Neo Religion Jiyo

Most religions have a ladder of ascension:

The Hindu has the concept of rebirth until one becomes part of the paramatma.

The Muslim has the stages of going from non believer to finding a place by God's side at judgment day. The Christian has a similar schema.

The remaining religions, I am sure have something similar.

Let me propose a new religion. Wait, first let's name it. Naming is an integral part of setting up religions. The name has to be logical. Let us call this new religion Pissenpush. Why such a strange name, you may ask. See, this new religion is based on pissing and pushing away maximum number of people belonging to other religions. So, the better you are getting someone's temples hot, or greater your skill of pushing peoples' patience over the hill, the higher you get to the God, similarly named, Pissenpushamma.

Takers anybody? Anybody? Come one... don't be shy, come forward, sign up for a pie of bliss. Speaking of pie, this religion does not have a heaven, it has the concept of pies. Higher one gets in its echelon, bigger the pie. Pissenpushamma has an entire pie to itself. The God is asexual, therefore the use of the word, "it". Let's go for the show of hands once more people. Tick tick one tick tick two tick tick three...and we have the first member of our religion!!! Let me see...ah...Mr. Rushdie welcome to our sanctified brother/sister hood. Hello!!! Another member! Mr. Hussain... ah... your pie is much bigger than Mr. Rushdie's. Btw...don't you think "Rushdie" is an intriguing name....he's got the speedway to the entire pie spelt out in his name. A third? Not a single another one... any sisters out there ready to kick up a point? Yes yes...raise your hands a little higher... no no... you are not scratching your head with, you are raising it. There is no shame...Ms. Taslima... there we go... the first trio. Now we have three brand ambassadors .... this is where we employ them in our worldwide recruitment policy. The way it works it the quickest and most powerful method used by any religion as of yet--- yes, we throw them at your face via the television.


See how simple it is to set up a religion. Now coming to the purpose...Errm... to piss you off?

Taking Sides

Karan Thapar spoke. The conversation broke. And Narendra Modi went up in smoke. It was a Houdini act. The leftist folks joked about how Thapar had tingled Modi's chords. And the right wing scoffed at Thapar's puppy dog "please don't screw my interview" expression. I belong to the junta on the left. I am not for marveling present development and forgetting past crimes. And I am not for promoting one sect that is a minority just to boast about our secularism. Lives were lost. Lives that belonged to both Musalman and Hindu faiths. Statistically many more Muslims were killed. But can one look at loss of life statistically? Ask the relatives and friends of those who died (both Hindu and Muslim) does it matter if 1000 or 50 were butchered or burnt? For them that one dead body made all the difference.

It is sad that in times of man made and natural calamity we look towards statistics. Thing is, not everything is cricket. Not everything is entertainment on the television set. And surely not everything is forgettable and material for the census books.

I am not sure what it takes to live with blood on your hands. Shakespeareans would quote Macbeth here, but I'll disagree. Macbeth was weak. Modi and his band are not. Even if they regret they do not show it. Hopefully they will truly feel sorry someday for all the lives that were lost. And hopefully someday we will understand that it does not matter if 50 or 1000 died, but that even one person was killed in the name of God.

Throwing in a bit of sentimentality...What would Bapu, the father of our nation, have to say? Would he too shrug, and scratch his bald head as we do?

Red and Blue

The Indo- US nuclear deal ought to be spelt with a "k", nuklear. And "US" should be typed up as "Yoo Es". Both these changes combined make it sound more rustic as well as Communist. Here's the deal, naming is important. See if US wasn't named a "red and blue" nation our Yechuris and Karats probably wouldn't have any beef with them. Remove the blue and leave the red, then I am sure our brothers at CPI(M) wouldn't have raked up this issue. But here's another deal. The reds aren't playing too fair. The reds are crawling up our necks. The reds don't mind helping the shooting of monks. Incidentally the monks too were clothed in red- haha...dressed to kill (their claim?).

Some say color should be overlooked. I am not talking about skin color. That's a whole different issue. But the color red. Intriguingly we have shades of both these red and blue spectrum on our national flag. So we are caught smack in the middle. What does India do? As the Priminister said, and paraphrasing him, India is not a one track nation, although at times it gives such an impression. Maybe we will move onto better things from here on. Only thing is...if the reds still keep poking at India and keep threatening to strangle any progress they should be given the blues.

Clearly I am a supporter of the nuclear deal. And clearly I harbor little love for the present Reds. Why, you ask? In all their years of "rule" in West Bengal they really didn't get too far. The Bengali junta might throw tomatoes at me but that will surely not make me incline towards their redness.

Just a thought: English needs to be revised...it paints Red in the wrong light often. OK...call it yellow.

Saucers in the Sky

We Asians love our tea. It's a matter of pride and distinction. The better people opt for Darjeeling's best hand picked, hand wrapped, hand shaked and hand bought in store close to Darjeeling or expensive shops with mirrored walls in the far far West. For the other lot, tea bags would do. We Asians really do love our tea... from black, red, green... to herbal, diabetic, heart control...ayurvedic...all sorts of teas. We Indians amongst us Asians have ours with a good quantity of milk brewed with tea and sugar- In Bombay they add mirch masala to it, in the hills its that fresh aroma of ginger, and in my hometown (Calcutta) the disposable earthen cup adds earthen flavor to the roadside chai. Despite our exuberant enthusiasm towards chai we Indians amongst us Asians are not too fond of saucers in the sky.

Why is Area 51 in New Mexico and not in Rajasthan? I am sure the aliens are clever... given that they've crossed oceans of time and space to bring us their first hello. They're mission is always behind closed closets. They are either too shy or too clever to come out in the open- yet they go and park their vehicles in United States... those guys there are obsessed with little men who are green... and they've got radio and radar sweeping the skies for them...If the aliens truly wanted some lone time before they began eating us up- India would be the best place to begin. Where else could they find a billion strong food storage with a protection agency that provides "sticks" to their police. Further more, given that we like our tea so much... we are bound to adore them saucers in our sky. Imagine, if one of these saucers tipped... all of us would look up and open our mouths with hopes of tea drops falling and wetting our throats... the aliens could take advantage of our love for anything that is free and deliver their man eating spawns through their tea shower.


Sadly Area 51 is not in India. And sadly Area 51 is off limits to Indians... if not at least us expatriates could catch a plane to the saucers and have our fill of space age tea. But no...we have to be content with "Wah Taj boliye".

To end this- ever realized how ugly those aliens look. They are mean and green. Now, ever think how truly disgusting we look? I mean common... blonde and brunette...awwckh!

I Love Spam

This spam is no pig meat and all other unwanted piggy parts mashed into a tin can product. And no- it does not have any expiry date either. But yes, it does fry my space...and sometimes my humor.

I am talking about cyber spam.

"From the nation of Independent X Nation of Africa."

or

"engrogivosilificus temperamentalati erectoinstantati penesylium"

and the new

"you've won and apple 4 gig Ipod Nano"

Spam humors me. I know I am not supposed to like it. I've got spam filtering arsenal all loaded and gungho on my gmail, but I read them anyway. Just cause they are so darn funny. I mean, where else, in what kind of literature would you expect some African dude from some impoverished African nation that has only bones and archeology to offer wanting to thrust a million bucks in your account. Most often than not its the widow of a deceased high ranking official or bank manager in the bargain. For solo folks like me that adds some spin- who doesn't like a tall dark damsel in despair? Yet, I haven't replied to any... cause I know these damsels aren't really damsels, they are men in disguise. I go to Africa, sipping on my mineral water, and perusing the landscape of Sahara with my binocs and I spot my Mrs. X in Mr. X's clothes... only men are capable of causing and falling for such antiques. Women are the brighter species... they don't send no mails to do their job- they'll come themselves... and men wouldn't even know that they've moved on.

Now the second...with their claims that medicine, or miracle drug would turn me into Ricky Ponting's best guarded secrets- his darned wickets. I'd have Shoab charging at me and Kumble throwing me guglis. Basically, I'd be stumped in no time. Or whacked before by Ponting and his Aussie mates. Only if their claims had been in moderation.. I'd subscribe to the wonder pill. I'm no dog but who doesn't want to be bigger, longer and uncut...South Park?

Free apples...even Sir Newton didn't have those!!! It caused a dent in his head that sent physics all over its head. It was never the apple but the effect of the thump on his head that got his eyes rolling all over scientific stardom. And Stevey, yeah, I call him that... that .... that little cool cat is a shrewd businessman in all the positive of senses... how could he part with his products without a price? We know he's never going to become a Gates in his lifetime... cause Gates loads his customers with free stuff for which you need to buy 3 year warranties and wait on hold to a certain Monica, Jenny, Amanda... oooooooo...... Nancy over the phone for three fuming hours before they say in some foreign language, "Arrey baba... kis c**tiye ne yeh lene ko bola thaa.... mein sirf higher secondary pass huun... tumko babysit woh bhi telephonically kaise karoon."

Yup! I can proudly say, "I LOVE SPAM" whether tinned or untinned.

The Weather

I live in Pittsburgh now. It is an ancient American city in the state of Pennsylvania. I’ve heard myself say, “The weather is unpredictable in Pittsburgh.” Others have said this too. Statements about the weather are no revelations. They are mere fillers in silent soliloquies in the midst of strangers. It is something we residents of this land partake in. It might not run in our blood, this talk of weather, but it surely rubs onto our skin. I’ve lived in the free land for long enough to have this weather- talk sink deep into my epidermis. My conversations begin and end with the forecast, four days prior and two days hence, thereby covering a weeks estimation. The forecasters do their arduous job with any available honest effort. Proof of this being the truth in my small talk at bus stops, and smoke pit stops.

I am not expert on weather forecasting but have read a little into it. As Lorenz discovered, the weather is a dynamic, deterministic yet unpredictable problem. From him we get a convection model for gases in our atmosphere. And from his research the world coined the science of chaos. I am no specialist in Chaotic Systems. At best my understanding of this physical and mathematical concept is sketchy. I can write bits here that talk about chaos only superficially- but its God lies in the details, and I shall pretend to be no saint seeking him. I am a writer not a mathematician and will leave the mathematics up to the theorists. But I know this, flapping wings sometimes do cause tidal waves- in this case, the flapping being the movement of tectonic plates, and tidal waves being the harbingers of tsunami.

Maybe it is fear that has persuaded millions of Americans to stick to home runs, touchdowns, basket assists, and the weather in their casual conversation. No matter how tough a society one makes, its people remind themselves that all they have come to represent can be washed away in one breath stroke of Nature. She has the upper hand with her element of surprise. Therefore it is always comforting to know that man has been able to read her motives, thereby always keeping an eye for her unpredictability.

Continue your weathered small talk…it keeps me informed.

Providing you humor is not my job; it’s Letterman’s. This is a message to remind myself how important the weather is. It is no laughing matter. It is not a strange tale of pink cows grazing on blue fields. It is not abstract. It is real- if that is hard to believe ask a survivor of the Saharan Tsunami. It was no laughing matter.

Wonders of India

The world seems to be discovering its heritages with urgency. The new seven wonders few days back, and now the wonders of India...All that is good. But all the emblems of humanity, and culture are old. Maybe one could come up with Modern Wonders... and not necessary splendors carved in stone or sand.

Here's my list of seven (concerning India).

Bombay's Dharavi Slum-
Dharavi is the living emblem of human struggle. The conditions are poor, and the atmosphere over it is worse, yet the men, women and children in it, live as family units, and share a laugh when they can. Such a remarkable feat of courage and strength ought not to be overlooked.

Calcutta's Shonagachi Harem-
While walking past Rabindranath Thakur's kindergarten school, my cousin's friend pointing to the right side of the road and sniggered, "Shonagachi" and for the first time I saw the sex workers waiting along a stairwell for business. They were not heinous as people might want to portray them in our section of society. These girls painted faces, and broad lipsticked lips, that hid their tired countenance. But we could see their bruised mind... yet their eyes had a limited amount of glitter- maybe that's the gift of hope.

Delhi's Jama Masjid-
Situated in the heart of busy business ventures, this mosque has given me calm that I have seldom found elsewhere. Although I am not a Muslim...his presence seemed to speak for itself in the quiet air, surrounded by the hodgepodge of Delhi life.

Hyderabad's Hitech City-
I lived in Hyderabad when nobody would dare to build a house near Gacchibowli. Now, this once neglected rural area has turned into the limelight of a city that has seven universities. It shows us that if the people want development they can strive to get it...something other cities might profit from.

Benares-
Do I need to explain why so? Think not.

Mattur village-
Sanskrit being the source of most Indian languages has always been close to our hearts but not our tongues. Most Indians do not speak it. We might chant a prayer or two in this language because the old Hindu scriptures were "written" in Sanskrit, a language now almost extinct from practical usage. But the town of Mattur has fought for Sanskrit by having it spoken everyday, as if it were Hindi, Tamil or English.

The Brahmaputra-
Even though our border issue has not be solved since the days of the British Raj we continue to drink the waters of the same river flowing through our countries. We might have the occasional bickering at foreign policy tables, and scant transaction of gunshots, yet we drink from the same river, and it would do both nations good to remember that.

Legal Bite

I was reading a Sanjay Dutt article on TOI's website. The article was run of the mill. It's "user comments" were not. Comments showed that there were fans, critics, stoics, law abiding citizens etc. letting a bit of their opinion grace the graceful space left by TOI. There's one guy who wrote, "There is no one above the law." That comment caught my attention.

Truly, is there nobody above the law? What if the law makers and the pronouncers of lawful edicts begin wearing leather hats, carrying colts, and smoking cigars with a badge on their breast to flaunt their legality in matters? Would nobody be above them? Would nobody stand up? Wouldn't anybody dare to say, "Enough's enough, and its time for the law to do for the people what it was meant to do in the first place"... I guess not. A large chunk want "Sanju Baba" in jail, and rightly so. He did buy guns from those who used cheap deceit to claim innocent lives. The law says, such a man should be put behind bars. And he, Mr. Dutt knew it. Maybe a bit of Gandhigiri did rub onto his skin...maybe he had understood the Mahatma's saying, "The biggest strength lies in knowing and acknowledging your flaws." (paraphrased) Now let me go back to the statement which was most amusing, "There is no one above the law." It is easy to say that. It is especially easy to say that when law's hands have not put us on the balance. Only when on the balance do we know how precariously the blind lady's "tarazu" swings. The same law that has put a screen actor for buying guns, whether knowingly or unknowingly, from Bombay's bombers (400 life killers and so much more injurers), does not recognize the crimes of the people who are the real threats to our society- Us, common folk- We are the origins of cowardice that feeds terrorism within our domain- but we do not want to hear of that. We are the swindlers without any scruples. We are the criminals. I am not being inspired by Gandhi here- his era has passed. His thoughts are still golden, but the thoughts that he professed are not his alone- those thoughts of love and honor, belief and courage, are immortal ideas of man... but the Mahatma preached them to us in a form the people of his time could understand and associate with... Starving to death will not quell our blood thirst...no wonder the new breed of leaders take to "fast until death" dharnas only to munch a sandwich in a posh hotel once their resolution is passed in the house... Let us now put a common digression into politics aside and look at ourselves. While pretending to be citizens with the belief that nobody or no people is above the law, we are the ones who run lights and pay bribes. We are the ones who know best how to hide our money from the taxman. We are the people who burn our own for the sake of dowry money. We are the people who drown innocent girls to make life "better". The law we speak of- does not touch us then- what use is such law that cannot lift the morals of its own people... isn't the justice system a ground for morality to bloom? Where is our law then? Where is that sacred law of our democratic nation? Is it dead? If it is... why is it still dispensing judgment on others. Let the lawmakers for once, begin by judging themselves... Hopefully they will inspire us to spark some dignity in ourselves by way of which we might strive to become better citizens of this land of ours.

"There is no one above the law"- I say nay! Law ceases to be a prudential tool for its people when people themselves are lost... otherwise we are left with a legal system that becomes a stage for disgraceful wolves to usurp greater power by putting the meeker lot of their kind to the gallows, thereby giving the lambs of society a fattening fair. One should remember that a wolfish pack feeding the lamb cannot have good intentions for the thirst on their tongue is too, simply put, bloody.

To end this, let me quote Mahatma Gandhi, "In matters of conscience, the law of the majority has no place."

Hangman 2

Sometime back I had written...a game ending with the conclusion of a prisoner's hanging. The man had bombed the Indian Parliament. I am not sure what happened to that man. If he was pardoned, the news would have shown up in the papers. All the hoopla of reporting exists before the neck is strained and the limbs stop shaking. At least that's how it seems. Today the same media that tries so very hard to get balance of justice to hang heavier on a certain "mediated" side showed me a photograph- a simple snapshot of an accused bomber's sister, caressing the death row man's mother. The women were wearing scarfs. A fraction of their face was visible. Yet that little visible nature was gut wrenching. The bombers have a family who were probably not aware. The bombers probably have children who have just begun going to school. Maybe the bombers never got the red tri-cycle of their dreams.

Do we provide a free ticket to heaven or hell to these bombers? These are the same persons who took the above mentioned sentiments away from hundreds of others because they believed in a cause that required them to blow up children, women, men, vegetables, and dreams. Is then the bomber's mother's tears justified? Absolutely, yes. Wouldn't any mother weep if her government were putting a stopper to his "life"?

I must ask you, "Should our Democracy hang men?"

Harry et al

I think I was young back when the first Harry Potter came out. The world was reading it. I did not. I was an idiot. I picked up HP in grad school. The world hadn't read Sorcerer's Stone for a while. I had begun flipping through it. I felt like a bigger idiot. All those years of vehemently attacking the Harry Potter world without actually reading through the pages seemed a waste of energy. What an idiot!...The seventh book drove up to my mailbox on saturday (21st). The book ended on sunday. It is monday today and I feel a great void. The thing is, if I had been my old self (the self who hadn't read it and b*tched about it) I could have picked up copies to read. But alas...the story has ended.

Will I be following Quidditch anymore? Will Expeliamus excite me when directed at Snape's chest. Will the Patronus bring forth awe? I hope so...I am darn sure they will, but I know now what Snape's dying thought was, and why Voldemort could not overcome Harry James Potter...the end is empty. Truly empty. I feel like I am at King's Cross, with no baby shrieking and no Dumbledore to shed tears- just me. But this cannot be about my overwhelming sense of loss.....neither about how brilliant the last installment was...nor the humorous "19 years later"...its got to be about what remains of Harry Potter- the films.....and one in particular- The Order of the Phoenix (which I've seen a couple of times). Nope, sorry to dissappoint, its not film review... if you want the review, visit IMDB. This is about film making...it is a confession of sorts, without the priest in flesh.

I love films. I would put on a T that read, "I (heart) films". This is quite something for me because my T's don't say much- they are just colored, and have patterns here and there. Yup...I love films. I began loving films because of the actors.....I was never too fascinated with the actresses in my younger years of film loving, because the actresses didn't seem to be doing much (except the Alien series). Nobody could talk like Peck- Very few could deliver justice from the barrel of a 44 magnum like Eastwood- Morgan Freeman had redifined the term "black gold"- and Terminator....ooo....I won't touch that realm of hypened excitement here. But then, the stardom of actors lost some of its spark...like every star, the one's in my mind began losing their energy. They began dwarfing... It all seemed to be up to the director. He was the unsung hero...he was the magician in charge of all others who had to perform tricks for the culmination of the final show. And this is where Order of the Phoenix comes in...given that Radcliffe, Rupert, Emma etc. have aged- given that Fienes is more solid- given that the enterprise (not star trek) has got loads of dough- given all that- David Yates changed the way I look at Harry Potter movies. I had enjoyed the movies previously with the exception of Prisoner of Azkaban, because they were cute, silver screen versions of the book. But this one---Oh hohoho.... this was far more... far far more. The camera moved with jerks. The camera was synced with the lead character's turmoil. The cuts were not smooth- just as his emotions- when Voldemort invaded his mind- the scened jumped- the expressions were not always face on... they were not sideshots to beautify the actors' Roman nose...sideshots were taken, often with the face cut off from the main screen to play the battle from all sides. I just loved the camera in David Yates' version of Potter. Ron was reserved.....many kudos to Rupert, although I think, Yates did have a say in it.

So much for the camera...what about the first scene? It looked like farmland/wheatland to me, sawying, dolling on the prospect of inevitable depression... the clouds were murky, and their shadows played shades on the broken faces of the actors. The film was not glossy. The props were tarnished---the tunnel lights (dementor attack scene) were dirty, and so were the unused windows of 12 Grimauld Place.

And finally the graphics input...Yes, Buckbeak was friendly and all laughs, but the Thestrials were haunting... they were as Luna put it, "different" for the better of all things. In short Order of the Phoenix has kept my hopes alive for Half Blood Prince and ofcourse Deathly Hallows. Yates is making HBP... and I hope he gets the final one for himself...He'll do it greater justice.

To end it.

There are some who do not like Harry Potter on principle. The principle being- Rowling becoming the richest lady in England and all from writing childrens' books. Such principle, although I held them once, is weak. Do dislike and critisize only after you've had your share of her words...otherwise it would be like saying, "I do not like chicken stew" without actually having it. And if principles mean too much to you....say this, "I will not read it" on principle.

Sivaji

I have not seen the movie and I am pretty sure I will not view it in the near future. You may ask why? Please do. Well, I will not because I am not a Rajni fan. But thisi post is not a review of the movie, rather its a spin off of the humor Sivaji brought into my online existence. How so, you may ask once more. Please do. I like question and answer sessions- makes me feel political, which I am not otherwise.

This is the bit where I introduce the snippets-

A Marathi friend asked me, "Have you seen Sivaji?"

I said, "Why should I?"

He said earnestly, "It is Sivaji!"

I said, "Not your Sivaji...but a software Sivaji."

He said, a bit disgruntled, "Oh...not my Sivaji...I thought well..."

I found this regionalism humorous. Now there are people who tell me to take matters such as capitalism, communism, regionalism, socialism and all other isms seriously, including jisms that is, but for the life of me, isms tickle my funny bone.


If my friend was a Southie and had come across a Northie's Sivaji, he would have probably delivered similar sentences..."Oh...not my Sivaji..." I am not supposed to use slang. Well, I was never supposed to call myself a Bengali, but I do, and you call me a bong.

Now, the second story line- this is more serious. I am a tentative blogger. People do not often read my blog. And if they do, I do not come to know that they do, because nobody seems to be leaving any message, but what if I was a serious blogger with a blogfull of followers who blogged in and out of my blog and I had my firm nose grinding through the blogosphere in an attempt to outsmart others in my blogathon? Would I have the permission to make fun of Sivaji- the movie? The many bloggers who commented on this article did not find the blogger's blog humorous- they found it insulting (reference a thesaurus for better words please). Here's my beef- I am not supporting the blogger or her blog, neither am I discrediting it- now to my beef (yum yum?): Why do we as a people get hurt so darn easily. Somebody calls Gandhi a stick figure and we go all ballistic. Somebody claims the Taj Mahal isn't anything better than its Jamuna backdrop, and we start a petition in its support. A few others beat our cinematic sense and we begin calling them "immature" and comment, "Hey in our films we sell dreams. But you wouldn't understand." WHY THE HELL ARE WE SO DAMN NAZUK? So what if a Calvin Clein wearing idiot calls Gandhi a stick figure (just making it up)... its more important to let him do so. In the long run, after the sticker on his garment has faded he'll come follow our line of people who honor a stick figure and have come to call him the Mahatma. And so what if the Taj isn't pretty anymore- its memory is, and that memory is for us, those who love it. Finally coming to our films- enjoy what you enjoy and let the critiques, or in this case, the blogger say anything they want to...one shouldn't give a hoot.

To end this let me say, long live Sivaji and Rajni.

Teaching History

Many newspaper websites were flooded with pictures of persons taking part in the commemoration of 1857's mutiny. Yes, those men and women who braved death sparked the first fires of our independence. We ought to be proud of their bravery, but does that mean we consider everybody and everything that "our side" did during that period "saintly"? Do we now, this day, have the courage to accept that killing women and children in British safe- houses was not very honorable?

I am not one to say that all that the East India company did was correct. Often their acts were heinous. But should we, as so called children of the Mahatma, neglect one of his greatest teachings...the teaching being, having the boldness to understand one's own flaws first before pointing out the flaws in others. History can be like an euphoric drug...indulge in it, and one forgets the truths lying deep within. Let us not partake in such dishonesty. Let us not say that all that our forefathers did was right. Let us not scribble every act of murder into our historic records as heroism.


If all this reads too negative, let me pose you a question, "How do you think the British should teach the history of the British Raj in Britain?" Should they teach history as we do? Should they transcribe every historic crime into sweet cream?

Migration

Most Indians from India come to this foreign land with a conviction that they will return home. Their conviction fails... they end up staying in a "foreign land". Every summer, or winter, when it get's too chilly in say New York or Chicago, we pack up our bags, suitcases with dollar tags, hop onto planes and fly home. Birds do that, so do fish, and many other beings. Like them we return, as our ticket is always round trip. (Probably the only one way ticket was bought, the first time we came here with a dream of returning with....please do fill in here). The difference between the birds-fish-etc and us is that we still call this land, "foreign".

Why is it foreign?

Heck, what is foreign?

As a curiosity, the Indian National Students (INS) has termed all Indians from India, "Desis". We call each other Desis. We eat Desi food. We watch Desi movies. We wear Desi clothes on special occassions- Desi stuff is fun. Our attitude begs the question, "What is Desi?"

Growing up on Hollywood pop, and Springsteen/Beatles/Adams/Collins/Doors/etc I had come to believe that my "foreign" land was truly a backyard of them Hollywood studios. Everybody was either a Willis or a Stone. How wrong...how wrong...yet the attitude, "this is a foreign land" did not subside.

Is this a foreign land because I choose not to let it become my home despite having an aalishaan bungalow on it (I don't have one, most others do)? Why do we become so damn desperate before boarding that plane back to Bombay, Calcutta, Bangalore or Delhi?

In the true Desi spirit I would answer the above by quoting soem obscure lyric from some equally obscure song, "Des ki mitti ke jaise koi mitti nahin...uski mehek...uski ..." Stepping away from our Desi overdrive, I ask ourselves, "How many of us have tried to find the khushboo in America." We still think it is about research, economics, business, opportunities... everything barring the simple happiness of living. Say, like flying a kite in the outdoors with friends and family, or blending cricket and baseball into one game? How many of us call a gathering with friends from American and Non American origin? We might invite John Doe and his wife for dinner, but do not do so when Champaklal Desi and his Misses are around. Weird eh?

So what is foreign?

Probably foreign is what we make of it. Until I learn to understand this soil... and it is rubbish to cite the ancientness of India... for America has an equally lengthy history... it had people, and persons, who until this day speak in Native American tongues so old.

As a conclusion, I tell myself, let's learn the art of migration from the birds and the bees.

HangMan

Many of us have played the game, Hang Man. Think a word, draw dashes, and let others fill it out. I think one had to give a clue. H_n_m_n was prone to swing like a pendulum- to and fro, fro and to. It was fun! But this is a different kind of Hangman. This game's being played by people, the representatives of the people, and the voice of the people (people, government, and media). Save the man whose going to be hanged! Have mercy! Gandhigiri ke naam pe raham karo.

The literate and people belonging to the literati have tried to justify their humanity. I do not believe them. I will not believe them. If the man had planned to take out our capital...they his punishment aught to be one of similar magnitude. If this person is not treated in a similar manner as to the Bengali chowkidar, Dhananjaya, who choked for raping a little girl many years ago, won't Dhananjay's ghost come back to haunt us?

There's one trick to winning in hangman that works most often than not- wait and watch. When the waitings over, fill in the blanks... Hangman.

Rang De...

I would understand the Bruhaha if Mr. Banerjee was given the Nobel for Physics. The subject, Physics is a more or less an even playing field. Meaning, the apple does not drop any different in Calcutta from the way it splits on New York soil.

But comparing movies? With RdB nominated for the oscars (note Aamir Khan common factor) our media is going all nuts about "Agar the choice is..."

A tally in some national newspaper read. Three Indian movies has been nominated for the oscars, and no Indian movie has won one yet. Hmm...

Statistically this implies that: 1. India is a minority film producer. 2. If India is not a minority film producer, she has produced only three movies worth being shortlisted. 3. Although our movies are good they do not play up to French/Mexican/Spanish movie standards. 4. The West is biased. 5. etc.

1. India makes an average of more than two movies a day in a year. Point chucked out.

2. Have the Scorcesses heard of Mera Naam Joker? Maybe not. They dont know enough about our films as a collective whole. Point 2 dismissed.

3. This is up for debate...

4. The West has always been fascinated by the Orient. Hero was a blockbuster here...Hero spelt in Chinese.

5. Etc. ...

So, the point to be incurred is that a stochastic model will not quite fit this question about Indian movies on Hollywood's most grandiose stage.

I think our movies are as they say, "Hatke". Let them be different. Honestly Rang de Basanti needs no oscar to prove that its a worthwhile film. If your blood boils- the works done? How many oscar winning movies has boiled your blood off late?

Reality, Dreams, Awakening, and Death

He died in her dream,
Ne'er woke to reality.

The dream of death,
Awakened her reality.

The dead dream,
Awakened no reality.

The awakened dream,
Lay dead 'fore reality.

A thought: II

Self indulgence is the secret of poetry. Pain and pleasure, mostly pain scratched on papyrus for others to read. The others will read your words, probably admire them, congratulate you, and leave a note of appreciation for you have successfully publicized that common gash. Poetry tries to beautify the pus. I am culprit to such foolishness. Why should I consider pain any different from pleasure? Why should I understand pleasure to be good? Should there be pain or pleasure for that matter? At the fair I shot a pellet and burst a balloon. It was my pleasure. When a similar projectile hits me, I give a name, "pain" and try to kill it by suffocating it in my poetry. I am a coward to do so. Face it. Do not hide it. Live it. Do not kill it. And if you survive...then write a verse in honor of the experience. Following this logic, poetry is a parable (in verse) narrating an experience, your experience. Poetry ought to be humanized then. Give it a life, and let it live inside you, as you. It will grow flagella, and eventually acquire perception and understand morals. If it does, you will benefit...becoming more moral. Only then will poetry be honest and useful. Cherish what you have. Do not waste it. Preserve it. You might lose it any day. Do not mourn when it is lost. It was meant to disappear. Before it is gone make poetry a brother. Give it respect. Question it when it sways from course. Learn from its answers. And share bread. You are sons of the same mother- nature that is.

A thought: I

Man is passing. So are his deeds. We fight for a legacy. But those who might remember us will eventually become null. Legacy is lost. Should remembrance be our purpose? Or should men strive to live as men, work as men, live, and then die, knowing that they have achieved completion at the ultimatum? What should our philosophy be? Not comfort. For comfort is not more than self indulgent fashion, and fashion is petty. Not beautification as the rose has to wilt one day. And not many of us can compare to the candor of a flower. I do not know what the purpose of my existence is. I will not pretend to harbor such knowledge. Although intuition tells me, life is not for a greater purpose but for living with honesty and belief in what is greater than us, creator...and let our actions be the fruit of our years. A woman gives birth. She raises the child- raising the child is her reward. She is content. So should I with my life at this moment. If satisfaction is not harnessed in the present it might never show its face in the future. Go on...as you should...and eventually turn into shadow, stone, dust, fire and return to the elements which make us.

I do not have a title for this post. Let it be unique in being without a name.

Seldom does a face- a voice- a character- a thought amuse me to a degree Amelie has done. I watched her two years ago. Two years ago, I wanted to fall in love. Two years ago a woman (girl) chipped a piece of me and pocketed in her pocket. She might skip it over a canal. I have watched "Amelie" a number of times (more than the digits on both my hands). Yet, from the very first shot she manages to tickle me. And I laugh. I am particularly sensitive around my foot. She does not have to lay a finger on my foot. Her presence is enough. I laugh. I giggle. I am amused. I am saddened. And in the end I go, "only if..."

It has been six years I have been jotting words down on the back of my notebooks, or printing them on a computer screen. In these years, I have not once written words to her. Maybe someday I will. Only the name will be different. Not Amelie. But with a similar spirit.

For Amelie I thank Jean and his cast and crew.

Tomorrow if someone asks me, "Who was your second love?" Can I say, "Amelie" without blushing at my childishness?

Long Distance

Every now and then we forget the past. But the past is not be forgotten. It returns. Comes crawling back into our lives and thoughts at night. The loneliness of the present gets to you. The chilling cold of the present rattles the very person within- or does a person reside within?

And then we pick up the phone. Flip through diaries that haven't been used in five years. Scurry through the numerous telephone numbers- all with seven digits, add a "2" and the current telephone number pops up. Punch in a collect call number- and then your personal password. The password works. Now the important bit- that portion your dreams having been tugging- "011-91-the rest follows". A lady of age picks up the phone. How do you say who you are? "Dida, Bundai, a friend of your grandson...remember?" Memory. We remember obscure names, and people that have turned into ghosts. Ghosts have voices. I have a voice. Its changed over the years, but the core of it- the broken English, the Indian accent, the jumbled and confused sentence construction have not altered. I am still a fraction of what I was in High school. "Bundai!" An exclamation is necessary. We exchange information, and 5-year stories in five minutes. She gives me a number. My friend's cell phone. I dial, hesitantly, mind you. I have changed. He must have. So I think. The telephone rings, and Lattu picks up.

Its been about six years since we've got in touch.

Five years of our lives compressed into a hour long bag of conversation. They say, "Zindagi bahut choti hai, jina chahiye..." I say, "Are bhai, zindagi khamosh nahin hai, hum ek chupp guha mein kho gaye hain."

The long distance call ends. A renewed conversation begins...