Despair

Insanity keeps me sane. My delusions are a foil, for without them, I will see my life for it is: unsung, unremarkable, mediocre. My insanity keeps despair at bay. Till now I have escaped her clutches, but she is drawing near. I can feel her cold fingers circle my mind, and so, I feed my mind with more delusions. Anything to keep despair at bay, for once she has you, there is no escape.

Goodbye and good luck

I did one of the hardest things ever asked of me. Saying goodbye to my closest friend. And U2s Kite seems to linger in my mind:
Something is about to give
I can feel it coming
I think I know what it is
I'm not afraid to die
I'm not afraid to live
And when I'm flat on my back
I hope to feel like I did
And hardness, it sets in
You need some protection
The thinner the skin
I want you to know
That you don't need me anymore
I want you to know
You don't need anyone
Or anything at all
Who's to say where the wind will take you?
Who's to say what it is will break you?
I don't know, which way the wind will blow
Who's to know when the time has come around?
Don't want to see you cry
I know that this is not goodbye

It's summer, I can taste the salt of the sea
There's a kite blowing out of control on the breeze
I wonder what's gonna happen to you
You wonder what has happened to me...

I'm a man, I'm not a child...
A man who sees The shadow behind your eyes
Who's to say where the wind will take you?
Who's to say what it is will break you?
I don't know, where the wind will blow
Who's to know when the time has come around?
I don't want to see you cry I know that this is not goodbye

Did I waste it? Not so much I couldn't taste it
Life should be fragrant
Rooftop to the basement
The last of the rock stars
When hip hop drove the big cars
In the time when new media
Was the big idea
That was the big idea
- To the leg-end

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.