Breakaway.

So I've studied a little, and have miles to go before I sleep. Yet, I feel the yearning to write. As always I do, when I ought to be studying. It's a strangely vicious cycle.

"Tied up and twisted the way I like to be -
For you, for me;
Come crash into me."

- Dave Mathews Band, Crash Into Me.

Rage Against the Machine.

We depend so utterly upon the machines in our life - how would be manage life without cellphones, laptops, the internet, or any of the other ubiquitous technologies that define life in our current age? But this post isn't about that - it's about something that's much grander, and far more important.

This post is about my skills in chess - more specifically, how I'm managing against my computer. So I've only ever played chess against my brother, other than a (very) few random matches here and there - occasions where I mostly had my ass handed to me, because when you only play chess against one person - you refuse to think that people can pull moves that he can't.

The game has always fascinated me, but I don't possess the patience to look two moves ahead, let alone the 15 or so required to be a truly good player. But I've been trying really hard to make some headway against the Chess thoughtfully provided in Windows 7. After running through levels 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5 - I finally have a win-loss ratio on level 6 of 3:1. I'm quite kicked about this, even though it seems minor as I write about it now.

A painful combination of projects, work on various things, deadlines whooshing by and loads of stress has a regular response from me - indulging in music, my competitive spirit on trifles, and chatting with all and sundry. And clearly, writing Blog posts.

But this comes from a time where I was atleast trying - and it's damned fucking good to be back there. And yeah, it kicks ass to be able to beat the bastard computer at chess. Take that, programming. I'm not going to be predictable, I'm not going to be anticipated. I am human, and I'm going to do things my way.

The Times of India has lowered quality, says committee

Just 4-6 articles sans spelling mistakes a week, rising instances of sensationalism,alleged sex and drinking amongst journalists, and indifference to journalists sucking up to the Radias in the world seems to suggest a serious decline in the standards of journalism.

This is the dismal state of affairs at the Times of India, one of India's premier news and media agencies, as painted by the many commenters that assessed the 168 year old group .

Observing that ToI has moved away from the phase of 'journalism and honesty' to 'sensationalism and yellow journalism', the commenters noted the drastic dilution injournalistic standards. "I think its time we filed a complaint with the Press Council of India. Its time these journos are taken to task. Fancy, printing such lies about a law school!", said commenter Darth Vader, on the ToI website, perhaps when noticing that certain portions added as comments to a Times of India article on the National Law School of India University, Bangalore, were unattributed to any specific person or document.

The committee of students from the National Law School reviewing this media agency were quick to point out that the reporter in question was unable to even discern whether the body appointed to review the functioning of NLSIU was a committee or a commission, both of which are decidedly different entities.

The committee of students are posting their report and opinions of the agency in real time, pointing out that this is in direct contrast to the ToI publicising a report that was made about two years ago. They also feel that exclusive access be damned, they want people to know that the reporters at ToI are in the crossfires for not figuring out how to report properly and making such absurd statements as there being only 4-6 hours of classes a week - something which the students often feel they'd very much like to have. Or stating that teachers never turn up, which they often do (again, often against the wishes of the students).

The report states that ToI reporters are often ignorant of and most indifferent to the concept of 'context' and knowing how to read dates and know when it would be of relevance, when it comes to news reports submitted by staff reporters. Also, clearly editors don't love their job or are just plain terrible at them. Further, appointment of 4 year olds (of lowered intellectual ability and no journalistic experience) to handle reporting (journalists) and absence of a formal way to get them to check their facts before going to press has drawn flak.

PS: - 1. Based on the ToI article here - http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/bangalore/Law-School-has-lowered-quality-says-CJI-committee/articleshow/7289201.cms

2. For excellent reasons to IGNORE the above article, see the amazing Legal Poet - http://www.legallyindia.com/toi-report-lambasts-nlsiu-inaccurate-cursory-reporting-link-to-reservation-demands

3. This is obviously completely tongue in cheek. I mean, it seems obvious to me that ToI's standards are falling/fallen, but that's my opinion. And I'm expressing it. And yes, I know things are probably not perfect at NLSIU - but where are they perfect? And if someone has to point out the flaws, perhaps they wouldn't do it quite so stupidly next time?

Rant of the Month - Ep.1

I've decided to have a rant of the month, mostly because I love to rant and also because I love to poke fun at people. This is an idea that I've had for a while (taken from here) that I discussed with Sharmila as well; hopefully, we can rant about something together for the next one.

So, this one's for September.

THE AMERICAN PEOPLE

As with most offensive things, it's a good idea to start with a caveat or two.

I don't have a problem with all Americans. And when I say Americans, I mean citizens of the United States of America, not all those belonging to the American continents (North or South). If you're friends of mine, if you view this blog (or are seeing this on Facebook and are on my friends list) you're probably not the people I'm ranting about. Probably.

Also, if you can't take this as constructive and funny criticism, fuck off.

The United States of America and its creation (like they'll ever let anyone forget) was a milestone in world history. It spawned the creation of what is today a superpower that straddles the Earth and covers it not only politically, but culturally as well - you'll find some aspect of Americana in nearly every nation of this world. They have come to symbolise a fuck-load of shiite, and most of it is negative.

To be fair, the American ideology is something that does inspire. Everyone, come to America and be an American citizen. Live the good life, be accepted and work hard, and all will be well. Your rights are important to us, we believe in free speech, expression, liberty and the right to work, and all that jazz.

Unless you're, today -
a) A muslim - we care if your President is Muslim so much that we create gargantuan amounts of buzz about it.
b) A homosexual - yeah, we're not going to let you marry. We don't like you. Parts of our country are slowly taking away rights and freedoms you used to have.
c) A mexican/asian/puerto rican/whatever - stop taking away our jobs, you lazy people who work way harder than us! Off with you. Sure, our country was built on your asses. Sure, we're probably immigrants from another generation. But we're America. So fuck off.
d) A European - you're probably a crazy sex fiend. Or worse, a pinko liberal.
e) Anything not Christian - you're free to choose your religion, as long as you pick Jesus - so help me, God.
f) Pro-environment - don't you lecture us on that. We love our SUVs, and we love burning shiite up. The great American outdoors was built so that we could make a mess of it and the preservation of wildlife.

And what is accepted as American? The idea of consumerism - rampant and destructive. The idea that Reality TV and mind-numbing nonsense that gets broadcast to you every day and every second is your only source of entertainment. The concept that the lives of celebrities and their latest scandals are the coolest things around.

What is really horrendously annoying to me, of course, is that the USA can take perfectly hard-working and healthy people from a continent, and through the traumatic process of making them slaves and then fighting a war to free them, you've turned the lot into crazy people who go around calling people 'hos and spelling their names in ludicrous (pertinent example here would be Ludacris) fashions, and consider blowing caps in people's asses (trust American culture to be so messed up that masculinity and being dominating on screen has homoerotic references).

Then, there is what Americans have done to sport. No one, anywhere, can conceivably understand why they should call running around with an oblong in your hands while attempting to run over people as they try to bash your brains out counts as 'football'. What in the world does it have to do with your foot?!

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But let's be serious for a bit, now. Perhaps the greatest problem that America faces is in the way it conceives of itself against the world, and how it pictures its own identity. What Americans can certainly be lauded for is their strong lip-service to the American identity, and what it means to them. The fact that people today desire American citizenship so fervently can be seen as a tribute to that idea and what it means to people. But that being said, you can't define yourselves unless you know something about yourselves and the rest of the world.

Education
The American education system at the graduate and post-graduate level continues to set standards for excellence in education, and institutions such as Harvard, Columbia, Stanford, Yale and the like are beacons and trademarks of a quality of education that has not yet been successfully seen elsewhere. The sort of academic rigour, coupled with vast amounts of academic freedom have led to American University education being incredibly sought after - mostly by non-Americans. This is because at the primary and secondary levels, education in the USA continues to suffer from a strange amount of ... well, for lack of a better word, shiite.

American schools are currently identified and portrayed across the board as centres wherein children are obsessed with all the wrong things, where classes and children are often out of control and out of their depths in a strange combination of pop-culture and education that has vandalised a system that had much to offer as a role model in terms of letting children teach themselves while being guided. If this wasn't enough, educators have also decided that making strange demands of the education system (such as teaching Intelligent Design) are ways of teaching children in a manner that will 'subscribe to American values', but fail to spot the obvious problem of it-is-all-bullshit.

Healthcare
Healthcare in America is a touchy issue, and rightly so. Costs for the average American have increased, both in terms of medicines as well as the cost of testing and surgeries. The old safety net of health insurance has often failed due to unreasonable policies used by insurers, including those which rule out certain procedures which might save the lives of patients. Insurers and hospitals often have linkages, leading to patients in dire straits being forced to move at the moment of being stable to another hospital. All patently ridiculous.

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Okay, I'm tiring out now. More later.

PS - Heck, yeah. I know. India's probably worse off. Most countries are worse off. But that does not take away from me my ability to complain and point out crap. Not to mention, Americans were doing better before - but are not doing so well now, so this might be construed to be a critique based on relativism.

And Here I Dreamt I was an Architect - The Decemberists

And here I dreamt I was a soldier
And I marched the streets of Birkenau
And I recall in spring
The perfume that the air would bring
To the indolent town
Where the barkers call the moon down
The carnival was ringing loudly now
And just to lay with you
There's nothing that I wouldn't do
Save lay my rifle down

And try one, and try two
Guess it always comes down to
All right, it's okay, guess it's better to turn this way

And I am nothing of a builder
But here I dreamt I was an architect
And I built this balustrade
To keep you home, to keep you safe
From the outside world
But the angles and the corners
Even though my work is unparalleled
They never seemed to meet
This structure fell about our feet
And we were free to go

And try one, and try two
Guess it always comes down to
All right, okay, guess it's better to turn this way

And here in Spain I am a Spaniard
I will be buried with my marionettes
Countess and courtesan
Have fallen 'neath my tender hand
When their husbands were not around
But you, my soiled teenage girlfriend
And how you are furrowed like a lioness
And we are vagabonds
We travel without seatbelts on
We live this close to death

And try one, and try two
Guess it always comes down to
All right, okay, guess it's better to turn this
But I won, so you lose
Guess it always comes down to
Alright, it's okay, guess it's better to turn this way.

The Beautiful Game

I was barely 11 years old when I got my first taste of football. My father made a wager on the German team at the 1998 World Cup in France. I remember I got a t-shirt which had Footix (the mascot) on it. It was quite an experience, sitting up and watching the tournament with my family. I remember worshipping Jurgen Klinsmann, being overawed by Davor Suker, and falling in love with Ariel Ortega. I remember flashes of Baggio's play, Zidane's magic, and Peter Schmeichel. To put it simply, I fell in love with the game.

Since then, I've always tried to be clued into all that's happening with international football. And my father's earlier faith in Germany is something that has carried through. My love for Del Piero and Roberto Baggio encouraged my support for Italy. Inspite of my absolute admiration for players such as Rivaldo, Ronaldinho, Edmilson and the like, I've never been able to make myself like Brazil. They play the 'beautiful game', but I like supporting underdogs. They're usually not the underdogs, in any World Cup they enter.

This year, however, I'm a bit disconnected. I feel like it might not be happening at all. What's most worrying, of course, is that I'm apparently not missing much. All the plays seem to be defensive, the big teams are disappointing, and while Germany is being Germany and destroying the opposition in their first game itself, I think we're all aware that Germany has a tendency to not win World Cups - at least, it hasn't in my lifetime.

I shall be done with examinations soon, and I shall be free to watch this game that is the closest thing to a sporting passion I have. That being said - I hope the bloody tournament shapes up before then. Because if it doesn't, I'm going to find the closest thing I can to something to blame, and shove a vuvuzela or a Venezuela or whatever those crazy things are so far down someone's throat that if I blow it, it'll seem like they're breaking wind.

The sound of the empty blank night,

Hides not the sins that make our lives.
For it cannot be lost, the pleasure
Innate to us, our buried treasure -
Lost amongst shades of morality;
Sweet conundrum that fucks reality.

For we cannot escape who we are,

Though the Lord above who sees far,

Demands from us this sacrifice -
Your freedom for faith and strive,

For lack of self and more of the divine -

But nothing seems to bridge the divide

Between desire and permissions

From this world's intercessions

And from the heart's omissions.

Yet, we strive to maintain this evil balance,

Between our urges and our conscience -

For no good reason that really does exist,

Save that we've been told we cannot permit,

To consider how our lives are betwixt

As the impulses awaken our craving.

Intangible.

What a world it would be,

If only we could see -

All those things intangible,

Would it make it more manageable?

I'd see the stormy clouds of your mood,

The lightning of your thoughts as you brood

What you consider to be my indiscretions,

That come across to you as condescension

Of the time we spend together, across the paths
Laid out by wires and not really through art.

Or the bleeding red of my heart.

Or perhaps we should speak

Of the things that are indiscreet -
The empty plots of the lack of words -

The vacuous silence of moments awkward,

Following which you unleash
The moods that make me beseech,

All the forces that be -

That I could actually deal

With the distance that holds us apart -

Which only seems to make us spar

On matters which ought not to matter,

Like the idiotic words that patter

Out of mouths best left broken,
Given the hate they awaken.

Yet always there is hope -
That we'll find a way to cope.

And in that hope life remains -
As our constant efforts drain
From us our bits of joy -

As you, darling, remain coy.
Such if life, and so it'll be -
But one day I know we'll be free,

Of all that's wrong and breeds

Through our unhappiness.

A Rhyming Bed Time Story, sent via SMS.

There once was a man who was heartbroken,
Sad and tired, his will completely taken -
He looked out the window on a new day,
And found nothing in it for him to stay.

Upset and bewildered, he walked out that day -
He wondered if there was ever going to be a way,
For him to get a proper lay.

He ran into Candy, the neighbourhood ho',
She was hot, but everyone'd been there before,
She made her usual offer, but he chose to convey -
His recalcitrance over having to pay
For something meant to be a mutual pleasure;
She laughed and said "Hon, you're a treasure",
"If you can keep me satisfied and groovy,
Maybe I'll throw you a freebie."

So he felt he had little to lose -
And went ahead, ready to cruise,
They went to his place and made crazy love;
Sometimes from below, sometimes from above -
And at the end she was breathless -
Through her noises, he could see he
Had achieved some success!
Smiling, he let her make her exit,
Only to discover that his wallet
Had been lifted!
It was there, but it was empty -
With nothing there, not even a twenty.

But just as he was about to lose faith,
He saw a note lodged within -
He picked it up and opened the crease,
In it he saw written -
You were good Hon, but it's a lot of money -
And in case, I like you too much, honey;
If you want it, you'll have to earn it slowly.
Come back tomorrow, same time if you're willing,
And we'll see if we can still keep it swingin'.

So in the end, the moral remains -
You never really never know what you want,
And you may never really get it;
But if you try sometimes, you'll find what you need -
And often, that's what you get when you do the deed.

---------------------------

This is an original piece, slightly modified from the original version sent to Surabhi in a series of texts when asked for a bedtime story. Her first observation was that I'd have traumatized children - and I must agree. :-)

Waiting.

It's 2.15 AM. And I am, as usual, having trouble sleeping. I'm thinking of things that I shouldn't be, and worrying about other things that are beyond my control. I'm wondering about the future, and contemplating what it holds for me - and for the people I hold dear. I'm hoping that things will take a turn away from the dreary, and that by some miracle, circumstances will fall into place. I laugh at myself, silently, when I realise how silly I sound in my own head - and how, as I watch myself, I am constantly striving to amuse myself by belittling me.

But most of all, I'm waiting for the future. Waiting to see what it holds, and to respond to it. I'm not, by most measures, a very impulsive person. I like to see things happen, and then react to them and have my ends and means crystallise. People who plan, organise, and try to bend the world to their will don't appeal to me and neither does their perspective of the world. The world's a funny, crummy, and jaded kind of place - but it has a terrible and stupefying inertia that will not be outdone by the mere jottings on paper of a few, in their intellectual ivory towers. Gandhi said that one should be the change that one is trying to see in the world, and I fully believe in that. But no plan, no one take on anything, is going to change the world.

------------------------

Terry Pratchett and his universe never cease to stupefy me in their variety, their humour, their good natured mischief, and what I suspect to be one of the most astute sociological deconstructions of human society. Pratchett's take on deductive reasoning (such as that exercised by Sherlock Holmes in fiction) amused me to no end - he said that the sort of person who looks a man up and down and concludes by calluses on the hand, clothing, etc. that an individual performs a certain function in society, has a certain career, and so on is completely belittling of the depth and variety that the human experience or understanding provides us - because for every deduction that one makes, one misses out a plethora of possible explanations for that set of circumstances which, while highly improbable, still manage to happen quite often merely due to the size and complexity of the globe we live in.

------------------------

I happened to wish an acquaintance on their 23rd birthday today - participating in that Facebook ritual that has become the norm. Go to the Home page, look to the right, click the links, type out a hasty "Happy Birthday! Have a good one!" and then move onto the next person on the list until you're done. Quite uncomplicated, and it saves me the usual trouble I have because I can't remember birthdays to save my life.

But a post on his wall reminded me of something all of a sudden that I felt a near physical blow. Nearly 4 years ago (about 20 days short) I was sitting in front of a computer, and I was talking to my brother online. He hooked me onto a song called 23 by Jimmy Eat World. And told me it was how he felt, because that's the age he'd just turned. A song about regrets and a love life - he told me, cheerfully, to ignore the latter. The song stuck a chord in me then, but most good music does. I listened to it for a couple of months, made other people listen to it once in a while, and then it slowly faded away.

But it's been 4 years. And I suddenly know what he meant. How many people can I say, confidently, will be there with me at the end of my days? How many things have I accomplished that I shall look back at in the future with a smile and some pride? Where did those four years go?

Some people say that the teenage years are the worst - adolescents in adult bodies learning how to move and interact in this world of ours. But these years are probably tougher - learning how to BECOME a part of this world. To find our place. Not one of those identity crisis, riddled with angst that we feel when we're 16 and frustrated. But an emptier, more questioning feeling which comes accompanied with a greater knowledge of our capabilities, a bankruptcy of our dreams and hopes, and a rather harsh crash into reality.

Come a few months, I'll be 23. As the song says, I won't always live with these regrets. There will come a time, I'm certain, where I'll be content. But that thought scares me as much - are my sights set too low? Am I really doing all that I can to be all that I might be? Am I really doing justice to who I am? I guess we'll never know. No one will.

But it's all about what we're hoping for. For making those moments count. To rededicate yourself to make your life better, and the lives of those around you better. I'm living with a memory that's playing tricks on me, in an institution that seems to destroy optimism and hope, and yet there are many who emerge from it better people. One of those people will be me, come the passing of a year and three months. And these years will be of value to me. And I hope to use what I learn, and more importantly, what I have become, to gain a place on this world that fills me with purpose.

There is something inherently trippy about listening to the Nine Inch Nails. Listen to the strains of Just Like You Imagined as they remind you of something grand, something abstract, the sort of feeling bittersweet dreams of longing are made of. The pain that's so great that it's almost sweet as it stirs you and rips out your heart.

Listen to The Perfect Drug to feel that obsession course through your blood. To feel it under your skin. Insidious, and inescapable. The feeling of being dirty, being compelled, and still completely hating yourself for being that what you are, but loving the sensation of being exactly that, loving the feeling of self loathing and giving in to addiction.

Listen to Closer to feel that animal lust course through you, feel it take you over. Rip out every shred of your humanity. Feel the lust envelop you, as your eyes close involuntarily and you squirm to the beat and the absolutely divine feeling of being sinful. You can feel yourself yearn for the friction as the heat of the images burning on the inside of your eyelid overwhelm you.

Listen to Hurt to feel real pain. Real exhaustion. The absolute musical embodiment of pathos and loneliness and lack of dignity in being completely devoid of hope and brimming with the tragedy of loss of your self, loss of those who were dear, and the loss of youth, opportunity and aspiration.

----------------------------------------

I really cannot fathom a life without music - a song in my head, a tune on my lips. A beat coursing through the paths in my head, moving my legs, keeping me going. Marching to the beat not of any known drummer, but thinking of a 4 x 4 all the while. The lyrics, as I imagine then, rather unlike the entire reality, as they echo in my head, spouting rhyming little bits of flotsam some of which strike a chord, and others which just cause me to be lost in an entirely new universe. I love music.

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Just struck some Metallica on Grooveshark. None of their new fucking crap. And right now I'm singing along with Low Man's Lyric at the top of my voice. I can't believe how much this hits me every time, every single time I listen to it. It's absurd. Scary. Just irrational. But I can't bring myself to care. His voice in the song is so raw, so full of feeling - harsh, abrasive, it rubs you the wrong and the right way all at once. And the words - they make poetry. They really do. This is hyperbole we've all heard before, but I mean it. It's performing art, not commercial rock music. But that's a Metallica from before.

And of course, the Unforgiven II. Now, I've heard over and over again how the second Unforgiven is inferior to the first. I don't care. I love it. The song has true feeling attached to it. I know I'm running out of adjectives, but I sometimes feel Unforgiven II is actually a kind of musical symphony. It isn't complex, but that guitar lick gets imprinted on my brain, and then the music never leaves.

Then, AC/DC. Bikes on a highway, people in leather, screechy guitars, screechier vocals, and that drumbeat and that guitar - guaranteed to put a spring in your step, and to make you want to feel tough, make you want to look good, look retro. You keep trying to sing, keep trying to sound that hoarse like in Back in Black - it sounds just so fucking cool. Damn.

"I'm out for what I can get -
If you know what I mean;

Women to the left of me,

Women to the right -
And got no gun,

And got no knife;

Don't you start no fight.

'Coz I'm TNT - I'm dynamite

And I'll win the fight ... "

Definitely not the most intelligent words out there. But guaranteed to make you smile. And guaranteed to make you wish for some aviators, and the wide open roads. The true spirit of Rock n' Roll. Here's to hoping it'll never die.

------------------------------

So, what's on my music menu? I got myself some of the musical complexity and the epic storytelling of Iron Maiden, the trippy and absolutely adorable Pixies in 'Hey', the anthem Born to be Wild by Steppenwolf, and Wolfmother. I'm going to have me a good couple of hours.

It's good to have you back, boys. Let's make some noise.

Distributed Identities

A few things have happened close to each other that fueled my desire to write on the subject of identity. I happened to read (what I thought to be) an excellent collection of essays and writings on the subject of India by Shashi Tharoor (of Twitter fame) named 'The Elephant, The Tiger and The Cellphone', within which while speaking of Amartya Sen, quoted him as saying the following:

The same person can be, without any contradiction, an American citizen, of Caribbean origin, with African ancestry, a Christian, a liberal, a woman, a vegetarian, a heterosexual, a believer in gay and lesbian rights, a theatre lover, an environmental activist, a tennis fan, a jazz musician, and someone who is deeply committed to the view that there are intelligent beings in outer space with whom it is extremely urgent to talk (preferably in English)'.

It's a powerful way to get his point across, and marvellous food for thought. Tharoor uses it to draw his usual conclusions (nigh banal by the end of the book) about unity in diversity. But it gave me a reason to pause and consider many things.

First, that any breakdown of an individual into how so many ever identities still represents a loss as to who that complete person is. There is always going to be more to an individual than we can express in a set of labels that we seek to have applied to him/her. Second, that a label is often perceived as an ideal type, in that calling someone a Christian represents an image of a Bible reading Church attending kind of guy/gal, which seriously ignores a wide and well populated part of the Christian spectrum. It's essentially a kind of type-casting, as well - tell someone that he/she is *insert label here* often enough, they'll turn into that or turn into the direct opposite. Identities are such nebulous things that we'd be better off without them at all. But it's hard to imagine that ever happening. It's a by-product of our incessant urge to classify.

The most fascinating identities, however, are the ones that we construct around ourselves. Say, one of being an alpha male or a metrosexual. How much of what we like to call ourselves is a product of what we do and feel and recognising that, and how much of it is us moulding our actions so as to suit the label that we want to portray to the outside world? Strong, confident men and women often fall to pieces when the going gets tough. We're all wearing all sorts of absurd masks in an attempt to look better, more moral, sexier, more intelligent, more challenging, more ... whatever we WANT to be, as opposed to what we really are.

What actually caused me to think about this with more vigour than my usual set of random thoughts was what's recently happened in Andhra Pradesh with regard to Telangana. For those not completely in the know, a portion of a state within India is pushing for statehood. They cite no particular reason to consider them to be separate from the rest of the State, as far as I can fathom. I do accept that I probably know very little about this, but I'm not making an argument that's specific to it, but a broader one as a whole.

National identities are both constructed and encouraged by nation states looking to cement the cohesiveness that would strengthen the said nation. As far as I see it, there are some elements that are often used to bind a nation state - language, religion, culture, ethnicity, and a common enemy. In India, we have more languages than can be reasonably counted; the same holds true for religion, as well. Anyone who has travelled through India would know that the culture in the North East is completely different from the Punjabi culture in the north and west (and some would argue that Punjabi culture is no culture at all), and the South is just a whole different ball game. There are more races and identities in India than can be reasonably expected to be brought under any one head, and India earns the 'melting pot' epithet far too well. This leaves the 'common enemy'. And I don't think any rational or reasonable person would want India to need to unite under the banner of hating Pakistan, especially given that they are nuclear neighbours with what has often been only a tenuous control over their emotions and passions which tend to run wild over many things, not in the least cricket matches.

The divisive nature of the many identities existing within the Indian populace (stuff like North-South, this language versus that language, the ever-present and always ugly communalism, etc.) is just absurd. Especially given that a single person can, like Amartya Sen said, be an Indian citizen, or North Indian/Aryan origin, with Persian ancestry, an athiest liberal, a non-vegetarian environmentalist, a heterosexual who believes in the LGBT movement and welcomes the Naz Foundation judgement, a lover of rock music, a fan of science fiction, fantasy and dramatic cinema, an avid watcher of several comic TV shows, a law student with an interest in technology, a debater with an interest in quizzing, and someone who is deeply committed to the view that people should let other people do whatever the fuck they want as long as it doesn't directly affect them. And that is, as you should have guessed, me.

In such a world, and in such a nation - does it make more sense to pick on one of these identities to clash over and demand rights? Or better to find the damn common ground? Well, as long as we can converse in English - my Hindi is, frankly, bollocks.

I'm not particularly patriotic, or patriotic at all - but I do believe that we shouldn't shoot ourselves in the foot.

We've shifted house.

Again.

The good thing about this, of course, is sorting out the books. I'm taking my own sweet time over it, and I love it. There are so many different books, by so many different authors, and they each call out to me. I can't say I've read them all, but I want to - from the incredibly complex ones (like a dream interpretation book my brother left at home) to the racy, thriller sort or the cool Dollar western books.

What's interesting is that ANY good book teaches you something interesting - something you wouldn't know about before picking up that book. It could teach you something about yourself or something about the world. I remember an interesting Star Wars book which was discussing the religious philosophy of a warring alien species - it stated that the gods give us three gifts. The first is life, and is the least of their gifts; it is so that we may experience their works and their power. The second gift they give us is pain - a way for you to know that they exist, and a way for them to tell you their will and what they want of you. Pain is the teacher, the imperative, and the strength of the Gods - their method to communicate. The last gift they give us is Death - their greatest gift, and their freedom from life, and pain.

I don't particularly like life being denigrated so and death being glorified, but I agree with the general assessment of pain. Then, there's Digital Fortress by Dan Brown - it taught me never to put up anything private about blowing things up, because they can always catch you. Not exactly something that sets the gray cell synapses afire, but definitely interesting reading.

I'm reading a James Hadley Chase now - interesting opening, but waiting for it to develop. Some holiday this is turning out to be, in terms of relaxation; but I'm learning a lot, I have Ria, and there is parental bonding. :-)

Life's good.

Sights, sounds and tastes.

I woke up a few days back with the smell of her. Not 'her', the one I'm with. Not even 'her', the one I was with. But a her from the past. Strange. Not all too far back in those mists, but not someone I'd imagine would have that sort of impact. Just a strange, milky, odd smell that I never could understand. It wasn't particularly attractive to me; but it was what it was. And it was there. As I moved up and quickly got ready for class, the many other smells the hostel provides inundated me; but the memory persisted for the day. Quite strange.

I find it oddly compelling to be caught in the headlights of a vehicle. It happened to me while I was standing at the side of the road, just yesterday. A power cut cast a sudden veil of darkness over everything - and then, to my left against a wall was my shadow, bright, due to a motorcycle coming towards me. As it zoomed by, I saw my shadow move blurrily, slowly change shape and disappear. Just one of those things that made me stop and stare, at the spot where the silhouette had been.

Idiocy seems to be ruling the roost, what with people taking rules to be absolutes and lacking the common sense to use them wisely. It redefines intelligence to impose stupid limitations without reason, especially since the reasons for those limitations are valid ones. But a toe outside the line isn't dangerous - and if you're trying to protect someone, if your function is the safety of someone through such limitations, punishing them for what is not naturally a violation of those things is patently ridiculous. Power isn't meant to be used in that fashion.

There are times when I just need to disconnect. The Facebook feed is switched off. And people are no longer watching. At least I hope.

I have spent some good time talking to my roommates, making soup(s) and noodles. And it was incredible fun. There was some studying for tax involved too. (Unbelievers can check my notes. Fuck you all.) But I like such moods. Just a moment to stop and think.

There are so many things I want to be. So many people whose expectations actually mean something to me. And so many goals and targets I want to meet for them. It's love, hate, demand and supply all at once. A nebulous mix of economics and emotion. Who'd have guessed?

I sit here with plans to get to class soon, and all the problems, people and issues I have to face ahead of me. And fuck you all. In the ass. With chainsaws. I am not going to care anymore. It's been too long since I was myself. Someone reminded me of what I used to be. Of the people I used to stand up to. Of how awesome life used to be, for me. I've lost that shit. And I'm going to get it back.

Que sera sera. Being the coolness I want to be from now on forth.

Goodnight.

Identity

The darkness is a silent and welcome companion. I find myself much happier staying awake at night and doing some light (or, if not at all sleepy, heavy) reading, and love how contemplative I feel in the comforting shroud of the dark. While I love reading and have read much, I must somewhat shamefully admit that a lot of the world of ‘literature’ itself has been alien to me. I have often read some of the classics in truncated children’s versions; and will often pick a fiction book of comedy such as Terry Pratchett over, say, a Milan Kundera. I have, again, read some philosophy – but clearly not enough to honestly be able to say that I have grounding in that, either. Other than Nietzsche, Bertrand Russell, some Foucault, Chomsky, Gramsci and some J.S. Mill, all that I have read has been based on readings for class, or something of that sort. I just pretend to know enough, though I’ve probably gotten more from Wikipedia than actually reading anything.

I like pretensions, though. I have a lot of them. I like coming across as harsh and rude. In many ways, it’s a defence mechanism for having to shift around more often than Salman Rushdie during the fatwa (I only say this after reading a collection of his essays – a must read). As a new person everywhere you go, you swiftly learn that niceness is almost always likened to weakness. I remember a few funny incidents, and besides it being 2:48 AM, I have little reason to not talk about them. I had just shifted to Bombay from Calcutta; I had joined a school in the heart of the city, full of privileged brats. In my Calcutta school, I had been the privileged brat. Friends would gape at the size of my house, and I was perhaps the first student to possess a Nike t-shirt soon after it entered India. Bombay, however, proved to be the undoing of any pretensions I had of being cool. Being in a boy’s school in Calcutta had made me forget about how I looked, which was mostly irrelevant where there were no women to preen yourself for. At the age of 13, I was overweight, wearing glasses that can sympathetically be called ‘geeky’, and was sorely lacking in any kind of social grace. My awareness of pop culture was also coloured through the glasses of my elder brother and my father – I knew of Eric Clapton, adored the Beatles, was beginning to notice Aerosmith, and was smitten by the raw sound of the Guns n’ Roses. Yet, when I was asked if I know who Eminem was, I thought they were referring to the brand of chocolate (‘M & M’s) that I would often see on the covers of the Archie comics I sometimes read and wonder about.

So, the incident was when I pretended to know a little basketball. A new court had just been made in my school in Calcutta. Mom had been nice enough to buy us a plastic backboard, and we hung this from our window facing outwards and played in the driveway of our apartment building. It was nowhere close to being high enough; but I did learn some cool moves from a visiting elder cousin brother who was 6’2” and a state-level player at some point. Sure that I would dazzle the kids when I reached Bombay, even after having played perhaps 4 times before this, I told them that I knew how to play basketball ‘decently’, with an air of confidence I did not feel. That confidence was still in me when a boy named Karan Walia (I think; I’m not entirely sure) decided to divide up teams; he did so by pushing us one way or the other. Piqued at being touched and still buzzing with my false self assurance, I went up to him and pushed him back – and with forced indifference asked him not to take offence, since I’d always push back those who pushed me. When I’d been laughed at, with some “oooohs!” for effect thrown in, the game began; and sure enough, I was pushed down by Karan not long after. I did have a small miracle – I happened to score two three pointers during the game (and never have, since).

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I was discussing one amongst my many embarrassing stories (most involve women, my idiocy, miscommunication and some mishap or the other) and I wondered what I was really like. Most people perceive me a certain way, and it amazes me how varied some of these personas can be. Many see me as rough, rude and abrasive. Most know me to be someone who laughs with others about himself and his own follies. Some are convinced that I am offended when they make fun of me. Others are certain I could take anything they said and make it sound lewd. A few see me as a sensitive ‘emo’ person (especially with this blog). An individual believes I could be gay. Others believe that anyone could believe this to be unbelievable. Friends from Delhi remember me almost always wearing t-shirts and jeans. Friends from college will remember shirts with the folded sleeves. Friends from before law school will remember shoes; friends from after will remember slippers and sandals. If we are as transient as I know we are, then the impression we leave on people is our true legacy. Well, mine’s a jumbled up piece of shit.

Of course, some perceptions are just bizarre. Like a junior being asked if I’m hot when I happen to plan to visit somewhere, and/or opinions of that sort being carried around. Or people thinking that I’m a charmer of some sort, when as far as I can see (and trust me, I have a good view of how I interact, especially with women), cocky is the word that springs to mind – the kind of cocky that would use that word to chortle, and definitely leave far from a wholesome impression on any mind. All this coupled with my lack of belief in any sort of assertion that I flirt, and this leaves me completely befuddled. The cockiness is to hide my lack of confidence. My impressions on people are also reflections – these mould what I am. People laughing at my jokes spur me on to being a funny man. People appreciating an aspect of my character or appearance are promoting it. I feel like a tabula rasa, and I love having that ability to change. It makes me who I am.

So I don’t know who I’ll be tomorrow. But I’ll see you then. I don’t know what you’ll think – but while it might influence me, it might cause me to change something small, don’t forget that it doesn’t matter to me. Blank slates are indifferent to what is written on them; and what’s written can easily be erased. Patterns that have been formed can be grown out of. And probably will. Don’t get used to who I am. I’ll turn around and bite your ass. And when you believe I’m predictable, maybe you’re just setting yourself up for the fall.

Blink.

The awkwardness seemed to abate, as they both stood there. Others were talking. There was nothing really there to be said. She turned and left, and after a second of contemplation, so did he. He went on his path, silent - but then, he was always a recluse. Walking alone, and it seemed to fit - walking alone, getting on by. This life suited him. But there was a ringing in his ears, a cacaphony of things that weren't exactly words - or even feelings. Just noises, that wouldn't seem to leave him alone.

A melancholy rose in him like a sickness - a rising tide of absolute disgust as the stupid instrument in his pocket refused his bidding. He needed contact, even though he wanted to be alone - just a strange little conundrum, among his many. He had spent the evening with her, with some others, and they'd all said goodbye - but he'd stayed, silent, on a side. Forgotten, or left out - either possibility didn't really work for him. He needed to get out while he could.

He returned, plastered that little smile, and pretended that things were well. Made small two second plans with friends. Then he retreated into his room, closed the door on the outside world, and watched a movie with his headphones on - reveling and hating his solitude.
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Just a short thing that popped into my head. Not related to anything or anyone, and certainly not my state of mind. :-)

Comic # 3 - Geek v. Wiki

Wikipedia has far too much information on it, and it's ruined more than a few movies for me because I can't resist reading the plot synopsis. However, with comic books, the allure of Wikipedia goes beyond the implication for movies. Full plotlines, connections, allusions in comic books to events past are all mentioned there with easy access. Conversations online (or otherwise) about comic book based issues are so much easier now for non-readers or not-so-avid readers of comic books that I'm sure several comic book geeks are sulking somewhere about how they can't talk crap and be taken seriously anymore.

Sucks to be them.

Lesson # 1 - Teh Internetz.

So, we're back with Comic # 2, even though it's really Lesson # 1. Though if you were the discerning reader I would hope you were, you'd have noticed that the file name of the last one was "Honest does not work on teh internetz". Which would probably be the first lesson. Except I really can't be bothered.

I know I'm using pretty much the same setup for this comic, but I think it's a valuable lesson. Also, I had another comic lined up, but it isn't really internet related, except that it's based on a quote from Bash. Thought originality should take precedence over chronology.

Hope you guys like this one.