Dylan got it wrong

I do not want to rage against the dying of the light. I want to go gently into the good night.

My right to die

I've found something to say, so here goes.
When our animals suffer, we put them down. They die a dignified death, but we do not extend that same privilege to ourselves. Instead, as humans we are conditioned to suffer, to push the body to its limit, anything to avoid death. And this is something I simply do not understand. When a human being suffering from a disease wishes to go gently into that good night, he is not allowed to end it all. What’s so noble about that? Age is debilitating, illness even more.
We claim to have achieved so much as a society, but when it comes to death, we fall back on medieval practices. So, the doctors will pump you with every possible, horrible painkiller, medication and whatnot, to keep you alive. You cannot walk, cannot think, drool like an infant, and you’re wasting away, but you’re alive, and that’s what couns. Shall we all rejoice?
We send our soldiers to die, turn a deaf ear to genocide and religious cleansing, but we cling on to this right that we think we have: The right to live.
But what about my right to die? Why should the government decide that I don’t have the right to die? When I am old and my mind is addled, or when I’m suffering from cancer or some other painful disease, I don’t want to live. I want the same right that my dog has. Instead, I’ll have to find some horrible, bloody way to end it all. There’s no comfort in that, no dignity. I keep thinking of Dorothy Parker’s little ditty:
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
And so we live. Life goes on, until death comes for us. And we watch as the mind fails and the body weakens – helpless to do anything.
My grandfather, I’m told, spends most of his time sleeping. He is old and weary. He has nothing to say to anyone anymore. And he lives with my grandmum in a big empty house, waking up only to eat and bathe. He is dying, the family whispers. No, he’s not. After 90 years on this Earth, he wants out. But no one is listening to him.
I hope that when my body (and mind) begins to disintegrate rapidly, society will allow me my right to die. But I’m not placing any bets on that one.

It's over

The lady has nothing to say anymore

Trouble Helix

This one’s all thanks to Harper’s.
From a list complied tin 2006 by British police chiefs of more than 5,000 offences warranting that the DNA of an arrested suspect be retained for life in a national database

Violating king’s wife
Violating king’s eldest daughter
Violating wife of king’s eldest son and heir
Throwing offensive weapon or matter at sovereign with intent to alarm
Levying war against the sovereign in his or her realm
Buggery
Buggery with women
Buggery with animal
Buggery with man in private
Buggery with man other than in private
Procuring a woman who is defective
Procuring a woman by false pretences
Abducting unmarried girl under 18
Procuring poison to effect miscarriage
Supplying poison to procure miscarriage
Placing non human embryo in a woman
Counselling female to be circumcised
Riding horse furiously in street
Wantonly disturbing inhabitant by knocking on door or ringing doorbell
Keeping disorderly house
Removing buoys
Rout
Affray
Voyeurism
Sacrilege
Theft of wild flowers
Theft of wild creatires
Using explosive to take fish
Discharging stone or missile to kill or take fish
Handling salmon in suspicious circumstances
Cruelty to badgers
Disturbing badger when it is occupying badger lair
Possessing or controlling dead badger
Fraudulently evading bingo duty
Falsely pretending to be a deserter (Can someone explain this one to me?)
Failure to remove disguise when required by constable
Wasting police time

Run rabbit, run

It’s time – I can feel it in the air. Time to move – to escape from my existence. To live in a strange land for a while at least. The ties that I have with the few people I love will pull me back. But I will not think about that now. Now, I need to pack my bags, book my tickets and say goodbye to this city which has been my home for too many years.

My imaginary friends

Technically, I have 83 friends – at least that’s what my Facebook profile tells me. It’s not much; there are those with 400 friends. I wonder what it’s like to have 400 people you can count on. But coming back to my 83 friends – I haven’t spoken to most of them. And frankly, I don’t give a damn. (The ‘my dear’ has no space in this sentence). Friendships are transient affairs – you hope it lasts, but it rarely does. At least that’s my experience – I do not like spending time with a one-time good friend – where you have nothing to talk about, so you simply take a stroll down memory time. And we say, “Remember the time…” I don’t remember the time, and I don’t want to. For then you have to sift through the other junk – the regrets, the lost loves, the missed opportunities, the what ifs and the what nots. I couldn’t be bothered. I do that only when I’m PMSing – and it’s quite traumatic.
But I have 83 friends. With the exception of two, they don’t know anything about me, or care to. And I know nothing about them or care to. These 83 friends could well be my imaginary friends. You know, the ones you conjure up when you’re still a child. At least I did. I’d climb the mango tree in my garden and watch the street with my imaginary friends. They’ve proved to be more helpful than the real ones. They still are…

What really happens

It’s a sad day when we have to depend on The Guardian and The Independent to tell us what’s happening in the country. But we do.
Today
Me: Did you read The Guardian today? They’ve carried a story on how Banana Republic uses cheap labour in Delhi.
Editor: Really? Maybe they can give us some leads.
Last week
Me: Did you read The Observer’s story on what really happens in Goa?
Editor: Really? Maybe I’ll contact them to see if we can republish it.
Two weeks ago
Me: Did you read the story of these women who have taken the law into their hands to protect themselves from dacoits and also to get the government to build them some roads?
Editor: Where is this?
These days I simply read The Guardian to find out what’s happening in India.

Cold comfort

My greatest fear is not cancer – I can end my life if I ever get it. I’ve imagined doing it a million times. The feel of the knife on the wrist. That’s what cold comfort is all about. My greatest fear is mediocrity, and I think I’m living the mediocre dream. Eat, sleep, work, eat, sleep, work, pay bills, eat, sleep, work. It never stops, does it? Throw in a bit of sex and alcohol. And that’s my life… it wasn’t like this before. How did I land in this cesspool of mediocrity? Eat, sleep, work – I’ve become that happy, shiny, person I’ve always loathed.

Dalai Lama: Relic or revolutionary?

A colleague and friend was asked to write an opinion piece on whether the Dalai Lama was relevant in the greater political scheme of things. I was quite surprised by his stand. He brilliantly argued that the religious leader is the “only universally recognised leader, who in a violent world, espouses unqualified non-violence — not only as a way of life, but also as a means of political struggle”. But I disagree.
Yes, the Dalai Lama is synonymous with peace and peaceful protest, but it’s done Tibet little good. My colleague writes: If tomorrow the Dalai Lama gives his stamp of approval to a Tibetan version of the jihad, make no mistake, every single Tibetan alive on this planet would happily turn into a suicide bomber — all millions of them.
And all million of them will be squashed like pesky insects. An armed conflict will have little impact — not against the great Chinese machine that thinks nothing of quelling dissonance with a swift and effective blow. History has repeatedly proved that, and Tibet would be steamrollered and flattened under a brutal force that thinks nothing of sacrificing human life for what it perceives to be the greater good.
As the world panders to China — they cannot afford to do otherwise — the Dalai Lama is seen more as a benevolent, harmless leader of a religion that preaches the Middle Path. Even his followers are rebelling — they want their leader to be more assertive, to speak up for their rights.
But in an attempt to find that elusive Middle Path, the Dalai Lama has in many ways given up the good fight. Even now, he’s supportive of China hosting the Olympics. Even when the Tibetan culture is being threatened by the influx of Chinese migrants, even as the world wishes to pretend otherwise, the Dalai Lama does not react. Yes, in the world of morals and values, he is a leader. But in a brutal world where power is revered and respected, Tibet is nothing more than a fly in the greater scheme of things.
The Dalai Lama’s soft voice will be drowned in the clamor and chaos. In a few days, our attention will shift to another part of the world – Kosovo, Zimbabwe, Burma – take your pick. And the Dalai Lama will continue with his peaceful way of life, looking for the middle path. He knows that. Why else would he say that he is helpless? Why else would he say: “I'm a spokesman for the Tibetan people, not the controller, not the master. It's a peoples' movement, so it's up to them. Whatever they do, I have to act accordingly”?
Maybe the leader despairs, knowing that neither a violent nor peaceful protest will save his homeland.

Spring and Fall, To a Young Child

Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sorrow's springs are the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
-- Gerard Manley Hopkins

Stop the voices

Exhaustion threatens to overwhelm me, but I cannot rest. The body is revolting; the mind refuses to shut down. After spewing out words all week, and sucking stories out of other people, I cannot find myself. Instead my waking and sleeping moments are being stalked by the voices of others. And old man is telling me: ‘I have done nothing to be ashamed of.’ A young Jew is talking to me about Plato. I dare not forget his voice, as I’ve yet to write about him. Men on horses are pounding in my head. And the week’s not over. These are all the people I’ve spoken to over the week, and the week’s not over.
My mind is tired and does not have the patience to read. The stories are failing to hold my attention. My eyes are tired, and I want to sleep, but my mind refuses to shut down.
I’ve got my solitude, but it’s cold comfort. The voices are getting louder and more insistent.
‘I played for high stages’
‘Forgive me, father for I have sinned’
‘My wife died.’
‘I’m an alcoholic, and my husband hates me’
Stop the voices. I’ve documented their lives… but they refuse to leave. And I am weary. I want to forget everything and start afresh. The words are failing me… and mediocrity is setting in. I should stop now.

Can this mysterious ‘shaman’ lead Paris to enlightenment?

I vowed never to talk or write about Paris Hilton, but Marina Hyde’s deliciously evil column is too good to resist. Here’s an excerpt.

You’d better be ready to take another tumble down the rabbit hole, my darlings, because there are totally awesome developments in the world of celebrity livestock. Ms Hilton has a new pet. He’s a shaman!
God, I love Paris in the springtime. Even looking at the pictures is giving me a religious awakening. Can we just get her a shaman handbag to tote him around in right now? Like the ones her chihuahuas ride in, only bigger, and fitted out with incense cones and a cup holder for his Shamanatinis?
(Note: Because this is a quickly unfolding news event, it has since emerged that the Hilton heiress’s guru is also an actor . . . but whatevs. We’re jumping ahead of ourselves.)
Our story begins at the weekend, when Paris was spotted out and about in Beverly Hills — accompanied by an unidentified mammal in desperate need of manscaping. But rather than stage a personal grooming intervention, Paris appeared to hang on his every word as the pair visited a spiritual bookstore, he blessed some stuff, and they left carrying a volume called The Path of the Painted Shaman, in that way that celebrities do when they want to telegraph where they’re “at” to their rudderless public. This system works pretty well at present, although one day Geri Halliwell’s going to chance her arm with The Wealth of Nations and the whole thing’s going to collapse. Stick to self-help, Geri! Or My Friend Flicka.
According to reports, the guru told Paris to give away a necklace of indeterminate value to a passerby in order to cleanse herself, before giving her advice on good living. Wait: pursuing a life of night-vision humping interspersed with the odd spell in the big house is not the true path? Enlightenment’s so judgmental.
Anyways, as mentioned, it has since been established that the shaman is also an actor, a fact that Paris may or may not have been aware of. Whichever, he joins a long and distinguished line of chiselling gurus from Rasputin to the Maharishi — and further appearances by the pair are rumoured.
Can you even imagine Tinkerbell’s jealousy issues at this time? I hope they upped her doggy meds: I’d hate for her to have go through this unassisted by the good folks at Eli Lilly (selling you dog Prozac since 2007, kids!). Indeed, these are dark times for all the elite chihuahua force that Paris has been assembling in recent years — an army which, until recently, boasted 17 crystalcollared footsoldiers.
-Published in The Guardian

Power to the women

I live in a bubble – so the first time I ever heard that there was something called International Women’s Day was five years ago in my first newspaper job. The company organised a luncheon for us at half the price. So I paid Rs250 instead of Rs500 for a plate for noodles. I surrounded by a mob of hungry noisy women. I had to take leave for two days to recover from the experience. The next year, at a publishing house I was gifted a pressure cooker. It sure beat last year’s lunch, but I still don’t know what to do with the pressure cooker. The year after that, I drifted back to the newspaper industry – journalists are loud, chain-smoking alcoholics, but I like them – and we were treated to a buffet in the conference room. This time, though, the men rushed to the food, and finished it off before we could blink. Last year, a beauty company gifted us bottles of pink nailpolish.. Maybe this year they’ll give us nailfiles.

PS: The editor of the national newsdesk suggested that women head the different sections of the newspaper. Many of men agreed rather enthusiastically. They had visions of heading to the Press Club to down a few drinks. Luckily, the editor of the newspaper said he was against tokenism.

Who let the hope out?

Pandora’s story is on my mind. Not only did she release the evils into the world, she also released hope. We live in the hope that life will get better… and so we continue to exist. But what if this is as good as it will ever get? Human nature cannot accept that, so we live a dreary existence, seeking pleasure as and where we get it. We battle despair with Prozac; we lull the mind with routine, we give ourselves goals, we convince ourselves of the existence of a higher purpose, and we live like rats in the sewer that is life. Only the brave can admit that there is no hope. And once that reality hits home, they decide to do away with the sham that is life. But for the rest of us who are brought up on the lie that life is a gift, we trudge on desperately seeking greener pastures. One day we will cease to exist, but we push such thoughts deep into the recesses of our mind, and we choose life. These days I am learning not to rely on hope, but it raises its silvery head often enough to prevent me from ending it all. And so I say to myself, It will get better. But it won’t, will it? I’m supposed to be thankful that I don’t live in poverty, that I lead a charmed life. If a man who has lost his brother, nephew and wife in a span of two years can find joy and satisfaction in life, what reason do I have to complain. So I’m grateful for my existence, and wait hopefully, like a dog waiting for someone to pat his head. But one day, when the despair settles permanently, when I finally accept life without Pandora’s hope, I will end it all. In the meantime, I have to sleep, so I can rise in the morning bright and early to catch my measly worm.

The G spot exists

Ian Sample – I love his name - The Guardian’s science correspondent, reported that doctors have found evidence that the G spot exists. But it seems, that not all women have it. (I don’t think I have it). Anyway, Ian Sample writes: “Ultrasound scans revealed clear anatomical differences between women who said they experienced vaginal orgasms and a group of women who did not. The scans identified a region of thicker tissue where the G spot was rumoured to be lurking, which was not visible in the women who had never had a vaginal orgasm.”
The G spot is believed to have the ability to affect only vaginal orgasms. Thank god! And the doctors in Italy who conducted the study say that it’s possible for women to find out whether they have a G spot. However, one of my newspaper’s editors tells me that the study is nothing new. “Some women have it, others don’t.”

No political ideology

Yesterday, I was asked what my political ideology was -- and I had nothing to say. Politics is shaping the world: Kosovo celebrates its independence, Cuba sees an end of a Castro era, Obama might just become America's first black president. But I, like UK's Gordon Brown, or as we Indians like to call him -- Govardhan Brown - am bumbling along. I have no political bent besides the ususal cliches like 'no more war' and 'freedom of speech'. An old communist journalist I recently interviewed was right when he said that I belong to a generation that has no conviction. He said: "You generation is working in a vacuum. You have lost the conviction and the fight of social liberation for women and working people." And he's right. I have sold out to the iPod, the Internet and middle-class aspiriations. I have no ideology, no stand... nothing. Which is why I will never have children. I don't like them. And anyway, what legacy besides 1GB of music, will I leave them?

Once upon a time

Margaret are you grieving,
Over golden grove unleaving?

Ah, as the heart grows older,

It will come to such sights colder.

-Gerald M Hopkins

It was the perfect day to write a story. And that’s what she decided to do. She crouched in the corner of her first floor veranda and sharpened her pencil. The wind mocked her, rustling the sheets of paper. White paper with red margins and blue lines. From his perch on the tree above, the crow watched her, without curiosity, the way only crows can do. As she prepared to write her first words, the world took a breath and waited. The clouds stopped moving, the wind died down, and the crow… it just watched the way only crows can do.
And she wrote: Once upon a time…
She looked at it, turned the paper upside down and looked at it again. That didn’t look right. Once upon a time was so boring. She scratched it out, again and again and again. Three horizontal lines scratched out the words – Once upon a time. And the world did not like it. The powers that be trembled with anger.
“Traitor,” screeched the crow, the way only crows can screech.
”Et tu, little one,” howled the wind. And the world revolted.
She looked up in surprise: “But at least wait till I finish,” she said. “I haven’t even begun.”
But she had been judged. The sky darkened in fury and the crow cawed out in triumph, “I knew she’d do away with Once upon a time.”
And she found herself in a courtroom. [Don’t ask me how, she just did]. Her hands were shackled in chains. The courtroom was more a dungeon, packed with people booing her. The crow was perched on the shoulder of an old man. His wrinkled face was marred by three scars – two on one cheek, one on the other. The bags around his eyes were black, and his white hair hung on his shoulder – rat-tailed and unkempt. He pointed a manicured finger at her. “Murderer,” he hissed. “You scratched me out. This is premeditated murder.”
The crowd hissed at her, the crow cawed in glee and she stood in the dungeon, her arms bound in iron. “But it’s my story,” she said. “And it has to be different. There is no rule that I have to begin with Once upon a time.”
“I am the Alpha,” said the old man. “Omega is dying.”
He pointed his manicured finger to the far corner of the dungeon. A woman was lying etherised on an operating table. Ten tubes were feeding words into her wasted body. Tears were flowing from her eyes. But her face was scarred beyond recognition. The people in white coats muttered amongst themselves.
“Happily ever after is dying.” The three scars on Once upon a time’s face glowed red. “Once we were the beginning and the end. I was the beginning, she was the happiness, but no you writers were not happy to let things be.”
“But how can there be a happily ever after?” she asked. “How can I write a Happily ever after, when I know that there isn’t one. Everything changes. I want a happily ever after, but there isn’t one anymore. I’ve looked and I’ve looked, and I can’t find it.”
The crowd hissed, the crow cawed, and the girl began to cry. She mourned the dying of Happily ever after, and felt guilty scratching out Once upon her time. But her experiences had shown her that the two did not have a place in her story. They had no place in any new story.
The old man rose and gave the verdict. His voice was gentle, like a grandfather narrating a fairytale. “Little girl, you are guilty of attempting to murder my wife and me. The words will fail you when you need them the most. Without us there can never be a good story, and you will roam in the Wasteland for ever.”
The dungeon dissolved, and she found herself crouched in the veranda. It was a good day to tell a story. But the words did not come. She had no story to tell. The wind mocked her, and the crow watched, the way only crows can do.

The three old ladies

I call them my Furies; they stare at me wherever I go. The slight rustling of the curtains on the first floor, the creaking of the door when I leave my apartment… they’re always there watching and waiting. They have nothing else to do. They are my neighbours, my very own witches who cackle but offer no predictions.

The first steals my newspapers, if I don’t pick them up by 8am. She’s always lurking in the corridor looking for something to steal. My landlady says that she even made off with a neighbour’s commode. Though how an 80-year- old can accomplish such a task escapes my imagination.

The second is a vigilante – her targets are vehicles parked in front of the building gate. The moment a car is parked outside the gate, she rushes out of her house with surprising agility armed with a rusted spear. She then proceeds to deflate the tires systematically, muttering to herself.

The third smells of cats – rumour has it that there are about 20 in her apartment. But even the local authorities don’t have the courage to investigate.

On Sundays I see them go to church. The three old women mutter and mumble. When they see me, they make the sign of the cross. They hold the mirror to my future. One day I will be old and wrinkled. I see the signs. I’ve already started muttering to myself, and I want to adopt a stray cat. My living room is littered with newspapers and magazines.

When I grow old, I will be a frizzy-haired chain-smoking alcoholic. There will be no mirrors in my house. I am not that brave.

Writer's strike is almost over

Here's a bit of good news for those tired of watching reruns. Michael Eisner has announced that the writers have reached a deal. Hopefully it will be end of the strike. "It's over," Mr Eisner said. "They made the deal, they shook hands on the deal. It's going on Saturday to the writers in general." There is still a chance that the deal may fall throough. Time to turn to Leno for some good old-fashioned stand up comedy.

Whodunit?

The veritable Scotland Yard as made it official: It was the bomb that killed Benazir Bhutto. But it looks like the Pakistan People’s Party would prefer ‘death by gunshot’. The Party has rejected the conclusion and has asked for a UN investigation. Rumours of a cover-up are rife. The Yard’s investigators say that a lone attacker fired the shots at Bhutto and then detonated the blast by blowing himself up moments later.

Safety in numbers

Other people's opinions -- it's easy to live life in fear of the faceless masses and their opinions. But once you break out of the mould, life suddenly becomes a whole lot more satisfying. I learnt that in kindergarten, when I was forced to participate in a race. While everyone headed north, I decided to go south. My mum was mortified, but I quite enjoyed running in the opposite direction -- there was no one jostling me.
Since then, I've always chosen to do exactly what I please, instead of bowing down to society's norms and values. But the going's not easy, and there are times when I seek the safety of numbers, when I crave for mass approval, and seek acceptance from people who don't really care whether I live or die. Today, however, is not one of those days. Today, I'll be driving six white horses.

Groucho makes me laugh

When the Marx Brothers were about to make a movie called A Night in Casablanca, there were threats of legal action from the Warner Brothers, who, five years before, had made a picture called, Casablanca. Whereupon, Groucho, speaking for his brothers and himself, immediately dispatched the following letters:

Dear Warner Brothers
Apparently there is more than one way of conquering a city and holding it as your own. For example, up to the time that we contemplated making this picture, I had no idea that the city of Casablanca belonged exclusively to Warner Brothers. However, it was only a few days after our announcement appeared that we received your long, ominous legal document warning us not to use the name Casablanca.
It seems that in 1471, Ferdinand Balboa Warner, your great-great-grandfather, while looking for a shortcut to the city of Burbank, had stumbled on the shores of Africa and, raising his alpenstock (which he later turned in for a hundred shares of the common), named it Casablanca.
I just don't understand your attitude. Even if you plan on re-releasing your picture, I am sure that the average movie fan could learn in time to distinguish between Ingrid Bergman and Harpo. I don't know whether I could, but I certainly would like to try.
You claim you own Casablanca and that no one else can use that name without your permission. What about "Warner Brothers"? Do you own that, too? You probably have the right to use the name Warner, but what about Brothers? Professionally, we were brothers long before you were. We were touring the sticks as The Marx Brothers when Vitaphone was still a gleam in the inventor's eye, and even before us there had been other brothers -- the Smith Brothers; the Brothers Karamazov; Dan Brothers, an outfielder with Detroit; and "Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?" (This was originally "Brothers, Can You Spare a Dime?" but this was spreading a dime pretty thin, so they threw out one brother, gave all the money to the other one and whittled it down to, "Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?")
Now Jack, how about you? Do you maintain that yours is an original name? Well, it's not. It was used long before you were born. Offhand, I can think of two Jacks -- there was Jack of "Jack and the Beanstalk," and Jack the Ripper, who cut quite a figure in his day.
As for you, Harry, you probably sign your checks, sure in the belief that you are the first Harry of all time and that all other Harrys are imposters. I can think of two Harrys that preceeded you. There was Lighthouse Harry of Revolutionary fame and a Harry Appelbaum who lived on the corner of 93rd Street and Lexington Avenue. Unfortunately, Appelbaum wasn't too well known. The last I heard of him, he was selling neckties at Weber and Heilbroner.
This all seems to add up to a pretty bitter tirade, but I assure you it's not meant to. I love Warners. Some of my best friends are Warner Brothers. It is even possible that I am doing you an injustice and that you, yourselves, know nothing at all about this dog-in-the-Wanger attitude. It wouldn't surprise me at all to discover that the heads of your legal department are unaware of this absurd dispute, for I am acquainted with many of them and they are fine fellows with curly black hair, double-breasted suits and a love of their fellow man that out-Saroyans Saroyan.
I have a hunch that this attempt to prevent us from using the title is the brainchild of some ferret-faced shyster, serving a brief apprenticeship in your legal department. I know the type well -- hot out of law school, hungry for success and too ambitious to follow the natural laws of promotion. This bar sinister probably needled your attorneys, most of whom are fine fellows with curly black hair, double-breasted suits, etc., into attempting to enjoin us. Well, he won't get away with it! We'll fight him to the highest court! No pasty-faced legal adventurer is going to cause bad blood between the Warners and the Marxes. We are all brothers under the skin and we'll remain friends till the last reel of "A Night in Casablanca" goes tumbling over the spool.
Sincerely,Groucho Marx

*For some curious reason, this letter seemed to puzzle the Warner Brothers legal department.

Source: From THE BEST OF MODERN HUMOUR, edited by Mordecai Richler, reprinted without any permission whatsoever, but with no intent to make a profit thereby.

What I've learnt over the week

No sex please, we're Indians: If anyone tells you that Bombay -- I refuse to call it Mumbai -- is cosmopolitan, they're lying. Ours is a city that is caught in a timewarp. Lurking beneath its busy exterior, is a city that is regressive in its outlook. Last weekend the police raided a so-called gay party and arrested the people on the grounds of consumption of alchohol. And horror, there were even condoms. This is not the first time the police have barged into a private party... they will do it again.
Weed kills your brain cells: Ever since I've given up grass and hashish, i find I can think more clearly. So now that the haze has lifted I can't help but ask: What am I doing with my life? When will earn more money? And should I adopt a little black kitten?
The world is melting: The way things are going, the Amazon Rainforest will disappear in 50 years, the Greenland ice sheet will melt in 300 years, and the Arctic sea ice in 10. Knowing my luck, and given my pessimitic outloook to life, I will die a painful and horrible death.
Other lessons: Indians are bad sportspeople, tarot card readers cannot read the future, women are fickle and men whine too much.

The art of saying goodbye

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake
And no birds sing

Keats

When during our peregrinations we make the mistake of spending the weekend with an old friend, knowing that a parting is inevitable, the ecstasy of the meeting is followed by a sense of loss, dismay and hopelessness. Nothing will alleviate the pain of the parting, the knowledge that life will go back to its rhythm. Here’s what I’ve learnt in the last 48 hours.
The sense of loss will pass. Don’t fight it. There will come a time when you will open your eyes in the morning and find yourself whole. In the meantime…
Get drunk. I’ve never believed in boring others with emotions. So meet a few friends, get drunk and go to sleep. (Drink a glass of water before you hit the sack. It helps with the hangover).
Brace yourself. You will find yourself in such a situation again. You have two choices – become Keats’ La Belle Dame Sans Merci and you’ll never again drown in that overwhelming sense of loss. Or, enjoy the memories, knowing that to love, to meet and to part is inevitable. I prefer the latter, though I have been accused by many of being the former.
Get on with life. There are more important things than living in the past. There will be new experiences, new adventures, and of course… new pain. But then, no one said life is easy. There are worse things than having to say goodbye.

Oh, those Martian women

It’s back to the drawing board for sci-fi writers and movie producers. Aliens are not little green men, and they’re certainly not slime-ridden creatures with extra large eyes. We now have proof that they’re hirsute women. NASA’s Spirit has captured a Martian woman sunning herself on a red rock, in a pose quite similar to the Little Mermaid statue in Copenhagen.

On Earth, however, very few societies allow their women to walk around in all their hairy glory – that’s the prerogative of the men. But from this image we can infer that among the Martians at least, hair is in. Julia Roberts should be happy. Images of her hairy armpit still evoke horror and revulsion.

Of course, rationalists are quick to dismiss the Martian woman as the product of an overactive imagination. They attribute it to pareidolia, where people tend to see human faces in inanimate objects. Some say it’s a trick of light and shadow. But that’s what rationalists are about. They’ll use reason and logic to justify the boring view of the universe.

And then we would have to go back to little green men and slimy creatures. I like the idea of a hairy Martian woman. She lives in a world where torturous procedures like waxing and threading do not exist. And when she’s not abducting Americans for medical experiments, she likes to sit on a rock and watch the sun set.

Oft-used words

There are some words we journalists should never use. Here's my list of pet peeves
Interestingly: There's nothing interesting about a policeman talking about Mumbai's traffic snarls. There's nothing interesting in anything we have to report. If by some miracle, we do have someting interesting to say, let the reader be the judge.
Ironically: Read Zoe Williams's witty essay The Final Irony which appeared in The Guardian newspaper a few years ago. [The link: www.guardian.co.uk/weekend/story/0,,985375,00.html]. So no, a man dying two minutes before he turns 100 is not irony. And their's no irony in being caught in a traffic jam whether you're running late or are two hours too early. And no, life need not be full of ironical twists and turns.
Poignant: The word 'poignant' is used to review almost any book. Yes, yes, the story is touching, but enough with the poignancy.
There are many more, but these really get my goat.

The flight of the bird (a short story)

It arrived at her parent's home in a green envelope, with the words 'Do not bend' written in the corner. He sent her the picture, the one that caught her rare smile. Her white shirt was blowing in the wind, and she was trying to brush away the locks of her unruly hair from her face. They were laughing in the picture. His copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy was lying open next to them; the camera had caught the pages swaying to the tune of the salty sea breeze.

She knew where the bookmark had been. There are some things she cannot forget. There are some things she did not want to forget.

She could taste the salty sea breeze, or was it an errant tear? “Come with me,” he had said all those years ago. “I’ll build you a beach house and we can stay there.”

She laughed: “Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater. Had a wife but couldn’t keep her.”

“Come with me,” he insisted. “I’ll keep you safe.”

On that beach she had a brief glimpse of happiness. A loss of the self… her mind was alive, and her skin awake. To be happy is to not worry about the unknown future. To know happiness is to know freedom. To experience it is to forget it all.

But happiness is ephemeral. Both freedom and happiness are shackled by the chains of restriction and consequence. After glimpsing happiness, there can be no going back. The world looks staid and stale. The happiness is gone. And the throbbing ache will never subside. No amount of codeine can numb the pain.

“What blame have I in thy nefarious life?” he had raged, as she ran away all those years ago.

On the back of the picture there was a summons. Meet me on the beach. You know which one, I’ll be there. Come with me.

What women want

The female of the species is believed to be more deadly than the male. And there is some truth to this, because most women simply don’t know what they want. We think we want it all, or some of it: eternal love, the great career, the passionate romance, a close circle of friends like the Ya Ya sisters, the perfect body. Once we have it, we discard it. For some reason it’s not enough.

Our needs never get satiated. Many of them are irrational and illogical, but we roam the cityscape hunting for that elusive Holy Grail. Some give up and draw consolation from mediocrity, from the mundane. Others seek the highs of instant gratification. But the problem with this is that it is instant, it is transient. It will fade into obscurity and then you have to begin your search anew for the next new high.

Find me a happy and satisfied woman, and I’ll break the carefully nurtured sham that society has inflicted on her. Despair, desire and delirium are always lurking in the background. My greatest fear is that this is as good as it will ever get. In desperation, I search for the next adrenaline rush, sifting through the remnants of my broken dreams.

I am loved, but it’s not enough. I have a great body, but my tummy isn’t flat enough. I’ve read a bit, but there’s so much more to learn. My job gives me plenty of freedom, but it fails to satisfy. Mood altering drugs simply don’t cut it for me anymore. I draw no comfort from my memories which are intangible reminders of the past. So I walk alone looking for the next big high. What if I don’t find it? Or worse still, what if I find it just to discover in the cold light of day that it’s just not enough. What then?

Leave the dead alone

Talk about flogging a dead horse. Now Diana’s butler, Paul Burrell, has testified that the princess had no intention of marrying Dodi Fayed. Does it matter anymore? Why does a nation with its fair share of problems -- Northern Rock, missing CDs of people’s lives, Gordon Brown -- insist on dredging up the past? The princess is dead, maybe it’s time for the rest of the world to get on with their lives. After all, her former husband and her children seem to have moved on.

A few good tears

Whatever happened to the stiff upper lip? And how is it that I don't get any sympathy when I shed a few tears. My husband has no time for my tears, and refuses to talk to me when I throw a hissy fit. My friends have never seen my cry -- and for good reason, too. I look horrible, complete with a red nose and puffy eyes.

We were taught to hide our tears. "Cry, I was told. But in private. The world does not want to see your tears." And so the bathroom became a haven. I would shed my tears, sing a mournful song or two, have a shower, and emerge dry-eyed.

But these days, public display of emotion is the order of the day. It helped Hillary get the votes she needed. Maybe I will shed a tear or two tonight... and see where that gets me. But I'm not holding my breath. The people I know wouldn't fall for it. Perhaps that's why I'm no politician, no leader, no social butterfly. I simply blink and move on.

The Diary

I have been lazy, but that is the nature of the indolent. I go with the flow, living my life aimlessly… simply bowing down to the winds of change. The sense of purpose eludes me -- do I want to change the world? Do I want to improve my lot? Or do I simply want to curl up in bed, reading my books as the world passes me by. The latter sounds peaceful. If I can’t attain happiness, then peace is the next best thing.

Cartoon of the day

The great Chinese firewall

I can’t imagine life before YouTube -- the video-sharing site that in many ways revolutionised the way we saw the world. But those in China might soon have to say goodbye to the quirky website that attracts millions of users worldwide. The powers that be in China have decided that they will no longer tolerate the “broadcast of degenerate thinking” on the Internet. Henceforth, all video-sharing sites must have government approval before they can be accessed by Chinese surfers.

Fine, most of the videos posted are guilty of mindlessness and banality. But then, that’s entertainment. I do not go to YouTube to listen to philosophers talk about existentialism. And I certainly don’t go to the site for reference on my dissertation. Instead, I go there for the mindlessness, which is more thought provoking than comments in newspapers and inane debates on television.

But in China, which is reported to have more that 150 million internet users, it’s time to end the banality.

And in India? In India, we’ll wait till someone does a spoof on Shivaji or Gandhi… many, many months later some politician with his or her own agenda will take up cudgels for us and fight for the country’s cultural rights. Sites like YouTube will be banned. Those who care will not have the power to do much except write about it. How’s that for optimism?

The Diary

Insane in the membrane, insane in the brain… that’s me. I’m standing in a corner, I’ve lost my religion, and now I’m losing my mind. My psychiatrist wants to put me on medication, I think she’s over-reacting. My ex lover thinks I need to be rescued, and has dutifully planned a rescue mission, which I’m hoping to evade. My friends have decided to conform to society and are dutifully getting married or having babies. So I’m standing in the corner taking a deep breath. If that doesn’t help, I’ll down a bottle of white wine. Le chaim.

Reader's Corner

The Good Husband of Zebra Drive by Alexander McCall Smith


It’s winter in Botswana, and Mma Ramotswe can’t do without her cup of bush tea. She needs a lot of it, too, grappling with domestic life and her detective agency, The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency. Her assistant, the shoe-loving, bespectacled Grace Makutsi is thinking of moving on to a better job, after all, she did get a 97 per cent at the secretarial college. And her husband, the mild-mannered loveable Mr JLB Matekoni, the owner of Tlokweng Speedy Motors, is contemplating life as a detective. To add to her problems, Mma Ramotswe has been asked to look into the deaths of three patients at a local hospital.

But nothing can upset the rhythm of the “traditionally built” Mma Ramotswe, not even when Charlie, the apprentice mechanic, announces his decision to leave the garage and start the No. 1 Ladies Taxi Service.

The eighth book in the popular Ladies No. 1 Detective Agency series delights the reader with its upbeat take on life in Botswana. There’s always time for a cup of tea, a slice of cake and to acknowledge the beauty of life. Many readers may find the book isimplistic to the point of being trite, but McCall Smith's narrative style is uncomplicated and undemanding. He is not here to talk about the suffering and the wars that plague many countries in Africa. Instead, the books tell a different story. They tell a story of loyalty, hope, compassion, pride for the African way of life, and above all… love.

Cartoon of the day

This one's from Mike Keefe, The Denver Post

It’s the 31st: let’s attack some women

Here’s a story that happens every year: ‘women attacked my frenzied mob’. Last New Year’s Eve, it was at the Gateway of India. This year, two couples – one newly married – were attacked in Juhu. A group of 50 men simply pounced on them, and began molesting the women.

This is the psyche of Mumbai -- a city that’s touted to be safe, open-minded and cosmopolitan. But simmering under this veneer of coexistence and equality is a mentality that is chilling and menacing. Everyone, the rich and the poor, are guilty. You could be walking in a chawl or parting at a ritzy night club, either way you're not safe.

On New Year’s Eve, when everyone is under the influence of alcohol and roaming the streets looking for an angry fix; it takes little to excite the masses. The mob knows that there will be little or no consequences to their actions on this day; they are free to do as they please. And so, on December31st, if I’m in town, I flee to the safety of my home. The roads are not safe after 10.30 at night, and I have no faith in the police. I have forgotten what the roads look like on the 31st, and now, I no longer want to know.

In 1977, Anne Pride’s war cry rang out in Pittsburgh. Take Back the Night, she said, and the women of the world took up the chant. In Mumbai, we too, are shouting the slogan, but the night never did belong to us.

The Diary

Social networking sites allow you the perverse pleasure of watching others live their lives, while yours passes into futility and inanity. I am browsing through the snapshots of other people’s lives. Brithdays, holidays, family gatherings… And mine? I never take photographs, one day I may regret it, but I cannot bear to look at the stillness of the past.

The last three days have been perfect, that is if I erase my interactions with fellow human beings. After reading Virginia Woolf’s diaries, I have decided that I am quite jealous of her. DH Lawrence never surprises, but it is Moliere who makes me laugh the most. I would have loved to have met him. It seems he had a theatre company, where he was the only man.

People are talking to me; my phone keeps ringing. But I choose to ignore their voices. I cannot deal with emotions -- mine or theirs. Tomorrow I will listen. For now, life is a hazy dream, and I’m floating in a pool of serendipity.

The Diary

January 2, 2008
The New Year seems to be as flaccid as the last, but I’m still on the second day… so there’s hope. I haven’t had sex for 40 days, and at this point a bread stick would turn me on. To channel my energies, I have decided to exercise every morning. (Let’s not call it a resolution, I can never stick to those.) A bit of yoga, weight training and a run by the beach, should do me some good. But for now, I’ll settle with a glass of wine reading Alexander McCall Smith’s The Good Husband of Zebra Drive. I like McCall Smith, he paints a pleasant world, whether it's in Botswana or Scotland.

Cartoon of the day

Dying on the job

It’s official. A journalist’s job is no cakewalk. According to a report released by Reporters Without Borders, at least 86 journalists were killed around the world in 2007 -- the highest number since 1994 -- with Iraq, Somalia and Pakistan topping the list of most dangerous places, according to a report released Wednesday by Reporters Without Borders (RSF). More than half of the victims - 48 - were journalists from the Middle East, while 17 came from Asia, seven from the Americas and two from Europe and the former Soviet Union. And 90 per cent of all such killings go unpunished. Iraq remained the world's deadliest country for media workers, with 47 killed last year.
It’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it.