A Newbie Voter Whines

Last week, Vijay Mallya shelled out 1.8 million dollars in order to bring Gandhiji's personal effects to India. This week, Varun Gandhi tells the crowd at a BJP rally: "If someone slaps you on one cheek, you should turn the other. I haven't heard such a stupid thing in my entire life." Varun Gandhi. Great-grandson of Nehru, a man who looked up Gandhi as a mentor. Saying this. 
*silence*

But I'm going to leave Varun Gandhi alone (for now). He has enough on his plate: a disapproving BJP leadership and a particularly strong-minded Election Commission. 
Oh, and angry Muslims of course.

What I'm *really* interested in is the incredibly motley array of political behaviour that suddenly manifests a few months before the elections of which Varun Gandhi's comments are just small part off. It's almost surreal. It follows no conceivable set of rules or laws. You switch on the television and you see things like Lalu Prasad Yadav giving Ram Vilas Paswan a bear hug with an indecipherable smirk on his face. You see an educated, refined, polished, English-speaking Varun Gandhi explain to reporters that the he believes that the CD that was given to the EC was doctored right after you see the same Varun Gandhi (in the same clothes) deliver a fiery, incredibly irresponsible hate-speech in Hindi. We've had two trust votes in the last week itself, one of which was won by a 'voice vote'. I repeat: a 'voice vote'! Turn on any news channel at 9 and you will, more often then not, see two or more spokespeople from as many parties answer every question with a: "Our party believes this. Their party believe that. Vote for us." And our journalists. Our beloved, over-zealous, drunk with power journalists. What shall we do with you? Or without, for that matter.

Truth be told, this is the first Indian election I've followed so closely. It is also the first Indian election I will have the privilege of taking part in. And I catch myself wondering every once in a while if what I'm going to be taking part in is even democracy to begin with.
Take for example, seat-sharing. Two or more parties entering into a wonderful little agreement that essentially deprives the voter of democratic choice. What really disturbs me is the logic behind seat-sharing: I'm pretty damn sure I'm going to win this constituency because our party's been winning here since, well, hell, since forever so, hey, since we're friends why don't you lay off this one and I'll lay off a constituency where you have a similar advantage. 

And then we have India's infamous vote-bank politics. L.K. Advani, in his blog (I'm not going to promote it because I vote Congress. =P), talks about how Gujjars in a particular constituency would all vote BJP because the incumbent MP was Gujjar and non-Gujjars would also vote BJP because, knowing that the Gujjar vote would probably bring the BJP MP into power, they didn't want to waste their vote. To hell with election manifestos. Let's vote for someone with the same surname. Or someone who looks like he/she's winning.

On some level, it makes sense. It's hard for someone like me to digest, but it makes sense. Seat-sharing represents the new-era of coalition politics, where parties that are somewhat similar club themselves together into shoddy but working alliances. Coalition politics takes the idea of checks and balances to a new level. A few days ago, at the release of the CPM election manifesto, Karat shared how in the four years the Left was part of the UPA, it blocked several decisions that (Karat claims) have prevented the global economic downturn from devastating India. Karat may be right or wrong, and that really isn't my concern, but he raises an interesting point. Don't politically diverse alliances ensure that all sides of an argument are adequately explored before decisions are taken? Commie-bashers repeatedly bring up the issue of the Left slowing down the Indo-US nuclear deal. But what about the Left's blockage of bills that would've have increased FDI inflow to our insurance companies a few years ago? A bill, that if passed, would've have dragged us (or at least our insurance companies) into the mire of today's economic mess.
And vote-bank politics. As undemocratic as it may seem at face-value (and to people like me who are used to keeping tabs on American politics), in a representative system of democracy, it's completely valid. Take Mayawati for example. The world was inspired when Barack Obama became President of the United States. A black man, a member of a community that a little over forty years ago couldn't even vote, becoming one of the most powerful men in the world. It had an almost fairy-tale allure to it. Mayawati, and I make this comparison very carefully, is almost an Indian Barack Obama. A Dalit, she comes from a community oppressed for not decades, not centuries, but millennia. She is currently serving her fourth term as the chief minister of a state that has a population roughly half the size of the US. Her party holds absolute majority in the state's legislative assembly (a rare occurrence in Indian politics) And she has her eyes set on the prime ministership. Now, for a person like me, that's a little too hard to swallow. And it's not even a caste-issue. It's the issue of a non-English speaking, unrefined (according, of course, to what I consider 'refined') person taking charge of this country's future for five years. 

Roughly 16% of India's population, however, would beg to differ. Along with the millions of others that go through the same struggles that Dalit's go through and can relate more wholly to a person like Mayawati then to a person like, say, Sonia Gandhi. Mayawati's rise of to power is partly based on the BSP's successful manipulation of vote-bank politics. And, again, it's incredibly hard for me to digest but to millions of Dalits in UP and around India, voting in a Dalit just because he/she is a Dalit is how democracy works for them. It's their chance to vote for someone that understands the intricacies of their existence and to claim their place in India's destiny as a democracy.

Honestly, the Indian democratic exercise makes my head spin. And hopefully, in elections to come, it'll make more sense. I often imagine how our forefathers, 62 years ago, felt on the midnight of Independence. How frightening and exciting and uncertain it must have felt to suddenly realize that you were in charge of your own destiny. And today, through all the noise and riff-raff, the Bollywood-ish twists and turns and spins of Indian politics, I believe there's a little bit of that fright and excitement that remains when every voter goes to the polls. And a little bit of that uncertainty. Collectively, we're still a nation trying to find our feet as a democracy, evolving election by election. In a country so diverse our national language is only spoken by roughly 40% of our population, the setting in of a concrete system of democracy that truly represents all Indians will take time and a lot of trial and error. And that gives the newbie voter/spectator a little solace.

Ah hell, it'll probably do more damage than good: http://blog.lkadvani.in/

The Dreaded Interview

Stop.

I said, stop!

Puff the Magic Dragon *sniff sniff*

This the first song to ever make me cry. Almost a decade later, it still makes me sad. You have to listen to it.

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called honah lee,
Little jackie paper loved that rascal puff,
And brought him strings and sealing wax and other fancy stuff. oh

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called honah lee,
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called honah lee.

Together they would travel on a boat with billowed sail
Jackie kept a lookout perched on puffs gigantic tail,
Noble kings and princes would bow wheneer they came,
Pirate ships would lower their flag when puff roared out his name. oh!

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called honah lee,
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called honah lee.

A dragon lives forever but not so little boys
Painted wings and giant rings make way for other toys.
One grey night it happened, jackie paper came no more
And puff that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar.

His head was bent in sorrow, green scales fell like rain,
Puff no longer went to play along the cherry lane.
Without his life-long friend, puff could not be brave,
So puff that mighty dragon sadly slipped into his cave. oh!

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called honah lee,
Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called honah lee.

Pastor Thomas Lincoln (R.I.P)

This is fresh. Raw. I can't find the words to say.
May there be quieter waters on the other shore.
And may we have the grace to Hope.

Hello World!

To be very honest, this blog is still an obscure, tiny lifeboat. I'm not getting hundreds of clicks every day. But I'm just so kicked about the few people that visit my site from around the world and actually stay around to read stuff on it. Blogging doesn't feel like a useless exercise anymore. Below, a map of my visitors from around the world. From StatCounter (highly recommended, it's beautifully simple and free!).

This Is Not A Eulogy

Johnny. Bro. This is not a eulogy. You're not gone. You've just been misplaced. Tempoarily lost. One day, years after you're found, we'll look back on this and laugh. This is not a goodbye.
I think about you a lot nowadays man. I have so many memories of you. More than most other people at Kodai 'cause I grew up with you too. I remember playing outside every evening. That destructive phase us guys all went through. How ardently we all tried to screw up my BMX Twister. We gave it away to some a few years ago by the way. It was in tip-top condition.
I remember applying to Kodai together and getting in together and experiencing our first night away from home together. I remember getting through the toughest times of boarding school together. We had our differences. We had our fights. I guess when you know someone too well, you tend to take them for granted a little. I have memories of fights and confrontations also. But, even they, Johnny, even they make me miss you more. It was all part of vibrant, motley package you were. Johnathan Marak.
I remember soccer in the rain. How we used to nickname you the 'One Man Army'. How you sent the defense scattering when you charged in. I remember Swedish House and all our dumbass exploits. I remember that old, abandoned house in the Swedish Compound. And camping out on the basketball court, making baked beans over the watchman's fire.
I remember our band. The one Shaggy called 12:01 because we were supposed to have a name by noon and we didn't so he just looked at the time on his watch and named us that. I remember playing No Woman No Cry with Neeraj on the drums. And practicing Innocent and Hero in the cage with that shitty drumset. I remember us getting banned for the Rock Concert because Kirtan threw the duster at the health teacher.
I remember digging that well for villagers at Bharatnagar. You and Aditi. Hehe. And ninth grade field trip! How Aditi and Mercy had to clean the whole room after we had finished. ; ) And how I rolled out of bed and walked across the balcony to Suchirita's room! I remember the cast party for the 9th and 10th One Act Plays and that crazy night. That night when four of us went down. I remember writing that email to your parents when you got caught smoking at school. I remember writing that email thrice man. You never learnt then. And I blame myself somehow.
I remember that Sunday so fucking clearly it scares me. I remember there was smoke everywhere and roaches on the window sills and weed on the floor. I remember how my heart stopped when the dorm-relief walked in. I remember how I got that feeling. The beginning of the end.
I remember planning to bribe the medical store man. Being called in for questioning by Mrs. Ford. Hating her. Hating the system. I remember, like it was yesterday, Sid shrugging and saying that there was no point praying to God about this. We were in the wrong anyways. We couldn't ask God to change the rules of morality. I remember wanting to punch him for saying that. But knowing, deep inside, that he was right. He was dead-on right.
I remember the day we all said goodbye. I remember that imaginary toast I proposed, my voice cracking. All of us standing outside Lochend. Waiting for your bus. I remember walking you to the bus-stop at 6. Saying our last goodbyes. The promises to keep in touch. You'd be back in May to visit. All that. Seeing you one last time. Walking back to school as you rode on to another life.
I remember how the remaining two and a half years of school just wasn't the same without you. But we got by. You called. Aditi stayed on for a semester and she moved on to Sam. The phone-calls got sparser. We tried emailing. I hadn't heard from you in ages.
And then I remember the day I found out. I had known you had ran away from home. But the day I found out that there was a possibility you were dead, I remember how crushed I felt. How helpless. I remember staying awake till two in the night, wondeing if somewhere out there, you were alive or not. I couldn't bear the thought of you dying alone somewhere, under some bridge, with no hope in sight. I couldn't bear the thought of you dead. I still can't. I can't bring myself to think of it in that way. I hope you didn't do it man. I hope you're just bloody good at hiding. You always were when we were kids. You were always the last one to be found at hide and seek. I hope you didn't do it. You have so much to live for. We were supposed to start a band together. Make music. Laugh. Cry. Live.
I still hope bro. I swear, I always will. Until you're found. Alive or otherwise. I always will.
But Johnny. This is not a eulogy. This is not goodbye.

[ If anyone has any information about a Johnathan Marak who has been missing for seven months, please contact the author at pukstar@gmail.com ]

Disgusting

From the comments section of a blog:

Hi sir your shivaji filam is very good sir you are alwes superstar sir
thanks. - shivakumar H Y

super star is the ultimate star.
He is the best one to be draged in the indian filim industry.
nobody can touch his move ,style,expressions espacially coool
and casual - prithi

I accept he doesn't have great body...but who cares...
we all need entertainment and fun and may be some message in movie....that we get 100000000000% in rajini's movie... - Maddy

I am utterly disgusted by such people. Utterly.

The Calm Before the Storm

The LGM-118A Peacekeeper MIRVed land-based ICBM. Conventional nuclear missles carry one warhead. The Peacekeepr carries ten, each capable of hitting ten different targets. Each warhead is armed with a 300-kiloton W87 warhead. It was designed to be a counter measure against missile-defense systems and was, in particular, a counter-measure agaisnt hardened Russian missile silos housing the ten-warhead SS-18 MIRVed land-based ICBM.
In the above time-lapsed picture, a Peacekeeper missile is being tested at the Kwajalein Atoll. Each line you see against the sky represents one nuclear warhead. And each warhead has the explosive power of 25 Hiroshimas. In total, that's 250 Hiroshimas. That's 35,000,000 deaths, if one tends to conversatively estimate. That's almost the entire population of Poland.
One missile.
And yet, this picture made my heart skip a beat. Luminous white lines, penetrating the clouds, lighting up the pre-dawn sky. It's almost angelic.
3000 kilotons of horrific beauty.

Kyunki Saas...

Okay, I swear this happens only when I have literally nothing else to do. Once in a while, at night, I catch a few minutes of Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi. Let it be known: I DO NOT ENJOY IT! (At least not as much as my mom). I honestly, honsetly, find them stupid.
A lot of people I know have a similar aversion to Hindi soaps. They're so surreal. Too surreal for anyone's good. The stupid effects, the climaxes, the overdose of sentimentality. Everything is blown out of proportion. If I were to show a Western audience a sample of Indian television, I would have serious issues including shows like Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi. In fact, I would omit much of what is shown on Indian television today.
But I've always wondered how serials like this manage to run. In April 2005, the show celebrated it's 1000th episode. Quite an achievement! However, the Indian media is highly critical, if not downright bitchy, about such television. How do such shows manage to keep running?
One of the primary driving forces behind such television is Ekta Kapoor. Variously referred to as the Queen of Soaps, a diety of Indian television etc, etc, it's people like Ekta Kapoor that are to blame for shows like Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi. She was on a interview with Karan Johar on Star World the other day (and I watch that also only when I'm utterly bored!). To start with let me say that I was utterly taken aback by her maturity and overall elegance. Uptil then she was just some evil witch that gave us Indians television that we were ashamed of. But she carried herself on like the Queen she is claimed to be. And secondly, she said something that really made sense and explained to me how people like me can scorn and critisize her work like we do (and more importantly, how the Indian media can unforgivingly attack her work) and how she can still maintain such a massive fanbase.
"The people that are actually watching and the people that are talking are two different sets of people" she said.
I think it's clear which group of people I feature in. The point she made was that there are millions that can somehow relate to the exaggerated lives of these soap stars, follow their pains, their sorrows. There are people that live lives that I can't even imagine living.
Honestly, what right do I, do they, have in criticizing a show that can do that. A truer test of a piece of art's value is it's audience.
Until I'm the audience, until you're the audience, I think we better shut up.

My Personal Statement for Lynn University

I rarely boast about my own writing but this is brilliant. It's a personal statement I wrote for Lynn University in the states. I think I got in. But then again, with writing like this, who the hell could refuse? Lol. Forgive me but, hey, I'm allowed to be egostical once in while.

Someone I know once complained that her dreams lacked strength and that her passions were futile. I consider myself to be a fairly contemplative person, rather idealistic at times, and such a statement caused me to question the very nature of my own dreams and the quintessence of my passions. Though the incident may seem inconsequential, it provoked me to reevaluate my life so far and who I ultimately wish to be. And though the question seems to be yet another of Life’s mysteries we are simply meant not to make sense of, I felt a deep loss when it occurred to me that my dreams and passions may be too weak and futile to be realized.

Since I entered high school, I have dreamt of becoming a doctor. I nurtured my dream into my senior year, and along with my compassion for the underprivileged of India, decided to dedicate my life to the many that lack basic health care. My passion for writing, at one point of time, conflicted with this dream but I realized the fact that writing can be treated, with equal interest and dedication, as a hobby alongside an occupation. In India, the dream of becoming a doctor is immensely clichéd. Indian parents wish for their child to become either a doctor or an engineer merely because of the financial stability and social standing that is attained in doing so. My liberal (yet inherently Christian) upbringing allowed me the freedom of realizing my own dreams and my parents did not impose their desires on me. I am justified, thus, in considering my intention of becoming a doctor as a product of genuine passion and aspiration. Yet, all this hung by a single thread of faith as I considered the frightening possibility: were my dreams essentially hollow? Was I revolving my whole life around castles in the sky? Was there anything else except mere fancy that comprised the passion that saturated my dreams? All my life I had believed in the potency of my dreams and, for the first time, I found myself questioning their very constitution.

The profundity and beauty of truth lies in the fact that it is experienced in one’s moment of extreme vulnerability. Through all the noise that deafened my mind in my moment of doubt, it was the small, pure whisper of truth that seemed the most certain. I just had to recognize it. I realized that my dreams did lack strength and that my passions were futile. But what did my dreams need to be stronger then? What made my passions futile? It was in my moment of truth that I realized that the only things my dreams had to be stronger than were my doubts; the only thing that can limit the power of my passions is myself. When I become my future, the future becomes mine.

2 Corinthians 4:16-18

Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.
Amen.

Smooth Operator

Okay, honestly, the music in this cyber cafe is wannabe. Smooth Operator?

Went to visit my mum's side of the family a.k.a the side of the family I hardly know. It was a little embarresing to find out that half of these people knew pretty much everything about my life and I couldn't even remember their names. I'm such an asshole! I don't deserve to have an extended family.

There's this really cute chick sitting in the next cubicle. The only thing turning off about her is the way she speaks Malayalam. Coupled with the fact that she's humming Smooth Operator. But that's something I could work around. If my mother has her way and I (God forbid) end up marrying a Keralite chick, here's a chick I probably wouldn't mind marrying.

Marriage? God, that's ages away. Or so it seems. If there's one thing I've learnt today, it's that time flies.

PLEASE stop humming Smooth Operator!!

Tiruvella

I love the streets of Tiruvella. They're narrow, winding, a little pot-holed. Imperfect. But authentic. My second day here and boredom has begun to seep in. I know practically NO1 at all in Tiruvella. I mean, I have my cousins and uncles and aunts but I have literally NO friends at all here. It's not so bad though. No social obligations. You have your life to yourself. No-one to hurt. No-one to hurt you. And the whole point of coming here was to get away from the mess Pune's become. But I still miss it a little.
Part of me wants to believe that everything would somehow sort itself by the time I get back. That, somehow, my absence would catalyze the arrival to some settlement, some conclusion, some end, whichever end it may be. The other part of me knows that that's just wishful thinking. I have a lot to face when I get back...! Results. People. People.

My grandmother's is so outdated it's not funny. She stills refers to the middle-east as 'Persia'! Persia?? WTF? It's cute though.
I like the way old people speak. It's so childish.

My time's up.

I'll remember this Internet cafe. GMail took less then 2 minutes to load! Quite an achievement in this part of the world!

Ende Patti Aiyyo!

In Kerala. It's hot. It's humid. And it's near impossible to find a decent Internet cafe (no offence buddy but your connection sucks). I've realized how addicted I am to the Internet and how much of my life revolves around it.
I have nothing deep or profound to write about today. I'm pretty much culture-shocked. How sad is that? Culture-shocked by your own culture!
But I promise you that the moment I get accustomed to this place, I'll be back. =)

God, it's so bloody hot!

Jeremiah 29:11

For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.
Amen.

Some Insane Grafitti

These are two of my favourites. There's much more here.

Light Up My Room

A hydro field cuts through my neighborhood
Somehow that always just made me feel good
I can put a spare bulb in my hand
And light up my yard

Late at night when the wires in the walls
Sing in tune with the din of the falls
I'm conducting it all while I sleep
To light this whole town

If you question what I would do
To get over and be with you
Lift you up over everything
To light up my room

There’s a shopping cart in the ravine
Foam on the creek is like pop and ice cream
A field full of tires that is always on fire
To light my way home

There are luxuries we can’t afford
But in our house we never get bored
Cause we can dance to the radio station
That plays in our teeth

If you question what I would do
To get over and be with you
Lift you up over everything
To light up my room
My room

I loved this song long before I ever knew what it meant.
It made me love Home.

Passive

"I went to Bermuda this weekend. What did you do? Watched poker on TV?"
"NO!"
Silence. Thinking.
"I played it on the Internet."

It rained today. I was playing the guitar when it started raining. I played along to the pattering for a while and then imagined the rain pattering along to what I was playing.
It didn't. Mother Nature sets her own beat. Or has a dumbass sense of rhythm.

I left all the windows in the house open because I absolutely love the smell of fresh rain on parched earth. It smells new. Alive. Revived. Like a reunion of lovers.
It made me happy. In a sad way.

Dinkz used to love the fog back in Kodai. I never understood why. It depressed me somehow. If I could personify fog, it would be this hunch-backed, deceitful crook, blinding and distorting, enveloping all in a thick shroud. Dinkz always saw the beauty in things I never could. And I guess I could see why she loved fog.
It's beautiful. In an eerie way.

Life is too revealing. You see things about people you were better off not seeing. You're cinematic, razor sharp. You're everything I hoped you would never be. You scare me with every new, wickedly unexpected turn.

But I'm settled. In a violent way.

Just Add Alcohol

I read somewhere that Elliot Smith used to 'get inspiration in bars'. I'm confused as to whether that means he gets inspiration in bars (as in where alcohol is sold) or bars (as in the musical term 'bars').

I think that latter is far more beautiful. It's as if inspiration comes from somewhere, from some invisible source. In little packets. That roughly correspond to a musical bar. To all those that struggle to speak in one dimension.

That's kinda what music is. Speaking in two-dimensions. Or three. Or many. Depending on how deep you let a song into your soul.

I prefer that to sitting over your third shot of tequilla, edging towards that magical point where you're drunk enough to be honest and sober enough to muster enough hand-eye coordination to write.

'Just add alcohol' inspiration.