason that when he finds such a place, he calls it home. And when he gets a pretty girl in there, and persuades her to stay a while, he calls it: “Getting Lucky.”

BREAKING TRADITION?

2007-01-16T14:10:00.000+05:30

“That’s plain rot!”
“But it’s tradition… our tradition.”
“No, it’s blind superstition; nonsensical rituals… things don’t happen that way anymore.”
“No it’s not. There’s a logic behind everything.”
“Nonsense. The logic of the Neanderthal man does not hold true in the 21st Century.”
“It does… more so now, than ever before. And it’s the way we do things in this house.”
“Talk to the hand….”
“Don’t be flippant with me, young man”
“Flippant?!? You haven’t seen flippant yet.”
“I’ll talk to you about this when you grow up.”

So mum had the last word after all. As far as that discussion was concerned.

What’s this about? It’s about the son of a traditional (no, not orthodox, not conservative, just traditional) house talking about marriage. The said institution is daunting on its own. Add that inevitable dash of traditional practices, and it’s a mountain cracking up, with you standing at the peak, looking down.

The crack widen as you probe deeper. Inter-community marriages are one thing. And getting the parents to agree to one is comparatively easy. There’s a whole gamut of other aspects to consider. How do you tell all those elders in the family that the past year spent looking for a suitable alliance had better stop NOW? How do you explain to them that when you told them to go ahead and look at the myriad matrimonial columns, you were not in love? How do you get them to agree that the love of your life does not believe in some of the practices they think are of paramount importance… that she wants to exchange rings despite being from a community where rings are not the “done thing”?

These questions seem trivial. They never occurred to you… ever. While the issues seem trivial enough and hold no great meaning to you, what flummoxes you the most is why the old fuddy-duddies want to make such a big hue and cry about them… I mean, what difference does it make?

So I go back to the drawing board… call up the girl and try to get her to understand… maybe change her stand. High hopes I had!

So after a few calls back and forth, I see a light at the end of the tunnel. I convince her to meet my parents and persuade them herself. “Fine!!!”, she says. I’m thinking : “There goes sweet pillow-talk for the first month after we are wedded, if we get there.”

She comes. My parents meet her. They talk. She gives in…. She even agrees to wear a Sari and a bindi… She loves me too much! I’m in seventh heaven.

I meet her parents. They are happy, I am happy, She is happy, All’s well with the world!

But ---this ---is --- just --- the --- beginning.

We arrange for the parents to meet each other. There’s general nervousness. I’m nervous. She’s nervous. Her parents are nervous. Mine are bombarding me with questions I had not thought could exist.

Somewhat like this…..

Mom & Dad: “Are they nice people?”
Me: “Yeah they are.”
M&D: “What’s this assessment based on?”
Me: “They gave me the woman I love. And they have agreed to meet you guys.”
M&D: “That’s hardly a judgement criteria… We thought you were mature and responsible.”
Me: “I am… It is…. “
M&D: “Fine! We’ll judge for ourselves, when we meet them.”
Me: “Why didn’t you just say so in the first place?”
M&D: “We thought you were capable of this… now we know better.”
Me: “Ok, can we leave? We’re getting late.”
M&D: “Yeah…. Shouldn’t keep them waiting… Listen… will she be able to blend in with our family?”
Me: “Don’t ask me… you met her… make up your mind.”
M&D: “These responses make us believe you aren’t ready for marriage.”
Me: “Ok Ok… yes she will.”
M&D: “What’s this assessment based on?”
Me: “I love her… She loves me… She’ll do anything necessary… as will I, to make this work.”
M&D: “That’s hardly a judgement criteria… We thought you were mature and responsible.”
Me: “I am… It is…. “
M&D: “Fine! We’ll judge for ourselves, when we her again today.”
Me: “Why didn’t you just say so in the first place?”
M&D: “We thought you were capable of this… now we know better.”
Me: “Is there anything else you would like to know?”
M&D: “Yeah, will they agree to conduct the wedding rituals as per our tradition?”
Me: “Talk to them and figure it out… If I did everything, what will you guys do?”
M&D: “That’s not a proper answer. I shudder to think of you as a married man.”
Me: “I’ll deal with that at the proper time.”
M&D: “Yeah right… don’t come to us if things go wrong.. because you don’t know any better.”
Me: “I give up.”

And it goes on and on and on….

Cutting to the chase… The clans met… they talked, thay laughed, they joked… they agreed that the plunge should be taken… for the happiness of the “children”. And I’m thinking: “Why can’t they just admit they are happy too?”
And then it hits me.
They are! They just don’t want to get emotional over it and show how excited they are. So what rituals are they following?
Each party agreed to do it the other person’s way.
Wow!
And then she pointed it out.
“They are giving in on the little things so they can haggle over the bigger things.”
A conclusion arrived at using her woman’s intuition, no doubt – something I have no idea about.
So there are smiles all around… thumping backs, handshakes, 3 different tongues chattering away – to each his own.
I sit back, content and excited.
Here I am, about to embark on the biggest step in my life so far.
But there’s a niggling thought. And I find the words to put it to my parents on the way back home.
“If you guys are agreeing to everything they say, and the do the same, whose way is it going to be?”
Pat comes the answer: “She’s their only daughter. We want her to be our daughter-in-law… nay, our daughter. Let them do whatever they want to do, their way; and we’ll do whatever we have to do, our way.”
Makes sense.
“So what about alkl that tradition stuff you were harping on about?”
“This is tradition too.”
“Yeah, but its their tradition, not ours.”
“It’s tradition.”
“So now your’e ok with their tradition… I thought you were most insistent it should be ours.”
“Oh, so you want a traditional wedding now?”
“Ma, I just want to get hitched. How it’s done is not my concern.”
“But traditions give sanctity to the entire process.”
“Nonsense. The logic of the Neanderthal man does not hold true in the 21st Century.”
“It does… more so now, than ever before. And it’s the way we do things in this house.”

Mothers! You just can’t beat them.

PLAYING GOD

2006-03-11T18:08:00.000+05:30

I am no psychologist... but a few years of observing human behavior, albeit sporadically, lead me to believe that human nature is compulsively dominating and yearns to be all-powerful... and thereby fails miserably in existing. This nature has an ancient origin... from way back when the sacred texts were written. Maybe much before writing was invented... when people used word-of-mouth to pass on their mental and spiritual legacies. The Bible, in the chapter of Genesis, says God created man in his own form. Similar connotations exist in all the other religions. The Hindu faith advocates in some sense that the mother and father are god-like… no doubt due to the role they play in giving life. And it’s in this long forgotten, but oft heard about era when the concept of God was born, that the deep-down aspiration in every human being to be God-like found root.

There’s a school of thought, which advocates that man created the concept of God as a pillar from which to gain strength in times of need. If this thought were to be followed through and analyzed with a not-so-powerful microscope, it becomes evident that it was the creator’s inherent desire to be all-powerful that drove him to say that God created man in his own form. Whether it was a mere desire or a gripping need to do so, I will leave to speculation…. There’s not evidence available to study the man, as far as I am concerned.

Over the years, people have defined greatness and Godness as per the times they lived in. Alexander was great because he braved a broken home to go out into uncharted territories, conquering all. Julius Caesar was great because he gave the government to the people and took care of them to a large extent. Akbar was great because he was a just ruler, lording it over his subjects with equanimity and compassion. If you are of the Aryan belief, Hitler was great because he tried to make his race superior to others. The list is long. But one thing all these people had in common: power over others… whether through fear or adoration. They played at being akin to God… as each interpreted it.

They’re not alone. Every field has given birth to greatness. This greatness may not be self-imposed, but the power to create and control has held sway over human rationality for time immemorial. Anyone with the power to create gives way to an overriding pride in his achievements. The sculptor believes him to be the god of stone carvings, the artist knows he wields complete power over his canvas and his brushes… and so on. This is true of doctors who cure the sick, software engineers who speak dumbfounding languages only specialized skills can decipher… or electronic ones, for that matter. It’s true of every profession… the journalist who condemns with words, or the judge who hands down a sentence to those he deems guilty (in America, as in some other communities, they let not one, but 12 people play God). The mechanic who gets a motor whirring or the goldsmith who delicately wrests the metal into thingummys that set aesthetic senses tingling. The cook who makes mouths water and the cobbler who allows feet to be protected are no less guilty of giving in to – let’s call it the “God Complex”.

And in this quest for greatness and Godness, man defeats the entire purpose of his existence. It was best summed up in someone’s analysis of the great comic book heroes of our times… and here I paraphrase that idea:
Clark Kent (Kal-El) of Krypton, who we commonly call Superman, is not a super hero like the others. He’s not different because he wears briefs over his trousers. He is different because he is one of the few born with his powers. Superman’s emblem of the “S” is etched onto his chest at birth. He is really superman. His alter-ego is that of Clark Kent: an appearance he takes on to blend in with the crowd. Clark is how Kal-El sees a normal human being – dreamy, clumsy, shy weak and cowardly. The other superheroes have gained superhuman powers only after spending time as normal folk. They need to distinguish themselves, show they are different. Hence the mask/hood, cape, costume and varied paraphernalia.
It all boils down to this. Greatness is delusional. All those who strive for greatness have already failed. Popoye is the only great person around. Not because he refuses to hide his dependence on spinach for strength, not because he can throw the big bad Bruno a mile away with a flick of his wrist. Because his belief is perfect: “I am what I am and that’s all that I am.”

DOCTORED UNREST

2006-03-07T18:44:00.000+05:30

It's all over the news.... every media house, irrespective of size, focus, medium, and reach has latched on to the story of how doctors in India's western state of Maharashtra are agitating. But what exactly are the fighting for? It all started at one hospital when one of the overworked resident doctors was roughed up by patients who had been kept waiting for a while. Other resident doctors closed ranks to protest this incident. Fair enough... the right to protest is one granted by democracy. The patients were at fault... true, they had been kept waiting and they were indignant. As is frequently noticed, when one is ailing, every small thing is a matter of irritation... and all it takes is a few similarly irritated people to turn into a mob. The doctors, at the time, decided to fight fire with fire. It's been 9 days since.
What started involving a single hospital has mushroomed. It now involves physician bodies spanning the length and breadth of the state of Maharashtra. Resident doctors are on strike at various levels. And with the furore spreading, so has the point of the agitation. It now involves inhuman working hours, poor pay, and sad living conditions. I'm pretty sure the chap who was manhandled has been forgotten. The original incident still does the rounds; but in Mumbai's hospitals, that's nothing new. Reports of doctors, nurses and other healthcare professionals facing physical abuse at the hands of depressed, frustrated or grief-stricken friends and relatives of patients have been doing the rounds for quite a while now.
The bottom line is that it's become an issue on gargantuan proportions, forcing the nation to sit up and taken notice. Doctors have been fired, medical students expelled, and orders flit back-and-forth among government and professional bodies on how the madness can be sorted out. In the midst of all this, heroes emerge. Stories of physicians and surgeons who took up the tools of their trade to save lives despite the visible disintegration of Maharashtra's healthcare system.
And somehow, I believe the media has had a large role to play. Agreed that reporting is subjective. But the media has hidden behind this subjectivism, ignoring its most important function - that of gate keeping. Reporters, cameramen, photographers, and editors - all are responsible for this fiasco. As responsible, if not more, than the fellow who decided the doctor who stood before him deserved a slap and a shove. As responsible as the other doctors who refused to ignore the attack and opened the floodgates to a national crisis by walking out of the institution to sit in protest outside its gates.
Let's concede at this point that the matter might have fizzled out with a little more than an apology from both sides. But that's not the case. The media got involved. First came reports of the assault and retaliation. Then came stories on how this is not the first time such an incident has happened. This was followed by stories of how the doctor's parents and family feel and how angry and indignant they are. Close on their heels came reports on how the institutions issued an ultimatum to the striking doctors to resume work. Then came claims from doctors that they were underpaid, overworked and forced to live in filthy conditions. Then came reports of more doctors joining the protests and downing stethoscopes and scalpels. And reports of more altercations by frustrated patients and their well-wishers who found hospitals doctorless when they walked in for treatment. Then the state government issued an ultimatum, which made it to the front page of the newspapers and found airtime somewhere in the first segment of a news bulletin. By now, people are clamoring to know more. So the newspapers and TV channels decide to ask a few doctors outside Mumbai how they feel. Strong words result and medical practitioners from those areas also join in. This is faithfully reported. Soon statewide reports start coming in.... and the issue takes on national interest.
In the midst of all this ruckus and confusion, some smart reported digs up the story of one doctor who, despite the protests and the acute manpower crunch, remembers his hypocritical oath and decides to operate on a newborn baby, saving his life. Soon, more such instances will emerge. Then, one of two things will happen: these "humanitarians" will become the focus of wrath from their fraternity who have decided to make the street their office and domicile. They will face ostracisation and ridicule. Their life will become a living hell. Alternatively, some doctors will decide to take a closer look and join the new horde of heroes campaigning for a greater cause. (It could just be guilt, of course, but that's less likely, given present circumstances.) Good sense will prevail and they will decide that no pay is better than less pay. They will forgive those who cast stones at them and in true biblical fashion, care for and cure the very same people, pushing personal discomfort to the back burner. The matter will come to a close.
But the ever-alert media will not let the matter rest. Either way, it will have the last laugh. The ostracized doctors will make the headlines. The faces of these new breed of heroes will be splashed across pages. Comments from their friends and relatives will find mention. But the voices of dissent will also be carried alongside these sagas. Praise and condemnation, side by side... the perfect balancing act. The stories that can be generated are limitless. All the juicy tit-bits will be remembered, archived for future reference and kept updated. Whether the issue is resolved or not, it's meat for the news-mongers.

Sadly, this is true of any issue.

Who said the media has a short memory?