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