Tower of Babel

An overwhelming pall of gloom, like a thick black cloud of gun smoke, has been hanging over me ever since reports and images of Mumbai being attacked by a handful of gunmen started streaming in from all around. A couple of twenty-somethings in jeans and casuals firing indiscriminately at hundreds of commuters at the monumental Victoria Terminus railway station with AK56 assault rifles and then walking across the streets unchallenged to the nearby Cama hospital to kill more and then again after a bloody shootout coming out to attack the vehicle Maharashtra Anti-Terrorism Squad (ATS) chief Hemant Karkare and his famous lieutenants Vijay Salaskar and Ashok Kamte were in, killing all three, and running helter-skelter around the town, first in the police SUV and then in a hijacked Skoda, for two more hours before being brought down by police, one dead and the other alive—shocking and unbelievable—exposes our fragility as a nation, as a people, as individuals. A Times of India photographer managed to photograph these guys, more than once, from different angles, at VT within minutes of the start of the carnage. A single armed police sharpshooter in the vicinity could have easily brought them down then and there. There was none. The attackers knew it.

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.

Diary of Jack the plumber (not to be confused with Joe)

July xx, 2008
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.

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 Beas river somewhere in the Kullu valley. There I am in a t-shirt and khakis, my legs in the water, holding my kid who’s visibly excited standing on this island of a rock. Look at my graying uncombed hair, salty stubbles and moustache, my misshapen glasses. Cool and casual, my carefully maintained carelessness all too visible. See my half smile and my gleaming eyes — they really clinch the deal. How can I be a junior editor? Don’t I look the same to my editor? Can’t he see all this, the spark, the coolness, the confidence….

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?

Walk In The Park

This is my fourth round in the park this morning. After three rounds of jogging I’ve eased into a walk, bringing my breath under control and opening my eyes to the surroundings.

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.

Jetting into the otherwise square park in one corner is a temple with its comparatively new boundary walls. Besides the jogger’s path, there’s a paved walkway across the park along the centre. All these paths are flanked by several kinds of small trees, mostly flowery ones. Right at the middle there’s a monument kind of structure, which is also a huge, say, 25-30 feet tall, concrete-and-tiles signboard screaming ‘Kaushambi’. That’s the name of this residential area. A much smaller, true-to-life signboard along one of the four roads bordering the park says ‘Central Park’. 

Yes, the park is at the centre, surrounded by roads. The ones on the north and east are small bylanes with hardly any movement except for stray dogs and cows and occasional passers-by and vehicles. But they are not quite. Parallel to the northern bylane is a very busy highway, the one connecting Delhi to Meerut and beyond. The other two roads are bigger, with a steady flow of vehicles and people, one being the main entrance to the colony. These two roads are on either side occupied b a number of street vendors—selling tea, tobacco, traditional fastfood like chole-bhature and channa-kulcha, kulfi, fruit, vegetables, flower and ‘machine water’, to mostly lower class people from sweepers and rikshaw pullers to labourers and housemaids working in residential and commercial buildings around, in nearby malls, construction cites and on the building of Metro rail that’s supposed to change the way Delhi travels.

There are people sleeping on park benches. Almost every bench is occupied by people of different age and built, sleeping in different positions, all with similar expressionless faces. Some kids are playing around an old see-saw, closer to the centre of the park. I think its seats are broken as two kids are hanging on their belly on either side, they jump when their dangling legs touch the ground. Three-four other kids are watching them, a couple of very small kids are carrying even smaller kids. All happy. In their torn clothes. Have they had their breakfast today? I doubt. But they are all smiles, everybody.

There are squirrels running around almost every tree, chirping. Love birds are flying around busy, without any apparent display of love. A couple of pigeons are drinking from one of the small pools of water left by overnight rains. It’s still overcast. The sun is peeking out of the cloud every now and then. But it’s hot and humid. Mynas are chasing each other from tree to tree in groups of two, three, four. The grass is green and mostly wet. And all the flowery plants are in full bloom. There are some small gardens of flower plants here and there. Now, hundreds of white flowers are glowing in the sun in a small garden. Right in the centre there’s a much bigger yellow flower, held high by a taller plant, relishing in the sun like a beauty queen.

A couple of men are trying to fix a small machine, perhaps a pump to flush out the rainwater from the park. There are people drinking tea and smoking and eating, sitting on the cemented base of the boundary grills, all with long lines on their forehead. A boy—perhaps the son of one of the street vendors—is crying. He stops seeing me looking at him. I see fear in his eyes. He resumes his cry once I pass him. A bored flower seller boy is sitting and yawning, leaning on to one of the cemented pillars that follow every 30-40 grills. An old man who was doing yoga earlier is now sitting on his mat, looking at me expressionless. A lone woman is cutting and amassing grass. A sweeper is pushing fallen yellow flowers towards the tree trunk with a big broom. A bearded young man is standing and talking to a couple of girls sitting on a bench. A couple of his friends are watching them from a distance, waiting.

Now, after a round I notice that the kids playing near the see-saw are no longer there. Perhaps they have gone to their parents. Perhaps they have gone to the nearest traffic signal, to beg. I let out a sigh. I feel nothing. I’ve no complaint.

There’s a well-dressed man lying under a tree, on his back, in ironed white pants and a maroon shirt inserted, his head resting on a brown leather bag, his right leg on his erect left knee, polished black shoes glowing. Now a couple of girls are walking parallel to me on the bylane by the park. Are they trying to keep pace with me? No, they have given up. I am walking brisk. It’s sort of a march with my hands rising almost to the level of my shoulders.

The two men have fixed their machine; it’s a grass mower. If this is here, why is that woman cutting grass at the other corner? Perhaps she’s collecting grass for her goats or for the roof of her hut. Or, is it that, as a society, we are adamant that one must work even at the cost of underutilised machines to earn one’s bread? Perhaps.

The crying boy is not crying now. He’s talking excited to another boy, perhaps his elder brother. Two men on a bench are watching me with some interest. Perhaps I am doing better than what they had expected from a heavy body with a grey head to match. The guy with the girls is now without the girls, talking to his friends on the roadside. The girls are on the same bench, waiting, I guess. The bored flower seller remains a bored flower seller, his disinterested look is now following me. The woman cutting grass, the squirrels, the birds, the trees and plants and flowers, too remain the same, busy with their own activities.

The yogi is now lying on his mat. The man resting under the tree is gone perhaps to catch an appointment. Perhaps to get a Dispirin to fight back a headache. A man sleeping on a bench has woken up. Now he’s walking on the walkway with unsteady steps. He looks drunk. So early in the day. He’s in an ash uniform. Perhaps a sweeper, perhaps a driver, perhaps a guard at one of the housing societies. I notice a couple of other men in similar uniform drinking tea, out there by the road. Another man is pissing, standing on the road, facing the park, on its boundary wall. A lot of people do that. I don’t like it. But I’m not agitated. I just avoid looking out of the park. And ignore them. I feel nothing. I’ve no complaint.

The grass mower is doing pretty well. It has cleaned up a fairly large area. The crying boy is now laughing and talking to a couple of men sitting on a mat on the lawns. His brother is still with him. The bored flower seller too is smiling and talking to a young man in a yellow shirt.

I break into a jog. I realize I don’t notice many things when I run. I just look ahead and run. All I see is the pathway. And the hanging branches and leaves of the flanking trees. All I notice is me—my breath, my heartbeat, my burning head.... But today I’ve been observing more than I have in ages and I can’t but notice that the woman cutting grass is still cutting grass and that the yogi is now fast asleep on his mat.

I notice my legs are tired and there’s no freshness in my movement. My breath is becoming heavier. 

The crying boy is now playing cricket with his brother. Some newcomers are watching me now, slightly amused, I guess. The sun has by now established itself in full bloom and is eagerly drinking away all the wetness from the surface of the earth. I can feel sweat running down from my head, all the way to my toes. Some more steps and I’ll be done.

I see the bored flower seller is no longer there. The guy in yellow shirt has taken his place. And he’s not bored, yet. My breath is becoming faster, my body is getting heavier. One, two, three…each of my step is now being registered in my chest. Now I have my mouth open. Now I bite my lower lip. The corner from where I started the run is less than 100 metres away. That's my finishing line. I shut my mouth and blink my eyes. Six, seven, eight…it’s hard to move now. Squirrels are still chasing each other from tree to tree, still chirping. Ten, eleven, twelve…I’m almost there. Love birds still show no love. Fifteen, sixteen…I hear the violent braking of a car and then a thud.

I stop. I look around. People on the street are rushing towards the main gate of the colony. I walk onto the road. There’s a white Innova car standing in the middle of the road, people around it. Some people are picking up a toppled cycle rikshaw from a side. Some others are helping a lean, thin, shirtless guy to the pavement. Now he’s sitting there, examining his back, now knees and legs, now elbows. Somebody hands him a glass of water. Now a big man in a grey suit is standing in front of him, shouting, gesturing animatedly, now pointing his hand here, now there. I’m too far to make out what he’s saying. The injured guy slowly raises his head to glance at the big man, then looks down again. People are nodding to the big man. Many of them are now talking and gesturing. Some are explaining what has happened to those who missed the scene. I feel a slight headache.

Now the big man is going towards his big car. There he goes. Has he given any money to the injured guy? Perhaps he has. Perhaps he has not. How badly is this guy injured? What will happen to his rikshaw? I have no clue. Some people are still talking to the guy on the roadside. Most are moving away. I feel tired. I wipe my forehead with my left palm. I stare into my wet hand full of sweat. I look up at the merciless summer sun. I shut my eyes. I turn around and start walking towards my home. I feel nothing. I’ve no complaint.

The Second Coming

This business of parallel life is getting serious. Dead serious. I remember reading a play called The Balcony long ago, perhaps in the late 1980s, sitting on a corner bench by the huge glass window in a long, serene, almost holy, hall of a university library, somewhat darkened by rows of humungous shelves. I think it was by Jean Genet. Why guess, let me Google…yes, it was Genet. The play takes place in this weird brothel where the clients get to play out their dreams or fantasies for some hours or even days. Irma, the Madame of this dream house, arranges the set and organises support cast. For example, if you want to be a judge, there will be a courtroom, an accused, witnesses, lawyers, whatever. You just pay what Irma asks for and play by her rules. It was a great book. I remember being overwhelmed, out of grasp, by the larger-than-life performance of the players. And I thought the concept made great business sense too. Everybody loves to live their dream. Sadly, there was no Balcony in the neighbourhood, to my knowledge, at least.

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.

my head, my head

I must find my prefrontal cortex. I hope its somewhere there in my head. But it's all a big mess, my brain, and I don't know how to run a search there. Is there a help menu in my head? Hello, God???

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.

appu the artist

disappointed

how boring have i become. the blog posts i see here are impossibly boring. lifeless. meaningless. that's me. my thoughts. there used to be a time when i thought i could write. but what i see here disappoint me. i won't delete them though. why hide yourself? if i am boring, let it be. i can try and change but i won't hide it. you can't stand it? get out, please.
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!

Redemption Song

Don’t restrain your mind, my daughter
Let it go where it wants to
It’s ironic I know
To tell you to ignore what others say

After four decades, I feel half-boiled or stillborn
Because I didn’t let my mind be
I looked around, the crowd, the cheer, the expectations…
The fear of failure stopped me
From performing, from enjoying, from living

Today, when I know it’s now or never,
When I’m desperate to see my mind take off
When I no longer care for other views
I feel numb and cold
I pull my mind, I shake my body
Nothing happens

I am dead, my dear, I am dead
All I can is to tell you...
Let the world be, it's not after you
Be free! And fly!

I will miss you, Sony Ericsson

Last November, I bought my first Sony Ericsson phone—a K750i, a very pretty phone with a 2 mp camera and an excellent music player. Overnight I became a Sony Ericsson fan. It was my first non-Nokia cell phone and within no time I thought I had already seen my last Nokia.

Just a couple of months after I got it, my wife had bought a Nokia 6300, a sleek pretty phone with almost all the features of K750i. Yet, I found my phone far better. For me, the camera was the biggest differentiator. Although the time it took to click a picture often irritated me, I loved using my K750i as a camera. Although the Nokia could produce as good pictures, since you could handle a K750i exactly like a digicam, with both hands, the danger of shaking while taking a photo was minimal. Yes, I took some decent photos with the phone. It even had a flash though not powerful enough to light up the pic. Its yellow pictures can carry the mood of an evening; 6300 can’t even think about it.

Also, long conversations were hundred times better over my Sony Ericsson than my wife’s Nokia. Perhaps because of its metal body, the 6300 gets unbearable hot for your ear very fast. I’d noticed that my wife had to recharge her phone much more frequently than I needed to recharge mine. Agreed her phone is busier, but then I used to take a lot of pics with mine.

Yet, despite all that, now I think I’ve seen the last of Sony Ericsson. My K750i has long turned into an expensive paperweight. Although my terrible-two daughter is the primary culprit in its poor fate, I would think the Sony Ericsson service team was very much a partner in the crime.
I really suspect that it was the company engineers who really finished my phone. Well, it could be my frustration in helplessly watching my cherished gadget going totally waste overnight— yes, it still pains—that makes me say that, but I am positive that Sony Ericsson has a very poor service team. Here’s why.

Some two months ago, one fine morning, my daughter spilled almost a glassful of milk on my phone. Am still not sure if she did that deliberately—for she has never been fond of drinking milk unless being breastfed by her mother—but she was candid enough to inform me. When I saw it, the screen was blinking with the message somebody was calling. There was no sound. My first instinct was to accept the call. But the key won’t respond. I quickly opened the handset—it was completely drenched—and pulled out the battery and everything else I could pull out. I cleaned the pieces with a dry cloth and kept them open on a table near the window so they could catch the sun for an hour or so. I left it like that for two days.

I really didn’t have any hope. But on the third day when I checked it out, to my great surprise, it was working. I checked the camera and even took a pic. But the Horlics milk had made the keys stiff and I thought a servicing-cleaning would do it good. So I dismantled it again and left it on the table. My wife told me there was this Sony Ericsson service centre near her office at Noida and carried it to there the next day. The warranty period was on but there’s no guarantee if your phone has got wet—hello, why these guys are not making waterproof phones yet? They would try and we would have to pay. Agreed.

Meanwhile, a friend of mine gave me an old, almost extinct Nokia phone that he had long replaced with a new Nokia phone as a stopgap solution for my connectivity problem. (Think about it, I’m not sure if I had ever set my eyes on a telephone in the first decade of my life and now I can’t do without my mobile phone—despite having landline phones at home and in office—even for a couple of days!)

Presently, after almost a week, I got a call from the service centre. “Sir, your phone is ready; the camera is not work, otherwise it’s fine.” I was disappointed and asked him how much would it cost if I wanted the camera replaced. The guy promised to get back with that information within a couple of days. So far, my bill was Rs 600. Fine. I got the next call after almost a week. This time it was a girl. She told me the phone was ready.

It took me another 3-4 days before I went there with my wife. The phone looked fine. But the camera just wouldn’t turn on. Asked about it, the girl at the desk said an engineer would soon attend us and meanwhile we could check the phone. I turned on the music player and we could hardly hear it. My wife gave me a ring and the ringing was hardly audible. Then, when we tried talking on the phone we realised my voice was not going through and the voice from the other end too hardly reached you!

It really was a big disappointment—to be told that the phone was ready and to find it as good as a paperweight. The engineer guy looked as if he couldn’t believe it. He tried all that we had tried and conceded it was not working. Now he wanted more time. But I’d already lost my trust.

A week or so later the farce was repeated. This time my wife went alone. Frustrated, she just took the phone and told them, “Thank you very much”.

Thank you, Sony Ericsson, I’ll miss you!

The Many Deaths of Rambabu

Rambabu Gadaria, a dacoit in the Chambal ravines, is dead—for a third time. No joke, no fantasy, it’s official. The Madhya Pradesh police have claimed that they have killed the leader of the notorious Gadaria gang in a fierce (thought about it, but can’t do away with this word where Indian police force is involved) encounter. Only the police have made the same claim twice before. The first time, in 1999, a police officer even got a promotion for killing the most dreaded dacoit in the region after Phoolan Devi took VRS. But Rambabu was back in action before long, for the poor policeman to be demoted. Early this year, once again, the police claimed Rambabu was done with. And now again!
Could police be lying so blatantly, so many times? There could have been some mistake the first time around. But before claiming the second kill, they must have confirmed his identity and death if only to avoid looking like a bunch of idiots yet again. And there was Rambabu again!
What is Rambabu, really? Will he come again? It’s said that Saddam Hussein used to have many dummies to confuse the international police that is America. Could Rambabu have done the same thing to poor MP police?
Or, could it be that Rambabu is the Son of God, or one of the many gods? He has already outdone Jesus Christ in the matter of resurrection. And he definitely has the potential for more.
Or, could he be plain fictitious, as the protagonist of Jorge Amado’s The Two Deaths of Quincas Wateryell?
Whatever he is, Rambabu is nothing less than a legend. Even if you don’t get anything concrete about his whereabouts for a while, just look at the immense business possibilities that exist: there could be films, documentaries, non-fiction novels, research reports and background studies (who wouldn’t want to know about what was Rambabu like as child, what turned a village boy into a dacoit, what kind of a man was he, who loves him, who hates him, his likes and dislikes, his loves and revulsions, etc, etc); animation series and comic books (Heroics of Rambabu); video and internet games (Catch Rambabu If You Can); puzzles (Find The Real Rambabu); memorial and museum, memorabilia and auctions; Rambabu T-shirts, knives and hairstyle; adventure tourism (Rambabu Trail); and, why not, there could be even Rambabu temples.
Well, that could be bit too ambitious a list and most of it would perhaps require Rambabu to die a couple of times more (trust our police force to do that) to take off. But Rambabu is already more than good enough for a story like this if not more.
Also, forget the Second Coming, wait for Rambabu’s fourth coming; that’ll happen sooner. Long live Rambabu and the other police-made legends of modern India.

long time

It's been a while. A long while. A year, perhaps. Perhaps more. A friend just asked me why people blog. I said it was to write or display (he's a designer and an illustrator) whatever you felt like. But I was defensive, I sort of disassociated myself from the blogging crowd. Of course am not really a blogger. Still there's something wrong with my attitude. I'm always on the defensive and disassociate myself from whatever I talk about. The otherday somebody asked me if I meditated. The way I said no, she thought I was being defensive. I thought I wasn't but I know it's extremely difficult for me to completely associate myself with something. Except for my family. And to some extend drunks. If it's a positive thing or negative, I don't know. Aloofness can be good too, I think.

Well, does anybody in the world really care about what I'm talking about? I don't think so. So? So, why am I blabbering about myself? I don't know. I don't need to. :)

The beauty of blog, this blog, is that I don't have to worry about what I say. What I say here is something anybody can read but perhaps nobody would. So at the same time I am talking to everybody and nobody but me. It's both a letter and a diary. And since am an irregular, almost non-existent blogger, I would rather treat it as a diary. An open diary that I'm keeping in the library. Only, you won't find it in the catalogue. And I don't have to be defensive. :)

By the way (now it's an open letter), dear imaginary friend who's been following my postings and is interested in the developments in my life, Appu (that's what we call Anosha at home) is two years and three months now. She's an angel and a lovely menace who always pisses in her pants, throws her food, fights for toys, cries for nothing, insists on sitting on my lap when I'm driving and nonchallantly asks me to bugger off when she's sleepy and wants to be breastfed (when she wants to play with me she gives that to Bindu) and is smart enough to demand that "bad" toy when we are on the street.

I've switched jobs again. Am back at ET with a better pay packet and designation but doing more or less (in fact, less) the same thing I used to before I left. (I hope I would develop new skills before I price myself out of the job market.) Bindu has started working too. So we are a double-income-one-kid family. I leave Appu at Bindu's parents on my way to work (am on permanent late shift) and Bindu picks her up on her way back from work.That's our life like right now.

Good day.

meet the don!

 
 

new outlook

it's been a while since i blogged. things happened besides hurricanes and earthquakes. i switched job. anosha has grown another tooth and she looks not too far away from walking and perhaps talking too. and we had loads of visitors...ajichachan, navanki, jeevanchettan, allumol... we went around town...drove down to jaipur a couple of times...and took lots of photographs...here are some...

Karat and stick

Here's a little puzzle: a comment on a computer screensaver has cost somebody his 15-year-old job and left him with nobody to turn to; where could it be? Ask any Indian communist and he would perhaps say, why that's where capitalism is anyway leading the whole world to. But it didn't happen in the USA. It happened in Kerala.
Yes, the red hot Kerala that owes its lack of private investments to its notorious labour unions. Impossible? It could have been if Padmakumar, the photographer who lost his job in the most bizarre way, was not working for Desabhimani, the CPI(M)'s official Malayalam daily.
As things happened, Padmakumar, a staff photographer of Desabhimani for over 15 years, allegedly made a comment when he noticed partygeneral secretary Prakash Karat's face on the new screensavers installed in his office computers in Kochi. He, according to colleagues, said the party could do without such "idolising". The walls had ears and the word was spread.
The CPM state secretariat jumped into action. Within a week, it mulled over this act of "grave indiscipline", formed a committee and conducted an official probe. Padmakumar was summoned and told to quit or be sacked. Nothing on record, not even a show-cause notice. End ofthe road, full stop.
Well, the idea is not to dispute our communist friend's comment on capitalism. He may well be right too. We have already heard about the US entrepreneur who threatened to sack any employee found smoking at office or home or anywhere else.
The point is, if capitalism at its worst will bring back slavery and call it labour reforms, the communists will do the same and call it party discipline. These Left guys, who sell this dream of equality among the poor and the underprivileged, are still no different, despite the fall of Soviet Union. They still can't make it any better than AnimalFarm. George Orwell long back told us how some are more equal in aworld of equality.
And, even if they have a problem with God, apparently the Leftists are all for idol worship. Why, if only Karl Marx was born in India we could have had a temple for him. And, who knows, a Marx janmabhoomi issue to boot.
A friend once told me she loves mirrors because they tell you the truth. I said yes, but left side right. Oh that doesn't make a difference, she had said. I laughed her off at that time. But now it seems perhaps she was right. It's all the same. Left, right and centre.

musings

sexy page! it's rocking, man!
welcome to the news desk. we're into the business of news. producing and packaging news with the same precision a nike does its footwear. and building up your brand the way a coca-cola does. so what if heat waves claim hundreds of lives across the country, as long as it doesn't go with your brand image nothing's news. after all, in the news commodity market, there are thousands of sexy items we can acquire for free and sell for a fortune. and every brand conscious businessman knows the worth of news space. so we sell that also for...yes, much much more than 30 silver coins that god was worth for judas.

anoshamylove

Father, what did you do in your life?

I loved you.