So many things to say, so little to hear
It’s 2020 and people are still arguing over the distinction between ‘Black Lives Matter’ and ‘All Lives Matter’. The former is a brave statement while the latter is a cowardly excuse. In the long annals of human history, no one community has witnessed consistent persecution the way Jews did. Wherever they went — except in India, which Israel officially recognizes too — they were hounded and yet they survived to share their tales of resilience. However, if you notice the upheavals of trans-Atlantic trade, hardly any singular inequity comes close to the systemic oppression — over a relatively short period of time — of the black community not just in colonial Africa but also in independent America. Jews in Europe could at least convert to Christianity to save their skin. How is a black person supposed to shed the colour of his skin? Post the ending of WW2, normalcy, or at least a faint idea of normalcy, returned to many suffering lands but the status of the blacks in the USA remained precarious. Police brutality is an important element in this tragic equation but it’s not the only element; even the judiciary hasn’t always been prompt in righting the wrongs. Under such circumstances, it’s utterly ridiculous to hold up ALM instead of BLM banner.
I am often asked on Instagram — Twitter doesn’t bother with such questions anymore — whether I am an atheist. No is the straightforward answer because I don’t really know. Everyday I read up something and learn something new, ruining my old views. Resting against such a limited sack of knowledge, how will I ever know what am I? Atheistic? Agnostic? Idiot? Fortunately, the vast umbrella of Sanatana Dharma covers all these labels but why take a chance? So, I choose to remain in the ‘unsure’ category. It’s a cold but a safe place. There are a lot of folks who actually believe in the existence of swarga/heaven/jannah/etc. and I am happy for them. It’s human nature to look ahead in life. But to me, only now matters. What I do with it is what’s going to decide where I end up. Or who I end up as.
Religion might be an archaic concept but it’s still relevant and at least in our lifetimes, it’s not going anywhere. No amount of technological conquests can stop the wheels of divine manifestation. God may have left the stage but religious bodies are here for a while. If I were to define god in two words, it’s be colossal misinterpretation. I know this for a fact because if you talk to any religious person, they will tell you that their respective religious books are misinterpreted by their followers. Somehow the scriptures are never at fault. Which makes me wonder, is there anything our species can possibly get right? I don’t think so.
One of the main issues with societal ills is we seldom get a proper vantage point. Somebody somewhere is going to have a problem with your approach. Society is an invisible layer of stress for a reason. It wants you to play by the rules of a few. Take for instance the concept of beauty. What is considered beautiful in Tanzania isn’t the same for Yemen. The way we perceive beauty is a generic exercise in standardization. Long noses are beautiful, short ones aren’t — who told us so? Society. Society loves imposing such ideals on itself from time to time. Luckily, once in a while, some courageous souls walk along and destroy the status quo but unluckily, that doesn’t happen often.
In 1978, Marilyn Loden coined arguably the greatest metaphor of the 20th century: glass ceiling. It’s not that we didn’t know what was going on earlier but with this phrase, we could envision the direction of the fight for gender equality. Feminism, in all fairness, needs to be dictated by the womenfolk. Yes, men are welcome to pitch in but they shouldn’t be the central figures. Women, irrespective of nationality and background, ought to lead here. For instance, I scream against the patriarchal motifs of ghoonghat and hijab but at the end of the day, the woman in question must have the final say. If it’s her volition, without any duress, so be it. Similarly, if a woman doesn’t want to adopt her husband’s surname and/or faith, awesome. But if she wants to, with zero coercion, so be it. That’s her call. The key here is self-determination. Nobody has to do anything that they don’t wish to do. Just like nobody has to do anything that others expect them to do. Unless women reach a stage that they, and only they, make decisions for themselves, the glass ceiling won’t crumble.
I’ve touched upon this subject in my recent blog posts but let me reiterate that all the so-called modern nations have gone through uncomfortable transitions in the past. For the so-called First World nations, things appear less muddled today but they reached here after a lot of ups and downs. I recently learned about kulturkampf. It’s German for “culture struggle” and the Prussian empire went through conflicts between the Royals and the Roman Catholic Church. Both sides felt that they are more powerful than the other. In fact, the 1870s was marked by a chess game involving a series of snarky moves to show who is the boss. Every institution was seen as a tool to further each side’s agenda, be it a university or a hospital or a farmland. With Otto von Bismarck at the helm, the Church couldn’t win though. That was then. As of today, Germany is going through an interesting demographic shift. Protestants are in decline while the number of Catholics are picking up. This is very intriguing if you go by the recent Pew study, Catholics tend to harbour anti-immigrants and ultra-nationalistic views. Doesn’t sound like a First World nation now, does it?
When you eat everything — an exaggeration by all means — it’s a bliss as well as a curse. Bliss because you don’t care. Curse because your definition of spirituality is skewed. I grew up in a house that rarely cooked non-vegetarian food — a fish/chicken curry once every 3-4 Sundays would be celebratory. It was only after leaving home that I explored varied cuisines. I respect vegetarians and vegans a lot because they can do something I can’t: resist meat. At the same time, I don’t wish to fall into any belief system either. Whenever I consume beef fry, I ignore the holy place cows enjoy in our civilization. Whenever I consume pork vindaloo, I know for a fact that Judaism or Islam can’t be the true religion. You can’t possibly forbid something so damn tasty! Of course, despite my lofty attitude, these foodie freedoms have their limitations. I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable exploring stuff outside my realm. Camel meat? No, thanks. Ox balls? Sorry, I am a vegan.
When Ronaldinho and Messi were together at Camp Nou, the Brazilian star was at his peak whereas the Argentine kid was barely breaking out of his cocoon. However, if you remember that historic interview where Ronaldinho brushed aside the best player in the world question. He admitted that he is not even the best player in his team, let alone the world. Many saw it, back then, as a sign of modesty but later, it became clear that he might have been alluding to Messi’s mad genius. Turns out what we see of our favourite footballers are not what our favourite footballers see of each other. Particularly when they belong to the same team. We get to see them in action for barely 90 minutes a week whereas they play against each other throughout the week during sessions. The sort of stuff Messi continues to do — check out Barcelona’s Twitter feed — no other club account boasts of such individual calibre— in training answers the question for Ronaldinho. Imagine being world-class players like Pique or ter Stegen and getting bamboozled by this little man week in and week out. Imagine the relief they must feel to not having to face him during real matches.
2020 is quite literally the shittiest year since 2019. But we ought to give it credit for keeping Mumbai’s cyclone record clean. Our favourite island city hadn’t been hit by a cyclone in 129 years and when Cyclone Nisarga chose to overlook Mumbaikars, the record stood. Monsoon, as it is, is terrible enough for the inhabitants. There is no way they could have dealt with something that moved at 100 kmph. As a kid, my parents used to take us (my brother and I) to Mahalaxmi temple and Haji Ali on the first of January every year without fail. Pappa escaped to Bombay in 1960 at the age of 13 and he used to tell us that these two religious places protected our island city. I like to believe that he is right.
There are 49 landlocked countries in the world and it boggles me to acknowledge that there are so many places that have nothing to do with the ocean. Such long stretches of land and no sea in the middle. Isn’t it amazing that there are so many people who don’t know what it feels to see the sun set over the sealine? Or get their feet caressed by the foaming waves? Or feel the salty breeze on their face? Imagine the joy a person hailing from a landlocked region would experience on witnessing a shore for the first time. Wow. Simply wow.
According to reports, a pregnant elephant was fed a pineapple filled with crackers inside it. The gentle giant gulped it and unease took over immediately. You and I can’t possibly relate to the discomfort she must have felt. Only mother nature knows what must have gone through her body and mind. Yet, instead of acting crazy, she simply walked to the middle of a water body and settled. Calm during her final moments. I like to believe that she did it because her priority was to save the child inside her. All the wisdom she received from generations of elephants that walked before her couldn’t have a cheat code against human nastiness. Her well-wishers tried to coax her out of the water so that they could treat her on time but she just stayed put. She had had enough. Within a few minutes, she died of internal issues. As soon as the news of her demise (or murder?) spread, condolences started pouring in. But since this incident happened in Kerala, the unspeakable tragedy soon turned into a political circus. By the end of it, I’ve concluded that hardly anybody who participated in this circus — be it the ones who tried to cover up this indefensible act or those who tried to paint a communal angle to the mischief — truly cared about the poor pachyderm.
Amongst the political class, nobody comes close to Donald Trump in defying logic. He is a proud master of absurdity. During his initial days as the POTUS, he was a joke. As of now, he is dangerous. Not that I was a fan of the Obama administration; elegance alone won’t cut it when you are basically furthering the military-industrial complex with an unparalleled eloquence. On the other hand, Trump continues to be reckless. It’s hard to make out what does he stand for or, more importantly, who does he stand for. My best guess is he’s all about himself. This was best displayed when he actually thought that Frederick Douglass was still alive. Can’t even begin to wonder how out of touch he was. For the record, Mr. Douglass passed away in 1895. In case you didn’t know who Mr. D was, go read up on him. Apart from his remarkable work as an abolitionist and writer, he was also the most photographed American of the 19th century. Yes, you read that right. A former slave tops the list with the most number of photographs to his credit. No other statesman or celebrity — not even Abe Lincoln — comes close. In his lifetime, in the entire world, the only contemporaries who surpassed Mr. D were the British royal family. If you are astonished at how this happened, you need to understand how caricature works. Today, photography might sunk into the narcissistic fjords of countless selfies but, back then, photography meant presenting a moment or an identity exactly the way it is. And to a black person, who has been reduced to the lowest of human denominators, that meant a lot more than just an image. It meant truth. No more excessively swollen lips, honeycombed frizzly hair, bloodshot eyes, gaunt features and all that jazz. Mr. D understood this long before his contemporaries, even the fellow whites, could. He ensured he was clicked wherever he was or traveled to. He wanted to show the world that that is how a black man looks like. I am sure he wouldn’t have a clue at his deathbed that he held the honour for most number of clicks. In hindsight, he jumped on the wagon of photography the way Joe Rogan jumped onto the podcast gravy when it was the perfect time to do so. I hope Trump finds a similar good fortune with the timing of his exit.
