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.