People tend to harbour the strangest ideas about you. I, for instance, have been long known as someone who is good with kids. If you know me, then you will appreciate the ridiculousness of such a description. Unlike my brother, I don’t detest kids, but I’m not particularly fond of them either. Kids, a term used to describe anything between 18 months and 12 years of age, don’t strike me as particularly special. They aren’t furry, they don’t mew or yip, and they are way too large to be cuddled effectively. Give me a kitten over a kid any day.
But, strangely so, kids tend to like me. I have babysat a fair number of obnoxious kids, and they all have behaved perfectly well with me. My neighbourhood aunt’s son, Gutu, spent large hours of his day with me, when my mom and his parents would be chatting in the next room. To be honest, I didn’t always enjoy these evenings, in fact, most of the time I’d be wishing that I were back home. But the kid liked me, and my parents and his were under the mistaken impression that the feeling was consistently mutual. Plus, I was too much of a woosie to protest. I still am.
Then there’s my nephew, Pablo, named after the poet, who wouldn’t sleep unless his Disha Mashi (me) slept beside him. He is a class-A example of obnoxiousness, and drives his scientist parents nuts by dancing to item numbers on television. Plus he punched my brother in the face and puked on his shoulder. My brother, understandably, harbours affection of the very distant kind for the child.
But the kid likes me. And that puzzles me no end. Because I am seriously not all that fond of little children, and I often feel rather fake when playing with them. And since the child is inevitably not much smaller than me, I see no joy in cuddling the thing. This thought came back to me the other day when my neighbour came over with her daughter and granddaughter. The granddaughter was a mite of seven years or so, just got to Class I. I remember how excited I was when I was getting to Class I. I mean, here’s a proper class with a number, not some kiddy class with letters. Plus, I was going to start with science as a subject. I remember standing on my head with joy, a feat I that I haven’t been able to replicate since.
So, this kid was dumped on me as the adults went into the next room to do the stuff that they do in their spare time. Now this kid, even by my exacting standards, was a mighty cute kid. A chubby thing with a little Chinese cut mop on its head, dressed in a white and pink polka-dotted dress. I LOVE polka dots. And the best part was, there was none of the frills-and-ribbons rubbish that parents tend to deck up little girls in. A neat frock, cute hair, and admittedly, one of the brightest smiles I had seen in a really long time.
So what do we do to spend the evening? Thankfully, the kid was a very chatty one, and she knew what she wanted. She saw the PC on, and asked me what I was doing. I said, I was playing games. What games, the kid asks. Uhm, what do you tell a kid when you’re actually on Facebook, but have told her that it’s a game because she wouldn’t understand the concept of a social networking site? It’s not a game really, I’m on the Net. Wrong foot, wrong foot!! My brain yells at me. The kid looks puzzled and asks me, do you have any games? FIFA ’00, and a game called Crayon. FIFA is out of the question, and Crayon is just a tad bit too complicated for a seven year old, or so I think. So na re, no games you would like. But, I do have a Tom and Jerry CD! I love Tom and Jerry, kid squeals. Oh goodie, I think, so do I. So I go to my room to get the CD, only to discover that it isn’t there. Damn, it was Sree’s, and she took it back. So I go to the kid and say that I don’t have the CD with me. I gave it to a friend. “Gave it?” my brain tells me. “It was SREE’s, she TOOK it back!!” Too complicated for the seven-year old mind, I tell it.
NOW what? She wants to see my movie DVDs for herself. Okie, here you go. I take out a handful, with Friday the 13th coming out bang on top. She flips through a couple and decides that she doesn’t like any. Then I remember a DVD of Madagascar and The Incredibles. Madagascar wins, because it has animals, and plus, its hilariously funny. But will a seven-year old kid get a joke about a bunch of secret agent Penguins? Never mind, its got animals, and things falling on top of each other. Something for everybody.
The movie starts, and the name of the movie appears….in Russian. Shit! Why did we get a movie in Russian? No no no, I can’t tell the kid that its in Russian and that she wont get it!! I’ve already failed to explain to her the concept of a social networking site, as well as lied to her about why I don’t have a Tom and Jerry CD with me! I can’t fail another time!! I won’t be able to take it!
As you can see, I take the business of kids, and kids themselves, very seriously. Thankfully, the movie WAS in English. How odd.
But is the kid getting the concept of a disgruntled Zebra and a self-obsessed Lion who thinks he’s a celebrity? Is she? I can’t even explain it to her, because I think that she might like to figure out things for herself. Adults don’t like having movies explained to them without having asked, so why should kids? So we watch. Occasionally she ask me questions like why did the Penguins beat up that guy, and I tell her that it’s because the guy would otherwise lock them up. Commonplace, realistic explanations like that.
But soon it’s quite obvious that the movie isn’t very interesting to her. I mean, Madagascar IS pretty sophisticated humour. She starts telling me about her school, and I listen, asking questions and smiling or laughing. Then she spots something. A big translucent red plastic mallet I have, the ones that bounce off your head and squeak a lot. My dad got it, and we occasionally beat each other with it. She picks it up, and it squeaks. She’s delighted. She hits me tentatively with it. I’m not hurt, but I pretend to be really scared. She starts squeezing the mallet, and it squeals like nuts.
Now she realizes that the chair she’s on is a swiveling chair. She asks to be pushed around. I crazily push the chair around the whole room, loving the way she’s laughing. She asks to stop, and we do. She then notices the tiles. Now the tiles in our house are rather psychedelic. They are mosaic tiles, but have rather kaleidoscope patterns of gray, black and white. As a kid, I used to spend ages looking at them. From one angle, it would be the ceiling of a room, but shift your mind’s eye, and it’s a cube. Jump from gray to gray, or black to black. The kid obviously got the same idea, because she proposed a game where we would each choose a colour out of all three, and walk only on tiles of that colour. If we stepped on any other, then we would have to start walking on those. I chose black, she chose gray.
After leaping around for sometime, she picked up the mallet and started beating me up. This time, I made a short dash for it, and she chased me. So here we where, doing circles between two rooms connected by the verandah. She was squealing her lungs out, and in a while, so was I.
Now she’s tired, and wants to sit down. She asks to see my shoes. Well, they are in the other room, I tell her, how about we see them before you leave. Okay, she says, but in a while she asks again. So I take her to my room where my high heels are kept. I take out this very lovely pair of silver heels my sister got me. She wants to try them on. Oh dear, these are very high heels, and her feet are tiny. So I make her sit down while I put on the shoes for her, and then she stands up, holding my hands. I will hold your hands and you can walk around, I tell her. So she does that for a while, and then she sits down. We spend the rest of the evening talking. Before she leaves, I take off my shoes from her feet. She goes off with her Mum and Grandma, waving goodbye, and asking me to come to Bangalore, where she lives.
I am a bit tired, and a bit puzzled. When I was playing with her, tickling her, or making the few funny faces I know, I was feeling rather stupid at times. Like, she’ll notice how these faces aren’t really very funny, and for how long can you tickle a kid anyway? And what next? How do we have fun now? Again, I am much too serious about the oddest of things.
But while we are talking about the oddest of things, how’s this for a contender- the kid liked me. I could see it in the kid, she liked me. With all my apathy towards kids, there is something amazing about being liked by a kid. It makes you feel like a nice person. Like Pablo, or like Gutu before him, this kid saw something in me, which I don’t see myself. Or maybe they don’t really see all that much, and don’t notice the fakeness that you feel. My philosophy with kids is that you let them be, let them do what they want to do, and keep a wary eye on the boundary. You don’t speak for them, you don’t explain to others what they are feeling. You let them decide, let them speak for themselves. It’s probably because I see kids this way that I feel no need to cuddle them or fuss over them. They are kids, not kittens, and are perfectly capable of looking after themselves within reasonable limits. And its because I see kids this way that I can get very anxious around them, because to me they are more perceptive than adults are, and more transparent, so if their perception of you is openly expressed on their faces. And I’ve never been very good at handling criticism. Hence the anxiety. Hence the feeling that with each mistake I make, I lose another very crucial chance.
But I haven’t lost too much yet. Kids DO like me, although I may not always like them much myself. I often prefer being left alone, and often have kids thrust upon me, given my reputation in the family. And I often am left playing with a kid when I would have given anything to be reading a book at that moment. The fact that I was a pretty obnoxious kid myself doesn’t help much. But I think about how kids like me, and I wonder how. Maybe its because I let them be. Maybe its because I do what they want me to do. Maybe its because my sad pig-face is genuinely funny. I don’t know. But kids like me, against their better judgment, I believe, and there is nothing I can do about it. It’s another odd thing about myself that I have to live with. While I’m not entirely complaining, I wish I knew why.
An unpleasant thought just struck me. This is exactly like one of those humble-and-self-deprecatory yet subtly-self-aggrandazing articles. The kind of speech that would be so typical of, say, Spiderman. With this disclaimer of self-awareness, I hope to assuage my conscience.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Sunday, January 6, 2008
My Sunday Morning.
It’s a Sunday morning. Now I hope that after I’ve posted this, I can tweak the blogger controls so that they show the time I’m talking about. But my past attempts to do that have somehow always failed. So, I just want you to know, that I wrote this on a Sunday morning. And right now, my clock shows 10.10 AM. Phew, I thought by the time I’d ended the last sentence, it would change to 10.11. And I’d have to sacrifice symmetry for the cause of truth. Thank goodness.
This is the first Sunday morning I’ve had all to myself in the longest time ever. Usually, it’s me and my mum, but she’s out of town for this week. And I have the house to myself. There’s work, true, but the work can be pushed off to some last minute, when I can finish it in a hurry, and forget that the minute ever existed. The way I see it, I’d rather sacrifice the whole of that minute, rather than give up a bit of every minute of this lovely day.
There’s loveliness to this word, lovely. Say it once, softly. It stumbles of your tongue, doesn’t it? But not without grace, much like a drop of water. A large, voluptuous drop of rain. Lovely reminds you of fresh, full lips, of apple cheeks. Of dark hair, and forest green. Of red hydrangeas, and blurred lines, blurred vision. It’s the face you could love. Unlike Pretty, who you could like, or Beautiful, who you could admire. And unlike Pretty or Beautiful, Lovely is subjective. Fickle. What is Pretty or Beautiful can be lovely, but what is not can also be. The loveliness of Lovely lies in how it depends so little on the physical, factual details of body and face. Loveliness is a matter of the moment, the slant of sunlight, the particular shade of green that you wore. I love Lovely. It’s a lovely word.
So, how am I spending my Sunday morning? We got one of those swivel chairs for the computer, and honestly, I don’t know why we didn’t get one earlier. I’ve been spinning and swiveling all morning, and am spinning as I type.
I oiled my hair sometime back, gave instructions to Kajol-di, who cooks for us, and then sat down in front of the computer, expecting something to happen. That’s what makes the Internet so wonderful, that you can sit in your home, and the world hits you through your screen. Of course, that also dilutes the experience itself. I could be out right now, and be having so much more fun, rather than sitting here, letting one experience fade into each other. But then I wouldn’t be sitting here and writing, would I? Considering that I write so little, I need every moment of this.
So, where was I? Yes, I oiled my hair. Preparing for that moment in the afternoon when I’d fall asleep, smelling my freshly-shampooed hair. I have Simon and Garfunkel playing, thanks to a friend. He mentioned two lines from America. If you’re wondering why I am writing this way today, you can trace it all back to that. See, I just can’t start writing on anything. I need inspiration. It’s probably the sign of an average writer, not being able to just sit and write. And I’ve thought at least a million times while I have been writing this, that I wish I could write better. However, there’s a beauty to this, stumbling through words on a Sunday morning, listening to music you’ve never heard before. Grasping at thoughts at the edge of consciousness, trying to make them fit into an inadequate vocabulary.
I’ll go back to swiveling now. I’ve been swiveling at one place till now, think I’ll swivel all over the house now.
This is the first Sunday morning I’ve had all to myself in the longest time ever. Usually, it’s me and my mum, but she’s out of town for this week. And I have the house to myself. There’s work, true, but the work can be pushed off to some last minute, when I can finish it in a hurry, and forget that the minute ever existed. The way I see it, I’d rather sacrifice the whole of that minute, rather than give up a bit of every minute of this lovely day.
There’s loveliness to this word, lovely. Say it once, softly. It stumbles of your tongue, doesn’t it? But not without grace, much like a drop of water. A large, voluptuous drop of rain. Lovely reminds you of fresh, full lips, of apple cheeks. Of dark hair, and forest green. Of red hydrangeas, and blurred lines, blurred vision. It’s the face you could love. Unlike Pretty, who you could like, or Beautiful, who you could admire. And unlike Pretty or Beautiful, Lovely is subjective. Fickle. What is Pretty or Beautiful can be lovely, but what is not can also be. The loveliness of Lovely lies in how it depends so little on the physical, factual details of body and face. Loveliness is a matter of the moment, the slant of sunlight, the particular shade of green that you wore. I love Lovely. It’s a lovely word.
So, how am I spending my Sunday morning? We got one of those swivel chairs for the computer, and honestly, I don’t know why we didn’t get one earlier. I’ve been spinning and swiveling all morning, and am spinning as I type.
I oiled my hair sometime back, gave instructions to Kajol-di, who cooks for us, and then sat down in front of the computer, expecting something to happen. That’s what makes the Internet so wonderful, that you can sit in your home, and the world hits you through your screen. Of course, that also dilutes the experience itself. I could be out right now, and be having so much more fun, rather than sitting here, letting one experience fade into each other. But then I wouldn’t be sitting here and writing, would I? Considering that I write so little, I need every moment of this.
So, where was I? Yes, I oiled my hair. Preparing for that moment in the afternoon when I’d fall asleep, smelling my freshly-shampooed hair. I have Simon and Garfunkel playing, thanks to a friend. He mentioned two lines from America. If you’re wondering why I am writing this way today, you can trace it all back to that. See, I just can’t start writing on anything. I need inspiration. It’s probably the sign of an average writer, not being able to just sit and write. And I’ve thought at least a million times while I have been writing this, that I wish I could write better. However, there’s a beauty to this, stumbling through words on a Sunday morning, listening to music you’ve never heard before. Grasping at thoughts at the edge of consciousness, trying to make them fit into an inadequate vocabulary.
I’ll go back to swiveling now. I’ve been swiveling at one place till now, think I’ll swivel all over the house now.
Monday, December 31, 2007
So this is how it ends.
It’s the last day of the year. And like every other last day of every other span of time, it is screaming at me to introspect. I don’t want to, dammit. I hate introspection. It’s another matter that I do a lot of it, but I hate it anyway. I hate trying to separate time into a series of momentous/life-altering moments, because there are so few of them, and because it seems like something huge should have happened, which didn’t. You see, I still believe that something amazing is going to happen, and the fact that it hasn’t already is a source of huge disappointment for me. As I have already established through previous posts, I love the idea of apocalyptic showdowns. Of course, my idea of such a showdown has tempered down over the years. I started with judgment day (the real stuff, with meteorites, and alien invasions and all), and now am stuck at getting a boyfriend. Apocalyptic indeed. It would kill him.
However, I have valiantly fought the realization that something big may not happen. Bosh. You see, if I ever succumbed to that belief, then what would I live for? Certainly not the next day, knowing that I would have to live off whatever random scraps life threw my way. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the small joys and all that jazz. It’s just that I believe that a life is too small to be spent collecting tiny pieces, just so that you can put them all together at the end of your life, nod your head, and say, “Hmm, maybe it wasn’t that bad.” Once in a while, you need to stop and feel that what you’re living through may never happen again, that it’s special, that it’s unique, that it’s changing your life irrevocably, that it’s BIG. Each year passes me by with few of those moments. But I continue hoping, pathological optimist that I am, that something BIG might happen. I can imagine myself at the end of my life, still thinking, “There’s still some time, maybe the aliens will land, after all.” And poof, I’m dead. That was the “something BIG”, stupid.
But back to new years (and really, you should tell me when I start ranting) - they demand introspection. And all these years, my moment of introspection was just that, a moment, because there wasn’t really much to think about. This year, however, has been slightly different.
This year, I’ve met different people, I’ve learnt new things. This year, I’ve messed up in the most amazingly stupid ways. I’ve also done oddly well in some respects, and oddly bad in others. Significantly, this year, I’ve realized the unimportance of it all. I’ve realized how little everything matters, and I’ve also realized how everything else matters proportionately much, much more. But most importantly, this year I’ve realized that posts like this are so profoundly self-important, it’s ridiculous. No one wants to know what this year meant to me. Yet I ply you with unnecessary and cloyingly vague details. This year has also been a lesson in self-realization for me. There. Stop it, dammit.
However, there is One Very Important Lesson I am carrying with me from this year to the next. No self-realization-themed-revelatory article is complete without at least one of this kind, and this is mine. And this is what I’ve realized (drum roll) - something BIG WILL happen. Imagine neon lights and burlesque dancers doing the can-can around the letters W-I-L-L. THAT is the strength of my conviction. When you consider that I began each of the last few years with a slightly flagging belief in the future, then you will understand why this is important.
I’ve also realized that I’m a pathological optimist, and incurably so. This realization should be at odds with the previous realization, but since when have I let mere inconsistencies of character bother me?
I will break convention, and end with a cliché. I will probably murder myself for the incredible soppiness of this post, or, at the very least, gag whenever I see it. But, I’m afraid, the truth must be told. And the truth of the matter is, I feel EXACTLY this way. There, go on and judge me. I’ll join you.
“Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road
Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go
So make the best of this test, and don't ask why
It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time
It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.”
- Green Day, “Good Riddance of your Life”
Nimrod
And I have to admit, I DID have the time of my life.
To think that it's barely begun.
Happy New Year, people. Thanks for reading.
However, I have valiantly fought the realization that something big may not happen. Bosh. You see, if I ever succumbed to that belief, then what would I live for? Certainly not the next day, knowing that I would have to live off whatever random scraps life threw my way. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the small joys and all that jazz. It’s just that I believe that a life is too small to be spent collecting tiny pieces, just so that you can put them all together at the end of your life, nod your head, and say, “Hmm, maybe it wasn’t that bad.” Once in a while, you need to stop and feel that what you’re living through may never happen again, that it’s special, that it’s unique, that it’s changing your life irrevocably, that it’s BIG. Each year passes me by with few of those moments. But I continue hoping, pathological optimist that I am, that something BIG might happen. I can imagine myself at the end of my life, still thinking, “There’s still some time, maybe the aliens will land, after all.” And poof, I’m dead. That was the “something BIG”, stupid.
But back to new years (and really, you should tell me when I start ranting) - they demand introspection. And all these years, my moment of introspection was just that, a moment, because there wasn’t really much to think about. This year, however, has been slightly different.
This year, I’ve met different people, I’ve learnt new things. This year, I’ve messed up in the most amazingly stupid ways. I’ve also done oddly well in some respects, and oddly bad in others. Significantly, this year, I’ve realized the unimportance of it all. I’ve realized how little everything matters, and I’ve also realized how everything else matters proportionately much, much more. But most importantly, this year I’ve realized that posts like this are so profoundly self-important, it’s ridiculous. No one wants to know what this year meant to me. Yet I ply you with unnecessary and cloyingly vague details. This year has also been a lesson in self-realization for me. There. Stop it, dammit.
However, there is One Very Important Lesson I am carrying with me from this year to the next. No self-realization-themed-revelatory article is complete without at least one of this kind, and this is mine. And this is what I’ve realized (drum roll) - something BIG WILL happen. Imagine neon lights and burlesque dancers doing the can-can around the letters W-I-L-L. THAT is the strength of my conviction. When you consider that I began each of the last few years with a slightly flagging belief in the future, then you will understand why this is important.
I’ve also realized that I’m a pathological optimist, and incurably so. This realization should be at odds with the previous realization, but since when have I let mere inconsistencies of character bother me?
I will break convention, and end with a cliché. I will probably murder myself for the incredible soppiness of this post, or, at the very least, gag whenever I see it. But, I’m afraid, the truth must be told. And the truth of the matter is, I feel EXACTLY this way. There, go on and judge me. I’ll join you.
“Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road
Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go
So make the best of this test, and don't ask why
It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time
It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.”
- Green Day, “Good Riddance of your Life”
Nimrod
And I have to admit, I DID have the time of my life.
To think that it's barely begun.
Happy New Year, people. Thanks for reading.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Darwin, my arse.
My mother will drive me up the wall. Incidentally, I have, in several of my less-employed moments wondered about the exact origin of this expression, i.e., driving someone up the wall. Does it refer to a feeling of irritation so singularly intense that you wish to relinquish human existence in favour of that of a wall lizard? Why a wall lizard, pray? Obviously because wall lizards don’t have television sets. Also if one wall lizard of a particular wall lizard community, married another wall lizard of another wall lizard community, then the female wall lizard’s family very rarely give two hoots. This is of course assuming that wall lizards have communities, and get married. The difference between human beings and wall lizards lie at deeper, more existential levels. This is assuming that I know exactly what existentialism is, and it isn’t just another random word I just bandied about. Which, of course, ISN’T the case. It IS just another random word I bandied about.
Coming back to wall lizards, which, incidentally, isn’t what this post is all about, they rarely have complicated lives, and wall lizard technology is unheard of. So, even if we were to assume that wall lizards do, indeed have such complicated lives as previously described (communities, marriage, et al), they rarely get to convey information about such complications to the unsuspecting wall lizard public via the medium of television. So, even if the aforementioned male wall lizard is, one of these days, found dead on an ant trail, after being overrun by a train of ants, such information will rarely, if never, cause a ripple in the wall lizard world. Even if we are to take into consideration that it is very hard for a wall lizard to be run over by a train of ants, and hence, all things considered, this is a highly suspicious death.
Such is the uncomplicated life of wall lizards that such incidents, in the rare instance of their occurrence, will never invade the homes (or walls) of your average everyday young adult of a wall lizard. Mother wall lizards will certainly not be glued to their hypothetical television sets for every new scrap of information(?) that the wall lizard media cares to throw their way. Mother lizards couldn’t care less. Which is why I say that my mother is driving me up the wall. I pine for the wall lizard existence that I can never have.
However, while we are discussing idioms (and by the looks of it, that is ALL that we’ll ever discuss, the actual topic having long slipped my mind), there are a few points that I would like to clarify about my pro-wall lizard stance. Firstly, I have long considered wall lizards to be, quite frankly, one of the lowest of (hypothetical) God’s creations. Recent developments (refer to above) have forced a partial change in my view of these creatures, and have made me see their existence in a much favourable light. However, I still place these creatures very, very, very, very low in my personalized, ethical order of evolution. Somewhere at the bottom, actually.
Therein lies a problem. For, if I were to assume a wall lizard existence, I would refuse to assign to myself a species which falls so much lower on the evolutionary ladder than, say, humans. Why? Because, as I have already shown you, a human existence has its pitfalls. If the situation described in paragraphs 1 and 2 (yes, you have to go back and count) were to hypothetically happen in human society, reactions wouldn’t quite be the same. To start with, human communities would indeed give, not just two, but several hoots about this. Of course I’m not even starting on all this hoop-la about marriage that we humans have, that would take me into a discussion about free love, and we don’t want THAT. Suffice to say, given the hypothetical situation that two humans of two opposite communities enter into a contract/sacrament to live with each other, other human beings wouldn’t look too kindly upon it. And if one human were to be economically less well off that the other, then heavens! Human wrath would know no end.
Yes, yes, you say, but problem? Wherein lies the problem? Therein, I say. Wherein, you ask. Therein, I say. This goes on for quite some time. So, my suggestion to you is, don’t ask, just listen.
So, as we can see, humans aren’t quite as noble as, say, wall lizards. They marry. They have communities. They fight. And eventually, in some cases, they kill.
And THEREIN lies my objection to the whole hypothetical scenario that I, myself, have so painstakingly created. I refuse to be further down on the evolutionary ladder than a species which has lesser morals than I have. If I am to be a wall lizard, then I refuse to be placed lower on my ladder than humans. I will gladly embrace wall lizard existence, for the last month or so has convinced me of it’s beauty. But I plain refuse to be considered inferior to human beings, a species, which, as I have (hopefully) convincingly established, possesses a morality lower than your common everyday garden slug. Garden Slug, my respects to you.
Hence I have driveled. Why, you may ask, yet unconvinced of my purpose. Didn’t I tell you not to? Ask, that is? Well, if you must, then I will succinctly state the purpose of this rant. This, ladies and gentlemen, is my case for a new evolutionary order. Darwin knew nuts. I have laid in front of you an elaborate proof as to why we need to change the evolutionary order. Wall lizards may not be placed right in front, in fact, I’d rather they were not. But wherever they are placed, human beings should not be placed ahead of them. That’s all I ask for, judicious readers. That my mother drove me up the wall, for reasons aforementioned, was purely an incidental spark that led me to the discovery of a higher truth.
Yes, indeed, you dimwit, I DID have a point. Didn’t I tell you so, right in the beginning?
Coming back to wall lizards, which, incidentally, isn’t what this post is all about, they rarely have complicated lives, and wall lizard technology is unheard of. So, even if we were to assume that wall lizards do, indeed have such complicated lives as previously described (communities, marriage, et al), they rarely get to convey information about such complications to the unsuspecting wall lizard public via the medium of television. So, even if the aforementioned male wall lizard is, one of these days, found dead on an ant trail, after being overrun by a train of ants, such information will rarely, if never, cause a ripple in the wall lizard world. Even if we are to take into consideration that it is very hard for a wall lizard to be run over by a train of ants, and hence, all things considered, this is a highly suspicious death.
Such is the uncomplicated life of wall lizards that such incidents, in the rare instance of their occurrence, will never invade the homes (or walls) of your average everyday young adult of a wall lizard. Mother wall lizards will certainly not be glued to their hypothetical television sets for every new scrap of information(?) that the wall lizard media cares to throw their way. Mother lizards couldn’t care less. Which is why I say that my mother is driving me up the wall. I pine for the wall lizard existence that I can never have.
However, while we are discussing idioms (and by the looks of it, that is ALL that we’ll ever discuss, the actual topic having long slipped my mind), there are a few points that I would like to clarify about my pro-wall lizard stance. Firstly, I have long considered wall lizards to be, quite frankly, one of the lowest of (hypothetical) God’s creations. Recent developments (refer to above) have forced a partial change in my view of these creatures, and have made me see their existence in a much favourable light. However, I still place these creatures very, very, very, very low in my personalized, ethical order of evolution. Somewhere at the bottom, actually.
Therein lies a problem. For, if I were to assume a wall lizard existence, I would refuse to assign to myself a species which falls so much lower on the evolutionary ladder than, say, humans. Why? Because, as I have already shown you, a human existence has its pitfalls. If the situation described in paragraphs 1 and 2 (yes, you have to go back and count) were to hypothetically happen in human society, reactions wouldn’t quite be the same. To start with, human communities would indeed give, not just two, but several hoots about this. Of course I’m not even starting on all this hoop-la about marriage that we humans have, that would take me into a discussion about free love, and we don’t want THAT. Suffice to say, given the hypothetical situation that two humans of two opposite communities enter into a contract/sacrament to live with each other, other human beings wouldn’t look too kindly upon it. And if one human were to be economically less well off that the other, then heavens! Human wrath would know no end.
Yes, yes, you say, but problem? Wherein lies the problem? Therein, I say. Wherein, you ask. Therein, I say. This goes on for quite some time. So, my suggestion to you is, don’t ask, just listen.
So, as we can see, humans aren’t quite as noble as, say, wall lizards. They marry. They have communities. They fight. And eventually, in some cases, they kill.
And THEREIN lies my objection to the whole hypothetical scenario that I, myself, have so painstakingly created. I refuse to be further down on the evolutionary ladder than a species which has lesser morals than I have. If I am to be a wall lizard, then I refuse to be placed lower on my ladder than humans. I will gladly embrace wall lizard existence, for the last month or so has convinced me of it’s beauty. But I plain refuse to be considered inferior to human beings, a species, which, as I have (hopefully) convincingly established, possesses a morality lower than your common everyday garden slug. Garden Slug, my respects to you.
Hence I have driveled. Why, you may ask, yet unconvinced of my purpose. Didn’t I tell you not to? Ask, that is? Well, if you must, then I will succinctly state the purpose of this rant. This, ladies and gentlemen, is my case for a new evolutionary order. Darwin knew nuts. I have laid in front of you an elaborate proof as to why we need to change the evolutionary order. Wall lizards may not be placed right in front, in fact, I’d rather they were not. But wherever they are placed, human beings should not be placed ahead of them. That’s all I ask for, judicious readers. That my mother drove me up the wall, for reasons aforementioned, was purely an incidental spark that led me to the discovery of a higher truth.
Yes, indeed, you dimwit, I DID have a point. Didn’t I tell you so, right in the beginning?
Saturday, September 29, 2007
A Burmese Revolution
I am not a sucker for politics. For romantic notions of revolution, maybe, but not politics. I sometimes half wish (why half, I LOVE the idea) of being in a dark, dystopian world, where I am leading a revolution against the authoritarian government. It's one of my favourite fantasies. Think V for Vendetta, 1984, Brave New World, Equilibrium- the like. Also (ulp) Resident Evil, Dawn of the Dead, and 28 days later. Zombies, dictators- whatever. I get to lead the (I LOVE this word) RESISTANCE. And do all the cool stuff that comes along with it. You know, martial arts, guns, spies and shit. And the oh-so-handsome and brooding guy who I have a torrid affair with. It's like Sidney Sheldon in Dystopia. Minus the gorgeous female lead of course- no stretch of imagination will make me THAT. But you get the general drift. It's the manifestation of an absudly intense indoctrination in sci-fi, dystopia and action movies. I should have watched the Blue lagoon when I was a kid.
However, this post, like all my other posts, was never supposed to be about this.
It was supposed to be, and from this point onwards, shall begin to be, about Burma. Not Myanmar. Burma. Till date, my knowledge of Burma has been restricted to three sources- a book, an essay, and a person. The book is The Glass Palace by Amitav Ghosh, the essay is At Large in Burma by the same, and the person is my Maths teacher, Mr. S.K. Mukherjee, a man I refer to simply as Sir. Sir told me of the time when his father had been to Burma, an absurdly rich and beautiful country. He contrasted it with the time he had gone to Burma, when the great teak floors of the Grand Hotel were no longer used for dancing. The Junta had banned it.
While Sir put Burma on my radar of knowledge, Amitav Ghosh put neon chrismas lights around it. The Glass Palace, in a word, was brilliant. He mixed factual accounts of the Burmese Royal family, and fictional stories of other characters, and spun an epic over and around the entire modern history of Burma. His essay, At Large in Burma, dealt with Aung San, and his daughter, Syu Ki.
Today, the newspapers talk about a 'uprising in 1988' which was 'brutally supressed' by the then government, headed by General Ne Win. That was the 8888 Uprising, named so because it started on the 8th of August, 1988. Burma, right now, is witnessing the largest mass protests in twenty years, that is, since the 8888 uprising. 3000 people were killed in 1988.
There were, till a couple of days back, monks marching on the streets of Burma. In Mandalay, BBC showed images of people on their knees, bowing as the monks passed by. The processions comprised of people from everywhere, but at the head, marched the maroon-robed monks.
There is a purpose to this. My rambling, that is. I hope you are aware that the junta has transferred Aung San Syu Ki from her house to prison. I hope you also know that monks and civilians are being arrested, access to the internet has been restricted, and that the police has been assaulting perfectly peaceful demonstrations. Oh yes, and that the Minister for Petroleum in India, Mr. Murli Deora, went to Burma for talks with the Junta on sharing of petroleum resources, a month into the protests. If you're not aware of this, then I'd suggest, watch the news. BBC maybe, because the Indian News Channels are obsessed with Cricket, Sania Mirza's legs (or hair, or t-shirts, I don't know) and Chak de.
I would love to be part of a loud, bloody, violent revolution. In my widescreen imagination, the sheer cinematic excitement of this revolution is awesome. I would love to be part of secret meetings, and surreptitious attacks on military convoys. Who knows, I might even give my life for this- hopelessness is a different high. But India, in my lifetime, doesnt seem to be headed in that direction. We are much too comfortable, much too divided for such a revolution. And the government always doles out its tokens of democracy to keep us satiated.
So, my interest in Burma is, on a level, simply a manifestation of a latent desire to see something truly magnificent happen. Not like Nepal, where the aristrocacy sheepishly gives. Something big and cinematic. Ultimately heartwarming. Yes, I like Steven Spielberg.
But on another level, I want this to be quiet. A silent revolution. Silent only in terms of physical violence, mind you- the protests have to be deafening. Because, ultimately, Martin Luther King wins over Martial Art (excuse the horrible, HORRIBLE figure of speech). And I'm not just saying that. Burma is, was, could have been one of the richest nations in Asia. The junta saw to it that it did not happen. Burma is a tragedy, and we are witnessing what could potentially be a climax. Or an anti-climax.
I am sure that many of you share my absurd fantasies. Come on now, I KNOW you do- that's why these films get made and these books get written. But we also know that there is very little chance of us ever being part of that. Our lives will be, in all probability, unmarked with any chance or potential for greatness. Or operatic excitement. Or revolution. But there is one thing you can do, a little thing, maybe, but one that will put you down as one of the people who changed the history of a country. That thing isn't much of a high, but for all of us out there who are high on notions of revolution, it's something. Speak. In the name of the Guevara, the Marx, and the Syu Ki, Speak. In protest against an Orwellian future (as much as that may give us the opportunity to finally have that revolution), SPEAK. To me, to them, to everyone else. Let the media know that we give a damn about Burma, we give a damn about democracy. We may not, but let them feel that, anyway. On the way, a couple of truly inspired people may join us. And if on the way, Burma is rescued, good for them. We get our revolution, they get their democracy.
However, this post, like all my other posts, was never supposed to be about this.
It was supposed to be, and from this point onwards, shall begin to be, about Burma. Not Myanmar. Burma. Till date, my knowledge of Burma has been restricted to three sources- a book, an essay, and a person. The book is The Glass Palace by Amitav Ghosh, the essay is At Large in Burma by the same, and the person is my Maths teacher, Mr. S.K. Mukherjee, a man I refer to simply as Sir. Sir told me of the time when his father had been to Burma, an absurdly rich and beautiful country. He contrasted it with the time he had gone to Burma, when the great teak floors of the Grand Hotel were no longer used for dancing. The Junta had banned it.
While Sir put Burma on my radar of knowledge, Amitav Ghosh put neon chrismas lights around it. The Glass Palace, in a word, was brilliant. He mixed factual accounts of the Burmese Royal family, and fictional stories of other characters, and spun an epic over and around the entire modern history of Burma. His essay, At Large in Burma, dealt with Aung San, and his daughter, Syu Ki.
Today, the newspapers talk about a 'uprising in 1988' which was 'brutally supressed' by the then government, headed by General Ne Win. That was the 8888 Uprising, named so because it started on the 8th of August, 1988. Burma, right now, is witnessing the largest mass protests in twenty years, that is, since the 8888 uprising. 3000 people were killed in 1988.
There were, till a couple of days back, monks marching on the streets of Burma. In Mandalay, BBC showed images of people on their knees, bowing as the monks passed by. The processions comprised of people from everywhere, but at the head, marched the maroon-robed monks.
There is a purpose to this. My rambling, that is. I hope you are aware that the junta has transferred Aung San Syu Ki from her house to prison. I hope you also know that monks and civilians are being arrested, access to the internet has been restricted, and that the police has been assaulting perfectly peaceful demonstrations. Oh yes, and that the Minister for Petroleum in India, Mr. Murli Deora, went to Burma for talks with the Junta on sharing of petroleum resources, a month into the protests. If you're not aware of this, then I'd suggest, watch the news. BBC maybe, because the Indian News Channels are obsessed with Cricket, Sania Mirza's legs (or hair, or t-shirts, I don't know) and Chak de.
I would love to be part of a loud, bloody, violent revolution. In my widescreen imagination, the sheer cinematic excitement of this revolution is awesome. I would love to be part of secret meetings, and surreptitious attacks on military convoys. Who knows, I might even give my life for this- hopelessness is a different high. But India, in my lifetime, doesnt seem to be headed in that direction. We are much too comfortable, much too divided for such a revolution. And the government always doles out its tokens of democracy to keep us satiated.
So, my interest in Burma is, on a level, simply a manifestation of a latent desire to see something truly magnificent happen. Not like Nepal, where the aristrocacy sheepishly gives. Something big and cinematic. Ultimately heartwarming. Yes, I like Steven Spielberg.
But on another level, I want this to be quiet. A silent revolution. Silent only in terms of physical violence, mind you- the protests have to be deafening. Because, ultimately, Martin Luther King wins over Martial Art (excuse the horrible, HORRIBLE figure of speech). And I'm not just saying that. Burma is, was, could have been one of the richest nations in Asia. The junta saw to it that it did not happen. Burma is a tragedy, and we are witnessing what could potentially be a climax. Or an anti-climax.
I am sure that many of you share my absurd fantasies. Come on now, I KNOW you do- that's why these films get made and these books get written. But we also know that there is very little chance of us ever being part of that. Our lives will be, in all probability, unmarked with any chance or potential for greatness. Or operatic excitement. Or revolution. But there is one thing you can do, a little thing, maybe, but one that will put you down as one of the people who changed the history of a country. That thing isn't much of a high, but for all of us out there who are high on notions of revolution, it's something. Speak. In the name of the Guevara, the Marx, and the Syu Ki, Speak. In protest against an Orwellian future (as much as that may give us the opportunity to finally have that revolution), SPEAK. To me, to them, to everyone else. Let the media know that we give a damn about Burma, we give a damn about democracy. We may not, but let them feel that, anyway. On the way, a couple of truly inspired people may join us. And if on the way, Burma is rescued, good for them. We get our revolution, they get their democracy.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
This isn't random.
Now I wonder how a 10 minute break stretches into a one hour long hiatus. I was working on defences to torts, when I decided to take a break. Check my mail, scraps, the like. That was an hour back. And I've been up ever since. Dang.
My first semester at law college is coming to an end. Endsems start in nine days. I started looking through my legal method material for the first time a couple of days back. The first few articles were all about research, taking notes and preparation. The irony of it was sickening.
I got through to my college quiz team. Okay, so I am 14th on a list of 14th. And the third round hasn't happened yet, so I don't know what my final rank will be. But I'm in. I barely scraped through, but contrary to expectations (my own), I'm in. And though I am bound to make a colossal ass of myself in the third round, maybe I can give myself a tentative pat on the back.
I have burnt the index finger on my right hand in a daredevil attempt to fish toast out of the oven without wearing gloves.
I've discovered one of the best love stories ever. It's called "On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning", and is by Haruki Murakami.
I like my roomie. She's ditzy, but nice, and lets me be.
And I have decided not to be shy anymore. Down with social retardation.
This too will pass. Yay!
My first semester at law college is coming to an end. Endsems start in nine days. I started looking through my legal method material for the first time a couple of days back. The first few articles were all about research, taking notes and preparation. The irony of it was sickening.
I got through to my college quiz team. Okay, so I am 14th on a list of 14th. And the third round hasn't happened yet, so I don't know what my final rank will be. But I'm in. I barely scraped through, but contrary to expectations (my own), I'm in. And though I am bound to make a colossal ass of myself in the third round, maybe I can give myself a tentative pat on the back.
I have burnt the index finger on my right hand in a daredevil attempt to fish toast out of the oven without wearing gloves.
I've discovered one of the best love stories ever. It's called "On Seeing the 100% Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning", and is by Haruki Murakami.
I like my roomie. She's ditzy, but nice, and lets me be.
And I have decided not to be shy anymore. Down with social retardation.
This too will pass. Yay!
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Ping!
There is this little light in me that went ping! the moment I realised that I wanted to study law. It was the ping! I had waited aeons for. The ping! of knowing what you're meant for. The ping! whose absence meant agony, particularly agonising agony for an Ayn Rand devotee in search of the one thing that her life was meant for.
Well, I realise now it was only one ping! in a line of several more consequential ping!s to come. The ping! of job. Of guy. Of the degree of my ambition. Of the priorities that were genetically ingrained in me, and which are hopelessly rigid even in the face of changing circumstances. The ping! of realising that maybe a couple of my past pings! were simply mistimed, misjudged or misheard. The ping! that tells me that I was my happiest long back. Dang.
So I wait for these ping!s. Moments of random epiphany that tell me how to make those really important decisions. I think one's due right.....about.....now.
Well, I realise now it was only one ping! in a line of several more consequential ping!s to come. The ping! of job. Of guy. Of the degree of my ambition. Of the priorities that were genetically ingrained in me, and which are hopelessly rigid even in the face of changing circumstances. The ping! of realising that maybe a couple of my past pings! were simply mistimed, misjudged or misheard. The ping! that tells me that I was my happiest long back. Dang.
So I wait for these ping!s. Moments of random epiphany that tell me how to make those really important decisions. I think one's due right.....about.....now.
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