Cityscape: A regular tourist

Here I am in this god forsaken country. The taxi driver had already ripped me off on the way from the airport to the hotel. The dirt and squalor is all around, and I found a few bed bugs as well. This is not how they do things back in my country. And the people can’t even understand basic English; what can be the future of this place? Damn those tourist books and reviews. I guess they are written by people who would be mighty pleased even to look at their nose hair in the mirror. Have you ever read a bad review about a place? And oh yes, the favorite last line of any travel book, “…and most importantly, I cannot forget the unbelievable warmth of the people from this place..”. Hello Mr. Travel Writer, have you tried interacting with a zoo animal, their warmth will make you forget all those lovely people. Blame the Persians, they are the ones who started calling all places “paradise on earth”. They don’t have HBO in the stupid hotel.

Ok, there goes the rice terraces, there I spotted a monkey, ha ha. Kingdom come. Why bother to trek in this sweltering heat listening to the childish blabber of the tour guide? And these fellow tourists; most of them are old haggards, masters of sugar-coated condescension, treating a person manning a potter’s wheel like a toddler learning to say “A”. And yeah, many of these tourists are red-faced gays, recovering emotionally from the recent referendum in their home state that put a final seal on marriage being possible only between short and long haired puppies. The tour guides, slimy bastards, covering up their greed for my dollars with their tooth-decay smile. Whenever I start to argue with them on what they should do for me, they pretend not to understand English. What is tourism if not an opportunity to pay people to suck up to you? I have enough pictures to dominate my facebook status for a few days. Anyway, now that I am here, I might as well make the most of it. The shopping must be cheaper than back home. And hallelujah, women here must be damn cheap as well.

It’s time to go back. I did what is expected of any human being; spend the annual holidays in a foreign location. And when I meet those stupid colleagues of mine, I know what to say, “It was fantastic, you should go there with Linda once”. If the bloody guy listens my complete sentence, he will be bound to say, “Oh yes, sure, we will talk to you to get some info”. Ha ha, at least, I managed to cause some inconvenience to you.

Cityscape: The happiest people in town

There she lay in front of him, her face dry from death. She seemed to be at peace, a nonchalant expression in her face. He sat beside the body, remembering the days that had been and imagining the days that will be. Always a loner, he didn’t even remember the day when his last surviving parent had died. While he eschewed the trappings of a family life, devoted to the seemingly purposeful raising of the offspring; rather surprisingly, he had taken up the lonesome job of a primary school teacher. With no God, no lover, no children, and no friend in the true sense, he was free to live what he considered an ideal and moral life. His only objective was to leave as little a trace, whether in the positive or the negative sense, on this world. And when he was done for the day from the tasks of his profession, he spent the rest of his time teaching poor children for free, tending to his small garden, and reading as much as he could about the world he was being forced to be born in and carrying out the burden of living.

After retirement, he became a traveler, to let a constant stream of new experiences take away the focus of his mind from the realization of the pointlessness of it all, the curse of old age. And on one such trip, in the Indian city of Varanasi, he had found this old lady, lying crookedly in one dirty corner. She looked the same that day as she looked today except for the faintly recognizable heaving of her chest, a sign of life, for him too. He brought her home, in this small town.

She was a widow, left in this city of the Gods by his young son, who brought her here with the bait of a pilgrimage, and let go of her hand in a crowded city. She still remembered the grief and the fear of the future she had felt then. After ten years, hunger and dirt had become acceptable to her. Being born a girl, humiliation was part of her life, anyway. So she was not used to this sudden rain of respect, of unselfish concern, of what is fantasized as humanity. We, the town people, called it love in the time of Alzheimer’s; some called it last minute lust. As always, he was least concerned about majority opinion of his life. Unable to accept gender role definitions, he taught her the letters and the sciences, he took her for shopping and to the bank; they were inseparable. He had found a new meaning and purpose to his life. They were the happiest in our small town.

And now, as she lay dead, he felt the fear of the future for the first time in his life. But as he recollected the lovely days they had spent together, he couldn’t help feel satisfied that she had died happily, the only good outcome possible in our lives. It was now his time to wait and he felt assured that the memories will see him through. He gently caressed her dead face.

Cutyscape: The art and reality of Kathe Kollwitz

Cityscape: An urchin- poor and often mischievous city child

She didn’t know that she was called a street urchin in English. Her name was Laali; it was quite amazing indeed that someone had bothered to give her a name. As soon as she sensed that the traffic light was turning red on the other direction at the junction, she and her friends made for those lanes.
They kept going from vehicle to vehicle. The rules of the game were simple. Motor cycles were best avoided. No motorcycle driver was going to risk going off balance to shell out a few coins for her. As for cars with tinted glasses, father said they were like lotteries. Most of the times, they won’t bother to bring down the windows, often giving a wave of scorn out of fear that these knocks from tiny human hands appealing to something termed humanity would end up leaving nasty marks on the windows that separated them. But sometimes, you could catch a glimpse of a film actor or actress inside. It was magic. But Laali lied many times when she claimed to her friends that she had seen a film star. The best picks were always the passengers in tricycles (auto-rickshaws). Many times they would be scolded in the choicest words. That day, a fat man called her “mada****d”. She knew what that meant. She was quite amused. She and her friends laughed heartily when they discussed this, wondering, how Laali could make love to her mother. Laali was five years old. But what surprised her even more was when some people would indeed give her a few coins. Father explained that these people believed that they would earn blessings from God and thus do well in their own lives if they donated money to her. And what amused her most was when that day, a man talked to her softly, saying that begging was no good, and she should study instead. Laali asked the man for twenty rupees instead of the usual practice of one rupee to help her buy books at which his face went red and he asked the driver to rush.
Today was a bad day; people had perhaps stopped asking God for good fortune. Neither had any film star gone by. And the road surface was hot as hell. But then she noticed a well dressed woman looking at her from inside a tricycle. Laali knew the sign. She rushed to her and held up her tiny hand. The lady inside started to open her bag. Laali’s heart started to pound in anticipation. But just then the traffic light turned green. Laali got anxious as vehicles all around her started their ignitions with random roars. The lady was still fishing through her large bag. "Just give me whatever you want”, Laali pleaded anxiously as she noticed that some vehicles had already started moving. The lady pretended not to notice and kept on searching for that lone coin she had somewhere. Laali heard the scream of her friend asking her to cross over to the other side of the road. But Laali thought it was worth taking the risk. The lady’s tricycle also started moving. Desperate, she ran after the tricycle; two small feet surrounded by ominous tires on all sides. As the tricycle speeded, the lady gave up the search; God could wait for another traffic light. At this sight, Laali’s heart sank. But within the moment, intense fear gripped her. Vehicles kept rushing all around her; the noise deafened her while smoke got the tears from her eyes. Confused, she stopped and then she felt a huge knock from behind. She let out a scream…

Cityscape: Staff Benda Bilili

Cityscape: The Blind Musician

Lim Kiat arranged each one of the accessories around him carefully, with the love of a parent towards their children. There goes the amplifier, a few inches from his right foot. The microphone, just below the lips. The guitar, his beloved guitar, cosily over his lap. And the donation box, perfectly six inches in front of where his feet met each other. The donation box, he smiled. God must have created a donation box first; after all, they are at the centre of every church or temple, so he had heard. Lim Kiat was blind.

He could sense that the sun was setting behind the buildings. It used to set much later a few years back. But it was good for him; the crowds now came in much earlier. He liked to call the shopping mall his office. He still remembered the day when his lovely daughter had guided him to this spot the first time. Liam Kiat wished that children never grew up.

The footsteps around him; the world is mostly made of busy heartless people. But the kindness of a few could make up for the rest; well almost. He wished he could see the people who supported him. He wished he could know which person had given him the most.

He had always considered himself a musician. But he knew that most considered him just a blind beggar. He took great care in selecting the song he would sing. The weather around him gave him the cue. If the footsteps around him were too frenetic, he would sing an old Chinese song asking people to slow down, take a pause and reflect. And God bless Bob Dylan, he gave the world so many recognizable and easy to play songs. And yes, once the weather was breezy, it had to be “Lady in Red”. Lim Kiat got goose bumps playing that song. He wanted the couples to circle him and listen. But these people never bothered to listen. They just saw and made up their minds based on a glimpse of me. When will they tip me for my music and not for my misfortune? And he hated the youth of today. That day a guy asked him to sing some song by 50 cents. What kind of a name is that? Which street musician had a box that allowed only 50 cents to go in?

And dear God, if you created the donation box, why did you create the ATM machine and credit cards. So many people never bother to give just because they don’t have small change!!!

She...

She was dazzled by the lights, what seemed like heaven on steroids. The mannequins looked back at her with cold contempt, but her strong yearning for the amazing dresses made her miss that look. A she walked the shining streets, with provocations at every corner; she felt she couldn’t wait anymore to grab all that she could. She was different from everyone around her in this fabled place, her difference owing to her being from a less privileged background, that too from a third world country.

She was a star in the small township she came from, a famed student on whose shoulders rest the hopes of her entire family. And on herself, laid also her own hopes of escaping from the surrounding squalor, the filth, the flies and her family, that saw her more as a mint. But she couldn’t wait. After all, the developed world imposes its own need for consumption exhibition conformity on its people, failing to fall in line with which leads to humiliating rejection. She realized her external beauty and came across men, from all races, who wore suits of refinement in public and seemed to be able to satisfy every want. But they were also the people who supported a world where women working in upscale pubs, had to wear the shortest pants and had to pour the drink slowly with a smile. Their refinements were shed as soon as easily as they shed their clothes and all that their shameless lust did for her was to take away her innocence, her motivation and esteem, her judgment, and her lust for life.

Secrets filled her lives before she realized that even her promise to herself had become a secret from her. But while the designer bags wilted one by one, she realized that this is not how it was supposed to end. As she sat in the food court, detached from the pointless ephemeral glamour she had started to believe as permanent, she realized that all she needed was a second chance. She realized that it was only she who could give her that.

A night after a day at work at the embassy

He picked another application form. This one was for a new passport. He threw to one side in disgust. He had four more forms in his bag he had carefully sneaked in from the embassy office while leaving work today. This form turned out to be a stupid mistake. He took another one and gave it the same fate. Peter was a man in his late 40s. The picture of the girl in the third application form he picked was rather pretty. He recalled the conversation she had had with him. He thought he was charming. She had not heard his time-tested jokes before. The “Can I have a picture of you for myself?” was a winner, he thought. She was 24 years and 8 months old. He noted down the address and also scanned for any other useful information. He messaged her, “Good night, sweet one”. For a few minutes after that, his heart pumped like hell. It was another brave attempt to escape the inglorious decline to old age. A flicker of a hope that he still had the appeal, and she, the innocence. But there was no response. The world has become too skeptical, too averse to adventure of any sorts. He stared into his mobile screen for a few minutes. “I will keep trying”, he thought to himself

Photoblog: The images of religion

There

There is something about Chinese Gods and mythological characters. All of them look very happy and have no problem flaunting their obesity. This is stark contrast to perennially grieving religious characters of Christianity who all seemed to have watched too many tele-novellas or Keanu Reaves movies, unable to alter expressions, even when it’s time to go to rest room. The images of Buddha can also be monotonous as Christian imagery; just that his depictions always show him with LSD influenced happiness and minor variations in terms of sitting/ reclining or with/ without Obama years. The Greek gods and Mahavir from Jainism were often shown in compromising ways, right after a cold shower. As for Hindu Gods and Goddesses, the style of depicting them is a great way to symbolically demonstrate that the good will prevail over evil, no matter what. In case you haven’t seen one, they are always depicted with hairless, hourly moisturized skins and supple bodies with no muscle possible having received any exercise ever. How they managed to consistently beat the muscular and rugged demons was therefore a question forever unanswered in my skeptic childhood. May be they had paid memberships of Second Life, the second most useless thing ever constructed by man, after religion of course.

Photoblog: The prettiest monitor lizard

During the weekend sojourn at Sungei Buloh wetland reserve at Singapore, the monitors were busy avoiding a sun tan. Do monitors have an obsession for fair skin? I wondered how pretty the prettiest monitor lizard is. Would Paris Hilton kiss it in its tongue? Would it be carried around by celebs in LVMH bags? Why are our munchies for our love only reserved for pandas, puppies, cats and hamsters? As our existence supposedly wipes out species after species, what is the only way for any animal to survive unless it becomes cuddly or tasty to eat for us humans. Any intelligent creator would have figured this out. Unfortunately, this task has been left to mindless animal genes.

Photoblog-Korea: Old man and his ice cream stall

This is a picture I took in Seoul where an old couple was selling ice cream. The wife was playing the lead role while her much older looking husband (one in the picture) just gave her company. The idea of an old couple supporting in each other in this fashion is rather tender. But the circumstances that made them do this are probably not so. And this may be the future for most of us. Eventually, all governments will realize that pensions are unsustainable given declining fertilities and rising life expectations. So governments would rather spend on healthcare, the sorts that increase working age. But it would be immensely difficult to sustain brain power at old age by medical means. So governments would rather spend on sustaining the physical capacity to do work. As a result, the old would take up most of the physical labour or low skilled ones well into their 80s and 90s. Voters would love it as the old people from their own race would replace the much hated immigrants for doing these jobs. Governments would be delighted as they would then be able to do away with costly monthly pensions, spending just one-off from time to time on spine support, hip replacement, etc. As for the old, a maximum age for voting like the minimum age for voting would be institutionalized sooner or later (on same grounds of ability to make wise decisions). Hopefully for them, anti-depressants would go off-patent soon.

Men’s obsessive compulsive behavior with suits

The suit or rather the business suit for men has a hyper-vaunted position in the world of fashion. It is not surprising given that in the boring lame duck world of men’s fashion, the only choice is in terms of having a collar or no collar and the shirt or pant being either full or short. Frustrated, designers have tried daredevil innovations like adding one more button in the sleeves. Men have therefore clung to their business suits as if it was the Holy Grail. This suit fetish is so apparent that the no businessman is willing to allow his suit to have even a single wrinkle even if they sit in Yoga inspired extremely contorted positions in low cost economy class seats. No wonder then, even if it’s a huge inconvenience, male executives can often be seen walking around city streets holding their business suits by the hanger, an intensely purposeful look in their eyes. May be we all see it as our Lady Justice moment. Always keep in a cover, always keep it straight, only to be dry cleaned, never expose to rain, never wear unless in combination, the five commandments of suit owning imposes a more stringent religion of its own. All this seems particularly vain in the hot and humid business environment of Asia and Africa where a suited businessman seems as irrelevant as polar bear like furs for an elephant. When will the ice age return?

A brief note on African Music

There was a time during the 70s and 90s when many pop stars from the developed world were picking out African tunes and churning them out into mega hits, making personal fortunes in the process. Of course, the origin of jazz and blues can be traced back to African music, but the power of Afro music to rejuvenate Western music from time to time remained rather consistent. Consider bands like Deep Forest that rose to fame during 90s with super hits often based on Afro tunes, or the likes of afros pop stars like Yossou NDour and Salif Keita who made big splashes from time to time. In addition, there are several one hit wonders (on an international scale) like Ghanaian rapper Blakk Rasta whose song based on Barack Obama became a youtube hit during the Obama frenzy of last year.

African music is by nature jaunty, with a certain perkiness attached to it. The tunes are ones that could make even the ones made of single piece of bone attempt a tap or two. And the characteristic female background chorus adds in an unfamiliar language adds the exotic charm to it. At the same time, the style leaves enough avenues for sophistication. For example, the works of Ethiopian artist Mulatu Astatke could easily rival those from mainstream American jazz greats. While being characteristically jaunty, the music also has a serious side. Artists such as Papa Dube (murdered by carjackers) spent years using music to raise socio-political issues in South Africa. Miriam Makeba (Mama Afrika) was one of the most prominent symbols against the apartheid regime.

With such richness, the one artist that stands out for me is Fela Kuti. Intensely politically, extremely bashful and irrelevant towards all religions, musical polymath and genius, he must be the one with the largest shoulders among modern African musicians. One of the criticisms of this genius has been his supposed misogyny, courtesy his songs like Lady which suggests that African women would rather be a Lady rather than her natural rugged self. His brash polygamy (27 wives, 12 of whom he once divorced at one go) was also an area that drew him flak. These issues apart, one of my favorite songs is his Shuffering and Shmiling, which apart from its excellent afrobeat has the following lyrics (excerpts courtesy songmeanings.net):

I want you all to please take your minds

Out of this musical contraption

And put your minds into any goddamn church

Any goddamn mosque

Any goddamn Celestical

Including Seraphoom and Cheruboom…..

Suffer, suffer for world

Enjoy for Heaven

Christians go dey yab

"In Spiritum Heavinus"

Muslims go dey call

"Allahu Akbar"…..

My people them go dey follow Bishop

Them go follow Pope

Them go follow Imam

Them go go for London

Them go go for Rome

Them go go for Mecca

Them go carry all the money

Them go juba Bishop

Juba Pope

Juba Imam

Then them go start to yab themselves:….

Then Fela keeps saying something in mock Latin and Arabic…

Must listen for all skeptics….

Announcing the formation of a new religion

Ok, this was due for a long time. Finally, I have decided to start that new religion I had been thinking about. And unlike all other religions, this new religion would be based on what people actually want. So I plan to conduct a market survey first to find out what people want their religion to mean for them Unlike previous religions that couldn't benefit from such tools like market surveys, this new religion will give you exactly what you need. Salvation and eternal happiness had never been so near. Let me make it clear upfront that my religion is only for employed professionals in the age group 25-40 with an annual income of over $75,000; their life partners are also eligible. So, if you belong to that group, please answer the simple survey below to help me design this new religion. If you don't belong to this segment, ask someone you know who belongs to this segment to fill up this survey online.

What do you want the name of the religion to sound like?



French sounding



English sounding



Oriental sounding

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What form do you want the holy book of your new religion to be?



Graphic novel



Speed-reading friendly



iPhone application

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Free Questionnaire

Where do you want the holy city of your religion to be located?



Bali



Aspen



Zurich



Singapore

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What food do you want to be prohibited by your new religion?



Chicken McNuggets



Cafe Muapolito Venti Syphilica



Plain Vanilla Icecream



No restrictions

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How many gift giving holidays related to your new religion do you want in a year?



10 around school holidays



10 scattered around weekends



15 around New Year period



Don't care

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Which celebrity would you want to be associated with your new religion?



Lindsay Lohan



Paris Hilton



Ron Jeremy



Michelle Obama

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Would you want gay marriages to be allowedg under your new religion?



Yes



No

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A tribute to delivery boys

The sight of a speeding delivery boy arouses some queer instincts in me. Since nowadays blaming everything on evolution and genes is extremely popular, I will do the same. This sight of a moving object loaded up with high calorie food calls back into action my hunter-gatherer past and I have this strong urge to ambush and catch the delivery boy in some sort of a net. Perhaps many from my species also have this urge and therefore the delivery companies always load up the delivery boys in protective gear, helmets, padded jackets, motorbikes for easy maneuver, bright cloth colors to warn off predators, and a huge food box strapped to the back to protect from a back-stab. In fact, the sight of an approaching delivery boy is not too different from that of a confused marine looking for a Normandy landing (see picture). They even have emergency phone numbers written all over them in case one wishes to report any case of assault on them. Their discomfort at traffic signals and in front of condominium security offices are also therefore understandable. Life is surely not easy for these delivery boys. And what do they get after all this heroic effort to deliver super-calories (minimum order requirements ensure you order more than what you need)? Typically, it’s a lazy fat guy grumpy because his food is late.

And our delivery boys can’t even display the condescending attitude of their more glamorized counterparts, those from aid agencies. Instead of their arrogant air-dropping of food on hapless receivers, our urban delivery boys have to say apologetic sweet nothings with a smile to this fat grumpy customer, all in the name of 99.99% customer satisfaction.

Office toilets and career progression for females

Historically, the office toilets have been the most important tool for career progression. In our democratic world, these toilets are the often the only way for faceless juniors to access their unelected super-bosses whose decisions most affect their lives. It is quite a common practice for subordinates well down the corporate ladder to practice the elevator speeches that would enhance their chances of rapid-fire promotions. Such speeches don’t need to have material that would make a Peter Drucker think twice. A mere interest in the company’s recent performance, a few mundane suggestions about potential opportunities, followed by a griot-style glowing praise of the super-boss’s recent speech or initiative, can be enough. Of course all these have to be accomplished within the common time window when both the super-boss and the corporate minnow are urinating at the same time. And the corporate minnow has to consciously avoid the natural human tendency to look at the person he is addressing while talking to. After all, it’s safer not being perceived to be checking out the super-boss’s masculinity.And of course, the minnows would have to tune their circadian rhythm in line with that of their super-bosses.

However, the relevance of office toilets in our corporate culture results in a vicious circle for female corporate workers. After all since the super-bosses are usually males in most economies, the female minnows have no access to them through the toilet channel. Also even if there are sufficient females among the super-bosses, the cubicle structure of ladies’ urinals make them rather unsuitable for the minnow’s elegant impressionist speech. Is it the men who designed them?In any case, someone other than Gorbachev needs to bring down those walls.

Did the lions know it all the way?

After the fall of the Soviet Union, it had been widely accepted that the lions knew it all the way. The lions’ system of winner takes all was unanimously assumed to be the best panacea for emancipation of mankind. But human history is too short to declare the outright victory of any ideology. It took more than 1800 years for the Greek democratic system to come back in vogue. And many thought republicanism had its final coffin nail when Cromwell’s dead remains were hanged again. Suddenly, after the financial crisis, state intervention in back in vogue. Liberalism’s self proclaimed protagonists such as The Economist have evaluated world leaders based on how fast they came out with bailout packages and how large those packages were. Concerns about obesity have taken a back seat as governments are almost heckling their citizens to consume more. Modern state voluntarism is being paralleled in efforts by Old state voluntarism, the church. The current economic uncertainty, as with any uncertainty, is encouraging the missionaries to proclaim with more confidence that their religion is the cure-it-all for the human race as they have systematically removed all our earlier problems. And two separate groups of Christian volunteers (from different sects) have knocked on my Singapore house to embrace their faith to get relief from the uncertainty of credit crunch and H1N1 (their exact words). Smartness, as they say, always lies in remaining gullible.

On the question of employing a maid

Among several of my quirks is an obstinate refusal to employ maids or domestic help. Why? This is because of my discomfort in employing someone to clean the dirt or filth arising out of my living. Many including my relatives and friends have objected to this logic. The all too familiar and singular though characteristically middle-class argument being that this is beneficial to the maid as she can make a living out of it. On the face of it, that seems like a fair enough logic. Just that I refuse to partake in this magnanimous bourgeois enterprise to make the world a better place.

For why then did we ban manual scavenging? Why then does a man working on a hand-pulled rickshaw strike a chord in many of us as being inhuman? What then is wrong with child labour? And why did the conservative souls then spit at prostitution anyway? Of course, in all the above instances, the service being rendered in return for payment is much worse than simple domestic help in the scale of dignity. But even though the maids don’t get as much scorn from the rest of the society for doing their service as say a prostitute or a manual scavenger would do, the truth is that they are indeed at the receiving end of having to live a subordinate and less significant existence to that of their employer. Even in most mild-mannered employer households, the maid eats after the employing family has eaten. It is perfectly acceptable for the maid to sleep in a makeshift bed in one corner of the house. She is rarely allowed to sit in the sofa which she herself cleans every day. No one would sacrifice his favorite show on television because of another show that the maid likes. Her wishes, her happiness and her comfort are always secondary to that of his employer. And I am not even mentioning the instances of abuse which they have to encounter.

But why, in such a seemingly usual employer-employee transaction relationship, does such master-slave relationship creep in? According to me, it’s because she has to make her living by virtue of cleaning the employer’s filth, the dirt from his clothes, the grub from his plates, and his nose-shit from the floor. Such a relationship where one person has been decimated to clean off the filth of another person automatically results in a contemptuous relationship, no matter how high the monetary compensation in return.

So then what do we do with the maids if some people like me refuse to employ them on such grounds? For someone like me, he can just refuse to employ them and carry on with life as usual; for in the end the sun will engulf the earth and wipe out everything in 4 billion years. Or the more charitable ones with a belief in inevitable determinism of human history may decide to rather get involved in the erosion of the causes that leads to a person picking up the role in the first place; investing in education, training and social support for the maids or would-be maids is a good start for them. For the rest, a little more compassion and respect for such heroic individuals, torn away from their roots, their family, and their self-respect; would not take much.

Who won the recent elections in India….

Certainly not the 51.75% of the population who didn’t vote for the coalition that will now be forming the government at the centre. The short-sellers anticipating a hung assembly were not the winners for sure. The organizers of the biggest event Neither did the exit poll companies who maintained their consistency in incorrectly predicting outcomes; though I have a feeling that they do this intentionally to benefit from stock market bets. The telecom companies also did not win as the election committee is yet to follow the Indian Idol model to let people vote for their preferred candidate over phone. The higher educated middle class Indians, the ones who hate poor immigrants, the ones who silently hope for people from other religions to be killed, the ones forming community clubs in local neighborhoods, the ones who believe that lower caste people deserve their fate, those who demand third-party sacrifice for the sake of their dumb and extreme patriotism, the lot that hides their extreme conservatism behind their laptop screen viewing eyes; they didn’t win either. And the Left, not only did they not win, they lost the most, in a world which is decidedly turning leftwards (USA, South Africa, France, El Salvador…). These self styled ideological purists who withdrew support from the previous government under the unintelligible pretext that it was getting closer to imperialist USA while participating in the paradox of an utterly bourgeois democracy of India, didn’t even see it coming.

So who won? It was claimed to be a victory for the poor as it had stunned the “India shining” party of traders and their parasitic priests. But the rich knew it was their victory as the winning party was super effective in promoting their cause by paying lip service to issues such as land reforms. It was claimed to be a victory for the Muslims as the party supposed to hate them had lost. But most Hindus knew that the winning party will never stop them from carrying out another pogrom of the Muslims just like the good old days. In short, it was a victory for status quo without the explicit veil of ideology. After all, isn’t human history too short to empirically prove the superiority of any ideology?

The eyes of the dead

There’s something peculiar about a dead animal’s eyes, the one who has been custom made to fill our appetite. Our hunting and eating process may seem Gandhian in comparison to a pack of lions sucking the blood of a struggling Bambi. Even then, like a structured credit derivative, the supermarket shelves absolve us of feeling any remorse or second thoughts of eating a once alive animal by creating a light year between the moment of slaughter and the moment of purchase. Even in countries like India that are yet to fully succumb to supermarket invasion, the chopped pieces of meat are always packed in a black plastic bag to conceal its contents. But if you ever get a chance, do have a look at the eyes of the slaughtered, the one that lived its life and died for you, even though your country will never create a dumb nationalistic legend around it.

On one extreme are the eyes of a slaughtered chicken. Almost shut, covered by scalded skin, they look the most horrifying of all slaughtered animals. They carry with them the misery of a pogrom, an industrial genocide only approved by the human society because the proceeds go to form a platter of black pepper chicken.

On the other extreme, think about the dead lamb’s severed head. Its dead eyes, with their lids almost closed, typically strike a Buddha liked nirvana pose, but for the slow flowing streak of clotting blood. Overall, it gives an expression of content, having outsourced such questions as the meaning of life to humans, and sacrificed its life to realize its reason for existence, filling some floor space in our guts for a short while.

But the queerest are those of a fish. They typically have large foolishly startled eyes, their mouths gaping foolishly, as if they died in a state of utter surprise at how someone could even imagine eating them. What unfinished task did we stop them from pursuing?

So there it begins again….

I hadn’t been writing for a while. All the same, I kept checking my blog once in a while to see whether the groupies were clamoring for my return. But no, there were no fan requests to start writing again. Anyway, I decided to write again because this frivolous urge overcame all other frivolous wishes.

So this is a warm-up post. Of late I have been most intrigued about two aspects of my daily life; something that probably relates to most people. One is the amount of garbage that I produce. Every day I struggle to wrap the enclosing plastic bag around the huge mass of garbage that I have produced over the previous day. The combination of empty popcorn bags, potato skins, glucosamine tablet foils and useless printouts seems to be a more potent mixture than what Stanley Miller could imagine for his primordial earth. And indeed, by the next day, this garbage has a smell of life of its own, which, though not pleasant, does give me a God like feeling. Anyway, it seems an astonishing feat to be producing such enormous quantities of waste day after day. And it is annoying that this may be the only tangible outcome of my existence

The other thing that amuses me is the amount of accessories and trinkets we carry along with us. Every day, when I come back from office and unwind, I have to remove from myself the wallet, the watch, the office access card, the pen, the mobile phone, the house keys, the coins, socks, shoes, laptop bag, phew; one too many items to carry around. I wonder if life as a Roman gladiator would have been more comfortable. We may be amazed by David Attenborough’s description of bowerbirds, but the truth is that if Attenborough was to document us as animals without much expectation of intelligence, we would have been delightful characters indeed.

More to come soon…..

The legend of the Great Indian Stray Dog

Back in India after a year, I am most intrigued by that omnipresent animal, the Great Indian Stray Dog. As I have become older and possibly more mature, I am now able to fully comprehend the greatness of this feisty, versatile, and clever creature that blends so magnificently with the urban landscape of India, with its dug up roads, stinky smoky hot air, noisy streets, and real life abundance of Kathe Kollwitz prints.

It is unlikely that National Geographic will ever have these animals on its cover. The Great Indian Stray Dog usually sleeps during the day and with its ears drooping, its genitals grossly exposed, it may seem like the last animal Paris Hilton would want to kiss. But bear this in mind; the looks of the Great Indian Stray Dog can be deceptive. For when it is excited, its ears raised, its hips high and slender, its legs long and powerful, its strong jaws letting out a piercing bark, the Great Indian Stray Dog has an appearance good enough to qualify for being the symbol of any state or political party. One may argue that these dogs have been a victim of globalization, as is evident from their Jamaica style street culture. But at least these hoodlums have some personality as opposed to the arse licking, kiss seeking, shoe wearing character of the domesticated ones. And these dogs know it all too well. It looks with disdain as rich fat people drag along with them collared hairy dogs from western lands, their tongues wagging. The Great Indian Stray Dog considers these useless opportunistic sloths in similar vein as popular culture disdains fat balding white men in Bangkok’s streets.

The Great Indian Stray Dog is also the only last animal to still believe that global warming is the biggest hoax of all times. After all, it has been experiencing something more akin to global cooling. That is because as much of the world is being converted to parking lots and more tires are being manufactured than new human legs are taking birth on earth, these dogs have lot more cool shaded areas to relax than ever before.

While animal rights activists have ensured that the urban sprawls are designated as protected reserves for them, not all is going well for the Great Indian Stray Dog. After all, since they are mostly reliant on human trash for food, these dogs are as much afflicted by obesity, high cholesterol and diabetes as we humans are. They are doing their best to cope up with this “Supersize all” culture by trying to be more active. I myself have been chased by them many times during my morning runs. But such tactics can be fatal and one can often see a martyr in the street, its entrails jutting out and offering a feast to the flies, its head mashed by the heavy tires that went over it, and its eyes being poked by a crow, the other great survivor of urbanization.

So next time you see the Great Indian Stray Dog, consider its life for a moment. And if you have some time, ask some stupid scientist to put a radio tag around one to experience firsthand how urban legends are made. Believe me; it would be far more exciting than watching endless repeats of snorting whales or pampered pandas with milk bottles on TV.

Sermon at the cafe (of a banker)

Hello ladies!!! I am a banker. Alright, alright; you want to look away right. That hairy dog there is more interesting to look at right! But hey, I am yet to be laid off you know. Yes, I still have my job and I will stay in this cafe and have a drink. Even though all of you are after me to humiliate me as much as you can. Recession, my ass, you sadistic mediocre people are having your best time ever, insulting us, blaming us for everything from your cough to your son’s poor grades, and forcing on us a lifestyle we simply don’t deserve.

Yes, that Obama goes on national television to say that I can’t be paid more than what he earns. His approval rating goes up by 10% points. I say that his salary can’t be more than what Joe the plumber earns. How many of you approve of me now, huh? Isn’t Obama more dependent on tax payer’s money than I am? Alright, I know all this is too technical for you all, what you sarcastically like to coin as “opaque financial wizardry”. Yeah right, how can I help you if half of you people still believe that evolution is false? For you, even the flow of tap water would be “transparent physical miracle”. Go, mow your lawns.

So what would you like to do to me next? Pass a law through the Congress to force me to eat at McDonalds every day? Or would you be satiated if your senators pass a law to force my kids to be enrolled in those shitty California schools only where teachers have more sit-ins than students? Or would you bloody consumer’s confidence rise if you can pass a law to make my credit cards work only at Wal Mart? Yeah, pass as many bail-out laws as you can. This is your day, winner’s justice. Have fun at my expense. I can’t even take a bloody cold medicine. They made fun of the Japanese finance minister for that. Oh, so now our sorts cannot sleep as well, huh? Yes, we can.

A trip to Brazil

A business trip is never the best opportunity to explore a place. You are surrounded by colleagues or clients who are rather similar to you. You end up staying at better hotels, commute most of the time by car, and eat at places where waiters have to shave before coming to work. All these set up a shield between the business traveler and the surroundings and in extreme cases the only experience he can have of a new place is a short walk through the airport duty free shop. It also means that in a place with extreme income inequality like Brazil, you end up having no clue about how 90% of Brazilians live like even when you have stayed in the country for over a week.

The trip began with a short stay at Sao Paulo (locals say it as San Paulo). The city has a certain edgy feel about it. Unconventional hairstyles and intricate body arts are a bit more common here than usual. There are small bookshops located every ten meters or so on the pavements selling cheap paperbacks for $5 or so. Not the usual superhits or self-help books; but books by Neruda, Marx, and Kafka fight with each other for the prime display slot. English is rarely spoken in this city which produces 30% of Brazil’s output and we soon realize that this is going to be one of the most difficult places to make yourself understandable to the locals. However, a few familiar words like Batata (potato) and Kaju (cashew) provide some relief.

Next day, we head off to Belo Horizonte, capital of the state Minas Gerais, home to political stalwarts like Tancredo Neves and Dilma Rousseff. The lady of Japanese origin, manning the airport check-in, is starstruck to see an Indian taking a domestic flight in Brazil. The city of Belo Horizonte, though the fourth largest in Brazil, is relatively new and has few tourist attractions to boast of except for the huge Central Market with its overwhelming smells of cheese, meat, spices, alcohol, and pet shit. The street art is also something worth mentioning; my favorite being that of a one eyed female monster whose nudity has been censored by someone in a mysterious setting. Was it the police who put a fresh coat of paint over the contentious area or was it part of the artist’s grand design?

On Sunday, we are off to Ouro Preto, a colonial town and one of the most popular tourist resorts for Brazilians. The cobbled and undulating streets, the densely packed colored houses with red-tiled roofs and an abundance of half-decent churches make this an interesting place. The churches charge a fee for the price of praying to their God and forbid you from taking pictures inside so that they can sell more postcards. Or may be they don’t want to let the outside world know that God’s chambers also rust and corrode over time. On the way back to Belo Horizonte, there is a region called “ocean” which offers a spectacular panorama of several blue hills covered with mist and white clouds. This is the third day, and unfamiliarity with the Brazilian Portuguese language has become a critical issue by now. Anywhere else in the world, you can point your finger towards a picture in McDonalds and be certain that you will be fed within one minute. Not so in Brazil, where a foreigner is advised to patiently use all movable body parts for communicating so that he can ensure that the glorious double burger chooses his gut to travel to its final destination, the sewer. Such stories abound; in one instance my fellow traveler asked for cashews and the waiter returned instantly with a bottle of water.

At the end of the business schedule, we manage to squeeze in a couple of days in Rio de Janeiro. Rio is a beautiful city with lush green mountains and islands scattered in the Atlantic Ocean. The houses are squeezed in between the steep hills, the tropical rain forest and the vast ocean as if mankind has somehow bargained for a little space from nature. I think if nature was perfectly designed, the color of the forests and the greenery would have been a lighter shade of green; and if man were the ultimate creature, he would have let this area remain pristine without the condominiums.

Beaches, the highlight of Rio, comprises of miles and miles of white sands, mid-sized waves, eateries and drink joints and hundreds and thousands of scantily clad bodies which probably created an image different from similarly vibrant beaches in Mumbai or Chennai. The famous beaches of Ipanema and Copa Cabana are lined with people with great bodies and not so great bodies. Old women walk about in bikinis, a beer in their hands. There are many open air gyms along the beaches and beach volleyball games can be seen at every block. The most famous landmark of the Christ, the redeemer, is not worth the price you pay to get up the hill, but the views from the top are quite splendid, cloud permitting when one can see the Sugar Loaf Mountain, the Maracana stadium and the lagoon. The penis shaped Sugar Loaf Mountain would surely have given Amarnath a competition for Hindu pilgrim fantasies had it been located in India. Tourists get into all kinds of compromising poses to get a camera shot of the full body of the Christ statue. I personally would have preferred a statue of Marighella Carlos or Tiradentes, Brazil’s own martyrs. Close to Ipanema is a 7.5 km lagoon at the centre with views of the Christ and other beautiful hills provide real estate agents an opportunity to rip-off gullible buyers and a great landscape for long distance running. The city is filled with funky bean shaped telephone booths; often filled with adverts by prostitutes or brothels, some highlighting that they have air-conditioned rooms available. At the hippie market in Ipanema, a hippie can find all the essential things he needs for his day to day life: trinkets, beads, mandala t-shirts. The designs are excellent but the prices are super expensive, but then one can’t expect hippies to get many things right at the same time. Many of the shop owners have black and white pictures from the glory days when they were hippie and sexually attractive at the same time.

One final word about the oft repeated security concerns in Brazil. Beaches do empty out after sunset. And most people carry cheap mobile phones for the fear of mugging. Our client had arranged for us state security who followed us everywhere during the weekdays. At Rio, we followed the white man’s tourist books and remained out of danger. The famous favellas (slums) can only be seen from car windows from where they seemed rather prosperous compared to the ones in Mumbai. All the same, drastic inequalities are evident and it is no surprise that Brazil has so much crime. Beggars hang around the posh supermarkets of Ipanema hoping that a kind heart would buy some food for them. Every time this happens, the humble honest smile with which they look at the obliging person will remain for me the most memorable moments in Brazil.

P.S. Pictures from Brazil

Rio de Janeiro
Belo Horizonte
Lagoa Santa
Ouro Preto

Sao Paulo

A trip to Lake Toba, Sumatra

I have developed a certain liking for Indonesia, even though over a million communist party members were killed by these apparently simple friendly people during the early Suharto days. I am always amazed by the amazing density of people in the cities; their simple lives contrasted with the immense diversity in its natural landscape often exhibiting its extreme side through volcanoes and hot springs. This time I headed off to Lake Toba in the central Sumatra Island. The prospect of getting a traditional roadside chalet for 4$ a night was alluring and a quick image search about the place on Google was sufficient to convince me about the place.

My hotel was at Samosir, a Singapore sized island in the middle of the lake which is apparently the largest volcanic lake in the world formed out of an eruption that reduced global human population to a few thousand. Today the landscape is dotted with a few chalets and ship-roofed houses of people from the Batak tribe. The island is sparsely populated with the natives and their rice fields squeezed in a narrow strip between the lake and the hills in the center of the island. Every view in this island is immensely beautiful with lush hills surrounding the tranquil lake waters with carabaos, chickens, goats and churches being the recurrent features. The cool mountain breeze and the balmy sunshine adds to the charm of this place. The carabaos spend most of their time eating in this green paradise, their eyes content while the goats are always seemingly looking for a lost family member as evident from their bleating. The chickens are the dominant species in this place with the cocks walking around regally surrounded by their girlfriends. Often these cocks can be seen chasing the hens; marital rape among chickens seemed rather common in Samosir. As for the churches, there is one every 10 meters or so and catholic ideology is in full bloom here as children vastly outnumber the adults.

On the second day, I cycle over 60 km to reach the hot springs area where there are separate baths for foreigners at 5000 rupiah (50 cents) an hour, probably the cheapest hot springs in the world. Since male and female foreigners share the same bath, quite a few of the local males keep pointing their binoculars towards us from their houses located further up in the hill. Exhausted from the bicycle ride and numbed by the hot spring water, I am forced to flag down a tricycle to carry me and my rented bike back to my chalet. The driver is overjoyed at the 20$ fare he receives and insists that I take several pictures of him and his vehicle. Tired, I return to the restaurant where I had had dinner the previous day. Most of the chalets are family run and they also have a restaurant attached to them. The fact that Indonesia as a whole receives rather few tourists is also evident here as there are more restaurants than tourists in Samosir. As such, the cook puts all her effort in preparing a really memorable meal for the only customer she has for the day. After a delightful meal of chicken curry and rice (there’s one chicken less in the island after that); I return to my hotel to find Batak people singing and dancing to local tunes. There’s something appealing about tribal dances, they have very basic moves which anyone can perform. Stripped of any abstract expressionism and symbolism; these dance moves satisfy every man’s natural urge to respond physically to a rhythm. The locals force me to join them and I don’t have much trouble negotiating the Batak dance moves which essentially is just about moving shoulders up and down with the hands folded near the navel. With not much to do at night and mosquitoes launching their own party, most people get proper sleep in this island. The singers in the hotel continue to entertain a few American tourists by dishing out the usual retro trash of “Lady in Red” and “I shot the sheriff”.

The third day begins in typical style; surfing the internet. The person in charge of the internet café is probably considered a geek in this island and he keeps up to that image by always wearing glasses and a windcheater while seeming perpetually lost in his thoughts. This 50 something man seemed like one who spends most of his time on facebook. After a few minutes of Pavlovian surfing, I check out the local stores. They are all barely stocked, everyone offering just a few packs of biscuits, instant noodles, potato chips, soap and drinking water. One female shop owner offers to take me behind her motorcycle to the waterfall but I decide to venture there by myself. The walk to the waterfall is intimidating as I face the enormity of nature while walking past high hills with the sound from the waterfall becoming increasingly overwhelming to the point where you can think of nothing else. On the way back, I have noodles in a lonely Chinese run restaurant amidst the lush hills. An old man there asks me about all my details and finds it hard to understand how I don’t have any religion. Anyway, he utters the name of Amitabh Bacchan and Shah Rukh Khan to in an attempt to connect with me, a time-tested trick with tourists.

On my way back to Singapore, I have a last look at the modest houses that line the island. For a moment I feel jealous of this people who have both a lake view and a hill view. As t But as I look away, I console myself thinking that at least they don’t have a vending machine in the entire island.

Pictures of Lake toba

Chehuahua: Chronicle of a revolution foretold

I felt like a revolutionary today. I heard over the news that millions of poor Chinese migrant laborers had lost their jobs. All because some bankers in New York and London took shortcuts in their spreadsheet formulas. The revolution hormone went up from my lower back up to my head and I dashed to collect my Che Guevara tees. It was smelly from the sweat; yeah, I was feeling revolutionary a couple of days ago as well. It will take a day for me to clean and dry it. And the dry cleaner is closed on Sundays. How do I satiate my revolutionary instincts to destroy for good this state of capitalistic cretinism? It’s too hot to venture out and so I click “Join” in the facebook group “Anarchism: Freedom and Equality… whatever”. The group, as all facebook groups, is a last attempt by its moderator to show-off and I get bored within one minute. The urge to own for the comrades their right to keep with them the surplus value of labor is not going anywhere. I read again about Subcommandante Marcos on Wikipedia, it’s a long unorganized article; shame on its volunteer writers. I start humming Hasta Sampre Commandante.. I don’t know the lyrics after that. It’s not going anywhere. Time is running out for the workers of the world. The TV is still filled with Obama smiles; after all he is one of the few to get a new job in such dire times. Down with leftist revisionism!! No, you can’t. And they don’t write new Bush jokes no more.

I look around: there’s no other way but to resort to my last option. I empty the can of Mountain Dew from my freeze. Viva la Revolution. I calm down. Time to iron my shirts for tomorrow.

Pictures from Brazil

It was rather unexpected, but was quite a unique experience. And the state of Minas Gerais (means a rather uninspiring “General Mining” in English) has a rather inspiring motto, "Libertas quæ sera tamen” which means “Freedom, even if late”. Posts on my trip to Brazil will follow, till then, please see the pictures:

Rio de Janeiro
Belo Horizonte
Lagoa Santa
Ouro Preto

The beautiful people

He looked at the next person in the queue; an ugly unshaved bastard. “This dude will probably be the last person on earth to buy a moisturizer”; he thought. It had been a bad day at work. He had only been able to snatch a small tube of shaving cream. Why is the world becoming smarter every day? He had been looking for a MAC Select Cover Up for his wife; but the closest he came to was a NIVEA concealer that he had seized from a clueless 40 something Russian lady. But his wife was very fussy about brands and sex hadn’t been that great for the last two weeks.

But then his eyes lit up; “Oh dear, there comes my target!” He spotted this long legged blonde who displayed all the right signs of being a terror suspect, blonde, designer shades, high heels, and an LVMH bag. What more can an airport security guy hope for? He alerted his colleagues and as soon as her bag went though the purgatory x-ray machine curtains, he pressed the button. They got in to frenzy like a pack of hyenas as they seized a nail polish remover, a toner, and a MAC concealer as well. After sharing the spoils, they reverted back to their duty stations, everybody shiny happy people.

P.S.: People magazine, take note. Post 9/11, the sexiest people on earth are not those run down holywood actors, but the airport security guards and their best friends.

The confession

I walked up to face the jury, there were three of them in a row, all wearing black garbs, a meter or so between each one of them. I was anxious, a little disturbed, a little distracted. A long day lay ahead with possibilities of several tribulations. My movements were already wobbly from the huge loads I was being forced to carry. Things around me were dark with a few highly focused lights enhancing the ominous nature of the members of the jury. When I was at their disposal, one of them asked me in a cold and sweet voice, “Last night, did you or did you not?”

I was a little uncertain. My memory was failing me. I struggled. How many of them were there? My eyes started rolling but she didn’t budge. She tilted her head gently, gave me a sharp look and started tapping her pen. The other members of the jury also gave me intent looks. There was a deafening silence. She said. “Well…” and tilted backwards to call for Bruno, the witness.

At that point, I broke down. I couldn’t take it anymore. I confessed. I confessed to everything. Yes, I was being an irrational fool. Yes, I was a shame in the name of humanity. Yes, I was being an insatiable glutton. I devoured that one, and that one, and that one too. Yes, I confessed, I did use the mini-bar. I took the chips, the cashews, and the coke can too, even though the price of the three could have paid for one Congolese child’s food for a lifetime.

She smiled, basking in her victorious glory, printed the bill, asked for my credit card, and then said good bye and good luck for the rest of my life.

This one goes to the translators

Have you ever wondered who the least free people in the world are? No. no, they are not the people from your small community. In my view, they are the translators or interpreters. As I am travelling around Brazil on a business trip, I cant help wondering about their massive plight. They are totally shackled to their employer’s chain of thoughts. Of course, there are a few deviants and there are myths that translators in Africa were often responsible for its colonization by always interpreting discussions between the colonizers and the natives in a way that was favorable to colonizers. But in present days, they are the people who have the least right to exercise any creativity, to exercise even a small amount of their free will, forced to follow every single word of their master or mistress.

A moment of silence for the translators, please!!! After all, a moment of silence needs no translation and provides these unfortunate people the only opportunity to be human beings in the true sense.

Economists: the next victim of pop culture