Fulcrums...

As a mother, you’ve given me life. You’ve taught me to walk; read and eat with my own hands. You’ve halted your life so I may have mine. You’ve loved me without question. And you’ve hurt as I have, when I have. So much more when I seemed to flunk Sanskrit for no good reason.

As a sister, you’ve laughed with me; and you’ve laughed at me. You’ve conspired with me against enemies whose existence you took at my word. You’ve tried your level best to understand why Barbies were monstrous villains for them GI Joes. And you’ve listened patiently to me go on about nothing at all when I was hurt. (“Bhaiyya, you’re crazy”). Or when I was stupid (“Bhaiyya, you’re crazy”).

As a lover, you’ve taught me to need. To dream. You’ve taught me patience and the near infinite comfort of having someone caress your hair. You’ve laughed at all my jokes. You've smiled extra hard when I somehow fixed your computer. And you’ve given me reason to feel; to lose myself to that feeling.

Today, people will talk about how far women have come in terms of economics, suffrage and leadership. And that is great, even if only for how inevitable it was. Today, in some measure, the equality of the sexes will be discussed. But see, men and women aren’t created equal. Women are necessarily greater.
As women, all of you have come long measurable distances. As people who’ve defined my life, as the essays in strength, compassion and sacrifice that you are, that pales in comparison.

So yeah, I’ll make you that sandwich. And you can nag me about how I forgot to put enough mayonnaise in it.

Not there… The other hole...

When they’re not busy fighting the trials and travails of having an enlarged prostate and/or stealing from us, the people who run this nation like to spend some time reminding us of the relevance they have in our lives.

Usually it’s something benign. “I was streaming that porn and so I didn’t actually have it on my phone and INDIA NEEDS FASTER INTERNETZ LOL” or “Oh this money? Well, my ancestors were all oppressed and I’m taking it to increase their pride in our caste/religion/pony breeding club”. Of course, sometimes they’ll take it a step further and tell us who to hate.

Now don’t get me wrong… I’m all for a little unmitigated hate without reason or justification. All you have to do is say “Salman Khan superstar” and I’ll get an enraged stick-figure mob to eat the entirety of all the Pizza in your locality, come over to your place and offer to treat you to lunch - JUST to watch you dissolve into a puddle of tears. However, I do tend to have a problem with the fact that the reason for why we should hate a lot of things is usually no different from “This is wrong because we don’t do this. We don’t do this because this is wrong”.

A prime example of this is homosexuality. Let me not mince words here. This is an entire group of people who are “going to destroy society as we know it” because... um… well… they're using the wrong holes?

One, this is an issue of individual liberty. If the Government allows itself to decide what consenting adults do without affecting anyone else, where does it stop?

And Two, this has been made an issue of morality. What has been left out is whose fucking morality it is that we're talking about. Is it:

a) the morality of some religion that we must respect because of “religious freedom”? That being the case I’d like to petition that everyone in India wear sequins on Saturdays because otherwise, our true lord the Flying Spaghetti Monster can’t see us properly owing to his divine Myopia.

But I guess this it only matters if the religion is mainstream. One that ensures people who don’t conform to certain rules are hated and ostracized. More so, made to hate their own selves. Yeah. That morality. Got'cha. 

Or;

b) the morality of the public at large? This would make more sense because laws are defined by what people feel is right. For example, it is no longer legal to ensure a woman’s undying love in return for 10 cows and one wooden cart. I’ve checked.
But even in this case, those in power are woefully out of touch with the realities that surround us today. People are not dying, starving, or unhappy because certain men know more than one use for glitter. It's because someone is too friggin’ incompetent to do their job.

History is witness to the fact that whenever someone has had to justify something vile and despicable, he or she has done it in the name of morality. That this clause is invoked whenever some old dude who hasn't gotten laid in sometime suddenly decides he doesn't like how other people are trying to be happy.

The question that needs to be asked then, is simply this… is someone threatening national security, violating the sacred nature of the constitution and completely without a sense of right and wrong because they like want a life with someone with the same genitals?

Of course, since all rants worth their vitriol are incomplete without atleast one Godwin: “We want to burn out all the recent immoral developments in literature, in the theater, and in the press - in short, we want to burn out the poison of immorality which has entered into our whole life and culture as a result of liberal excess during the past ... (few) years.” – Adolf Hitler.

When those who watch over us talk about protecting society, they should first think about not letting us die of corrupt practices and apathy; instead of declaring profound jealousy for the happiness of certain people who have awesome taste in clothing. 

Finally, people who hide behind words like “culture” and “morality” to justify their bigotry and ignorance should be slapped across the face with a large rubber dildo.

Ask Not for Whom the Bell Tolls...

It's that time of the year again. The time when people who have way too much Gucci in their wardrobe meet in a little place called Jaipur. They discuss the wretchedness of the human condition using words containing too many syllables in books containing characters with too many daddy issues.

Made conspicuous by his absence from this left wing paradise is Salman Rushdie. If you're unaware, this is one person who's had considerably more luck with members of the opposite sex than you or I (This is to be expected because I haven't been to the gym lately and you... well, you're reading this). He's also written an angry book or two.

What is especially important about the absence said person of alopecic fame is the reason behind it. Were we so lucky that he would be spotted buying a special scalp shine formula and refuse to blind people by stepping out in public again.
Unfortunately, the reason is far more serious; and speaks much more vehemently of the world we live in. A world that speaks only of intolerance and mindless hate. Where criticism is heresy and heresy is death. And the difference between liberators and oppressors is only one of time.
Basically it's the 1500s all over again, but with more bandwidth and much better treatment for head lice.

However, addressing the etiopathogenesis of all of humanity's miscellaneous vices is beyond the scope of this post.
What I do want to talk about is just how fucked we all are; specifically by way of putting faith in the institutions that govern us.

Disenfranchisement
Maybe you know the word; or maybe you didn't have a massive crush on your English teacher and never saw the need to. I digress. The concept is relatively straightforward... Disenfranchisement is the devaluation of a vote; for any reason.
It may be specific, as is the case with certain countries not allowing people convicted of serious crimes to be part of the electoral process, or more general, as is usually the case when your favourite flavour of liberator/dictator takes over and suspends elections as well as the soap opera you were currently crying over.

A much more applicable corollary of this is disenfranchisement by numbers. When India gained independence, her population stood at ~350 million, give or take a few miscalculated periods. Currently, there are about 1.2 billion of us. And while this sounds great for any circumstance involving hand-to-hand combat with the enemy; take a look at what it does to our Democratic structure:

There were 530 something representatives in the Lok Sabha at the time of independence. There are 545 representatives in the Lok Sabha right now. What this means that one of them is now responsible for representing 2.2 million of us up from 660 thousand.

Now I assuming you're a relatively “normal” kind of person. The operative definition of “normal” being that you like a certain kind of food, have porn stored in places with imaginative names like 'New Folder' and that you have an average of 13 differences of opinion with your fellow man per day.

Therefore, all other factors remaining constant, this means that your opinion, however profound and relevant, retains about a third of the importance of what it did when the structure of Parliament was envisioned.

And here's the kicker... all other factors didn't remain constant. While you were adding more and more stuff to New Folder, people on the other end of the socio-economic spectrum were punching out babies while the Rocky soundtrack was playing in the background.

Let's take your example. You, lean mean sex machine that you were in the 1950s, had 2 kids. They had 2 kids each in turn. Assuming everyone survived the 1970s and those horrible hairstyles, this gives you a total of 6 people of direct descent.
Now how about someone who had just one more kid per generation? This gives a total of 12 people of direct descent. Yes, exactly double. With just one more child.
You, my friend, with you excellent genes and awesome taste in vintage rock, have been outbred. Rather badly too. Have you been taking all those vitamins your doctor recommended? Maybe you need more well aerated underwear.

Of course, this doesn't even begin to describe other real world scenarios. Like the fact that you can't be bothered to participate in the process of government because:

1. You don't have the time
2. New Folder is increasing in size every day.
3. “The system is corrupt, I must stay away.”
4. New Folder!

This is why you can't get the government to care less about your opinion about an issue. You don't own a major corporation. You can't get people squatting on train tracks for purposes other than intestinal emancipation. Or perhaps, even allege that your “religious sentiments” got hurt.
The truth is, you just don't matter mathematically.

Democracy? Lolwut?
I think it's adorable how all those idealistic people sit down with Arnab Goswami and try to advertise the inherent superiority of Democracy, tell the world that it's the other guy's fault 400 million people in the country are hungry and depending upon the extent of their delusions, try to complete a sentence every now and then.

But are we really, truly choosing a representative Government? Hell, is there even any real choice?

Think about it. The general elections are about a year or so away. Who do you want to vote for? You choices are a. The Gandhi fiefdom, b. The Saffron genocide party or c. The Mayawati theocracy.
This is an a especially tough one considering you may have some remnant memory of the times we've tried the first two; and that you're scared shitless like me anytime someone mentions the phrase “Mayawati's foreign policy”.

Maybe you'd like to vote for Anna et al. Possibly the Left. Or maybe you want to come off the pixie dust and try to understand the fact that these suggestions are here just to make sure I wasn't 'Arnab-ed' (yes, this is a real verb).
Yours could be the only vote in the country, and you'd still fuck it up royally for the rest of us. Congratulations.

So, as things stand, none of these factions will listen to you unless you represent a significant vote bank. And you really can't go to another guy, because, well, there really isn't another guy.

Of course, you could get into the system and change it from the inside. Since it worked metaphorically in Die Hard 2, it can work in real life. But then, this won't happen. Scroll up and you'll see why.
We're screwed. Every single one of us. The educated electorate because nobody will listen to it, and the unkempt masses because a vote is just a piece of paper to someone who hasn't had a meal in 24 hours.

What will we do about it? I haven't the slightest idea. This when I'm usually very good at letting Twitter hashtags form my opinion for me. As you realize, this doesn't bode well.

Purely hypothetical...

So I ran into ‘her’.
And like all women who’ve ever worn that particular pronoun in the history of written literature… I almost wished I hadn’t.
And like every time I’ve “almost” wished I hadn’t… Well, there’s a story here too.

There she is… sitting across the table not five feet away. Less than three strides for the average disciple. Two if you’re as tall as me.
There are people talking. Every now and then she smiles; and it feels another ripple has passed over the surface of eternity. And as much as I think they messed up the darn punch line, it seems I can’t help but smile too. I wish they get the next one right... I do so hate it when she stops with that smile.

My heart craves what is only the caress of her gaze, but I now look away. I’m much too afraid she’ll catch me staring. Leaving me too embarrassed ever to be able to tell her that now that I had found her, I knew everything was going to be alright.
The sun would rise again tomorrow. The dang sunflowers would point in just the right direction. And that maybe, just maybe, one day as the sunlight would be streaming in through half open windows, I’d brush aside the stray hair that crept onto her face and wake her up with a kiss on her cheek that half spelt “I love you” and half “I love how you yawn”.

She glances my way once, as if to thank me for my words. I keep looking away. Seems I have not the mind to accept such thanks. I only gave her what was hers in the first place. And then she smiles again. It begins in her eyes, like all smiles worth telling someone about.
Seems they were working on their punch lines, after all.

I think about getting up and talking to her. It can’t be that difficult. In spite of what they say, it is a good sign if your legs turn to jelly and your mind turns to pudding. If she understands me the right way (and there is no other way), she’ll know she herself is my poetry made manifest. The “ba-ba-black-sheep” that I’ll end up doing such a spirited rendition of can probably just be written off to... creative differences.

I hesitate. I would need something to start a conversation with. Women have not been known to take kindly to opening lines about the annual sugar production of Cuba.

Perhaps something to do with how she embodies that which is beauty… serenity one could spend a lifetime trying to describe and yet words would not suffice.
No. Too long.
Perhaps a simple “Hi” would do. Maybe that’s all that is needed to open doors.
No. Too simplistic.
Maybe I simply recite the alphabet in my baritone. Let pheromones and good intentions take care of the rest.
No. Too clichéd.

So, well, I simply walk up to her and say…

…and we haven’t stopped talking since.
(Most of it about things like the coffee output of Brazil. Told you Cuba doesn't work).

Eff one...

I’m a big fan of the sport. I have this 2002 Michael Schumacher – World Champion jacket that I’ll probably start wearing again in the next 15-20 years to my kids’ parent teacher conferences.
So it goes without saying that I was nigh excited yesterday. I shaved against the grain, put on the requisite 2 coats of aftershave (‘Harassment’ by Calvin Klein) as well as enough deodorant to tide over my natural pheromonal advantage. Cloth selection was done using a scientific algorithm known among laypersons as ‘The 80s are coming back’.

● The getting there
If you can get past the traffic jams and the cruel irony of the fact that you’re going to see what people do on empty roads, it’s pretty grand. Everything’s real slick and well labelled. There’re signboards with celebrities and famous people pointing the way. There’s also a few with Siddharth Mallya on them.
The UP police seemed to be pointing somewhere other than the sky and at each other. I understand some goats had to be sacrificed over copper bowls for this to happen.

● The place
Massive is an understatement. The track could have its own pincode, timezone and ‘Yo’
Mayawati so fat’ joke. That said, you can actually hear the cars from the parking. I can’t hope to explain how loud they are from 40 feet away. Imagine an airplane engine talking down to an incompetent daughter in law.
You can actually go on quoting Marcus Aurelius to people around you. They'll nod and agree. I can tell you this doesn't happen very often otherwise.

● The seating
Spending 36K on a ticket is something I don’t see myself doing unless they include an option to be fed peeled grapes and having your teeth flossed gently by comely women. But I digress.
From where I sat, I saw, in increasing order of visibility:
1. The TV Screen
Was about a 100 feet away. Imagine watching a movie through an out of focus sniper scope with someone playing loud Himmesh music in the background.
2. The Cars
Turns out you can’t tell Sebastian Vettel from Mark Webber without the help of the big pointy arrow in the sky. All you can do is make “Here’s a Red Bull car again. OMG they’re so fast. Must be drinking… Red Bull!” jokes to the person next to you. And hope they don’t carry sharp things.
3. The Butt
If your BMI exceeds 35, you wear tight clothing to a public gathering and you insist on standing up everytime a car passes in front of you (very often), please know that the people behind you are left incapable of seeing… anything. The shade helps a bit. Maybe.

● The people
Maybe I was just unlucky here. But a randomly polled sample of the people in my immediate vicinity revealed:
1. Irritating Douchebags
And I quote, “My daddy has 3 BM-dabloos. I crashed one the other day. LOL”. If someone says this loudly and their friends insist on laughing and making congratulatory hand gestures afterwards, you’re entitled by law to stab you slowly with everything that comes in a geometry box. Even the eraser.
2. 5-10 year olds
There aren’t too many sounds that can drown out an F1 engine going full tilt. Not even the benign pomposity of a Marcus Aurelius quote. So you’ll understand me when I say this… “That's one loud failure of contraception”.
3. The Floozies
Pretty young things. Present in much greater preponderance around said douches. I would elaborate, but that’s another rant for another day. Bring beer and Sprite. We’ll talk. Yes, I know she broke your heart.

● The race
Turns out, with all the above going on simultaneously, you can’t understand much. What also doesn’t help is the insatiable need to get on Twitter during said race and retweet people with pretty DPs. I’m told this is an evolutionary thing.
Herr Derr some white dude won.
There were some accidents. I guess the drivers finally realized they were driving in Noida.
Also, “lap dances” is clearly misleading advertising.

Am I going next year? I don’t know. The security people looked a little perturbed by my repeated “So what happens if something goes wrong? Do you hit F1?” questions. I don't think they're prepared enough. Plus, it helps if you know what's happening without having to look into the neighboring pretty girl's blackberry.
If you weren't there, you didn't miss much. If you were and you enjoyed it, well, go easy on the anti depressants.

I understand your experience may have been better. You may have gotten laid, sold your Metallica tickets on Twitter and/or your daddy might own 3 BM-dabloos. Let me know. I burn voices of reason for warmth.