Monday, December 08, 2008
Tower of Babel
They knew a whole lot. As I watch again and again Hemant Karkare—the celebrated chief of the Maharashtra Anti-Terrorist Squad (ATS) who has been under fire from BJP and other right wing political parties for linking a bomb blast in Malegaon in September to a Hindu terrorist network—putting on a helmet and bulletproof vest for a possible encounter with terrorists, somehow he looks to me more like a person going through the motions before being led to the execution chamber than a fearless soldier eager to get into the war front. All I see in his eyes is a sense of fatality, not excitement. Did he think he was being set up? Was he one of the targets? Or is it just that I was expecting him to be as expressive as a movie star? I don't know. But as I go through the same images and scenes being played out in different news channels I see a gleam in the eyes of the young terrorist on the street and only gloom in the eyes of the champion policeman.
Or, is it? Perhaps, all the gloom is in my eyes, not in Karkare's. For the last couple of days, every time, most of the times, I do something, anything, this thick cloud of smoke comes up and consumes me. I pick up a book to read, but before I start I put it down. I put on my shoes to go for a walk in the morning, and then take them off before tying the lace. I just don't feel like doing anything. I’ve felt it while playing with my kid in the park or talking to my wife on the phone or drinking a cup of tea, in the loo, at work, on the road...it happens anywhere, anytime. My head just gets lost in thick black smoke, in the smell of gun powder, and I am light and floating. Lost in thoughts? I can’t say that because when it happens there’s nothing clear in my head. I don’t know what I am thinking, I don’t know what I am seeing, I just go weightless, out of bounds of any pulling factor, beyond gravity, beyond love, beyond hatred...all I want then is to get out of whatever I am doing, get out of the whole world.
Is it fear? Is it rage? Or is it just sorrow? I am terrorised to see Taj up in flames, the sight of murderers wielding fully loaded assault rifles and grenades ruling perhaps the country's most historic and crowded railway station and familiar streets—streets and platforms I walked almost every day for a month when I was in Mumbai—was frightening. But not to the extent to feel scary about going out or going to Mumbai or walking the same streets and platforms or staying in those hotels. Having a drink at Leopold, a restaurant in Colaba where two terrorists started their shooting spree before going into Taj, is one of the first things I would want to do when I visit Mumbai next. Not to prove any point to anybody, just a natural instinct. And I won’t be afraid. Without being a true believer in God, I believe I ultimately belong to my destiny. I can do things without worrying what will happen next. It’s not fear that’s behind the thick smoke that consumes me every now and then. It's clear.
It is annoying and unsettling to see people being shot down without any reason, to see our policemen running away from terrorists and their duties, to see intelligence agencies and think tanks preoccupied with politics failing to collate information they receive and prepare strategies, to see them blaming each other, to see our best commandos taking days to overpower less than 10 terrorists hauled up in three different buildings. I understand all the outrage around, against insensitive, selfish politicians who never spare a thought for the country and the people, come quake or terror, against widespread corruption that has made our system so fragile. I hate political and religious leaders of the world for promoting separatism and divisions, I hate hardliners who brainwash youngsters without giving them a chance to see the other side. But I am not exactly breathing fire. I've always been aware of the dirty politics of the world. But I can live with that. I am far too convinced that the biggest problem in the world is lack of tolerance. I just can’t let my anger dictate me.
Not terror, not rage. Perhaps it’s plain sorrow causing this thick black smoke, this unbearable lightness. But what am I crying over? I've seen people suffer before. I've watched equally bad if not worst attacks before. I remember being much more agitated during the Gujarat riots. What's different this time? My feeling, my reaction, my numbness. It's like I am mourning the death of someone dear. But there's nobody so close involved. What am I mourning? What am I missing?
Confused, I go back to the TV to see young, daring, highly competent journos fighting like scavengers to capture the miseries all too obvious and visible all around. They throng people just emerging from two full days of sleepless nightmare with cameras and mikes and a flurry of questions that sound, I feel, like gunshots and blasts still echoing in their ears. The media commandos block their ways and vehicles, without enmity, without common sense, full of compassion. And the daring cameramen risk their lives to capture every move of the National Security Guard (NSG) commandos engaged in the rescue mission, and most probably keeping the terrorists inside Taj, Oberoi and Nariman Point aware of what’s happening outside. What grief! I try some cartoon channel, only to get lost in the smoke again.
What is that's paining me so much? I can't even call it a pain, it's beyond that. I don't get the sinking feeling in the chest that sadness usually brings. Not now.
But there is sorrow, I feel it. A deep, unfathomable, indefinable sorrow is swelling in my mind. There’s no doubt. It's not personal. It's not mine. It's the sorrow of the God, if there's one. It's the combined sorrow of all the gods, if there are many. And definitely, it's the sorrow of the human being—the one who's inside both the terrorist and the victim, the politician and the commoner, the Muslim and the Hindu, the rich and the poor. The one who is helplessly watching the human race—perfectly capable of unravelling all the secrets of space and time and existence—staying in a small tower of a world, talking in different tongues and committing hara-kiri in the name of love, revenge, money, family, race, religion, region, sex, sexual behaviour, god, heaven, anything, everything. Only a motley crowd of scientists, explorers, philosophers and meditators ever tried to understand the unquantified, unexplored, universe. They are still there on the terrace, fixing radars and beaming signals, or going around the tower with walkie-talkies and handheld cameras, or sitting at their desk studying and thinking, or going deep into themselves, all trying to capture the bigger picture. No one cares. This crowd is unpopular, apolitical, powerless, negligible and completely forgotten.
It’s always been like that. Nothing has changed. As was then as is now: we do not know what we do. The problem is, we will not be forgiven forever. We, the world, have become far too powerful to survive without tolerance, without love, without understanding the rules of the universe. This tower is filled with firearms and it’s so full of hatred that the whole thing can blow up and collapse in no time. Is this the end? Is this our destiny? Or, will there be a revival, a worldwide revolution, a global awakening? I don't know. I can't say. It's too dark here. It's too full of smoke, this tower.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Diary of Jack the plumber (not to be confused with Joe)
Today a man called from the bank. i said no money, take away me home. who cares. they cancelled me credit card last week. who cares. i got plenty of em. paid for my corolla with a card. finally the pickup is gone. the guy who carried me around for twenty years? more than that me thinks. boy, was guzzling all the gas in the city. and gas--them say fuel is on fire. true. must buy a full bottle to billie at the service station says for finding me this old toyota. real cheap. and it runs on air, not gas, methinks. fill it and forget it. me owe it to him, ol'billie boy. japanese are smart assholes. their needs are bare minimum just like the cars them make. i still have xxx got from the truck. can last me 3-4 months if no work comess, methinks. look where gas is gone, boy! who can afford a truck these days. nobody. i tell you, nobody. this nation is ruined. nobody has money. nobody. billie said his kid is out of job. same story everywhere. no work, no money, no gas. we are fucked. those republicans have fucked us.
July xx, 2008
Them democrats have gone nuts. Them want this black dude as the prez. that hilary lady--man ain't the old bitch so gorgeous--could have thrashed that republican soldier from the grave. them want a black president. black! my foot. them crazy!
Aug xx, 2008
That obama chap is a good bastard. today me saw him at the campaign. he's terrific when he talks, that black guy. i ain't seen no black talk so good. man, he has all the right word, that obama chap. me thinks he may be the next prez. yes man, a black man in white house. me thinks. and he is not as black as me thought. more white, less black. son of a bitch.
Sept xx, 2008
it's tough. life, i say. not much work these days. norah has shifted to her mom. says can't starve. bloody bitch. as if there was no food. we're tight. but man we no starving. she bitch knows. me got cable line cut. can't afford. no work. no one's fixing pipes. nobody building houses. everyone is screwed. screwed from all sides. everybody. i tell യു, mate. this nation is ruined.
Oct xx, 2008
was watching tube at smith's. poor old smithie, lost all his savings in stock. greedy bastard. everybody is losing money. big banks are falling down like twin towers. it's worse man, me thinks. its bad. old bush has sold the country. them sent all the jobs out. bastards. now them want our money, my tax. why me pay for chinese and indians? man, this country is gone to dogs. and pigs. but obama chap is good. this black man will save this country, methinks. he talks so well. he's no black. no black can talk like that. and look at those women. they are going crazy about him. every channel says he'll win the polls. history, man, history. the mutt is smart, me too will vote for him. vote for a black man. grandpa, forgive me, only this black man can save us. so what if he's black. it's green that matters, not black. we want our greenbacks, black or white. it's true, grandpa, for christ sake.
nov 4, 2008
election day. it's gonna be obama. everyone says so. good for the nation, them say. me too thinks. the tube is full of the black smartie. even ol'smithie says will vote for this cross-breed. five years ago he won't let no black in his bar. and now! mother fucker. spineless asshole. me staying home. can't vote for a black. grandma will turn in her grave. but norah, that bitch, she will go black, i know. shame on her. a black president! shame on the country. obama must have done some black magic. grandma say blacks are witches. must be true. grandpa won't let no black enter the house. he won't let us kids talk to any black man. now, a black man in white house! our forefathers must be turning in their graves. it's a national shame. how can you let this happen? sky falling down is better, methinks. we whites are so generous. we let these illiterate
assholes into our homes and wworkplaces. now they wan't to rule us. to dictate. slaves want to be masters. my foot. it will be better if the country goes down in pacific. no, this must not happen. methinks. i can't stay here and think. i must vote. to save the country. from the bloody blacks.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
mid-career blues
It’s ridiculous that I am not a senior editor. Absolutely ridiculous. A shame on my employer, in fact. Look at this picture. Here I am with my three-year-old. On the banks of
Confidence? Well, don’t I look confident, at least in this picture? Perhaps I don’t when I’m at work, or in a meeting. But then I don’t feel the same in an official meeting as I do when I’m having fun with my kid. At work, I am more often all at sea, never on the banks of a pleasant river.
But that doesn’t stop me from looking like an editor, at least when I’m vacationing. Ok, I’m not the best hand they have—am not fast and I’m not very sharp, my reading is not good enough to add value to my work, my design sense can prove disastrous and I’m not the most likable guy around—but I have my stuff to put on the table. I can think out-of-the-box, like picking an editor, or for that matter a writer or even a pilot, by just looking at their photographs. What say you, Mr. CEO?
Monday, August 04, 2008
Walk In The Park
This is a small park. More of a lawn. One round on the walkway along the boundaries should be just about 600 metres, perhaps 500. The grilled boundary walls have mostly come apart, making it easy for people and stray dogs to jump in and out of the park at will. Any time, anywhere access—the demand of the new high-tech world.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
The Second Coming
Now it’s different. To live my dream, I don’t have to walk the dark alleys of the underground world of entertainment—that I’m sure would dwarf Hollywood and all the casinos of the world in size and in innovation—in search of a Balcony. I can play out my dream virtually in my living room, on the internet. That’s what half the humanity in the positive side of the digital divide does—living a Second Life.
For the uninitiated, Second Life is a 3-D internet-based virtual world game that allows its users to create what they call avatars and interact with each other. Second Life, developed by Linden Research Inc in 2003, is one of the several virtual worlds inspired by Niel Stephenson’s science fiction novel Snow Crash, informs Wikipedia. And it’s been a huge success, lighting up the imagination of, let’s say, a vision-starved, self-centred, generation.
Well, I’m not a Second Life citizen. And I don’t know if Niel Stephenson got the idea from The Balcony. It doesn’t matter. The thing is the world, the influential world, is sold to it. Second Life is not a fantasy tour or voyeurism, not even a pastime. It’s a parallel life. There is a complete ecosystem there. And people live as real a life there as in the physical world—and they enjoy better control, more freedom and have less moral hang-ups and no physical constraint. Only their body is, well, digital. Just like their world.
And it’s not just the dreamers flocking into Second Life. It’s big business, big money, big opportunity. Big corporates are all there, searching for talent and marketing products and services, all for the real, material world of you and me.
Yes, Second Life is both virtual and material. It’s the digital life of a material world! An avatar, as they call a Second Life resident, can even buy the real shares of ArcelorMittal with Linden dollars, the currency of Second Life. In fact, the other day, the world’s biggest steelmaker held its AGM in this digital world. And I read a news report—in print, mind you—on how it went off in the imaginary world where people fly around. What next? Digital steel, perhaps. And then? Digital man, certainly.
The truth is, it’s not steel that’s making one sit up and think about this digital reality, though. Or the fact that global news agency Reuters has a Second Life bureau. It’s the level of involvement. I remember reading about people who spend most of their waking hours in the Second Life. And I remember what the wife of one such guy, who has another family in Second Life, said. It went something like this: “You fetch something to dink for a guy who spends his whole day on the computer only to see him making love with a cartoon on the screen!”
Now, who is this guy? Is he, let’s say, the failed saxophonist Milos Kovac, living in Warsaw with his wife Karla or, Carlos Mascarooni, a successful casino baron, living with his super model wife Camilla McLahan, in Second Life? Who is his ‘I’? When he’s glued to his PC living his Carlos avatar, will he respond if you call him Milos? My guess is as good as yours.
Its website informs me that Second Life already has over 14 million residents! That’s over three times the population of Singapore, with multiple identities. You don’t need to be a Nostradamus to see many of these guys are going to end up with an identity crisis.
I can see a generation for whom the first person is plural! People will be talking about many I’s. OK, the early 20th century muse may have written: “Countless lives inhabit us. I don’t know, when I think or feel, Who is it that thinks or feels… I have more than just one soul. There are more I’s than I myself.” But now it’s not about an odd poet. We’re going to have a whole generation of people with several lives. I am us! Perhaps, we’ll replace ‘I’ with ‘we’ in conversations.
Or, perhaps, our digital selves will take over. Imagine a generation that feels its life. Yes, to live, for them, will be to feel. They are going to redefine existence. For all you know, the biological body may become just a preserver of the mind. A body blow to body in the historical mind versus body battle. Oh, man’s intellectual history seems to be at a turning point, I just can’t resist the temptation to predict. Perhaps this is the next big development in evolution—the coming of the digital man. A generation of supermen that lives in Second Life—or third or fourth or tenth—that won’t be called virtual anymore.
As for we lesser mortals, let’s keep our fingers crossed and pray the physical world doesn’t end. For the sake of our blood and sweat and DNA. Or, rather—this has more appeal—for the sake of body lotions, deos and condoms.
Let the world move on to a digital existence, let the Second Coming happen in the Second Life, let that be the most beautiful place without poverty and starvation and racism… But, a cartoon on bed? I’m fine here, sir, thank you.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
my head, my head
If you are still wondering, as I did some three minutes ago, what the heck prefrontal cortex is, well, it's that part of your brain that helped you learn things as child and still helps you be innovative and learn new things. Scientists have found out that there's something similar in young birds. But they lose it once they grow up. It's OK for them, I guess. They won't miss prefrontal cortex or LMAN as scientists call it; they have their wings to fly. But I need my imagination to fly.
And I have my ambitions too, yes. I need all my innovative circuits to create, word by word, the greatest piece of literature and to make, shot by shot, the greatest film ever produced. I just can't keep dreaming about a Nobel or a Cannes Palme d'Or. I've done enough of fooling around. Any serious work is now or never.
When did I lose it, my prefrontal cortex? When did I last learn something new? When did I last do something innovative, if at all? C'mon, think, brain. I know you're an old bloody piece of junk but don't tell me you've conked off, absolutely. Brain, hey brain, o'brain, I'm talking to you.
I'm positive I learnt nothing in the last two-three years—perhaps, six-seven years—except for picking up a couple of Hindi words like "kachua" (turtle, stupid!) from my three-year-old daughter. Except for some plots and characters that pop up in my head once in a blue moon—only to be completely lost to my inherited laziness and unflinching trust on my memory—there has been nothing new happening in my head for years now, other than rapid graying of hair.
The last time—perhaps that was the fist time too—I wanted to do something concrete was almost a decade ago, when the dotcom craze was at its peak, when internet instilled a sense of empowerment into the minds of humanity, when the wired half of the world went on an idea rush. Anything looked possible. Imagine and it's done. I wanted to set up a worldwide individual-level exchange of goods and services. A place where one could sell one's skills either as a service or a product. It was to be a one-point source for all your needs, from grocery to fitting a bath shower to buying a flat to investing in Chinese market. It was to be a place where you could bid for jobs, be it editing, marketing a product, building a skyscraper or making a movie. Where you could sell your farm produce, cement, paintings or ideas.It was to mark the end of employment, the finest mode of slavery. A world of ultimate outsourcing. There are customers and there are service providers. Every buyer would be a seller too.
It was to be a place where true price discovery of skills happened. It would have been the ultimate market-driven world. Yet, I thought, it had the elements of socialism. I remember I was keen to do it, to at least float the idea. But it never happened. I never managed to work out the finer details.
And I lost it, just like that. What was it? A journey? An encounter? Another thought that I thought was even more precious? Or just a bottle of rum? I can't remember. I lost it, I don't know how. What I know is my head is a mess. And I must find my prefrontal cortex. To fly.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
disappointed
bindu was sharing a funny incident on the phone. she was disappointed that i didn't laugh. i was listening to her. and the joke did strike me. but i didn't laugh. i'm not sharing like before. am not open anymore. where am i? hello? has my head turned into a shell?
my head has perhaps stopped functioning at all. when i try to think all i feel is a burning sensation in my head. i know my problem. brain paralysis.
now what? some vodka, of course. cheers!