Is the Bugler on the Roof?

As always, there are some new additions to the readership in this, the latest edition of The Ever-So-Oftenly Bugle, or The Bugle to its admirers (I firmly believe in showering love, more of The Bugle and a few sneak attacks on the dying race of detractors of the effervescent rag. Yes, they’re dying for a reason).

Of course, the primary reason that there is a consistent welcome to new members is possibly because I tend to forget who my readers are. And yet, The Bugle prospers. I finally proved Prof. Amit Mukerjee wrong. I believe I may now attain Nirvana.

All new comers may hold firmly on to their seats and enjoy the show. Those of you who are returning after a break, well done. You’re obviously back in my good books.

Those of you who deserve to be kicked out, but have not been, it is merely because I could not decide which was worse punishment; to be Bugled in or Bugled out.

Current-Happenings-and-the-Latest-Paranoia

Shakespeare, quoth he, “All the world’s a stage; and all the men and women merely players”.

In which case, the stage manager hates me.

As a country, perhaps we would be best classified as a country of spitters. We walk, we talk, but most importantly, we spit. Open spaces, closed spaces, people, buses, roads, rooms, walls, flora, fauna, we discriminate not; we spit.

On the other hand, I now frequently find the spitting rather ominous. It seems more targeted somehow. Aimed directly at me, so to speak. On the way to office, I seem to find passers-by and hanger-outs of buses looking at me with a hungry look. Sometimes I need whiz my car just out the range of a particularly sharp shooting spitter. They seem to see me and think to themselves, no harm in spitting, in fact it would rather hit the spot, just about now.

Odd, I think. I sometimes wonder, in an extremely non-paranoid frame of thought, whether the world conspires against me. Are there secret clubs of an unprovoked malevolence plotting and scheming at dead of night, each contributing to the ever-growing mountain of ideas to befuddle and faze me?

This needs more intense thought and deeper research. The world must know of the existence of such malafide intentions. Sigh. The troubles of the great never cease.

The Why-On-Earth-Didn’t-You-Tell-Me-This-Earlier Section of the Week

I caught a rather poor print of Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna (KANK to loved ones) last night. It was just as loathsome as it was made out to be, bottles of glycerine, picture perfect women and all; however, I must pick a bone with all the reviewers of the movie.

Why did no one deem fit to mention that SRK had a love scene in there? I can understand the men keeping mum out of a feeling of self preservation and a wild hope of retaining their better halves, but the women? Tsk. I didn’t expect such wanton selfishness from my own kind. That tells you doesn’t it?

The Good-Lord-You-Don’t-Say Section

In an interesting twist to events, the world (more likely its wife) has been unable to make up its mind about me.

Apart from the toddlers and general sucklings hitting on me in open public, their mothers seem to have banded together to put me in my place.

Went to a wedding (yes, I admit, that may have been seen as the beginning of hostilities from my end, weddings do bring out the meanest in all human nature. The milk of kindness seems to withdraw into itself and curdle rather).

It was just as I was (unsuspectingly) playing with my adorable 10 month old niece (to be fair to the rug-rat, she likes me only cos I feed her chocolate cake. And let her pull whats left of my hair) that it happened. The greying, matronly be-jesus seated athwart me turned and said in cloying tones “Is she yours?”.

Now, on the whole, I mind this not. A 10 month old is an obvious mistake. What gets me by the throat really, is the goat I met a day later who made a similar mistake. With the elder sister of the 10 month old. The one who’s SEVEN years old.

There ought to be a law.

Stick-And-Stones

As usual, I invite not the rabid responses I fully expect from the highly diminished readers of this engaging rag. However, if you so wish, please address all praise, adoration and bouquets to the residence. Causes mayhem at work.

Ha!

From the Bunker of the Ed.

In general happenings, life has been as dull as ditch water. Or perhaps ditch water would be more interesting, what with myriad life forms and general admonition raining down from passers by. Of course, my weekly horoscope cheerily continues to predict great wealth (poor as a paperless pauper), happiness (generally hit on the head by Fate with bits of lead piping) and a long journey. It is not so much the first bits that annoy me as much as the last bit does.

One cannot make long journeys every week, can one? And yet there it is, twinkling merrily out from the paper each week, the promise of a long journey. I now firmly believe that the horoscope is written duly by a snail. Takes him (has to be a He, taking into account the sheer quality of apple sauce the dude dishes out) a week to get from home to work, arrives in time to hastily slap on the happies in the appropriate column, and then begins the long journey, yet again to home and back. Perhaps my daily run to office is a long journey too.

The-Keep-A-Hold-Of-Your-Hat Section

In other interesting observations, I believe that I am a case of reverse paedophilia. Not so much that children interest me, but for some reason, children are interested in me. Explain if you will, why in the space of a week, I get asked out, once by a college kid, and the next (gasp) by a SCHOOL KID! What school am I from indeed. I started to respond, before the sheer horror of it all jumped on my neck. The kid didn't mean which school I WENT to... rather which I GO to! And all I wanted to do was ensure that the kid didn't go drown himself. Seemed to be sitting glumly, looking at what looked suspiciously like a report card (is it even exam time right now?!!!). Thought I'd do the kindly thing and cheer the fella up. Seems he cheered a bit on the much side for me. Humph. And I mean that to sting.

It doesn't help that my clients reinforce the general perception of the populace. I was typing on a document, projected on-screen for the benefit of the assembled relicts, when a particularly skanky one remarked that the dude beside me typed very fast. On being corrected, she actually had the sheer malfeasance to say "Oh! Mujhe nahin pata tha thi bachchi type kar rahi hai". To add to it, the rest of the crones felt pushed (no doubt due to the surge of the milk of human kindness) to congratulate me on the feat.

In the presence of my Boss.

My cup really do runneth over. The ditch water is sounding better and better isn't it? Perhaps if I applied for membership…

The-What-Not-To-Watch Section

One may well make the case for renaming this section, based on this week's picks and add a "And-Forget-If-You-Did" to the topper, so to speak.

Off with the waiting, though and on with the new. Tried watching some top of the tops bilge on the weekend. Yes, my pretty, have a good laugh at the miserable state yours truly has descended to, to have to watch Adam Sandler, "Click". On the other hand, in my specious defence, I can safely say that I am fully absolved of the Choice of Movie. All I chose to do (with a goodish push between the shoulder blades) was to go along with it. Considering the teeming hordes that throng the capital's precious few movie halls (the ones I would choose to patronise, anyway), I believe that sympathy, rather than censure is due me.

To get on with the opening ceremony of the binge, having dispensed with the initial speech and the general flower throwing, it sucked. Or at least the first half hour did (lots of general half hearted neglect of family by Sandler, humping of stuffed duck by dog and bad bossing by David Hasselhof. Some female I vaguely recollect but can't place, thrown in for male populace. Being stuck with Sandler and an aging Hasselhof, with clothes on and undoubtedly, his hair in a braid, I rather wish I were disposed toward women). I glazed over in the next half hour (more humping by dog, finding of magic remote, vague man with bad hairdo passing off as God though not overtly and lots of fast forwarding. As expected, no real "rules" for what remote can or cannot do).

In the five minutes after THAT, I hurriedly gathered possessions and accompanying friend and fled the scene of the crime for fear of loss of sanity. I believe I broke the universal record for the "being chased by the furies" race and am now the proud possessor of miscellaneous dark looks and mumblings from the Pro crowd.

Of course, this, coming as it did on the heels of the Superman fiasco (man with superhuman strength falls in loue and gets beat by silly female who don't loue him back!!! UGH!!! ), has only served to strengthen my conviction that in the matter of life and death decisions, one must retain full control over the creative and final decision making process. The Right Ho! to watching a movie, in future, shall be issued solely from the GHQ.

Stick-And-Stones

For those who think that this section invites response from the unfortunate readers of this engaging rag, Ha! This section includes general and standard disclaimers and is best disregarded.

Start of small print:

The Ed. takes no responsibility for any harm, injury or permanent damage resulting from the reading of this, The Bugle.

All Brickbats may be addressed to the Ed., promise of non-receptiveness holds across all editions of The Bugle. As does Clause 1 (or should it be Clause I, for the sake of professionalism?), for those of you geared towards frights of fancy.

Any unauthorised copying or distribution of this, The Bugle, will result in divine retribution, a well aimed kick and widespread unpleasantness. Save the whales, don't copy this bilge. And you know I mean YOU!

End of small print.

P.S. Sticks and stones may hurt my bones, but at least I can sue you in court.

The Virtues of Nihilism

Meaningless, truthless, valueless existence.

Why do we exist? Are we an elaborately planned section of a larger cosmos or are simply the result of a fortunate (or unfortunate) amalgam of universal variables?

Is God a supreme creator or is he the product of minds unable to comprehend an alien and ever-changing environment?

If nihilism were to be accepted as a constant, as a fact, would religion survive? The basic tenet of Hinduism states that there are certain principles and truths that transcend all time, space and existence. There are definite rights and wrongs.

The laws of nature, as we observe them, belie this very tenet. If death is a requirement for life, is death at any circumstance wrong? If life for one at the expense of another may be termed personal gain, is it then wrong to kill for material objects and gain?

If Nature is right and holds the ultimate way to Truth, if the wild is the only true home of unspoiled, uncorrupted morality, have the rules then been corrupted by men?

If loss is the primal fuel for all progress and continuity of life, why is this loss subject to moral policing and penalty in human life? Have we twisted then, the basic fundamental blocks of life in order to protect ourselves?

Would the incentive to kill or rob or to commit "evil" as described by humans be lesser, were the laws of nature and their essential anaesthetic properties allowed a free reign in the world, as it was meant to be?

Bearish on the Markets

It sounds a tad anti-patriotic, especially with the thought of small time investors, who (very unwisely, I might add) bet their last remaining shirt on the market, before digging into their child's piggy bank for more, to pray for the Market to crash further. However, as always, Mammom wins over the milk of human kindness, which tends to surge sub-optimally with the mention and glint of filthy lucre in the eyes.

Thus it is, that unlike others, who actually have money stuck in the sinking abyss of the Indian Stock Market, I wait with bated breath and greedy eyes for the market to fall further... each point is as the tinkling of a hundred purses of gold; for you see, it is my stated and yet underhand intention to follow my unfortunate peers into the market. The difference, as they say, lies in the timing.

For you see, with the market on such a low, millions of panicky aforementioned investors (having bet their last shirt and child's pig) are selling their treaures for any price they get. They further sink the market, and I get better opportunities to bite it in the ribs and stay with it for the rise.

The risk of course is that it won't rise; however fundamentals say that the Indian Economy has not undergone tectonic shifts in the recent past and my intestines tell me (purely in the spirit of friendship and co-operation) that it isn't over-valued either. The foreign investment continues to pour in, the students continue (at least till the time the ceiling falls in and the Reservation Bill is passed and yes, I am still sore on the issue) to excel and the growth continues skywards.

From the very edge of reason

As I sit at my desk twiddling a dreary pair of thumbs (I am forced to twiddle, I might add, by the cruel necessity of not drowning under a largish volume of work), I am thinking to myself.

Of anger and frustration. Of worklessness and hidden unemployment. The time has come, (as the Walrus would undoubtedly have said, had he cast a jaundiced eye over current proceedings) to speak of many things.

Of reservations and offices of profit. Of worthy Presidents and unworthy rulers.

Much has been said of the reservations that I wish not to repeat. Indeed, had I not been afflicted with the malaise so widespread in our worthy nation, unemployment (albeit disguised), I would scarcely have known what has been said. However, struck as I am with all the work I am not doing and exhausted with the pressure I am not under, I resort, as a peaceful alternative, to reading the papers.

And thus am I made aware of how much this country desires me not to live in its bosom and watch it grow. Probably one of a dying species (much as the Yangtze river Dolphin), my future plans until recently held no promise of foreign lands (except as a recreational side plan); I was content to nestle comfortably where I was born and to look upon my countrymen and wonder why there were so many of them. I may even have done my bit to add to the growth of the country (always hoping of course that the people who employed me had WORK for me).

Sadly however, the more my forced leave from work continues, the faster grows the conviction that this country is sending out a message. Until recently, it was believed that the brain drain of India was ebbing, or better, was actually reversing itself. The Deans of foreign universities pined and misery marked them for its own. They panted for Indian students as the Hart does for cooling streams when heated in chase.You could veritably see brains, bulging at the seems (fed no doubt by healthy sustained doses of fish), scaling walls and jumping hoops to study in India and then join the corporate success stories bouncing off the walls.

Now however, all you see is a sea of justifiably red faces. Remarkably silly look all the wall scalers and hoop jumpers, for it seems that all one had to do was be born to the right parents. The fish grizzle in their graves; their blatant trickery and thievery has been exposed to public scorn and malcontent.

It is now known to one and all, that golluping volumes of fish and bulging the brain is clearly not the way to go. The path to success lies solely with having been oppressed and dominated in the centuries past. As this route has now been closed to the laggers and waiters amongst us, the last benchers in the line of exploitation (yet again in the centuries past), the early worms grin with contentment lazing on their faces.

The laggers are not required. Much like the Indian Vicious Cycle, India is a land of the exploited and the oppressed and any efforts, howsoever sneaky, to prove otherwise will be as firmly squashed as a pair of fleas in an over-stuffed performing circus.

Any glimmer of success story will be firmly crushed and oppressed to return it to a state of exploitation and you guessed it, oppression. The message is clear; unless you were oppressed and exploited, unless your forefathers wallowed in poverty and suffered unmentionable qualms, this land is not your land. A new generation awakens indeed.

A new generation of unsettled and unwanted Indians, who are no longer wanted by their country; they are to have neither education nor any jobs nor any piece of the joy of living in their country. The punishment is eternal; and generational, it shall pass from them to their children, till someday, some politician will realise that they too are oppressed. Then finally, finally, they shall be welcomed back into the fold; as true blue Indians.

The Indian Vicious Cycle

So another week begins, and its monday again. Talk about double whammies.

What is it with Monday Morning Blues anyway? Methinks it probably all harks back to the dreaded dark ages when all children of a certain age were herded brutally into groups and sent off en mass to a daily holocaust. Two days off (if you was a beejeezes like me, only ONE measly day off) and back to the torture chambers. That feeling of waking in the morning and knowing for sure you couldn't spend it sittin on your fanny, or running circles around yer repenting parents was enough to tweeze the jollies out of you.

Now its a little different of course. Over the years, its become YOUR fault. Afterall, they gave you all the choices didn't they? Where to study, what to study what job to apply for... still in the end, one gets a hairy feeling that somewhere one was tricked. One was eerily bamboozled out of being a worthless bozo and still every monday one gets that feeling... when all young people of a certain age are herded brutally into groups and sent off en mass to a daily holocaust. Two days off (he he, even beejeezes like me get lucky) and back to face the fire. Just now, there's no rules and there's no authorities to go squeeling to. No more parents thundering in, spitting brimstone and fire mined from the core of the earth; no more quivering teachers shaking in their largely ugly and yet practical shoes. Yeesh. And to think our parents nurtured dreams and hopes that someday we would end up like this.

Almost seems like they were brainwashed into it too. Wonder where the cycle started (here's an Indian pride moment; we love our vicious cycles. How many times did one hear in school the description of the uglies of ugly and gory situations and how we've sat on them for over half a century, with the teacher finishing with the final gloating flourish... a Vicious Cycle!!! Honour of honours ladies and gents, we have among us our esteemed guest, the newly discovered and historically pampered, all new, improved, a fully fresh, Vicious Cycle!!!)?

Well, off we go then, to join the teeming millions (in our case probably billions) and begin a whole new week.

Yuck.

Waiting for Nirvana