The high level drama
surrounding the hanging of Yakub Memon has made a martyr out of a terrorist.
While the ethical grounds of capital punishment is debatable, it is equally
unfortunate that Memon's hanging has turned into a sensationalised case for a
misplaced sense of sympathy. The tragedy of his family and friends is
inconsolable but so is the trauma of hundreds of others who lost their loved
ones in the Mumbai blasts. Punishing criminals is not simply about delivering
"justice" to the victims, it is a message that such dastardly acts
will not be tolerated. Shifting focus from his crime to the post-hanging
sentimentalities (so much so that more media space has been devoted to him than
to the demise of Dr. Kalam) is sad and undesirable.
parchments unfurled
Friday, 31 July 2015
Monday, 28 October 2013
The “caw caw” of the crow is omenous. It hinders the
success of a journey and it brings diseases to the people who hear it. That is
exactly what she said. And with a conviction strong enough to shake the
foundation of the Statue of Liberty, or atleast it seemed so, for we really
don’t know whether she is a crow-eater as well.
Our house is more of a garden. My mother, an ardent lover
of trees and flowers, has filled up every available corner with plants. It
almost appears like there is a house in a garden rather than a garden in a
house. And the balcony hasn’t been spared of the shades of soothing green and
bright yellow clusters peeping through them. She waters them every morning and
afternoon. Today Fate had scripted an afternoon adventure with the “crow
killer”.
Mother was standing in the balcony, after having watered
the plants, and watching the labourers at work with bricks and cement on a
little construction above our garage. Our woman of the day arrives at this
precise hour to play out the script. A crow had committed the grave mistake of
cawing while she was on her way to a very important work. Immediately she took
out a gulti from her bag and aimed a
stone at the crow. She missed it. The crow flew away and perched on another electric
pole. As she was about to aim at it a second time, my mother called out, “Hey,
what are you up to?”. And our crow-hitter shouted back, “Killing this bloody
crow! Such an omen! Am on my way to attend to a very important business”. The
poor lady thought she had won over my mother’s confidence by enumerating such a
valuable fact about the cawing of crows. Her pupil, however, reacted quite
contrary to her expectations.
“What! You
better stop that nonsense right now!”
An aghast dispeller of omens, at first taken aback,
hadn’t yet accepted defeat at the hands of the lady in the balcony. She hadn’t
yet put her best foot forward.
“You
are such an ignorant woman! Do you know that the cawing of a crow brings
diseases to people residing in the area? Don’t you ahve children at home?”.
“And who has sent you to ward off diseases from our
neighbourhood? Everybody is quite healthy. We hear the crows everyday.”
The woman, still hurling angry accusations at my mother for
being ignorant, started walking away. At this moment, Bidisha’s mother makes
her entry from the corner stage. Standing at her balcomy she comments,
“Maybe
she eats crow meat. Many people have it.”.
She wouldn’t have uttered these words, had she realised
that our messiah wasn’t yet past hearing range.
“What! I eat
crows? People who eat crows live on railway platforms. I have a house. What do
you mean?”.
Aunty slipped inside the house as my mother continued
with her comments. She derives a sadistic pleasure from intimidating people
with sarcasm.
“Then
close all your doors and windows and stay in your house, and don’t come out.
There are crows everywhere.”.
By this time, a few neighbours had already peeped out of
their windows to have a clearer knowledge of the commotion. Some giggled. Our
flustered crow-killer took to the gully that leads to the adjoining
neighbourhood, shouting mad comments. Heads withdrew from windows. Mother came
in laughing and proposing that the lady would have made the perfect bride for
my father,
“Both would go on talking illogical stuff all day. Then your father
would have learnt his lesson.”.
( father thinks mother is illogical. My sister and I,
referees in every domestic fight, have concluded that they both get illogical
when quarrelling with each other.)
Meantime, I guess, the ‘lady with the gulti’ went hunting
omenous crows in the next neighbourhood. The cawing crow proved such a
hindrance to her crow-killing in our neighbourhood. I hope the crows keep cawing
to impede the success of the assassinator of their race. Caw! Caw!
Saturday, 9 February 2013
ob-la-di ob-la-da...
Yesterday while browsing through The Beatles’ playlist,
the phrase “ob-la-di ob-la-da” caught my attention. It at once sent ringing in
my ears a similar phrase from the Kumar Shanu hit “do dil mil rahe hain”, from
the movie Pardes where it has been extended with an ‘ob-la-do’(to rhyme with “I
love u”). without further ruminating on issues of plagiarism, I double-clicked
on the title and the speakers sang aloud,
“Desmond had
a barrow in the market place”.
Cheerful music, simple and sweet lyrics- but what made me
google the song was a sudden reversal of ideas in the concluding stanza. The
lines,
“Desmond lets the children lend a hand...
Molly stays at home and does her pretty face...
And in the evening she still sings it with the band...”
Molly stays at home and does her pretty face...
And in the evening she still sings it with the band...”
gets reversed to
“Molly lets the children
lend a hand...
Desmond stays at home and does his pretty face...
And in the evening she's a singer with the band...”
Desmond stays at home and does his pretty face...
And in the evening she's a singer with the band...”
This unexpected reversal of gender roles amused me,
rather intrigued me. On a little research I discovered these amusing theories
and rumours about this song.
The least interesting of them was that vocalist Paul
McCartney reversed it by mistake while recording and the Beatles let it be for
a humorous punch. However, what’s a dish without a dab of spices. So, with no
considerations for dyspeptic complaints, allow me to catalogue the more
interesting rumours.
The most popular among them is the notion that Desmond
and Molly are gays. However, Desmond has been clearly referred to as a “he” and
Molly as a “she”. So, I would rather reject this one too.
A more feminist read
comes to the conclusion that it is an attack on the popular discourses of the
feminine and the masculine. The lady is no more the only one who stays at home
“doing her face”. She works to earn bread while the man rears the children nd
tends to his “beauty”.
But the best is yet to unfold. There was a rumour in the
September of 1969 that Paul McCartney died in a car accident. The Beatles kept
it under covers and Will Campbell underwent a Paul McCartney plastic-surgery.
Molly is Paul’s wife, Linda McCartney who went out singing in her band while
the new Paul took care of his operated face. So, you want to tell me that the
Paul who lives to this day is not the real Paul! Duh! What about the voice? If
there is any voice-surgery too, let me know. I have long wished for a Lata
Mangeshkar voice.
The most accepted theory is that the Beatles were high on
marijuana while recording this song. Infact, there is a lot of laughing going
on with the song. And their advice at the end,
“Take ob-la-di
ob-la-da”
Refers to getting a similar high. The more virtuous have
been horrified at this because they believe “ob-la-di ob-la-da” is a phrase
straight out of the language of the Yoruba tribe which means “life goes on”. But
they did clearly mention “take ob-la-di ob-la-da”. Those tricky geniuses!
I guess, after all, the Beatles have succeeded in what
they had intended to achieve through a Desmond-Molly reversal. Loads of amusing
theories indeed. Till then,
“ob-la-di
ob-la-da brah..
Life goes on.”
Wednesday, 31 October 2012
Tuesday, 7 August 2012
What's On Your Mind
"what's on your mind?" Facebook asks me everyday I log in. And I, which is not very often, as my friends will agree, land up writing something sad, or cynical, or pathetically pseudo-intellectual. Well, and there are people or well, 'is someone' there in the FB world bout whose "impressions of me" i really care about (u see, am not one of those smart, hep phlegmatic individuals who can do without caring). So, i have often done this crazy thing of typing some "of the moment impulse" status updates and then comfortably deleting them before anyone saw them. Crazy, you think so. I wager you're on the right track.
"what's on your mind?" Facebook asks me everyday I log in. And I, which is not very often, as my friends will agree, land up writing something sad, or cynical, or pathetically pseudo-intellectual. Well, and there are people or well, 'is someone' there in the FB world bout whose "impressions of me" i really care about (u see, am not one of those smart, hep phlegmatic individuals who can do without caring). So, i have often done this crazy thing of typing some "of the moment impulse" status updates and then comfortably deleting them before anyone saw them. Crazy, you think so. I wager you're on the right track.
But today, hell ya, lets come out with wht's in my mind.
Joke..that's the word.. i finally got the joke of life and am laughing my heart out. Want to throw a party, have a barbecue, only tht my right leg hurts. Some muscle thought it will play around a little while i was asleep, nd well seems it fell in love with some other muscle nd lo, they are all entangled and am feeling the pain of their love... and whnever i stand up, their love-making picks up momentum.
Well, so mashi, who prepares my food and has kept me alive for four years in kolkata and who is also privy to a lot of of my sulking romantic attitudes, is down with fever. And am following a highly balanced diet, to say the least.. almost nothing by the morning and heavy "butter masala something" recipes by night. Yesterday i tried my hand at cooking..well it turned out well, all that potol-er dalna and uchhe bhaja, but my leg.... it is supposed to be pampered with rest, so no cooking today.. maybe intention is to make the lovers get bored from being in the same position and separate... but errr.. wht if its "true love"... sucks!
Just finished reading some highly philosophical stuff. Thinking of getting on with another book. That's the best way to keep your own creepy thoughts at bay. But FB reminded me of my mind....
And here i am with this essay..
well, i have been missing Mr. Somebody a lot today. we talked for two minutes, i lazying round at the corner of my bed and he in some busy cubicle of his office; i in my crazy tone, he in a rather dignified official tone. The serious reserved tone made me feel nice, assured is the word, of what, don't ask me.. i myself don't know.
Well, and I did this tedious job of actually posting this on FB. And then I was already thinking of deleting this post.. but flip, here i changed my mind as smoothly as i change my numbers every six month. And it remained. And i was flattered by the "likes", self-obsessed as I am.Joke..that's the word.. i finally got the joke of life and am laughing my heart out. Want to throw a party, have a barbecue, only tht my right leg hurts. Some muscle thought it will play around a little while i was asleep, nd well seems it fell in love with some other muscle nd lo, they are all entangled and am feeling the pain of their love... and whnever i stand up, their love-making picks up momentum.
Well, so mashi, who prepares my food and has kept me alive for four years in kolkata and who is also privy to a lot of of my sulking romantic attitudes, is down with fever. And am following a highly balanced diet, to say the least.. almost nothing by the morning and heavy "butter masala something" recipes by night. Yesterday i tried my hand at cooking..well it turned out well, all that potol-er dalna and uchhe bhaja, but my leg.... it is supposed to be pampered with rest, so no cooking today.. maybe intention is to make the lovers get bored from being in the same position and separate... but errr.. wht if its "true love"... sucks!
Just finished reading some highly philosophical stuff. Thinking of getting on with another book. That's the best way to keep your own creepy thoughts at bay. But FB reminded me of my mind....
And here i am with this essay..
well, i have been missing Mr. Somebody a lot today. we talked for two minutes, i lazying round at the corner of my bed and he in some busy cubicle of his office; i in my crazy tone, he in a rather dignified official tone. The serious reserved tone made me feel nice, assured is the word, of what, don't ask me.. i myself don't know.
Don't ask me about my mind, i can go on rambling for ages...
I guess this is my cue.. water will go away, yes, water goes away too.. so I better limp downstairs with the bottles and fill them...
I guess this is my cue.. water will go away, yes, water goes away too.. so I better limp downstairs with the bottles and fill them...
Friday, 16 March 2012
The Insignificant ‘Other’.
Salma and Bobby- they were my companions on a lonely Friday
evening in march. After my honours classes had got over, I decided to sit down
for a while at the Hedua park, sandwiched between Bethune college and Scottish
Church college. The street lights were beginning to flood the busy lanes of
Kolkata. There is a man who sells tea inside the park. He gives an inquiring
look everytime he passes by you. I do not and will never know his name- he is
dumb!
I gave him my usual smile and bought myself a cup. There is
a swimming pool inside the park. Yellow dissipated lights kept themselves
afloat on the calm surface. People were taking their evening-walks. I had
myriad of thoughts flashing across my disturbed mind- real troubles and
apprehended troubles. I had slipped into my own world, sipping tea and gazing
at the water, contemplating life. The reverie was broken by sharp sounds of
clapping hands, asking for money. I looked at them. I heard two boys passing by
me remark, “Eh, hijra re. ekhoni chatbe sala! Chol, onyodik-e chol.”(hey,
eunuchs, man. They’ll bug us now. Come, let’s go the other way.”). And they
turned and walked off in a different direction. Their behavior was pretty
normal. Sad thing was one of them realized why the boys had changed ways and
stole a smile that you could say as something between a melancholia and a mock.
And what else could they have done, in this in-between-ness that fate has
thrust upon them?
When they came in front of me, I did something that I could
never imagine to have done a few years back. When I was a kid, I did feel
afraid of them. But today, I asked them if they would like to sit and chat with
me. They looked at me for sometime and then complied. They sat on either side
of me. The chai-wala was making his second round. I bought them two cups of
tea.
“What is your name?”
“Salma.”
“And yours?”
“Bobby.”
“where do you people stay?”
“Sealdah.”
Bobby asked me, “So, what do you do?”
“I am studying in a college.”
“I see. We don’t have to take up these troubles, you
know.” Bobby gave this mocking smile.
Salma smirked and added, “No-one would take us into
schools in the first place. And even if they do, others won’t let us survive
there, would they?”
And both of them laughed aloud!
I kept quiet, staring at a banana peel someone had
carelessly thrown on the pavement.
“I want to write something about you.”
“And what do you want to write? We become neither lovers
nor terrorists!”, Salma winked at me.
Bobby added, “And yet they feel afraid of us, don’t they?”
I gave them an embarrassed nod. A chana-wala was passing
by. I asked them if they would want to eat something. They said ‘yes’. So, I ordered
for three mixed-chhola. Salma paid the bill to an astonished chana-wala!
They did not stay long. They said they could not. Before we
parted ways, they shook my hand and said, “You’ll be a great person someday.”
People say that eunuchs have powers of prophecy! For one
moment I was really happy, and then I hated myself for any kind of joy that had
made its way into my heart. Am I so selfish, so indifferent to others’ pain?
Salma and Bobby are two of those insignificant ‘other’
who are not recognized by the society – they have been barred from education,
job and life. And what is their fault? Who are we to disown them as part of the
society? Who has ever said that only those people with biologically-logical
sexual parts are eligible to participate in socio-political-economic affairs of
the society? Who are we to jeer at them? It could have been anyone of us!
Politicians raise cries of love for the so-called
religious and communal minorities. Where are the ‘other’? Do they vote? Is this
our democracy? The “other” are looked upon as jokers in this circus of the
world- as the mystical ‘other’ whose curses come true and are looked upon with
awe, sometimes fear and often, disgust.
I wonder why Gandhiji never thought of the other harijans
who are very much a part of the society! Maybe some of them would make it to
the army, someone would come up with the genius of a scientist, someone a
teacher, someone a doctor! What a waste
of human potential!
The Government can open schools for them, train them in
art and crafts, sports. Why can’t they play cricket? The government has made reservations in
educational institutions and jobs for the physically challenged. And what
with the eunuchs? They can walk, hear, see, talk, write- but nothing is done to
improve their situation, and all because they lack sex-organs!
The world is funny, ain’t it? And we obviously don’t
care, do we? We do not have time, ain’t it? Yeah, no time to think about them
and do something about them, but enough time to make up jokes about them,
right? C’mon then, my friends, let’s sit back and share a laugh, shall we?
Sunday, 11 March 2012
A piece of memory from school days…
The last class of Thursday brought sir Mathai back to the
environmental studies class. He seemed weird, not only because of his partially
bald head but also because of his plum features and extremely short height. However,
that wouldn’t have evoked much laughter from the naughty depths of our hearts
had he not spoken wrong English with such great confidence!
So, ever since he had delivered his lecture on the
extinction of dodos, the students learnt the term ‘shotten’, for that is what
sir had said, “Dodos became extinct because they were shotten dead.” Sir Mathai’s
chief concern seemed to rest on the unfortunate ‘ jatropa’ plant. He had,
someday, probably dreamt of making a lucrative fuel-business out of the plant
and turning into a millionare. However, his dreams remained confined within the
four walls of the classroom as his words echoed in the ears of the students
either completing homework or playing a game of cross-and-circles or omitting
numbers to a ‘BINGO’ or busy penning down in a rough sheet of paper all the
grammatical errors that he made in his speech, only to be turned into a butt of
jokes later. Sir, I suppose, on his part loved our class for he lived under the
illusion that we were busy taking down notes on “earth-dying-of-smoke”, “we-throwing-out-carbon-dioxide”,
“a world minus pollution” and so on.
However, that day the boys at the last bench had started
playing a new game. For this they had collected all small pieces of chalk and
preserved on the lower shelves of the desks. The game was simple- they were
setting up a new aim each time and throwing a piece at the prey. Each time a
chalk hit a girl or boy, he or she would turn back only to find a bunch of
innocent faces engrossed in the jatropa plant! This would have continued
without any disturbance had not Prachi placed her complaint, “sir, somebody
threw a piece of chalk at me.”
Sir stopped his lecture.
“Who throwing chalks at Prachi? Stand up or I going to
check you.”
The attention, which he otherwise failed to posses, was
now completely his! Shreya and I lowered our heads to conceal the amusement. So,
with another twenty minutes remaining for the bell to go, we knew our
environmental studies class for the week had already come to an end, replaced
as it seemed by sir’s frantic enquiries to find out who dared to play
throw-a-chalk in his class!
“Who telling me honestly? I never liking such things in
my class.”
Everyone kept quiet. Finally, realizing that he wasn’t
born with the mystery-solving capabilities of Mr.Holmes, he thought it was
better to return to dodos, plants and water, “This happening last time, I
warning sincerely.”
After a small murmur, which mostly consisted of regrets
that the boring lecture would resume, the most shocking incident happened- a
piece of chalk bounced back from sir’s forehead and fell on the table. The confusion
had not allowed anyone to see who the dare-devil was! Though amused, we indeed
regarded it as something which shouldn’t have happened. I looked back at the
so-called hooligans of the class- Rajeev, Sumit, Rohit and Dweep with quite a
what’s-wrong-with-you-guys look, but they seemed equally puzzled, and
frightened, I would add.
“who was that?”- sir spoke short sentences properly! With
this, before we could quite discern what was happening, sir walked towards the
back-benchers and started checking their desks. At last, the
investigation-officer in him! People never get down to action unless it affects
them, you see!
He found the pieces under Rohit’s desk. The class
thundered as he placed a hard slap on his left cheek.
“sir, I threw the chalk at Prachi but not this one at
you.”
It is in human nature that when they are accused of
bigger crimes, they confess their real crimes, which seem smaller in magnitude
compared to the accusation.
“shut up! You coming with me right now. When I small, we
worshipping teachers, and this what you do?”
Sir dragged Rohit out of his place to take him to the
principal’s office, all of us fearing the possible consequences when Pilby (the
great Pilby whom I have already introduced to you in my first post ;-)) stood
up, “Sir, it was me who threw the chalk.”
The whole class felt silent as all eyes turned towards
him. It all seemed so unbelievable to me, because Pilby was the quiet kind of
guy, you know. Even sir, quite taken aback by his bold confession, let go of
Rohit and kept staring at Pilby at a complete loss of words.
“Sir, I wanted to throw it at Prachi for making that silly
complaint of hers. I missed the aim and it hit you.”
Prachi always sat in the first bench, which is why his
explanation seemed pretty plausible plus his bold confession and honesty drew
our complete sympathy towards him.”I am sorry, sir.”
“Go stand the blackboard. I talking later to you.” (read
as:go and stand near the blackboard. I’l talk to you later).
Sir resumed the lecture and for the first time, we seemed
to listen to what he was trying to explain. I occasionally looked at Pilby who
kept hanging his head all-time low. Finally the bell rang the death-knell of
the class and all of us fixed our attention on sir and Pilby.
“I definitely punishing you harder, but honesty deserving
reward as well. Doing such things
anymore?”
I bet I could have cried down from relief.
“I am sorry sir. I won’t do it again.”
Like small kids all of us started clapping at sir’s
clemency!
Sir must have felt very good at this as he added as an
epilogue, “when somebody confessing, you must forgiving. But if doing same
thing again, then never forgiving.”- and all of us broke into a huge roar of laughter
with a renewed sense of respect for sir that students generally develop for a
buddy-like-teacher!
P.S.- that day Pilby and I were the last ones to leave
the classroom. I told him with an angry-mother-like voice (;-)), “don’t do this again, Pilby!”…
with a small grin playing on his lips, he said, “hmmm, yes ma’am.” And then
well, Pilby got my first kiss on his right cheek, for his honesty, you know…
;-)
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