[Bitter harvest ]

There has been a colossal tragedy in the foothills of the mighty Himalayas. Over a thousand dead and still counting. And one can’t even accurately assess the magnitude of the destruction of properties and livestock. The fury of nature knew no bounds and the catastrophe has indeed been of Biblical proportions. You can’t but be saddened by the scale of this human suffering. But why do I have a kind of mixed emotions about the whole thing? Why do terms like ‘just deserts’ and ‘they had it coming’ doing summersault in my head?  Disasters at the pilgrimage sites in this country is not a new phenomenon in fact, it has become the norm rather than exception. This latest catastrophe could be attributed to the wrath of nature but the man has done his utmost to contribute in equal measure to this terrible tragedy.  It is a very fragile ecosystem in the foothills of not only the Himalayas but almost all the biodiversity hotspots where these religious sites and shrines are located. The nature has managed to achieve a very delicate balance over there. But in this day and age of the mammon, everything is an opportunity to mint money and what we are witnessing is that a lot of unscrupulous elements in cahoots with builder-politician-bureaucrat nexus have wreaked havoc at these places by attracting ever larger number of people when in actual fact these so called holy places are just not meant to be visited by such a huge throng of people no matter what. That is where the ever increasing religiosity in our society comes into the picture. Year after year, the throng of people visiting these places is getting humongous which has had a terrible cost on the fragile ecology and limited infrastructure along these sensitive zones, but the greed of some people knows no bounds. Lots of guest houses have been constructed right up to the river banks in the shallow waters and when these were buffeted by heavy flooding due to swollen rivers, they collapsed like house of cards resulting in so many losses of lives.

The larger point I would like raise is this growing craze of the Indian middle classes to visit ever exotic religious places in such a huge and unmanageable numbers that would stretch the resources of any place never mind these fragile and delicate zones like the foothills of the Himalayas.  I have very little idea where my latent rage trying to aim at, but I’m frankly appalled at the ever increasing religiosity among a growing section of the middle classes. It would be all worthwhile if this religion thing had helped the people becoming more compassionate and ethical in conducting themselves in the real world, but unfortunately the reverse is the case. What these millions gathering at such places denotes is a kind of unbridled consumption in the Gods market; every pilgrimage site has become a religious super market where you would like to flaunt your ability to consume in ever greater numbers at the wares on offer. I mean how smug they are in their certitude about their place in the larger scheme of things, these people who wouldn’t bother to give alms to a beggar or a leper, would go to any extent to strike a bargain in the divine marketplace. When something goes wrong, like this recent calamity for instance, they would blame the same Gods with whom they had come to bargain in the first place! Ultimately, you have to accept that your blind faith may give you momentary respite from your pain but what about suffering? There is no getting away from it for pain is external but suffering is internal. Whether you do good or you do evil, suffering will always be your reward and there is no escaping the punishment. So why bother the Gods  needlessly. 

facing the music, literally

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Listening to good music is more than a pastime for me. It is an spiritual experience for me. When I tune in to my favourite songs, I drop everything else and just immerse myself in the sea of melody and forget about everything around me. Not for me listening to the music and reading simultaneously or talking with somebody at the same time. Music for me constitutes an act in itself requiring my full attention. Whether it is Indian music or western, I go for the older stuff like 60’s, 70’s or 80’s and I don’t like to experiment too much and look to meaningful lyrics and aching melody. They say that great art do not intend to blaze a new trail or reinvent the wheel but they point us to the direction that we already knew but we didn’t know that we knew! So whenever I listen to the likes of Sinatra, Doris Day or Pink Floyd or Nat King Cole or Bob Dylan, I am confronted with the emotions that existed deep within my core and were brought face to face. The same goes for the Indian music. The strange thing is that when I think about books, I want to read this book and that book as soon as possible for I feel I don’t have much time on my hands, but  as far as music is concerned, I want to make sure that I have just the right kind of peace and quite and I am willing to wait. It’s like delayed gratification because then I think that I have all the time in the world. 

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My cousin gave me a Hindi novel to read and I thought okay let’s read some Hindi for a change. But after fifteen pages I felt that it was not only taxing on my eyes but also on my nerves. Don’t get me wrong, I am not one of those snooty types who look down upon Hindi in fact, ,my formative years of reading have been grounded in Hindi magazines and books so there is no question of unfamiliarity with the Devnagri script in which Hindi is written, but the matter goes somewhat deeper than that.

For quite some time in my early years, I would avoid having anything to do with English, it would seem too formidable a language to gain any control over as far as I was concerned. I would always look at easy way out and go into the comforting embrace of Hindi. As I came of age both literally and figuratively, the world was changing around me real fast and there was a great danger of being left behind more so in my case because I was never a part of a formal education system. The moment of epiphany struck when I was about to turn nineteen and it was kind of embarrassing to have such a poor grasp of the language; I thought it was time I did something about it. I ditched Hindi reading and adopted English mind body and soul. I read, I watched and I observed how truly educated people communicate. Not only I embraced the language, I also internalized a whole new value system and cultural mores. As the years went by, my connections with Hindi became more transactional, in other words what would I gain if I stick with Hindi and my conclusion was, nothing much. So I pursued English with missionary zeal and without sounding immodest, I can justifiably take pride in my accomplishments, whatever little they are. Coming back to the point I made at the beginning, as I tried to peruse the text of that Hindi book, I felt dyslexic. It was like my eyes were a kind of vehicle that is on a jerky ride on a damaged road. Whereas when I read in English, it is like my eyes are gliding on a smooth surface registering both text and context. On balance, I would say that I have gained more by my association with English than would have been possible had I stuck only with Hindi. Now I completely identify with the observation of our first prime minister Jawaharlal Nehru ‘’I have become a curious mixture of east and west, out of place everywhere, at home nowhere’’.

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It really pisses me off big time but I have known some female member in my extended family who shall remained unnamed, who want to forge their identity in relation to either their spouse or father or brother. It isn’t as if they have been devoid of opportunities in life, it is just that they are dumb enough not to grasp it. Whose footsteps are they following? Their mother and grandmother? At least they could be excused for being the product of their time. But what excuse these lotus eaters have? Except that the allure of the proud badge of domestic drudgery is too irresistible to let go? If I come across a bit too harsh, then I can’t help it for what is not being appreciated is that any hint of defiance and determination to break out and create your own place under the sun is one more nail in the coffin of paternalistic and patriarchal ethos in this country. 

Indian Profane League

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The emperor has no clothes and everybody is naked in the Turkish bath. The events that have transpired in the week gone by, have clearly prove that this whole business of IPL is corrupted to the core. The mind simply reels by the extent to which all norms and ethics have been thrown to the wind in order to make a quick buck. If the involvement of the players in the spot fixing was not bad enough, it turns out that one of the owners of the most coveted franchise has been caught with his hands in the till. Rather than being remorseful about the whole thing, look what is happening. The men who matter in this cosy club called the BCCI, they are closing rank on the one hand to protect their damaged reputation, but they are also using this opportunity to manoeuver themselves in an advantageous position in this power game. It doesn’t matter that most of the people who genuinely love the game feel cheated and betrayed. What really matters to them is that this gravy train of theirs continues on its onward journey. The one important question to be asked is why are the so called ‘’objective voices’’ silent in all this, these influential commentators like Gavaskar, Shastri, Manjerekar and Bhogle have all colluded in this conspiracy of silence. They are never critical of the IPL, it’s as if they exist in an alternate world where everything is as pure as driven snow in so far as the IPL is concerned. They and many others like them have been gagged with wads of currency notes, so why would they bite the hand that feed them. Like the mafia does, the ex-players have either been co-opted or bought over. In this hopeless situation, we the powerless can do nothing but despair. The least we can do is let’s turn our back completely on the IPL and also boycott tonight’s final.  

Mother pious

So, last Sunday was mother’s day when we are supposed to show our love and gratitude for our mothers for making all kinds of sacrifices in order to bring us up in this big bad world so that we can become a balanced human beings. Don’t get me wrong, I am all for doing our bit for our mothers for it is not a joke to rear a child and see him through to maturity. I think we have become too much of a sucker for tokenism in our rush to compete with the western world to take this opportunity to look into the issue of the average Indian male’s mother fixation from cradle to the grave forget about just one day in the year. Being a mama’s boy is a proud badge of honour in this country and its manifestation is in every walk of an average man’s life, from the choice of his hairdo to the kind of life partner he will end up with to the type of job he should hold and a lot of other stuff without even realizing how this emasculation of his individual self will hinder him to have an independent existence. Healthy respect for your mother is absolutely fine, but I have known some people who shall remain nameless, whose obsession with their mother has really messed up their heads so much that they can’t be relied upon to have a meaningful relationship with the opposite sex that is outside and independent of the maternal orbit. The point I am trying to make is that let us all have love and respect for our mothers but let’s not fall for this tokenism in this country that will contribute to the prototype of the stereotype.  

The allure of Babudom

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A few days ago, the results of the civil services exams were out and it was quite interesting but not surprising that so many boys and girls from north India found themselves in the top half of the merit list. It got me thinking what could be the reason, the underlying motive if you will, for such a large number of aspirants from this part of the country who slog day in and day out for this shot at the pinnacle of achievement in the context of Indian society where a great store is set by your ability to exercise power and influence over peoples lives. At one level you can’t help admire the determination and bloody mindedness of these men and women  most of whom come from small towns and villages of this vast and poor country, who attend so many mushrooming coaching classes in faraway places like Delhi and other major cities at a great hardship living in one room tenement and dealing with Shylocks in the form of landlords who would milk them dry. If they succeed, they would go on to become part of the so called steel frame, the power elite the very Bramhins of the establishment.

Make no mistake, it is still the most impactful way to make a difference in the lives of the ordinary people if you have joined the Indian bureaucracy because you are the main interface between the elected government and the people. This gives you tremendous authority to wield power and curry favours with your political bosses which in turn will lead to your personal enhancement of every kind. The men and women who go for a career in civil services have at some point in their lives seen the power dynamics first hand due to the fact that the tentacles of the Indian state reach every aspect of their lives in some way or the other (this could be a topic for another day ). So even though they  become the top officers of the government with a lot of idealism, soon the cynicism gives way and they are co-opted into the system and get aboard the gravy train and start employing the same method that they themselves resented when they were mere citizens and not aligned to the powers that be. And that is the nub; this aphrodisiac of power and pelf to lord over their subjects in a feudal society like ours. So what if these young men and women lead their stultifying working life in some remote outpost of the country. There will always be the wife in big city to indulge in endless shopping, a son who would get into an Ivy league university with plenty of resources to finance it not to mention a daughter who will be able to snag a good match in the marriage market because the father can easily pay off whatever amount of dowry is needed. When they peer into the telescope of the future, this I suspect is the vision they see in the harsh glare of reality and not the kind of utopia which they saw with their Rose tinted glasses when they were sweating it out in not too distant past in a corner of Mukherjee Nagar in New Delhi.