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.