Eventide

He sat alone at his usual spot on the beach as he watched the sun kissed horizon blush into hues of crimson and pink. He lifted a handful of sand and watched it slip through his fingers, fast at first and then reducing to a trickle. 'Moments', he thought, 'slipped out of my fingers just when she filled my arms and now life without her has reduced to this tedious trickle.'

He hadn't had the time to say goodbye and he could never really have brought himself to say it. Tears, emotions and sentiments made him unstable, vulnerable and probably a little more human than he would let himself be. He had not even told her how much he loved her. She, on the other hand, had always been effervescent and articulate and words were not her only form of expression. They came in myriad forms, from gifting him a gold tie pin to say thank you to baking brownies to apologize for burning his favourite shirt. He had almost flown into a rage and yet the moment he saw her brown eyes and the brownies, his knitted brows melted into a smile, that rippled across his lips saying the unspoken words, ‘It’s alright sweetheart’. He needed no words to communicate when expressions sufficed.

And yet today he wished he could have those grains of moments back when he could tell her a million times how much he cherished her. The thought that she was so far away made even the gentle evening breeze seem cold and heartless. There were so many memories in the breeze, the sand and the sea and even a million waves couldn’t wipe out those memories. He remembered how they drove his speedboat over the raucous waters every summer and how he chased her down the lashing waves till they were soaking wet and he scooped her into his arms and carried her back home. They needed nothing else and no one else in their happy little microcosm.

But he knew this day was coming and a part of him wished it away despite its inevitability. He resented every man she even spoke to and withdrew into a shell not speaking to her for days when she questioned his behaviour. He thought she would understand, like she always did. She couldn’t take his autocratic and distrusting attitude. She felt stifled in the unfathomable labyrinth of his silence and left him a letter explaining everything.

When he read the letter, it first made him laugh deliriously, he was confident that she would come back for she loved him too dearly. A part of his brain also reminded him that he had taught her to be the master of her own decisions and that she was by no means trifling with him. For the second time in his life he sobbed uncontrollably and helplessly. He frantically called the police and they said they could do nothing in the matter.

As years of unshed tears dried up in his eyes, he got up and dusted off his pants he felt a familiar arm touch his shoulder. He knew it was her before he even heard her voice say, “The most beautiful sunset isn’t it?” He turned around and embraced her and planted a million kisses on her face when he spotted a young man standing a few feet away behind her. She pulled both of them together so they could meet. “Dad, Josh and I are married. Would you like to come live with us?” Tears rolled down his eyes and he said, “Of course my dear. I love your brownies.”

Capitalistic Conspiracy

In what seems like a mainstream realization of the greed that capitalism breeds, Michael Moore packs a punch with 'Capitalism a love story'. It is a more contemporary version of what 'Zeitgeist' and 'The Money Masters' attempted to unveil long before the big avalanche on the stock market in 2008. Were they just conspiracy theories or was capitalism the real conspiracy?

The movie starts off with an attempt to define the capitalism that US once romanced and got married to during Reagan's era. The honeymoon was long over but even as America tries to come to terms with the real avaracious and shortsighted face of the ideology it married to spite Russia, it is in serious denial that anything can go wrong with it. As it grapples with it's own daily battles to survive this bad marriage, everyone from Paul Krugman to Michael Moore is screaming for a divorce. They are calling for government regulation and not 'free enterprise'. The moment such a thing is even suggested, one gets labeled as a commie because a large part of America still thinks economic ideology is binary: capitalist or communist. There is no happy medium and even though Obama burst onto the scene with promises to rescue people's money, they do not want socialism because they view it as a betrayal to the very foundation on which their nation grew to such great heights and was revered by the world. But Michael Moore questions this sense of betrayal stating that the founding fathers of America never laid down capitalism as the pedestal of this country.

The movie has the uncut version of everything that got onto Michael Moore's camera especially if it was sensational like a guard at GM denying the filmmaker access into the building. But it is not unedited random shooting: it spoke a language that people in the theater cheered and identified with as their own. It told a story of broken homes and broken cities that vaguely resembled the crumbling erstwhile USSR. It told a story of broken dreams, despair, angst and outrage that raged across the nation like wildfire within a span of a year. But Moore doesn't simply stop at the disease and its symptoms, he also tells the story of the healing process: worker protests and co-operative societies forming companies : something that India has long adopted as a socialist nation, something that for once, I believe the architects of our nation did not get wrong!

Moore finally ends with his trademark symbolic shenanigans: parading outside Wallstreet trying to make a citizen's arrest of the bank CEOs and cordoning off the NYSE building with crime scene tapes. What intrigued me the most was not so much the content or theme, but the fact that artists have some of the most powerful instruments and vocabularies to reach out and make their thoughts heard and yet it is very few artists who take that gift and become the voice of the society.

The Choice is Yours

Volition, like most other gifts of democracy, comes with a price and a burden of responsibility. Whether we choose for ourselves consciously, making an educated decision, or the choice is forced upon us by circumstances, it is each one's prerogative to defend one's choice but not impose it on others. In a social environment that debates every single choice and silos them into stereotypes, it almost becomes imperative to be able to justify one's stand on anything from personal habits to sociopolitical issues. Unfortunately, these debates seldom end in a 'we-don't-see-eye-to-eye-on-that-but-we-won't-sock-each-other's-eyes-out' ceasefire: they are raked up every now and then, resulting in one too many blackened eyes, of course, only verbally.

I often get asked questions about my vegetarianism and distaste for alcoholic beverages. Although my answers vary according to the level of intelligence and state of consciousness of the inquirer, I found that most meat eaters and beer drinkers insist that I am missing out on something good in my life.

To be completely honest, I did sip a few alcoholic drinks just to find out what it is that makes people want to drink it all the time and I still do find it a mystery. For those who have never tasted it, in my humble opinion, it is mostly repulsive in flavour and odour. What I find more outrageous and condescending, though, is the persistence of these folks in their attempts to initiate me in their 'gang'. Well, they aren't so much concerned about being 'inclusive and considerate' when they talk amongst themselves in a tongue foreign to others, but oh no, they have to get include everyone in getting stoned out of their senses by morning whether they are 'Delhiites', 'Gultis', 'Mumbaikars' or 'Bongs'! If only our interstate wars could be solved by tequila shots - cheers to national integration Hic hic Hurray!

When it comes to finding vegetarian food, I thought UK was pretty bad, but I had another thing coming when I came to the US: it stinks! No wonder you see people around carrying three truck tires around their bellies, because anything and everything must have cheese in it. Much to the frustration of my friends who eat anything that flies, hops, runs and poops, I continue to send them on a wild goose chase for a restaurant that serves vegetarian food, which only results in yet another veg versus non-veg debate.

On a more general note, almost everyday I see a bunch of 'pro-life' supporters picketing around the Women's med center which is presumably the place abortions are done. I have even see a priest come and sermonize people about the sanctity of human life. While I personally hold a very moderate view on the issue, I do believe that assuming the women in question know the status of their fetuses and are allowed to choose to keep the baby or abort, these protestors of abortion should respect their choices. Although that appears to be pro-choice, I believe, the women should be made fully aware about how much their fetuses have developed and they might essentially be killing another human. Having said that, most 'pro-life' campaigns are almost akin to the moral policing that is prevalent in India, except that, so far, it has not been blatant or physical.

People are adept at using their freedom of speech and undertaking unsolicited advising like they are being paid for it. I believe that such self appointed advisors find every opportunity to reaffirm conviction in their own choices by advocating them to others and recruiting yet another member into their 'tribe'. There's almost a social need to be just like everybody and yet the individuals who are considered exemplars are ones who walked against the social tide even to the point of ostracization for standing by their beliefs. So yes, I am advising people to lay off the gratuitous advice: please choose to respect others choice.

Gross Anatomy

Warning: People who are squeamish about body parts should avoid reading this. Even if you are not, do not read this while eating. Don't blame me if you barf your lunch on your favorite laptop!

Pep talk to self pre-course: "This isn't going to be too bad. After all you have done dissections in the past on rats and despite the initial disgust you felt for the whole process, it turned out pretty interesting, didn't it? You have also been to the 'Bodies' exhibition. I am sure it's not a big deal."

In the classroom: "I am the only girl in this class! I am sure none of these guys are vegetarians! I am doomed! I don't even have scrubs! Arrrrggghhh! Let me out of here..."

In the Lab: Dr. P: " ....most students do not have a problem with this lab. But occasionally there are cases..."
Cases of what? Students swooning, vomitting, having nightmares of cadavers running after them?
Dr. P: "Just make sure when you are not feeling ok, you raise your hand and I will have someone walk you out. Some students just walk out of the room without saying anything and it's only when I hear the crash in the hallway that I realize that they must have had a problem with what they saw."
'Gulp! I am next in line for that.' Dr. P noticed the horror writ all over my face and thought, 'Oh yes you are.'

Dr. P started making an incision from the nape of the neck and I could feel the hair on my neck stand. As he got down to the superficial fascia and layer of fat, I could feel my morning cuppa tea trying to make its way out the wrong way. The nauseating smell of fat subdued the odoriferous formaldehyde and began to overwhelm my olfactory nerve till my head starts to spin and I decided that I've had enough. Steve accompanied me out to the lounge outside.

Pep-talk to self post incision incident: "That lady was dead years ago. She cannot feel pain. Yes it takes just a scalpel to skin a person! She voluntereed to give her body for science so her soul won't wince at what we are doing to her. Go back in there, girl, and validate her sacrifice."

So back I was all pumped up to wrestle with the fat and the muscle and the blood and everything human that could possibly ruin my apetite for the rest of the day. 10 minutes into the dissection and I was right back in the lounge trying to get some air into my lungs.

Pep-talk to self post failed pep talk: "You are not a mouse! It is a human body just like your own. This is a one time opportunity to see how it all fits in together and works. C'mon clench your fist and say you can do it."

For the rest of the class I hovered around the table scalpel in hand just observing the dissections of the back muscles and even that made me rush back home after class and shower till my body became red. My olfactory senses became fully functional only after smelling and drinking coffee. Thankfully my apetite returned too.

Since then it's been less bumpy on the road to understanding human anatomy. I think I am getting the hang of telling the blood vessels and nerves apart and needless to say, it is immensely interesting. I believed it's the initial inhibition both physiological as well as psychological, one needs to overcome. If anything, being a vegetarian in an anatomy class makes it easier for me to handle what I am doing. The food I eat rarely looks like a body part. But every once in a while, there are cases : teammates who will insist on cutting open the gall bladder and insisting it looks like spinach, Dr. P cutting open the caecum with gloves covered in semi-formed faeces, dissection around the anus, turning the cadavers over and the arms almost detaching from the body, fat splaying on people's faces, dissection of the testis with fluid oozing out of it...it never ceases to get grosser and I spend a lot of time in the lounge!

'Altar'native Rock

They all waited with baited breath with eyes pealed on the giant altar. Some of them restless by the long wait and tedious distractions that made minutes seem like months. Some of them up on their feet ready to herald the arrival of their demigods. Some jostling among the early birds to get ahead of the crowd and get a priceless glimpse of the demigods. This could easily have been a scene at a popular Indian temple, except that instead of prasadam there was pizza, instead of agarbattis there were ciggies, instead of teertham there was beer and instead of the devotees rising to their feet chanting mantrams at the unveiling of the idol, the fans rose to their feet singing the leitmotif of 'Viva La Vida' at the arrival of Coldplay. Blasphemous? Maybe. The euphoria surrounds when you are standing in the middle of a rock concert, just as the beating of the drums and the cymbals do when you are in a temple during the Aarti. Of course, one cannot begin to equate the madness of rock music fans with the devotion of Hindu followers.

I have always been a great admirer of the Coldplay's compositions and lyrics and hoped to see them perform live some day. And Voila! They landed right here in Cincinnati. While it was anticipated that they would jump start their performance with the most popular Viva La Vida, they started with an instrumental 'Life in Technicolor' instead, which although not entirely disappointing didn't seem as quite appropriate for the start. While the crowd in the pit and the benches seemed to have a great direct view of the band and their shenanigans, back in the lawn, we were trying to use our psychic powers to request for our favorite numbers. Just as I was screaming 'Fix you' Chris Martin dedicated the number to all of us 'lesser' souls out on the lawn. Somehow the lyrics of that song strike a chord with a lot of what one goes through in life and the fact that the 'lights will guide you home', while being awfully cliched, is perhaps one of the most reassuring thoughts one could hope.

Violet Hill soon became Cincinnati Hill and huge yellow balloons descended during their rendition of Yellow. The whole band then decided to tour the Riverbend Amphitheater and they even made a pit stop at the lawns, where they regaled us with a cover of Neil Diamond's 'I'm a believer'. We were just a few feet away from their stage and couldn't believe our eyes and actually couldn't stop screaming our lungs out. Chris Martin looked positively stoned and yet incredibly charismatic and attractive. N and I were pinching each other to make sure we were actually seeing Chris Martin from such proximity. N had a good mind to jump across the crowd and try to shake his hand but decided she didn't want to be arrested for hooliganism.

The band then pretended it was over and time to go home, when we were wondering why they didn't play the hugely popular 'Scientist' yet and screaming out the leitmotif of Viva La Vida. They returned on stage and obliged us with 'Scientist', an encore of 'Death and his Friends' and 'Escape'. The cherry on the top was the free CD of their most popular compositions that we received at the end of their concert.

I am certainly not one of those maniacal fans who follows the band, star-struck, around the world and worships even their sweat. I am not even one of those devoted fans who shells out 400 bucks for a front row seat at a concert, buys every CD that comes out into the market and remembers all the lyrics of all their songs like nursery rhymes. I am just a curious fan who paid 50 bucks for a good time in the lawn with friends and aquaintances, got my money's worth seeing them as close as the front benchers and came home with memories of having screamed like a teenager till I nearly lost my voice.

Shards of faith

She handed him an urn of innocent clay
Borne from the gentle, pristine earth
Unsullied by the squalor of the sly
Shaped by her open palms of faith.

It had no pomp of silver or gold
Nor embellishments of outer design.
A labour of love that would hold
The true reflection of their mind.

‘Twas to be burnt in the kiln of pain
And endure the merciless test of fire
But fortified by love it would remain
Indestructible by forces higher.

Alas, it fell from those callous hands
‘fore it could mould into permanence.
Smashing as it hit the veritable land
And she picked up the pieces in silence.

The crumbling pieces filled her hands
As she fervently fixed the urn again.
But now defiled by amorphous sand
The purity of ere it would never regain.

Her quivering heart upon him turned
Questioning those hands that wavered
Her reflection drained through the broken urn
Leaving her trust unanswered.

-Kirthi Radhakrishnan

I dream of a White Christmas

As the smoke smoulders over the Mumbai 26/11 attacks and the Indian media insisting on fanning the flames by reeling out images 24/7 and mindlessly interviewing every Tom, Dick and Harry who has an opinion about it, I believe its time people stopped the finger pointing and mourning and started thinking of affirmative action.

All the media can do is keep reminding us of how tragic the whole incident was and keep scratching the scab so that the wound never heals. It has only one purpose, like all cheap entertainment: to titillate; by either voyeurism, fear or sorrow. It seldom talks to the right persons who have concrete and useful solutions, because it truly seeks no answers and probably because the right people hopefully would be on top of the problem rather than speaking with a bunch of looney journalists who could kill each other for a sound byte from some 'important-sounding' person. Peace protests and boards filled with messages of solidarity only serve at best to unite people until the time they forget the tragedy and go back to their microcosms.

With every tragedy come the scapegoats and inevitably the first on the firing line are the politicians. The people are ostensibly tired of politicians and the media seems to fire it back to the people for not exercising their franchise: like it would make a difference! Its the same herd of jackasses up for elections each time and they just keep playing musical chairs: once in the opposition, the next time in the ruling. Our country is what it is, whether good, bad or ugly not because of our government but because of the people: right from the rickshaw driver to the corporate honcho. The politician serves only as comic relief.

The next heads to roll are obviously those of the Pakistani government and to date all the diplomatic and not so diplomatic ways of getting them to be declared a terrorist state have proven to be futile. Even if we have them declared a terrorist state, would that stop them from producing and harbouring jehadis? Would that give us a tangible excuse to go to war against Pakistan? War between two countries has never served any purpose more fruitful than a shouting match between two raucous juveniles: no matter who win., The former get battered economies and piling debt unpayable for any forseeable future and the latter get their larynxes battered and can't speak for a forseeable future. There are a lot of countries out there that could benefit from this war given the global economic situation, and one of them most certainly isn't India or Pakistan.

In this whole post-mortem of the terrorist attacks a few things were blurred out of the context. One cannot keep one's safe unlocked and expect no one to steal. The whole process of tackling the terrorists left a lot to be desired: for one we were caught napping, next our forces did not have the right ammunition, the commandos reach the hotel and then rummage for maps and layouts and further the terrorists used GPS when our average joe NSG commando would never have laid eyes on one! It beats me how a country with top IT giants can fail at the most rudimentary tranferrence of information.

Now that the war is no longer fought in battlefields of Panipat or for that matter Kargil, one would expect the security forces to be armed for such civilian warfare and on their Christmas wish-list would be getting the right arms and ammunitions and fast enough, getting briefed about the layout and locations well in advance and to top it all getting the media out of their hair when they are on an operation. With an apathetic government, a Prime Minister and a President who are a travesty to the posts they hold, one can only expect inaction from them on this wishlist. Its time corporate India which has so far been a silent spectator, largely viewed by the public as an emblem of capitalistic greed and an equally visible finger pointer in this whole circus begins to take affirmative action and becomes the 'secret Santa' of our security forces. Corporations like Tatas, Wipro and Infosys have been pioneering in trying to effect social and infrastructural changes in cities like Jamshedpur and Bangalore. I am sure the security forces would be happy to use CCTV cameras installed in public areas, lobbies and hallways of commercial buildings, databases containing layouts of buildings and for God's sake a good PR who would get those rapacious media hyenas out of the way and cordone off the area before they start a tea party amidst gunfire.

Ideas of having paid public toilets, of installing pollution meters, of manning traffic during rush hours, of building a city around steel plants took birth within corporations that looked beyond merely profit margins and annual turnovers. They sought to change the situation around them not just point fingers and blame lazy governments. Lazy governments came and went and yet the cities that survived were those with responsible corporates. It is time that those within corporate India cogitate and percolate such ideas with the powers that be to reclaim our belief that we the people truly run our country.