Terror at my doorstep

The feeling has changed. From disbelief to disgust. The terror and sorrow that has engulfed me is now replaced with shock and despair. I am amazed at the reaction of people. Sane, educated, enlightened people.

There is a lot of anguish over inaction. People are vexed at how nothing is being done; how everything goes back to square one a month after the massacre. Hence they wish to blow up Pakistan.

Friends of mine who were staunchly against the American policy of putting its own national security above the lives of millions now vociferously demand that we carpet bomb our neighbour. To us, action connotes one word and one word only. Pakistan.

So we are ready to turn a blind eye to the fact that every time there is a terror attack, there is a intricately woven indigenous terror ploy. We are ready to ignore the fact that there are people within our country who wish to kill us. We are ready to brush aside the fact that we don't provide our security personnel with even the bare minimum when it comes to protective gear.
Because we want the terror to end. The youth of India cannot tolerate such anarchy. Hence the time is ripe for a decisive blow. To culminate the problem forever. Raze Pakistan to the ground. Never mind the millions who would lose their lives on both sides of the border. We don't care about civilian casualties, do we? Let those darn Pakis die. Who cares? What good has come of being civilized?

And so protests go on. The government plays to the galleries. Hardens its stand against Pakistan.

And I sympathize with them. With the "youngistanis". With everybody who wants Muslims flushed out of this nation or wipe Pakistan off the face of the earth. I sympathize.

Because its easy. Its easy to project our "Policy of zero- tolerance on terror" when the only thing that we have to do is build up troops along the border and escalate tension. Its easy to give a clarion call to the youth to organize themselves as an army and march onto Pakistan. Its easy to say killing Muslims is the solution.

After all, why would we want to end the deep religious divides in our society? Why would we not want a sectarian society? Why would we wish to stop the ghetto-fication of particular communities? Why would we want to stop people from becoming terrorists? Why would we want to stop the polarization? Those are difficult things to do.

The rot has begun. We cry for a tough anti-terror law and don't give a hoot about the possible persecution of certain sections of the populace. We say they deserve it. So a man who lost 6 of his kin shouldn't feel helpless when his only surviving son is picked up for questioning and tortured. Its all in the name of India.

For a moment now, let us stop kidding ourselves. We don't care about loss of life. If killing a million Pakistanis sufficed, we wouldn't hesitate in lynching them. Very soon we wouldn't care about India as well. We call for a war. And we dress up in khadi and give speeches on the Second day Of October.

Give love a chance.

On Progressiveness

I get a little confused nowadays. Especially when people talk about progressive societies and progressive outlook. The fact that men now are forced to commodify themselves akin to women is a progressive thing. The existence of an all-women radio channel heralds a new era. India is reborn.

Friends of mine are torn between enjoying the twisted humour of Dostana and admonishing it for "lack of sensitivity" towards the "gay community". I haven't watched the film but I hope to enjoy it when I do. Its not just because of the gay angle. I like the fact that homosexuality is treated as just another story angle and dealt with as such; the out and out overtly melodramatic hue that tints everything in Hindi films. I am glad that the film has an "airy", non-sensible tone. We need that. We need to understand that there is no "gay community" and the creation of one would mean the death of the civil society. We need to stop talking of homosexuality as we speak of women's issues, with unease and a lingering desire not to offend anyone and try to be "sensitive" to "their" cause. Well, guess what? There is no "cause" and there is certainly no "their". If I think of homosexuality as just another constituent of my social life, so obvious that it needs no mention, then I need to make fun of it, I need to laugh at it, just as I laugh at other things in the world that are so intrinsic to our society that we never question their place even when we dramatize them for our daily soaps.

A women in the bus forced me to shift today because she couldn't sit between two men. Feminists say that is justified because men are uncivilized neanderthals who grope women. So we accept men groping and then take action instead of addressing the groping. Progressive?

The society is showcasing gender equality by forcing men to use beauty products and dress up to please women. Try to be what they are not. Men do it, women do it. Hence equality. How would it be if neither did it?

I am getting lost in a progressive society.

One week ago

Its strange what a week can do. I was erasing messages from my phone today and stumbled upon a couple I had sent to somebody. A week ago. We weren't the best of friends. We had just begun to know each other. I liked him. We practised for tournaments together. I supported him. I felt bad for him. I tried to console him. He seemed nice. Good. We were friends. Were.

A week in Bangalore changed all that. In close proximity, we drifted apart. He seemed suddenly brash, insecure, defensive, irrational. Everyone thought so. Tried to see his side. Couldn't. Tried to fell sorry for him. Couldn't. He blamed me. He blamed everybody. He was upset. He lost friends. I lost him.

Just for a minute today, I remembered how things could have been. Its not a big loss. I am not sad. Just pensive. I now feel uncomfortable talking to him. I put up a facade. I laugh with my teeth. I speak ill of him now. Behind his back. He probably does that too. We still greet each other.

Just for a minute, I wished nothing had happened. Then I deleted his messages.

Indiaspeak

" Mumbai is for Marathis. India comes later."

Untitled

It was a nice restaurant. A nice evening too. On the table beside mine, there was seated a couple who thought themselves handsome.

Ten minutes into his meal, the guy brings out his cellphone and blares out at the top of his voice,"
I WANNA DEDICATE A SONG FOR MY GIRLFRIEND." The girl acts a little taken aback and then simpers and smiles.
"HER NAME? WELL, LET HER NAME BE 'P'." The girl is reassured.
"MY NAME.....HMM....LET IT BE 'T'. T FOR TABLE."
"LET THE SONG BE THAT ONE FROM ROCK ON...ROCK .....THE SLOW ONE....HAA....."
"WHEN WILL I HEAR THE SONG?"

He brings out his earphones and plugs them into his mobile phone. The girl is happy. Quite a happy moment. He unplugs the earphones. Probably he was told it could be a while.

Just before they finished their romantic dinner, the lights went out. Beautiful candles were lit 5 minutes later but by that time they had finished their meal in the dark. They chose to leave.
They left their earphones though. I am guessing she never heard the song.


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I was walking along Kalighat road on the outskirts of the Kali temple. The place was milling with thousands of people who had come there to purge themselves of all sin; to salvage their lives by ending others. A melee of piety and dirt oozed out of the holy pathways. Potbellied priests and henchmen clashed magnificently with impoverished beggars. Offerings of gold made inside the golden doors while dying women lay outside. Incense sticks, holy perfumes, blood and sweat made for a odour that was both intoxicating and vomit- inducing. Lapierre said it was humbling to see the steadfast faith. I tried to agree.

A couple of beggars were clinging on the corner of my mum's sari. She had tried to shrug them off, albeit unsuccessfully. She tried to pay them off. They left, leaving 4 more hopefuls. It was amazing how 2 rupees was all that was needed to gratify them. An old woman hobbled alongside my mother. All the others had given up any hope of mercy. She evidently hadn't. As my mother seated herself in the car and tried to close the door, the woman advanced her hand and said in failing Hindi, "Ma, humko kuch de do. Gareeb ko dene se kam nehi ho jata."
I wanted to translate that. I just can't.

Walked into the room, he did,

while I wasn't looking.

He crept up behind me

like old white spiders I couldn't see.

He looked at the mirror

where I was trapped.

In the layers of silver sinking,

the face of a laughing boy.

He roughly took hold of me,

And made me face him,

I tried to hide amidst the layers of satin.

He peeled off me the attire,

I should never have had on.

He tried to see if the boy was still there.

Amidst the purple shimmer of his mum's wear.

And all he saw that night was me

And not the boy he wanted to see.

He took in a deep breath and

for a moment did pause,

My father beat me then,

for what I never was.

Kolkata

Its been raining in Kolkata for the past week. And I have conveniently lost my umbrella. I miss my blue umbrella.
I love it when it pours down after nightfall....there are so few people on the otherwise bustling roads; you actually get a feel of the city. I am glad Kolkata still isn't the posh metropolis that Delhi is trying to become. I hope it never does. It ensures that you can walk with your friend for five hours on the rain soaked streets under an overcast sky after a taxing day at college. It lets you walk down Park Street at 9 in the evening in a slight drizzle and not care about it being unsafe. Where you could walk for hours and get lost and not care.
It allows you to talk to people without worrying that someone is stalking you. I have grown up in a small town where cows lined the avenues in neat rows and fields flanked the paved roadways. Where you could walk for hours and hours and not get tired. Where a cycle would be quite enough for transporting you if only your ego would allow it.
Kolkata still retains some vestiges of being a city of real people. It isn't the City Of Joy. It is, for many, the City Of Eternal Sorrow. In a way I am glad Kolkata hasn't become Delhi.

Or I was. Kolkata isn't such a nice place anymore. Not since the blasts in Delhi. People exchanging glances of disgust at the government and roadside "Adda"s have transformed into people walking at night knowing full well that this Puja might well be the last Puja for them.
There is a rumour going around that Kolkata will be the next target. And it will be the Pujas.
I don't feel safe any m0re. Nobody does. Not the mother in Delhi who lost her son only because he had tried to warn the terrorists that they had left their bag behind. Neither the mother here who isn't sure if her headstrong son will come back at the end of the day.
We can no longer trust. Nor can we hope. A friend of mine said yesterday that she was afraid to go shopping because she was afraid she would die.
I am much too little to blame anybody. So its pointless talking about Shivraj Patil or the Police. The only thing I noticed was that as I reached home last night, I couldn't find a single channel which giving uninterrupted coverage about the blast; I saw cricketers instead. ...It seemed we had already moved on.

Its one in the morning. And I am researching stuff for a conference later in the day. The world,as I look out of my window, is dark and quiet, just the way I like it. Of late, blogging has become too much of an imposition and less of a pleasure. Hence I have putting it off.

I have been busy. And strangely,busy with things I like doing. None of them have a direct bearing with my college course but I like doing them anyway. I meet new people, do new things. I hardly find time to go through my favourite blogs nowadays, much less update mine. A year ago, I had nothing else to do. I just read and blogged and listened to music.
I have been reflecting on my past year for the past two whirlwind weeks. I was incredibly thankful for having too many engagements to be solitary.
I just read my favourite blogs for the first time in 7 months. And I loved it. I had lost the connection somewhere. I searched for it. Old friends from unfamiliar blogs who had moved on with their lives, people whom I knew only from what they wrote; I met all of them tonight. They seemed alien. And I type this out, I am slowly becoming aware of the fact that I am listening to "1973" after almost a year. It feels nice.
I have too much to do almost everyday now. But perhaps I let life pass me by. I liked the moment tonight to pick up the pieces and reminiscence. I sure had met new people. But I had forgotten the old ones.In my haste to be in the thick of things, perhaps I didn't realize how good I had it back then. A year ago.

Sarah's Night

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