A bit of this, a bite of that
India is a lot of things and rightly so, given its vastness. Canada is vaster but can’t hold a candle to the depth this land (more on this later) inherits. One of the most striking marks of a civilization is how it sustains through bloodshed. A lot many nations, even before we reached the idea of nation-state, couldn’t manage to survive the constant stab wounds. Ours did. And we should be proud of it but the problem is we don’t know a lot about our iniquities and inflictions. Our history books gloss over such details lest we become preoccupied with victimhood. The writers clearly want us to look forward instead of getting absorbed by the dripping assaults of the past. Fair strategy. However, what this approach does is it leaves us immune to the changing dynamics of the world. If you look around, every possible identity is holding on dearly to the injustice done to them but we, despite centuries of colonial mistreatment, don’t claim reparation — verbal or otherwise. As a result, our history appears fickle; something that affected our forefathers but somehow doesn’t affect us at all.
A very significant verdict was passed by the Supreme Court recently involving a piece of land. Before we go any further, isn’t it amazing how everything related to humans ultimately boils down to land? Yes, there was a mosque over it and before that, there was a non-Islamic structure on it and so on. Basically, a 500+-year-old dispute came to an end. But the conclusion is pretty obvious: they solved a land dispute, not a faith dispute. Those who bow before an idol of Lord Rama will continue to bow in front of him. And those who bow in the direction of the Kaaba will continue to do so.
Whenever a critical move is about to go public, the fear of riots always haunt me. My earliest memory of a riot is from 1992 when I was a little boy — trucks with uniform-clad men of force passing on our streets. For the record, our chawl recorded zero violence; we heard horrible rumours though. However, India’s history — independent as well as under British Raj — is chequered with mob violence. In fact, almost every recorded year after the Crown formally took over India (1858), there had been massive riots in our country. We tend to pretend as if we’ve been singing paeans of unity for ages when the exact opposite is true. Hindu-Muslim riots. Hindu-Christian riots. Muslim-Christian riots. Hindu-Sikh riots. Muslim-Sikh riots. Etc. In my book, top of the cherry goes to Muslim-Parsi riots — yes, you read that right. In the 1850s, ’60s and ’70s, there were several exchanges of aggression on both sides. Can’t imagine Parsis being violent now, can we? Things didn’t change after independence either. Not a year has passed by since 1947 that we haven’t registered a communal violence of note. Tiniest of events/accidents spark these massive hotballs, resulting in unaccounted loss of lives and properties. I’ve been reading about such stories and the only thing I really want to know now is: any of these riots ever triggered over the weekends?
A friend of mine recently asked me what I admire the most about Manto. Saying you like his writing is similar to informing a Russian about the benefits of vodka. So, here’s what I really think about Manto: he was not only an interesting writer but also an interesting person. Most writers, at least the ones I admire, lead a boring life. JM Coetzee is so boring that he didn’t even bother to go receive his Booker Prize, an award he had graced twice. On the other hand, Manto’s life reflected his writing. He showed the society a shameless mirror by digging into stories that otherwise are never told. His fascination with the underbelly remind us of the people who will forever stay in the shadows of a city. Not that nobody wrote about prostitutes before him, he added a layer of empathy for them without patronizing the characters. Something similar he did with Partition too; his lasting legacy is of a man who saw things clearly and wrote them clearer. He was the hero of his own fable. There is no doubt that the world lost him prematurely to alcohol but then again, that is Manto.
I don’t understand a lot of what is going on around me. The new generation is, for lack of a more polite word, quite weird. They are different from their predecessors but are strikingly similar in pushing forward the plate of responsibility. Out of this group, the most fascinating characters fall under the ‘urban poor’ category. These folks know that the world is ending so they are trying to make the most of today by living it up. Even if it means having to bust one’s humble budget. So be it. Deep down, they appreciate the value of time as well as money but on the surface, they don’t care. Their parents told them at a very young age that A is for Apple and S is for Savings but I is for iPhone too. As a result, they will buy stuff they can’t afford to showcase a lifestyle in order to stay within the circle of — guess who? — fellow urban poor.
Ants fascinate me and so do bees. A new addition to this esteemed list is termites. If there is one word that can describe their destructive quality, then ‘singular’ would be it. They quietly destroyed a wooden box and a ludo set (World Ludo Championship is a thing) in our apartment and did it so meticulously that I am nothing but a fan of theirs. What I saw resembled the ruins of Rome, just more intricate in design. They care about each other and generally escape the chemical rout. Sometimes, I wonder what is it, metaphysically speaking, that eats us from within. And if at all there is such a thing, I doubt it to be as effective as a termite.
Remember when B&B lied about WMD and led the so-called free world to war against SH? Well, the world hasn’t fully recovered from their treachery. At that time, the argument was on the line of legitimacy: was it legal to enter Iraq the way the Western forces entered Afghanistan? You see, the former was still a quasi-democracy whereas the latter was at the blind mercy of Loya jirga. So, the powers-to-be lied and twisted facts at the UN to bring down Saddam. The anti-war activists were using the term ‘illegal war’ back then, with the protests depicting huge posters of Bush and Blair as co-devils. It’s been so many years and I am yet to understand what exactly makes a war legal?
Speaking of war, isn’t it acutely disturbing how none of the wars were started by women? Each and every notable battle had fingerprints of men on them. Incredible feat. What is this craziness for chaos, mutilation and agony? If glory is the holy grail of the equation, then pain has to be denominator here. And by design, nature pains women on a periodic basis. Men are pain-free unless inflicted. Perhaps there is a natural gap: an innate desire for pain. Why else would men wage wars knowing very well the destruction it brings? These self-harming tendencies, for better or worse, has created the canvas of modern world. If you look closely, there is nothing but suffering in it.
Amongst the many regrets in my life — which includes public attributes like not reaching 6 feet of height — and several private shortcomings which can’t be mentioned on this blog — singing takes the top prize. There are people who listen to a song a hundred times and yet don’t subsume the lyrics. And here I am who needs three to four loops of a song to get the lyrics imprinted on mind. Besides, what’s the use of knowing all the lyrics when you don’t have the voice to deliver them? A situation not very different from Hugh Hefner stuck inside the Playboy mansion without viagra. If only I could create music as a consolation but that’s not happening either.
What this world needs right now, and this has been the case ongoing for several decades now, is a soulful speech. A speech that would stir us out of our collective stupor and make us run in the direction of change. A speech that would jostle us out to appreciate the weight of words. A speech that would be bereft of social bias and political myopia. A speech that would make us question our realities and accept our dreams. A speech that would speak directly to us as a species. Wonder when we’ll get to hear it? Wonder when we’ll get past through all these self-serving drivels?
Many countries were trampled down over by colonial powers but none of the former subjects exhibit a hangover as strongly as we do. A prime example of this behaviour can be noticed on the Internet where the desis go out of their way to use an archaic symbol of knighthood. Sir David Attenborough. Sir Alex Ferguson. Sir Dard Dekho. Why this infatuation with a mark of honour steeped in monarchy? The very monarchy that has no relevance in today’s geopolitics. So much so the westerners squirm at such old-fashioned pretensions. Maybe this has something to do with our brown culture where we vie for colonial tidbits inadvertently. Or maybe because it’s such a short word. Yet, it would have made sense had we observed astutely the subcontinental honours too but we don’t give a damn about them. Bharat Ratna Sachin Tendulkar? Padma Bhushan Bill Gates? Sitara-i-Imtiaz Shahid Afridi? Nah.
As a kid, we used to play something called name-place-animal-thing and we often applied our mental brakes for elusive letters like I, Q and Z. My fallback i-lettered animals were ibex and iguana. I had no idea how they looked like but they were in the dictionary and that was good enough for me. It was only the introduction of Google that I finally saw these amazing creatures. An ibex can make Tom Cruise’s MI:2 mountain stunt appear childish with its absurd balancing on steep slopes. On the other hand, iguanas are the closest I’ll get to petting a lizard — such awesome personalities! Anyway, I recently read about an iguana at a zoo in Belgium and it made me sad. Apparently, his name was Mozart and they amputated his penis because it was erect for seven days. A terrible case of priapism. I wonder whether he could create music.
