Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Saturday, June 9, 2012
All that’s well and good. But where this brand of cynicism and basic disdain for the country crept into our political landscape frankly escapes me. It is almost laughable now to even waste time wondering why we let people like the Mayawatis, the Rajas, anyone who’s anyone in UP, and successive Central Governments take us for a ride time and again. The why doesn’t matter anymore.
A regressive government remains regressive. Honesty isn’t enough anymore. What is needed is a genuine leader with some sort of vision for the country. And the time for party loyalties is long gone. A Manmohan Singh, while irreproachable personally is so devoid of any passion or initiative that occupying that post becomes redundant. And I say this as an unashamed Congressman. I did believe that they were the right party to govern but two terms of arrogant, corrupt, hostile and chicken hearted rule later- they’ve lost my vote.
What’s worse is that there isn’t an option in sight. We are a nation clamouring in the filth waiting for someone to lead. Someone who passionately believes. Not just in nuclear deals, but who has enough capability to think of all sections of society.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
He's there creeping up on me from behind.
I can feel him. I know his destiny. He doesn't, the poor bugger- but I do.
I pause for a minute before dealing out death and judgement. To think that after all his efforts, it all had to end here, today, now- just as he prepares to take my blood.
Of course I'm justified in protecting myself. My blood is my own and mine to give to who I please.
Reluctantly I raise my weapon and strike. Once- swift and strong. Herculean yes, but when I relish the carcass in my hands there's a bewildering sense of pity.
To think that I lured him to his death is strangely fulfilling. As is the murder I just committed.
The laptop flickers. Death comes to all one day and the laptop is no exception. It is dying- excruciatingly giving up its last breath for me while 'Dexter' plays on its screen.
My eyes flicker between my watch, the laptop, the phone-waiting-for-a-text and the textbook lying in front of me. Without turning my head, just beyond the body I see the half read Wolf Hall. Tilting my head at Hillary Mantel's work I wonder if Anne Boleyn was really the nasty bitch she appears to be so far.
No text yet.
The watch goes tick tick. Time's passing real quick.
Millions of pages left to study. Desire to read it- check. Energy to read- check. Getting down to reading it........awkward pause.
Maud probably wanted the crown for herself, not Henry. Then again, Henry II did have his share of formidable women. Maud as a mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine as his wife. 'How beautiful you make me' Katharine Hepburn's sarcastic, bitter, unforgettable Eleanor of Aquitaine comes to mind. Darned good movie that one.
Luring him to his death was not intentional. It just- happened. Another life lost due to carelessness- it won't really make that much of a difference.
Henry thought that too. But the 'meddlesome priest', albeit dead haunted him no end during the 40 lashes.
Will he- this murder most foul- be the Becket to my Henry? The Banquo to my Macbeth?
When Lady Macbeth asked the spirits to 'unsex me here' what did she really mean? I mean seriously. She just wanted a lay or was she secretly into kink what with all the role playing. Ghosts don't really do it for me but then Monica thought Chandler was turned on by sharks...
It is time.
To dispose of the body.
There will be others. I lie in gleeful wait.
How do I know that? Because the bait's here.
On my bed. Lying in secret, patient wait for prey it knows will come.
And that, will be the end.
So I open my hands and the carcass falls to the floor- bloodless, and so.....dead.
PS: Eating cream biscuits in bed and whiling away time to study that will never return is the freaking BEST way to kill ants. Plus that scene in the link is really genius.
Friday, December 31, 2010
It's all the pressure isn't it? The pressure of HAVING to enjoy oneself. Of making sure you've had a wilder, crazier New Year than anyone else. I feel it right now in fact writing this post- because I want it to be hilarious, poignant, touching, introspective, meaningful and deep all at once. Which obviously isn't going to happen. It'll be another new year blog post lost in the oblivion of thousands of bloggers- teenage girls with bursting hormones and cheating boyfriends, the Mark Zuckerberg wannabes of the world, some dark drunk failed author convincing himself that his time hasn't really passed, the lecherous pedophiles prowling cyberspace for another victim-
My blog post is going to be one among these fine specimens of humanity. Ah well.
But if you stop and look into the stillness and darkness of a whole year gone by, of another dendrochronological ring added to the trunk of our lives, you will find certain experiences that stand out leaving indelible impressions.
I am currently posted on official duty in Sabarimala- a place apparently as holy as-well- comparisons elude me for once. And I have probably not a grain of religion in my body, except from the interested curiosity one has when one looks at a vaguely interesting social pattern of behavior from a safe vantage point. Yet I deigned [;)] to ascend the hill amidst the filth and muck- make no mistake there's a lot of it- suppressing the skepticism to a minimal trickle instead of the usual downpour. It helped I was accompanied-nay, led by someone unquestioning, full of faith and probably infinitely better than me. The ascent itself wasn't hard, we did it quickly.
Right on the top where the shrine stands in its modest beauty, it is absolutely- words fail to describe the ABSOLUTE FILTH there. I remember walking barefoot using only my heel and the tip of my greater toes throughout, my face contorting in the agony of inquisition. And Praise the Lord and all that but with all due respect he sits in a golden altar with golden steps and beautiful clothes. With fair maiden waiting patiently for him a little distance away. Why the devotees need to wade through the foul to prove their piety is something I'll never get.
And yet, there was a moment when I stood, clad in Jeans and a T Shirt outside a run down house looking at it with all the curiosity of a tourist, that I looked around me. In one panoramic view, it was as if I saw the world- the run down buildings, jauntily lit shops, people struggling to see the deity, angry superior looking priests thwarting yet another determined devotee, a huge gathering of black clad devotees chanting loudly and out of tune, dozens of people hobbling past stewing in their own putrid sweat, fires lit outside the temple and a pool with a fountain. And it was here, amidst all this that there was a moment approaching epiphany. I'll dial it down. A moment of acceptance. That this is where I belong. That this country is with all its faults and muck and nonsense, mine. That although I'm dressed in branded clothes right down to my personals, I have no hesitation or embarrassment in claiming these people as my brethren. And if blind unquestioning and unwavering faith be their fault, if the supremely filthy be their calling card then so be it. I will never be one of them but they still figure in the larger set of us the (thankfully) affluent urbanites.
Midnight on 31st will be a swirl of diverse complicated imagery. From brilliant blue bathroom tiles, sharks and turtles, a moment at Cochin airport, the first traumatic duty, an argument on the roadside, the date, the girl, two movies back to back, the ugly rash ridden mangy sickness-to Natalie Portman's supreme moment of realization, the birthdays, wine, wine and sugarless iced tea on Christmas Eve, hats and motorcycles, the stalling of a car at Edapally junction and the random yet unforgettable late nights with friends- all will coalesce in one gigantic eruption of midnight memory.
The huge dilemma on New Year's Eve- Who is hotter- Kate Winslet or Natalie Portman? Winslet's 'The dead are still dead' or Portman's 'You want their names??'. Earth shattering decisions these. I mean why worry about medicine or corruption or family or world peace- when I have to decide which of these women gains the honour of being my new favourite? And don't even get me started on who will dominate the 2011 tennis season.
2011- Federer or Nadal? Common sense says the latter but sport is like constantly changing bedfellows- each new year is the first time. So I'm going to start ratchetting up the non existent tension and hope for a Federer Nadal final in all 4 grand slams, with Federer winning all of them! Granted Roland Garros won't be easy- BUT ITS JUST A MATTER OF THE PERFECT SERVE, FOREHAND, BACKHAND, INCH PERFECT VOLLEYS, APPROACH AND PASSING SHOTS AND NO UNFORCED ERRORS. Who said tennis was difficult?
People make life what it is and this past year I've met people I never thought I would. Or could. Three in particular- C, S and A have affected me like few others. C for his absolute friendship come rain or shine. The discovery of a kindred spirit is a rare occurrence but as I've mentioned before, C isn't even 'like family' or 'like a brother' or any of those oft used, oft sullied terms. He just is. Family/brother. And yes blood is thicker than water and all that but sometimes you find blood outside your home. And then there's no difference.
As for S, he's the Fool to my Lear- endearing, entertaining, entirely lovable- and occasionally, although I hate to admit it and will probably never live it down, capable of thought that approaches wisdom.
The first time I saw a woman naked was when I was 12. (Reference- Titanic. Kate. Necklace. Voila!) And my Grandma was with me. And she said- Kartik, that is what a woman looks like. Family is one thing. You have to love them and care and go through those motions but the difference with a grandmother, and a cool grandmother is that you really cant do without all those things. And cut the sentimental crap she would say, her scotch swirling in her glass. Have a drink and be happy!
Family is as always brilliant. The Mother. The Father. The Sister. The Grandmother. The Grandfather. The Dog. All without whom I'd be lost. The merry flags on the arctic wilderness of my calendar.
About politics, who's less corrupt than whom, who has murdered less people, who slept with whom, who won what award and who the so called 'Indian of the Year' is- I couldn't- actually, won't give a damn. They aren't worth it.
The others are.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Saturday, August 7, 2010
It's been so long since my previous post that I suspect I've forgotten how to write- at least that's what I call this messed up jumble of words that make up this blog. Since I last wrote about buses and Sheldon Cooper, momentous things have happened- not least the fact the Sheldon now has a girlfriend. At least at the end of Season 3. And Sheldon isn't the only one (How my subtleties amuse me, convincing me more and more of my brilliance. Oh and they frequently make me puke in their obvious connotations. You see self deprecating humour is my strong suit too)!
The term 'in sickness and health' struck me as a curious phrase when I was lying in hospital last week undergoing my latest chemotherapy cycle. [LONG PAUSE] Fine, it wasn't chemo- 'twas viral fever to be more- well, accurate. 'An ugly rash ridden mangy creature' is what one of my best friends called me and that was what I had/have become.
Emotionally moved by the above mentioned love and caring shown by my friends, when I got admitted I must admit I felt- and I have to bow down to quotidian common parlance here, much as I hate doing so- Awesome!
Visitors have this advantage of superiority. They have already in my opinion atoned for some sin by visiting a sick person (which, lets face it is a really nice thing to do) and to add to the nicety overdose, they usually bring fruits when all you want is chinese or the next Kate Winslet movie. I had this one- pardon my language- absolutely asinine visitor everyday who came to see how I was and couldn't stop giggling and touching herself. I'm all for flirting but NOT with the cleaning lady. Unless of course it is J Lo from Maid in Manhattan- a film I regrettably endured on hospital TV.
The other type of visitor is the all knowing type- who comes and advises you about a disease which you already know about. But you respect seniority and nod along and pretend not to know when he tells you after a great deal of thought and looking at charts- 'It is viral fever'. 'Is it?' one asks all wide eyed and filled with insincere admiration at the phenomenal diagnostic skills of the hospital hawk.
Then there are those whose job it is to visit, bestow a dazzling smile and leave. Let's not begrudge them their daily bread.
There are those with whom you are good friends but don't get to see them too often because they are caught up doing all the work you were supposed to and really have no time to visit. But it is cool when they do.
Needles. En masse. In a river of blood flowing into my mouth and out through my nostrils. Now that my dreams were beginning to resemble some sort of gross Salvador Dali orgasmic thought process, it was time to get out of prison.
Whether one really loves their better half in 'sickness and health' I have no clue- is it possible to have affection for an ugly mass of tissue? It probably is.
Because it has to be said- that the three friends who visited brought only cheer. Best friends have this way about them and damn do they do a great job of caring.
So yeah- and much as I hate myself for saying the word- whatever!
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
That day hasn't come yet for me. Neither have I yet stumbled on the next genius idea after Harry Potter.
Codswallop. Or considering that Monseiur Tharoor has given new bovine meaning to the phrase 'If pigs could fly (economy)'- Cattlecrap.
Oh and by the way- I can't get enough of The Big Bang Theory. How effing amazing is Sheldon Cooper?