The Ever So Oftenly Bugle

Of melancholy and siblings...

2011-12-17T16:51:00.003+01:00

'Tis been a while; the whirligig has paused, the world seems frozen and there's a stillness; an unbreakable, heart-stopping stillness in my life. Nothing moves, and it reminds me of nothing more than the night before christmas...

What remains though, is to understand it... I'd hoped for, looked for, even gone in search for this stillness two years ago. I'd hoped getting off the rollercoaster would literally stop the whirling and zooming and this feeling that life was passing by while I watched. What I did not know then, as perhaps I know now, is that I always was a spectator. Always more comfortable watching things happen from behind a screen than actually going out to do them.

Doing things too often brings one to the open, wide landscape of interacting with people; that is difficult. 'Tis difficult to meander into yet another human feeling, yet another entanglement, yet another person who sees you as part of the normal mold. Perhaps I am, and am vainglorious in wanting to think I am not. Or perhaps I am not. I cannot feel, not in a real sense. It took finding the one person with whom I can relax perfectly to bring this home to me. A person who had no artifice, no hidden agendas, nothing that could not be or was not said out-loud, and damned if in the "real" world it might have been impolite or hurtful. The person who just let me be the way I am... distracted, distanced, unemotional, unfeeling, uncaring, unaffected save when I want to be. When I choose to be.

Odd that this gave me such freedom to enjoy myself. To never have to make excuses for hurting someone's feelings, for wondering if I were trampling over what someone else wanted... Yes, I AM selfish. Not in the manner Ayn Rand speaks of it; this is not a mere putting one's interest over that of another. No, this is absolute, complete, almost narcissistic, navel-gazing self-involvement that bars needing anyone. Bars wanting anyone. Being lost in my own thoughts and where they choose to take me, without needing an audience or someone to push me onwards. Confident, self-sufficient, independent. All things that my worldly alter-ego is not.

She is the one who needs support, who clings to her one lifeline, that one pillar of support who makes her want to carry on. She is insecure, underconfident, indecisive. Or perhaps she's all that and courageous. For while I lay dormant, simpering, whining and yet safely away from the gaze of the world, she goes out and fights the demons. Puts on the act and smiles and talks her way into making us seem that hated, dreaded, awful word. That word that is a curse between us; normal. Usual. Commonplace. As in not-crazy. Not-eccentric. Banal, even.

And so yes, she is the dormant one now. I'm safe in this cocoon of stillness, while she lays suffocating, slipping into a coma, dying. Perhaps she will come out. Or perhaps we will both finally win and I will find a way to save us both. Maybe.

And that is what life is right now. That is what the stillness is. Maybe. A path. Two paths. Which will be chosen? Who has more courage?

The Ed.

The Voyeur of Tragedies

2011-02-22T23:42:00.001+01:00

Au Revoir, L'Ed?*

[Important small print: If you, reader, prefer the more amiable end of the Ed., it would be advisable to skip this missive. the Ed. is missing, as is said amiability]

The Ed. may finally have bid this world adieu. I say this because a part of me finally fled in disgust today. Perhaps because the rest of me was shamelessly barged into people's homes in a bid to create a career on the rusted foundations of floundering lives.

I went in to these homes not because I could help or thought I could try. Far be it from me to actually trouble myself on someone else's behalf. That, said I, would never do. No. I went in because I figured it would probably look excellent on a piece of paper, preferably with a little gilt-edge. Perhaps a tiny signature at the bottom and my contact details on top, as final flourishes.

On commence par le commencement?

Inasmuch as I care to prove my sanity (or inasmuch as I claim title to it still), perhaps I ought to begin at the beginning and take it from there.

Most cities I visit leave me with a bit of their soul. Exceptions exist I suppose; I never did tap into Amsterdam's hedonistic soul, nor perhaps into Berlin's secretive one. Both left me out in the cold and deservedly. I did little to understand or appreciate them and they replied in kind.

Pristine on the other hand, brought back Colombo and then Gangtok in quick succession. Military vehicles, soldiers, that quiet watchful atmosphere, the too bright smile, the nonchalant shrug that hides uneasiness. Perhaps I was the uneasy one in all these cities. I, in my love for freedom and perhaps a bit of anarchy, disliked the restraint of armed forces. I felt the burden of alert eyes and tensely coiled atmosphere.

Pristine Pristine

How then can I explain what Pristine meant or means to me? I suppose it revived me, seemed to jolt me awake. Here, said my shameless self, was an unexperienced experience. Here was something I hadn't seen.

Large swathes of empty, desolate land in a city busy rebuilding itself. Some parts of the city look almost joyful again; they have some inhabitants back, they bustle and chatter to themselves, congratulate themselves on being first to be whole again. Others stand about disconsolately, muttering about half-wrecked houses and abandoned homes.

Yet others are firmly on their way. They look with hopeful eyes at the future and seem to have woken from a long sleep, blinking with sleepy eyes at a whole new world.

And through it all, there are the purveyors of reconstruction. Those so called angels of mercy, who, if you could but see, might really just the angels of death. An entire establishment of angels who glory in what happened to this beautiful country and now wallow in its confusion; enrich themselves and seek job satisfaction in the bubbling broth of a newly hatched nation.

Call me cynical. Call me sarcastic, call me disillusioned or hopeless. Chances are (unless you happen to be my hapless progenitors who obviously had NO idea what they were getting into), you cannot pronounce my haphazard name, so you may as well use another.

Pristine seems to me to seethe; the locals battle within to control both pride (at a new independence) and resentment (both at the angels and at the divisions in their society). What price the Roma when there is 50% unemployment? Is being poor not enough to qualify anymore? Does one need be historically oppressed as well?

Perhaps I feel strongly because I find links with the battles that rage in my own country. In the distinctiveness we take for granted and in the differences which unite and separate my people.

Du Bist Meine Schwester

Or perhaps I'm emotional because the Roma (whether merely weeping or actively suicidal) simply refuse to refrain from forging links with me (for heaven's sake did they have to be from my country AND my state?) and calling me their sister, in german no less. I didn't quite decipher which I liked less; that they used german or that I understand enough of it to divine their meaning.

Or perhpas I'm affected because I was detained by airport police for being Indian (yes, apparently political reality is a tad bit skewed away from favour re:India).

Or simply because I feel I found my calling and it just happens to require me to bust into a man's home and ask how he managed to ruin his life quite as effectively as he did, and did he feel, perhaps, that it may have been his fault?

I sat through some excruciating interviews lately; in Fushe-Kosova I looked into the lost eyes of a boy; plucked from the only home he knew and thrust into an alien land where he knew neither the people nor the language and where he was little more than a burden. To add insult to injury, voyeurs of tragedy (much like me) came on guided tours to examine and probe him, to see where it hurt and perhaps understand quite how much it hurt. Perhaps he would care to demonstrate?

Here again, I sat stony-faced in the face of a man who had no job, nor prospects of one, soon no home and no prospects of another, no money, no help, nobody, nothing. Liar, I thought to myself. He lies, I said. It cannot be as he says. And yet I knew there was only one liar in the room, and it was not he.

In Mitrovica, I marvelled at the city with two parallel governments. At shops where you find both euros and serbian dinars. At the man who ran from country to country to save his family and failed. At the same man who runs a shop in a neighbourhood with no income and a turnover of 3 euros a day.

Snow Everywhere, Peace

And through everything, all I thought was, the snow is beautiful. Look how it blankets the trees and the farms; look how it caresses the mountains and sprinkles the rooftops. Look how it clings off branches, look how peaceful it is. Look how peaceful I am; I can no longer feel the pain emanating from hopeless, helpless people. It even ennobles the graves lining the road.

On another note, I thought to myself how nice an SUV would be (never mind that my feet don't quite reach the pedals, perhaps I'd just get an automatic). Preferably to drive myself, since being driven drives me (ha ha) quite insane, not to mention car-sick.

I could, given time, convince myself that really I'm being quite noble. I'm trying to help, I'm on a mission of mercy.

On quiet reflection and perhaps with a little bit of the glare of harsh truth, I might admit though, that I'm no angel. I'm a voyeur of tragedy.

Welcome to my world. Long live I, for the Ed. (poetically) is dead.

The small print: The Ed. had morals and a sense of rightness which is now missing from us. Perhaps The Ed. will return and we sure hope so. We are quite morose without. We therefore, for the first time in the history of The Bugle, end without signing off.

The Dedicated Bookworm Speaks

2010-02-27T20:49:00.000+01:00

6 months and counting. I still love Paris.

I have had time to think of this phenomenon. Let us do this methodically (I've also discovered that "methodically" is a word I cannot pronounce. My brain automatically assumes I'm trying to say methodology, my tongue protests; they quarrel and my face starts looking sheepish. Finally I have to step in, restore order, give stern looks to all concerned and proceed with a different word. Phew!).

I love Delhi. It will remain "home" to me perhaps for a long time to come. But then I got to thinking and realised that there are many other cities I love. That I could live in with ease, just because I adapted to them and the way they are. They live and breathe with me and for what it's worth, I carry them around.

Roma, of course. For all its faults (which I discovered over Christmas), I love Roma. It is enchanting, and most of all, reminds me of home. Of Delhi. The similarities are peculiar perhaps only to me; I see them as these cities that exist across the millennia... Delhi stretches from Indraprasth to present day New and Old Delhi. Roma lives with Remus and Romulus to this day, with all those who lived and died between.

I felt very similar in Pompeii. I thought it would be strange to be in Pompeii, a city which does not exist in any sense of the word. It felt real to me though... the streets, the houses, the courtyards, they had a waiting quality... as if the residents were merely sleeping, taking an afternoon siesta. Like the city awaited their rising and the bustle. Perhaps if I stayed on till evening, I would be able to see them, Pompeii said. It let me hear the sounds and the crowds that were; the markets, the officials, the babies, the chatter that was. I felt Pompeii didn't believe they were gone because it never got to say goodbye. Its people stayed with it, because they never left.

Some modern day cities speak to me similarly... Port of Spain was languid and laid back. It told me to stop being a nervous wreck. Take a deep breath, look at the mountain, go to the beach, it said. Drive slowly, it said. It made you friendly, happy, less avaricious. It was beautiful. It was not historic or a picture preserved in time, as Paris is; it lived not across time, as do Roma and Delhi. It had not the picturesque perfection of Capri, the timelessness and effervescence of Sorrento; but it had a happy soul.

Colombo was edgier than Port of Spain. It waited for no one, it took notice of no blasts, nor of enemities, nor of political warfare. It lived to the fullest because it knew not if tomorrow would arrive. And yet it was kind and sunny. It asked you hopefully if you were Tamil. It shrugged and accepted you anyway if you said you were not. You weren't Singhalese anyway, so it mattered little that you were not Tamil either.

Are there any cities I DON'T like? Well yes. Bombay (and no, no matter what the demented Sena says, I will NOT call it Mumbai. Nor does Chennai exist for me. And Bengaluru is just plain ridiculous. Incidentally, I pretty much hate all three of these cities). I hate it's nastiness, its hurry and hustle and bustle. It's squalor and dinginess and meanness of spirit. Bombay lives for itself and thinks of itself and no one else. It is polite to no one and smiles for no one. It has the Sena because it IS the Sena.

For what it is worth, I am not enamoured with Amsterdam either. I don't really have a reason. There is nothing about the city I dislike particularly. If anything, the people are kinder than most and are friendlier than most. I just was not able to tap into its soul. Or perhaps it never entered mine.

So where does that leave me? Still in Paris. Still in love with it. With one small flaw which need correction. I still search for the perfect spot for a bookworm. A tiny cafe, with a cozy nook from where I can sip coffee, people watch, write and read Wodehouse.

Ideas, anyone?

The Ed.

The Accidental Traveler arrives in Paris

2009-09-04T22:38:00.000+02:00

Nous cherchons L'Ed.

Welcome to this, the first French edition of the Ever-So-Oftenly Bugle. We're pleased to launch our product into this new, virgin territory which has thus far remained unscathed by our particular brand of loving sarcasm.

For those of you who are acquainted with both parts of me, I need only say that Rajul has arrived in Paris. The Ed. however, is still wandering somewhere. If you're wondering who's writing this edition of the Ever-So-Oftenly-Bugle, wonder on. So are we.

Il y a beaucoup de Tams ici!

Where one travels, I believe one forges an identity eventually, but on first look, I've been accustomed to being judged purely on what I look like (or what my name sounds like). In India, depending on whether I'm on the phone (where unanimously everyone assumes I'm a dude), or meeting someone in person (you're Bengali?), my initial identity varies. In both cases, an immediate correction is required (in the former case, generous lashings of syrupy meanness of spirit accompany the correction).

Now it's easy enough in India. In Sri Lanka, it wasn't quite so easy. The poor chaps so desperately wanted me to be Tamil. I felt fairly awful disabusing them of the notion that all Indians are Tamil. No really, there's a lot of variety, lots of flavours to choose from. If there's one thing we're not (um, apart from being at the door of extinction I mean), it's that we're not homogenous. No sir. We can't really even be stratified. A bit like Haggis really. Lots of weirdness lumped together.

The last place I'd expected to find a similar bias would have been Paris, but there you have it. I live in a small bucket located in what I can only term "Immigration Central"... a place populated by francophone arabs, africans, chinese, vietnamese (on a side note, vietnamese food, yummy!) and Tams. Yes, you heard it, Tams. Sri Lankan Tams. Indian Tams. Second generation French Tams.

The internet cafe dude is Tam. His wife is Tam. An African dude who loves Indian movies started a conversation with me asking if I knew Rajesh. Or Govinda. Or Raj. Or Vijay. It was only when he got to Mithun that I realised he was speaking of the actors... R. Khanna, Govinda (duh!), SRK, A, Bachchan and M. Chakraborty respectively :D But that's not what is important. What is important is that his wife is Tam.

And they all want me to be Tam. I feel awful again. Why, oh WHY me? On another OT aside, at Sacre Coeur, they have signage asking for donations in French, English, Spanish, German, (what I assume is) Chinese, and of course, the ever present Tam.

Je parle un peu de Francais, s'il vous plait

Now if I've given you the mistaken impression that apart from the immense (unspoken) pressure to be Tam is all that I have to be going on with, let's address the rather bemused (pink) elephant (why pink? I don't know, but pink elephants seem cuter) in the room.

I may as well tell you now, that what follows will sound a lot like a whinge and an unnecessary one at that, but bear with me here. One expects, on reaching Paris, to encounter the French. And to have communication misfires. However, I was wholly unprepared for the special brand of French miscommunication.

Here's how a typical conversation goes.. the frenzied traveler starts with broken french and manages to get a question across, with liberal use of keywords and unconjugated verbs. Hallelujah! Now watch closely as the Frenchperson (to be politically correct) ignores the said liberal use of bad French and proceeds (presumably) to answer the question in a flawless variety. Did I mention spitfire fast? Incomprehensible? No? My bad. Of course, he/ she could just be cursing me out, cos they usually just lose me after the first sentence.

My take on the situation? The blank "you soooooo lost me at hello" please slow down and talk look doesn't work. You have to say it, or it's not official. It's like a real life version of "Are you smarter than a fifth grader?"... you may have the answer (in a way) to your question, but you have to admit that your mental processes rival those of a meal worm and no, you're NOT smarter than a fifth grader.

S'il vous plait monsieur, je veux du ketchup!

So I'll veer sharply away from the whinge and focus on what (not) to do in Paris. I know I promised to write of what I have done in Paris, but again, bear with me. A friend of mine in the MPA recently told me of a study that concluded that while Americans (as they grow richer) collect tangible wealth, the French collect experiences. In the month that I've been here, I've realised that this may be in all probability true (a quick mention here of my statistics professor, who staunchly maintains that a true statistician never speaks in absolutes).

When in Roma, do as the Romans do usually translates as such: Order gelato with at LEAST 3 flavours and nod vigorously when asked if you'd like cream... nevermind that the small cup is already groaning under the weight of the overflowing gelato. Repeat this exercise in nodding whenever asked if whether you wouldn't like more cheese... everything goes well with more cheese. Or face the wrath of Jupiter.

In Paris, it is difficult to define such simple laws of avoiding public shame, and given my propensity for falling over and such, my month of experience gaining has been a melange of near misses and well.. sometimes unsuccessful near misses. As Douglas Adams once put it.. the secret to flying is to launch yourself at the ground and miss. Sometimes I forget to miss :)

So what have I learnt? That there is a fine line between being a resident and a tourist in Paris. The Parisian doesn't sneer at visiting the Tour Eiffel.. but only if accompanied by a picnic and the customary bottle of wine. Preferably more than one. Sacre Coeur is acceptable, but if you go there to hang out and goggle at the spectacular view through a beer-fuelled haze. Ile St. Louis? No problem. A hamper with boulanges, cheese and wine should see you through. Don't forget to spring for gelato. Does the pattern begin to appear yet?

Of course, the correct alcohol must be used in each instance... that's one I still haven't mastered, so I'm (for once) going to refrain from inserting my throbbing foot into my mouth.

The Whole Sorry-But-I-Gotta-Go Section

I know I haven't touched on my school, class or (and this is most important) my classmates, but I will. Inshallah. Given the fate of the half dozen Bugles lying incomplete strewn across my literary landscape, the probability is low, but given how amazingly wonderful these people are, the odds become better :)

Till next time.. A Bientot!

The Small Print:

To Suhail... I hope this suffices to an extent. I will write more; and more personally at some stage, but I still need your signature on the exchange contract :P

To Lavanya... I know this is hardly what you wanted. You want me to write and write more often, but I'm hoping you will be at least mollified. The next episode will hopefully cover more of my (mis)adventures :)

Tales of The Frenzied Traveller: When in Europe...

2009-02-25T08:23:00.000+01:00

Four months and ten days (at the time of writing, not posting!). That’s how long it’s taken me to finally write this down. Despite the vociferous nagging from certain quarters.

Day 1: Pack, Run, Airport, Airport!

Day 1 starts with being shooed away from a check-in desk and a lot of general standing around, with a hangdog look. Not to mention all the shooing away from the lounge. Let’s not forget trying to fit in last minute work. With a countdown from 50 for boarding the flight, what would you bet I got 3A? A cigar, or coconut to the one who bet I got shooed away from the boarding gate. OK, I lied. The countdown was from 39. The principle is what counts though. Right?

Day 1 continues with sleep deprivation and working on airports. Does it classify as Day 1 if I fly forward approximately 5 hours in time during a 10 hour journey?

The will to leave Gatwick for the great beyond sapped. Frequent impulse to grab people and jabber their heads off. Trinidad lives on in the veins. Hope that lunch would cure me proved futile. Withdrawal pains due to telephonic disconnection unbearable. And this is a holiday! I’m paying to do this to myself. Whoever said that only planning a holiday is painful?

Day 2: The Great Deal

So, I’m well planned. I sit at Gatwick and book a hotel in Amsterdam for the night and Day 1 ends with a fantastic savings price at a Best Western at Amsterdam. Yayy me!!! 55 euros for the night = Major steal!

So here’s the final mark up:

Discount deal (yayyyyy me!) = Euro 55
Realising there’s no shuttle and taking a cab at 12:00 am = Euro 25
Realising I’m at the wrong Best Western Airport Hotel and paying 45 euros to go to the right one (yes, TWO with the exact same name!) = Priceless!!!

Anyway, so the chap was really nice. He felt sorry for me and gave me what I later realised was a HUGE room. It’s another matter that for a minute there he seemed to be offering to share it. I managed to pull the keys from his hand. Eventually. (Ed.’s note: If you laugh at this, or make cracks about sharing rooms… it’s not going to be pretty!)

Of course, my initial reaction to what he called the “Bridal Suite” was to gasp with barely concealed laughter. It was a puny room, compared to what I’d expect of that tag in India. All ends well though, with the nice chap actually planning out my route from Ouithooren (where I was) to Amsterdam (where I thought I was) to Maastricht for the next day. It was fairly uncomplicated, for Europe and a shoestring budget anyway. A walk, a bus, a bus change, a train, a bus and finally Maastricht. Rinse and repeat backwards to arrive in Amsterdam after visiting studious people in Maastricht :D

Day 2? Day 3? : Emotional Abandonment

Day 2 (I’m too time zoned to figure which :) begins with utter and complete abandonment.

I wake up late, can’t figure what day it is – 2 days, 3 timezones! I call home. I say “Mommy!”. My Mom of course says “Who’s speaking?”. I say “Ma! It’s ME!”. So she does the entirely expected. She puts the phone down.

Apparently, distance wasn’t making that heart any fonder. Jeez. I suppose she’s going to start saying my sister is an only child really soon.

Right. So Day 2 sticks with the wake up and RUN! philosophy. Walk out into nice cool weather, realise there’s no cash and buses are hardly going to take cards. Walk to the nearest bank with two suitcases (yes, I SHOULD have packed lighter. Trust me. I kicked myself for two weeks). Walk back to bus stop, which of course was in the opposite direction.

Get to Amsterdam and get off at Leidersplein simply because it’s sooooo pretty. Walk into sleazy sidestreet café. Make a hotel booking.

Take a tram to the Centraal station (not a typo… that’s Dutch for Central Station). More running to baggage lockers then to train to Maastricht. Talk shop to totally cute programme director at the Uni. Dutch men are soooo cute. Tall, blond, pink and sooo well spoken. What’s not to like? Is there any wonder Amsterdam is the city of sex?

Saw a recruitment agency for foreigners. Undutchables. See? Dutch men even have a sense of humour!

The Tales will continue with… “Day 4: The attack of the Africans”

Sri Lankan Chronicles: The Saga Begins

2008-02-20T10:33:00.000+01:00

Think of this, if you will, as a mere supplement to the powerful and yet entertaining rag, fondly remembered amongst its many admirers as The Ever-So-Oftenly Bugle, or simply The Bugle to its closest friends. To the uninitiated, read on. I'm feeling far to full of myself to explain.

Duty Free and Duty Bound
Sri Lanka is a land of many contradictions (or perhaps, to some of those crazy Americans, contra-indications). The airport fairly buzzes with the foreign goods displayed to full effect, cajoling and luring unlucky retail-challenged hags (yes, yes, I refer to myself, go on have a laugh) to spend their last pennies and wager the last shirt off their backs (in my case, maintaining my precarious hold over a sweater in the name of dignity and the honour of the ‘Indian’ woman. God save me from the Shiv Seniks).

What hits one, as one steps outside the rarified airport atmosphere of course, is how much like home it is. Dirty, sweaty and brown at the edges. Gone is the shiny splendour (as is the retail high of having copped a deal on the much wanted and much fake, but shiny new glares). Gone are the foreign goods and the bright lights.

What remains is the everyday-ness of people. People who look, simply put, like a small section of Chennai. Largish at the roots and trunk, darkish, not-speaka-the-language-ish, and (frankly the most galling), no Surds-ish. On an offside, any utter lack of Surds from (yes, ‘from’, as in not ‘in’ my life so much as out and about it) my life always brings with it an amazing and inexplicable sense of loss. Perhaps it’s to do with a sense of familiarity with Surds, a sense of being at home and being secure that having Surds around brings. It’s about being a Delhi-ite. It’s the same way whether I’m in Bombay (now Mumbai, but well not much different is it?), Madras (now Chennai, but much the same, DUH!) or as at present, pseudo-Chennai.

The starkest difference of all though, is the sense of instability. It fairly pervades the air; as one zooms out into the night on the way from the airport to Colombo, one is stopped several times by men in tights (no, not really. Men in fatigues, but I couldn’t resist :). Passports (in my case) and National ID Cards (in the case of the driver) are produced and puzzled frowns are thrust in one’s direction (as I said, we don’t look much different from the general populace). That is of course, till the knitted brows are replaced by a sparkling grin and “Indian?” “Speak Tamil?”. “No”, you say; feeling for yourself and the poor witless souls who left it out of your comprehensive education. 17 years down the drain. “Aah”, says the understanding Man in Tights, nodding with an air most compassionate, feeling with you. Accompanied, most strangely, with that same sense of loss I feel at not seeing Surds. Perhaps they like Tams much as I like Surds. To-may-to, To-mah-to. One woman’s Surd is another man’s Tam.

Pleasant, though as the Men are, the duty they swear by is plain for all to see. They would not hesitate, were one not to turn up with a goodly reason for besmirching their soil, to send one and one’s luggage, on to the place where all is at peace. This feeling is carried over in the faces of the people, their habits, their life. No one objects or finds out of place the presence of police and military in every-day lives; at malls, outside hotels, restaurants, on the road. No one questions their right to stop and inspect at will. People invariably carry the National ID card; foreigners would do best to carry their Passport at all times. Blockades are put up at will; for allowing the Political Higher-Up (or, I am told by my driver, the Political Higher-Up’s brothers, with whom I share a locality) to pass by on the way to a night of revelry; or simply for the purpose of more stopping and inspecting.

In Delhi, we would have honked and created a ruckus, not to mention, given the poor, unsuspecting, innocent (!) thulla nightmares for weeks to come. Shouts of “Do you know who I AM?” would rend the night, with the sweet flowing music of a multitude of to-be road tearer-uppers leaning on their horns. Those of the loitering bent would have stepped out of the steaming vehicles to have a chat with strangers; the commonality of cursing the thulla, the light and the Higher-Up elevating them above any differences. In Colombo, people barely turn a hair; much less make someone turn in their graves long after the night is gone. The wait is swallowed without protest, without a frown, or even a muttered imprecation.

It’s Your Problem!
A rather common phrase that does the rounds in Sri Lanka is “It’s your problem medem”. The magnificence of this rather understated, and perhaps just a tad trite phrase, is the fact that it can be trotted out in any situation and is of course, invariably true. Having a taxi not show up, breaking a rather painful nail, being kicked out of the pool, being thrown in jail. It’s ALL your problem. The phrase earns the place of honour though, not due to its widespread suitability; it earns the top spot because of the beatific smile that infallibly accompanies it. Picture, if you will, the toothiest, happiest, sunniest, positively “I woke up on the best side of the bed and it’s YOUR problem”-iest grin. Now double the intensity, add cheese, a large coke and fries on the side. Now THAT’s a grin that says “It’s your problem medem”.

Who can quarrel with the justice of that?

Of Babus and Creakier Old Men
Let us not lose sight of the main purpose though. One is here to work one’s self to the bone. A chronicle that dismissed out of hand the work aspect of this trip would be both incomplete and unfaithful to its true purpose.

Everyone has seen the Indian Babus sitting smugly in their red stained, smelly, cramped offices. Those grand relics of the gigantic slug that is the administrative machinery of the country. Their Sri Lankan counterparts could easily put them to shame… they sit in beautiful colonial buildings; airy, wide, high ceilinged spaces, with white, unblemished (you might here want to refer to the Great Indian Spitathon) walls and red brick roofs distinctly reminiscent of the Portuguese style of architecture. And this is a local body mind, a small Municipal Council. What a contrast even with the North Block.

That, however, is where the nebulous superiority ends. While we’re all familiar with the Indian Slug version, we’re also aware that most of our IAS officers tend, for the most part to be strong, vital specimens, not usually given to dropping dead. Oh no. These slugs (much like the cockroaches) will out-survive any final cataclysmic, nuclear armageddon that may threaten the politicians.

The Sri Lankan versions are not for the faint of heart; to typify an encounter with these administrators as alarming would be to call Tiramisu a sweet with a few extra calories. Or (and you KNOW I’m talking about you…) to call Mayonnaise a dressing with a dash of oil. At first sight, a perfectly rational person would be forgiven for trying to rush to the aid of what must indeed be roomfuls of Egyptian mummies with a severe case of over-exposure to sun, sand and humidity. To paraphrase Wodehouse, you may see them steadily, but you’re unlikely to see them whole. While I’m getting bored (they speaka onlya them Singhalese, the chappie translates my words and I nod sagely at the walking talking human jig-saws), I can always resort to spot the missing feature; teeth, chin (well, with wrinkles reaching their toes, do you really think those count as chins?), roof of mouth, sense of humour...

Perhaps we really ought to be thankful for our lot. Sometimes the grass on the other side is greener simply because it’s growing on someone.

the Ed.

Next on the Sri Lankan Chronicles: The ape, the apartment and the damsel in distress

Small print: the Ed. shrugs off all responsibility for international incidents caused by the complete and utter lack of respect for other cultures. That's more the alter-ego's problem. All bouquets may be addressed to the homestead, mark them to Mum, she'll think I sent them.

The Virtues of a Cold

2007-12-18T11:45:00.000+01:00

It's a funny phenomenon... A cold can render you useless, inefficient, unproductive, fazed, listless. And yet, it can bring forth all that is contemplative within. When you're stuck inside a body that refuses to cooperate, the brain turns inwards, to explore memories, to root out what is important and what needs to be done.

And so here I am. Thinking, contemplating. Mapping the road I thought I'd travel and the road I've travelled. It's been long overdue and it's been something I've avoided. I'm 27, I've lived most of the life I'd dreamt of... In your most imaginative years, you never look beyond 26 really do you? Life seems so far away, so distant in your late twenties. Yes, you know that you'll be alive and you'll have so much yet to do, but the zeal for living seems to attend solely to those first few decades.

And yet, where am I? Have I started out, in the true sense of the word? To an outsider, it seems a successful life. I've been branded by the best in the world, I've worked only for the most successful organisations, I'm blazing the trail for what promises to be the most enterprising generation of my country.

And yet, what about me? Am I happy? I wanted to globetrot... to move, gypsy-like, from country to country, soaking in the world, its culture, to be a butterfly in the true sense. I wanted to learn to dance, to speak French, Italian, Spanish... I wanted to feel, to live, experience, taste it all. To write about it all. To finally, finally bring out that soul and for once, lay it bare. To let it breathe, to dance in the glorious sunshine.

Did I? No. Have I succeeded in the eyes of everyone else? Possibly. And me? What about me? I haven't had my adventures, haven't thrown myself off a cliff, haven't rafted down three rivers, I haven't seen the Kailash.

How different were my idols then... Jo from Little Women, who wanted to write, who lived in a loft and found her calling. Who felt the pain and expressed it.

No. Life is yet to begin. I am yet to do what I wanted, to simply jump off the deep end and look for my feet, to find the place I'm supposed to be.

Here I am, stuck in a constricted frame, unable to break out, to find the courage I need. To find the words I need to convince myself, to believe in myself.

Me, Myself and I

2007-08-28T03:05:00.000+02:00

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

To my Nation!

2007-08-16T08:07:00.000+02:00

The-Independence-Day-Special Section

This is one of those rare, rare, rare Special Edition Bugles. It ISN'T entirely about me. It is about (for once only, do NOT get used to it) us.I realised, as I spoke to a friend of mine who was stuck out of the country, what today meant to me.

This day, this 60th year of our independence, was very very special. I know because for some reason I sang the anthem all day long. I stood every time it played on television and I walked with pride.

I am not usually so emotional, I felt like a right fool the first time I stood for the anthem, in an empty room with only the TV to witness my action. After that it just felt right.

Here we are, 60 years later, and we're still together. We're still corrupt in places, and poor in places, and uneducated. We fight, we riot, we raise our voices against each other.

And yet, we're together. Not every nation can say that. We've a Marxist movement, we've a communal movement, regional movements and the works. And yet no one denies that we're democratic, we're a republic, we're equal.

And not every nation can say THAT either. And no matter where I go and what I do, I'll know that I'm first an Indian. And I feel immense pride in that.

Here's to India. Here's to our generation, and to the ones to follow. We're 60, we're young, we'll always be young, we're going to win the WORLD!

The Ed. and Rajul

(If I sounded soppy, I don't care, I still love this day. And I'm very happy I've a friend stuck in the US, it's still 15th August there and I can live in this day for a while longer :) (Sorry friend-stuck-in-US, I'm being, as usual, selfish)

Malice

2007-07-06T23:50:00.000+02:00

Writing at a low ebb... does life drift away? Will the pain, the pain that should not exist, inflicted by malice, by greed, by the destruction of purity, of ideals, of ethics ebb too?

Drifting, drifting, drifting ever further away from where I want to go, from the warmth I seek. The welcoming cocoon that infallibly binds itself around each life; absorbing, as it goes round, the scars and the searing aftermath of the deceit we live in. Spreading a cooling balm, dimming the harsh glare of civilisation, of Being, of Life. Let me into the haze, end this precarious, vicious, tearing frenzy I was thrust into, forced to flail wildly at the fate handed to me; thrashing to somehow, somehow sculpt my own future.

No one asks, no one ever asks if we want the future we will have. Do I want a future?

Aunts ARE Gentlemen!

2007-03-13T01:33:00.000+01:00

We interrupt your lives today, to present a very very very special edition of The Ever-So-Oftenly Bugle (also fondly known as The Bugle).

the Ed and I (yes, for once, both schizophrenic parts of my life are in agreement) are very happy to present a distinguished lady to this motley gang of ill-fated listeners.

It is with great love, pleasure and happiness that I introduce to you a little ray of sunshine... Anvi. She's populated a largish part of my heart now, so if in the time to come, you find yourself getting bumped off, its probably because little miss sunshine (pun intended, obviously) is getting greedy.

For those of you who're still foggy, I just had a baby niece (Anvi, of course!). Am very very happy and if anyone at office asks, I'm sick and at the edge of death.

Rajul and the Ed.

Worm in the Lettuce or Lettuce in the Worm?

2007-01-09T11:33:00.003+01:00

The Bugle

Ho ho ho and a bottle of rum. Or some usual wheeze like that. Oh, on with it.

The-Lunchtime-in-Babudom-Section
The gaggle of mothers – go to any relict of babudom and it’s the same… the gaggle of mothers (the Government’s not-so-token obeisance to gender equal employment), standing like a pack of geese; gawking, peering into rooms full of consultants, and of course, discussing the biggest newshog of the month. For the moment, unfortunately, I need bear with gory dissections of the Nithari murders. The sheer professionalism, it seems, of the murderers has impressed the mothers. The geese literally tripped over each other in their ghoulish enjoyment of the catastrophic events.

“Did you hear? It could be organ trade!!” “No! I heard it was cannibalism” “Sniffle. The horror! oh the horror of itall!” “They say he was a professional at chopping up” [Ed’s aside: eh what?] “Itna padha likha aadmi. Kehte hain Stephen’s se tha? Kya hoga is desh ka?” [As though this mania had much to do with the poor august (?) institution]

The blood, the gore, the pathos of it all… It seemed much like your everyday Ekta Kapoor (Ekkkta Kkappoor?) serial. What with rape, marital discord, sabotage, murder and generic everyday mayhem, all they now need is serial killing. Are you listening, Balaji?

Who says babudom is boring? Lunch breaks are always thus; full of sensation and mystery. Not long ago, it was “poor Mihir”; so young, so dead, so back from the dead. Then came Salman Khan (always a big draw, believe it or not, the geese are nuts about those abs) and recently, the Abhishek-Aishwarya marriage. The lives of the famous are so fleeting. Excellent fodder.

The-Hold-On-To-Your-Seats-Section
I henceforth renounce my job. This is a decision made not only as a stand against the very oppression of my soul, but also to prevent my soul from taking off on its own trips. Tricky that, having to catch it and stuff it back into its solitary prison. Poor child. I wonder if all people have episodes like that? Feeling that one’s soul is fleeting, watching one’s own life from a distance, finding it dismal, meaningless, mere drudgery. Wishing that one could escape from this mortal prison and take off on a flight that one was always meant for; away from petty involvements and pursuits. It’s powerful strange, I can tell you, feeling as oneself, and yet different. Perhaps this is what drove poor yogis across the centuries to attempt to find that release, that joy that awaits around the corner. Death isn’t so bad, afterall.

The-General-What-Was-That-You-Said-?-Section
Some say that the Indian tradition of passing knowledge through word of mouth led to the downfall of our rich heritage and the reason why it is esoteric and the sole domain of a few today. Upon closer examination of the Indian ethos, however, it would seem that such statements are particularly blasphemous. Think, how deeply are Indians entrenched with the very knowledge contained in those cryptic volumes; the focus has been, not on learning those texts, but rather on implementing what those texts wish to convey. A way of life.

I see naysayers amongst you. Allow me to demonstrate. With all due apologies to the Messers Sagar and Chopra, our knowledge of Hindu mythology is not derived from a reading of these famous tomes. And yet, is there a single Indian who has NOT imbibed traits from these?

Look merely to the roads. There are Arjuns in full; drivers who not only weave their way expertly through traffic, but also pave the way for followers. There are Abhimanyus too… Arjuns in the making; who have learnt in infancy how to break the deadlock of traffic, but without the expertise to allow another to take advantage of it. Whither there is Arjun, can Duryodhan be far behind? The wary traveller of the “Fast” lane, who refuses upon cajoling, threats and the repeated honking of a horn, to give up the space equal to the tip of a needle. Or the ever-present Sarthis; the Krishnas of our times, the beatific back-seat drivers who give sage advice and enjoy the race. There are the Sitas; the fearless crossers of not one but several stop lines. The hostile Ravanas, cops (or thulas, if you’re in Delhi) who extract a price for having crossed a line (or, in a modern twist, broken a light).

What price written transfer of knowledge?

The-Acknowledgement-Section
A new section this, created for the specific purpose of thanking my ardent readers, and for expressing what little emotion I reserve for the general populace, alternatively known as my friends.

As usual, I thank the returnees (not like you had much choice, did you, poor slobs?) and the new entrants (who may for all I know, be returnees, cursing and kicking at the hard knock of fate. Let this be a lesson; in the words of Wodehouse, the bit of lead piping is never far) for reaching, without death or destruction to the end of this, the newest edition of the ever-popular Ever-So-Oftenly-Bugle. Also known as The Bugle to its adoring fans (note, those of the aa milne extraction, that it is The Bugle, not the Bugle or similar such horrors).

The-Freedom-Of-Speech-Section
As always, person or persons are free to send in compliments, favourable reviews and the like, in sheer adulation of The Bugle or even better of the Ed (see? Freedom of speech DOES apply in my little kingdom). As always, with the exclusive right of selective cognition or attention, all criticism shall be discarded at source.

the Ed.

[Small print begins] All damage to life, property or sanity is solely the responsibility of the beholder. The creator of this dazzling beauty shall be held neither responsible nor liable for any temporary or permanent lunacy. [Small print ends]

[Small print begins again] PS. Clause I applies (sorry couldn’t resist the pot-shot). [Small print ends]

[Small print begins YET again] Heard of the first amendment to Clause I though? [Small print DEFINITELY ends]

Is the Bugler on the Roof?

2006-10-06T22:36:00.000+02:00

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!

2006-08-30T00:22:00.000+02:00

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.

Wily Wisdom

2006-07-22T18:25:00.000+02:00

What is wisdom?

I am young now, and I ask questions; questions that swirl through my mind, through the murky depths of my thoughts, my feelings and all those nebulous aspects of me that I keep hidden away, perhaps even from my self.

Would the attainment of wisdom mean that I would know the answers? Or would wisdom mean the ceasing of this eternal questioning, simply from the realisation that not all questions have answers?

Or would it mean simply that I would know WHICH questions have no answers?

In which case, is wisdom more to be desired or feared? If eternal questioning would lead eventually to the possession of the knowledge of the universe, would I want to continue questioning, knowing well that I may never get my answers?

Is wisdom over-rated? Are we more alive when we are confused? Is existential angst the only barrier to over-whelming and complete nihilism?

The Virtues of Nihilism

2006-07-16T17:01:00.000+02:00

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?

Burn!

2006-07-15T13:29:00.000+02:00

What ephemeral lives we lead. Love, laughter, sorrow; such cliches, yet so true. They shape the way we live, the way we feel, and yet do they exist?

Would I feel less sorrow if I were stronger willed? Are we any happier in love than out of it? Loss causes sorrow. Loss is permanent and yet sorrow is not; just as a sorrowless existence would be without perspective and hence without joy; so too absolute sorrow would be without deviation and difference.

Would deviation then be the true key to existence? Did the inability to live on a straight emotional path lead to the existence of these all consuming emotions? Or did the emotions come first and render us unable to live without?

Would it then be possible to school oneself into resisting these emotions? Could I exercise enough discipline to avoid love? To turn away as a dieter would from chocolate and a saint from sin?

What would it take to build an impenetrable wall around the heart? What do I build it with? How do I slow the tide that threatens to consume my world and sweep me with it? If this is merely a figment of my own imagination and the ensuing riot of hormones, why is there no antidote? In world where there is protection against threats material and virtual; real and imagined, why cannot I prevent a process which leads ultimately to loss? Prevention against love would lead eventually to the removal of sorrow for without attachment there is no loss.

Where would that leave us though? Without deviation. Would that be so bad?

Attachment muddles logic, it has no objectives, it had no method, it has no process, it has no basic principles. I cannot be fathomed, it cannot be disected and taken apart; it cannot be reverse engineered or re-engineered. It defies all human action.

Attachment causes sorrow. In the final analysis, perhaps Hinduism had it right afterall. A life with a single thought precludes attachment and leads to freedom from the eternal cycle.

DO I have what it takes?

Bearish on the Markets

2006-06-08T11:12:00.000+02:00

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

2006-05-31T08:45:00.001+02:00

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

2006-05-08T06:35:00.000+02:00

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

2006-04-21T21:58:00.000+02:00

Of diets and salad leaves...

2005-08-22T14:47:00.000+02:00

Ah, the joy of being one with the world! Of knowing that I am one of the teeming masses, unhappy with their looks (whether benign or malignant) and having sworn to resolve the issue by hook or by crook, embarked upon a journey of self sacrifice and will powering.

Gandhi would've been proud I say. We should all have been recruits in the hunger abhiyans by now, serving to save the nation as well as our sad behinds. Sigh. To have been born in the right age.

What can I say about Salad leaves that hasn't already been said? That they're green and go well only with substances destined to destroy the very reason d'etre of the former? Salads and dressings go together like... well, cheese and lasagna. One cannot simply take one and separate from the other and expect them to like it, can one?

And yet after years of looking at the decrepit (they are rotted to perfection you know... the rotter the better) and harmless looking hunks of yellow (or blue depending on the type), one wonders. Does cheese kill? Would the salad be worth having without all the calories?

The apes did us a bad turn the day they Became. Who ever heard of an ape looking at a fat behind (or befront for that matter) and going on a diet? I have it on good authority that in the apes (as they exist today) the fatter the better. No slim shadies for them.

On the other hand, there's always the option of exercise. Swingin from the trees is all fine, but getting on a runway that never goes anywhere (or a pair of wheels that do nothing much else) is far too symbolic of the human tragedy to be bearable. That and its boring.

Now if there was a way to watch the calories off through television, there'd be a glut of beauties sittin in their parlours watching the neighborhood saas and bahus gain weight.

Or for the hepper vein (such as I, I might add), watch the friendly not so neighborhood blonde bombshells (puleeze, all serials HAVE to have one of those; its like the K factor) gettin some weight where it DOESN'T count :D

Or maybe the Victorians had it right. Fat babes, with delicate sensibilities to boot. No one expected THOSE prima donnas to work without a bevvy of maids and a barrel of smelling salts. Kept the men on their working boots and good for them too.

As I said earlier... to have been born in the right age. I ain't fat for my age; I'm behind the times.

Once upon a time in a land far far away...

2005-08-04T21:20:00.000+02:00

Yep, here I am again. And yes, I know that I seem to be making a habit of saying that.

Another day at the office and another step towards total world domination through the convoluted yet deceptively simple device of crosswords. The scum won't even know what hit them and soon I shall have every single person hooked on to them, and shall then commence to manipulate their will to my bidding. Huuaaa haaa haaa haa(that's my evil world domination plan laugh by the by).

Yes, it is obvious that I haven't much to do isn't it? I suppose this is a rather damaging sin to confess to, considering that prospective employers prowl the net looking for the slightest evidence of neglect and slacking down. Sigh. I'll never be employed again.

As life chugs on, emitting the occasional grunt and clicking its claws at passersby, I fail to understand the logic behind it all. What's the point? Please note how bravely I have so far kept off the "Why are we here" topic that seems to have no dearth of takers in the market.

However, that, for me is an open and shut case (simple decision according to the crossy). Here's what happened... pay close attention now, this concerns the holy as well as the unholy dead who preceded us and left this bag of **** for us to handle on a daily basis.

Once upon a time, a long long time ago, there were a bunch of apes (not grapes mind you, though I do like those.. hmmm, long time no grape) who lived happily among their trees and a far greater variety of flora and fauna than present on Earth today.

Then one day, one ape hit a rock (purely symbolic, simply to denote a turning point in the story, he may as well have turned over in his sleep, though that hasnt the drama of hitting a painful rock) and his genes mutated. Note that all simplifications are for the good of fellow mankind, of whom I have a low opinion as far as the intellect polls go.

And the ape began to BE. Suddenly he was no longer just an ape. He was an Ape and he Knew. And He began his quest to discover what else He could Know and to learn what He Was. The more He Knew, the better equipped he was to lord over the apes and the more the gene mutated.

Soon, the apes were all gone and all that were left were the Apes. And these Apes soon realised that they could do without working, without swinging from trees and could quite well live in proper caves, thank you very much.

Thus began an era of decadence and invention which has never seen an end, even to this day, and the Apes have left their simple lives far far behind. They now live in a world where layer upon layer of artifice has been added to their days, to find them something to do, for them to feel needed and wanted and fulfilled.

And in all the world, with the technology and the advancement and the wars and the awards and money and power, not a single Ape survives that doesn't really wish simply to swing from the trees again and simple be an ape as all were meant to be.

Off to dream of my tree,

The Ed.

Vanquished

2005-07-23T20:54:00.000+02:00

So I'm back.

Much as I thought that living my life vicariously, or rather, letting people do so through me (??) would go against all that was insane within me, I've been driven to present yet again those pieces of my life that I prefer to keep hidden.

In the hope that perhaps one day, out of sheer bad luck, someone will stumble onto this monologue and hear it. Perhaps.

Does a dreamer have a place in the rat race? I once wrote to myself, in the bygone days when one did it the old fashioned way with pen and paper, that I would prove that they do. That WE do.

Now I wonder. I did prove something; what it is, I cannot fathom anymore than I can whether I still qualify as a dreamer; what is the qualification? The criteria? What does a dreamer do?

Or perhaps the very nebulous nature of the word itself constitutes the definition. A dreamer is just that; she does not purport to DO anything, she does not brag about having earned medals or recognition. She simply wishes to be able to spin webs and wonder if they could indeed, someday, be.

Sometimes I wonder if everyone feels the crushing loss when a dream comes true. Dreams are always pretty; does anyone count their cost? Does the girl dreaming of being a femme fatale with a hundred broken hearts behind her consider that her heart would break in the process too?

Does a child dreaming of that important job with the ostentatious title realise the cost; the hours of simple pleasures that need to be edged out?

In all this, where do I stand? What can I say about myself today? Some of my dreams came true, and I stand here today, scared to dream lest they turn to reality.

2004-12-28T09:08:00.000+01:00

Black Clouds on the Horizon

"The Time Has Come...", The Walrus Said...

2004-12-28T08:47:00.000+01:00

There's something about year-ends.

It's cliched and old and positively archaic, yet there is something about the dying out of yet another period. Perhaps it brings out the heathen in all of us. Craven and fearful of what time might bring, superstitious of the future, no matter what the present holds.

It makes one introspect and delve into dark recesses, climb out and keenly observe from the outside, the image one presents.

Peering into corners and dusty bylanes both in the exterior and the interior and cogitate and ask oneself most waveringly "How do i look?".

"What is it that I present to the world? Am I good enough? Will I be fired?"

And worst of all, that eternal question. "Does Mommy/ Daddy/ The paddy farmer down the lane love me?"

We look within and without for those secret anomalies we possess. Those shameful, huddled bends in our lives which fall below the perfection we wish for, nay demand from ourselves.

Work Harder. Be Better. Compete. Win. Be Loved. Be Worthy.

We set the standards, and believe them to be set by forces external to ourselves, in turn becoming a source of hurt and disillusionment. How could anyone possibly find us worthy when we fail the tests set out for us? How could we possibly be "good" when we judge ourselves below par; sub-standard?

We run and we hide from these fears, thrust them away in the murky waters of memory. And like a river in monsoon, they come flooding back when its time for the annual life review. Each year the burden becomes heavier, the sediment increases each time the giant question marks are shuffled away.

Perhaps this was the reason New Year Resolutions were created. To give the cobwebs of the mind an airing; to allow us to spring clean and throw out those matters of the buggy kind, which would otherwise fester and cause much unhappiness.

I know what I will try this year. Maybe try to remove as much of that guilt as possible. Maybe try to see myself as a person; a good and worthy person. One who is loved and genuinely liked. Maybe even one who spreads happiness and good cheer.

Perhaps the world would be a better place for having done so, what?

Ah choo!

2004-12-20T12:41:00.000+01:00

There comes a time in every bug's life...