In the land of contradiction

India was once known as the land of milk and honey. Then it was known as the land of the corrupt and the poor. Then it was known as the land of Slumdog Millionaire. Now it's oft known as the Land of Plenty. I don't argue with any of this. All of it is true and sometimes untrue as well. I've realised that to try and give India any kind of singularity, whether in name or deed or verse is a futile task. So I'd like to add another name. The Land of Contradiction. Perhaps you've heard this one before as well.

It was a Friday evening. I was out with my friend M, shopping, drinking, eating. Doing the things that the idle upper middle class do. An indulgence that neither of us begrudged ourselves because we know ourselves. Until we came upon this sight. If Henri Cartier-Bresson were still alive, he might have turned this into an iconic image in his own inimitable style. As it happened, there were only two women, laden with shopping bags and a throbbing conscience, debating if they should take a photograph of this cruel slice of life. The throbbing conscience won and they decided not to.

But let me describe it for you. There was a mall. With a hideous McDonald's fronting it. There was a wooden bench upon which sat the life-size figure of Ronald the Clown with his arms spreadeagled across the back of the bench. Pressed to the left side of old Ronald, as if sheltered by a father figure, was a little urchin boy. Fast asleep. His very real, child's palm pressed against Ronald's wooden ribcage, his mouth half-open in deep, innocent sleep, unresponsive to the noise and din of a busy Bombay street.

We stood there for a long time, not knowing whether to wake him up and feed him or take a picture of the unbelievable cruelty of urban life or to inform the security guard that he shouldn't wake him up and shoo him away like an errant pigeon soiling their pristine doorstep.

So we continued to stand there, an internal debate marring our faces. Then a lady emerged with a doggy bag from inside and tried to shake him awake and give him a burger. He moved but his eyes didn't open. He changed positions, snuggled further into the hard clown's side and continued to emit sounds of deep sleep. She shook her head helplessly and looked at us. We shook our heads too. Helplessness and lack of true wisdom speak the same universal language.

Finally, life intruded. We went our way and the kind lady went hers. The clown looked on. Unaware in his wooden heart of how truly unfunny the situation was.

And the child slept on. Unperturbed. The peaceful sleep that still weighs on my conscience.

Scrabbling for words

Is that a word? Scrabbling? I don't know, you tell me. But perhaps that won't matter one whit considering that Mattel has announced that proper nouns are now allowed in Scrabble. Proper nouns. Meaning your aunt's obscure embarrasing first name Tallulahdelilahchimchimneychim is a triple word score.

Now you may be wondering why I'm choosing to comment on something insignificant like Scrabble changing some rules when there are deaths galore in Iraq, India, Indonesia, Baja and Pakistan. When Gordon Brown v/s David Cameron v/s Nick Clegg is going to make a mad world of a difference (not) to Blighty. What's the significance of Scrabble eh?

Probably nothing. But it's my blog, remember. If it matters to me, then I'll write about it. Do I sound high-handed? Good. Because that's how high-handedness sounds. That's what Mattel sounds like. It's our bloody game. We market it. We'll change the damn rules if it suits us. And yes 'LOL' is a legitimate word. After all, you use it in chats and text messages and emails, don't you? Then why can't you win a few measly points off of it?

I'm not extremely resistant to change. I can embrace it if it comes to me with logic, champagne and a new pair of pantyhose. Really, I'm quite flexible then. But when Mattel went all GW Bush on my pretty posterior, I got annoyed. This is a game which actually helps educate the youth, some of whom write like this: Gr8, C U ltr and thinks it's perfectly reasonable to expect an A in the essay paper for the final exam. So by taking away its illuminating quality of words in the Oxford English Dictionary or Webster or Collins what does it hope to create?

First of all, family feuds. How easy will it be to cheat here? How will you ever find out if my aunt living on the shores of Lake Malawi isn't named Tallulahdelilahchimchimneychim? By the time you try and make a call to her, the game will be abandoned for a quick round of whatchamacallit play station something or the other.

Secondly, you're turning a generation of non-readers into non-speakers as well. How do you propose to enunciate Gr8? Grrrr-eight?

Thirdly, you've no business to mutilate beyond acceptance and redemption a game that so beautifully upheld the grace of the English language.

And fourthly, if this is a rejuvenating drive for cheap publicity and to compete against other games, shame on you for thinking that what has endured several wars and generational conflicts, won't survive the current onslaught of games that cost more than a pied-a-terre in Kensington.

Now if Mattel had announced a brand new game where only proper nouns and SMS language are allowed, then it would have truly contributed to the education of the senior generation. After all, they don't understand what Grrr-eight means and probably think it's an announcement of the Apocalypse at eight pm and run into their cellars every night.

Don't screw with what's good. There's plenty bad in the world already.

Round and Round the Merry Go Round.

The wonderful thing about Merry Go Rounds is that you keep spinning and never have to get off until it stops or you're thrown off. That's why children love them. The joyful repetitive nature of a Merry Go Round appeals to their simple instincts.

Perhaps that then is the same reason we keep committing the same mistakes, the same follies, the same murders, the same errors in judgement and we never tire of it. Case in point: the bomb blast at the much-loved German Bakery in Poona.

Between the gazillion conspiracy theories, the buck-passing, the admonishments, the speculation, the show of responsibility, the blame game and the false sympathies, one thing remains clear. It's the same Merry Go Round.

Poona will never be the same again. Just as Bombay was never the same after the 1992-1993 horrors and then again 26/11, Poona will change. At first subtly, then obviously and finally, irrevocably.

Eventually as children grow up, they tire of the Merry Go Round and experiment with slides and swings and monkey bars. But as adults, we don't seem to want to experiment with peace, tolerance, respect or honesty. No, we're quite happy to hop on and stay on or hop on and be pushed off to our deaths.

Those of us who have memories attached to German Bakery suffer our loss quietly. Almost stoically. Almost in preparation for the next kid to be flung off the Merry Go Round.

Resolutely Unresolved

They say New Year's Resolutions always fly out the window once the first week of Jan slips away along with the fuzzy furry feeling that all's well with the world in the new year and as the last of the champagne sticks to the roof of your mouth like an old shoe clamped under the bed, you wonder.... Since it's now the 13th of January, I wondered if I could come up with at least ten seemingly universal resolutions that stuck.

1. Let's watch we eat- Yup, watch yourself sneak an extra piece of full fat ham and an unspeakable forkfull of sinful chocolate goodness. Tick!

2. Let's work out more- Oh this one is a classic one, innit? After 10 kms or 10 days, whichever comes earlier, please see Point 1, above. Tick!

3. Let's do more charity- Absolutely. Throw out (err....donate) perfectly good pairs of shoes (soooo last year, babe!) and spend double the amount on new ones. Tick!

4. Call that friend you've been meaning to call- You did and you lunched with her and then went back to your other 'real friends' to gossip about how fat she is and how sallow her skin is and how pathetic her dress sense is and OMG, lunch was a nightmare, girls! Tick!

5. Focus on my career- This is a big one for most of us. Yes, really, focus focus focus. Come on now, stop staring out the window, don't spend 4 hours a day texting and don't spend half the morning on Facebook telling people about the colour of your bra. Focus! Tick, anyone?

6. Read better books- Do let's trudge to the latest bookstore and browse through the classics where you're met with a pimply faced attendant who thinks Alice in Wonderland is a children's book. Really? Well, then can't be bothered with that. But the new Vogue looks good. As do empty headed tales of Generation Y exclusively speaking Hinglish. Tick anyone?

7. Travel more- Oh lovely. Now if only I could get an alphabetised list of where all the shopping festivals are, where the celebs hang out and what's the latest 'It' destination, I'll just grab my passport, shall I? Tick anyone?

8. I'll learn something new- I've always wanted to learn how to play the violin. Ooh yoga, that's meant to be sooooo cool and trendy, babe. What about salsa dancing? Oodles of fun, yeah! But it's so time-consuming! Tick anyone?

9. Thinking positive- So done with the negativity! Read 'The Secret' and listen to Deepak Chopra's advice! And take an Art of Living class! I'm so down with that. Now if only I wasn't surrounded by such bitchy, negative people! Tick anyone?

10. New Year Resolutions are stupid- Really people, how can you be so childish? Nothing changes! It's all humbug. Seriously, pass me the ham sandwich and the beer. And shut the bloody door on your way out. Tick everyone?

The Big Little Bookshop

I must confess. I like the idea of a big climate-controlled bookstore with its tantalising coffees and wafting smell of brownies. But I hate who I turn into when I enter one. Somehow, the big bad bookstore (and now I know I sound like Meg Ryan from 'You've got mail') takes you towards the idea of purchase rather than the idea of reading. Sure they have comfy armchairs where presumably you can sink in and read. But do you actually read? Do you rather flip the pages and hope you look intellectual enough or do you sit there reading a magazine while you wait for a mate to turn up so you can head towards the cafe section? Be honest.

Returning to the idea of the small bookshop, it is telling indeed that they have survived. It's indicative of the way the global economy has gone belly-up, hasn't it? Borders has gone into receivership and please do allow me a sadistic smile here (they sucked at the book business) and Amazon is like a prostitute- you check in, you click, you do the deed and button down and exit immediately- so that leaves us with what? Us refers to real book lovers, real readers and real connoisseurs of the fine but slightly lost art of real reading. I mean, the real smell of old leather bindings, the climactic crackle of a virginal book spine, the soft, sexy rustle of a thumb turning a page, the rhythmic tapping of a nail against a hardcover while pondering the meaning of the title, the real satisfaction of peeling away money in the pursuit of real knowledge. I mean that kind of real. Not the kind that buys the latest Salman Rushdie because one ought to or the latest A.S. Byatt because 'Good lord she's won something and I need to have a glance at it' or worse, the type that trawls through best-seller lists and then decides where to slap down twenty-five quid.

When I read stories of the small bookshop making a reappearance, whether in Bombay, London or Madrid or even Tehran, I feel a warm, molten, chocolatey feeling inside. As I see people hunched in tiny spaces between bookshelves, really reading, smiling a little to themselves, I feel relieved. We are not extinct!! Huzzah!

Lutyens and Rubenstein, a new little gem in Notting Hill. Simply Shakespeare, an almost undiscovered little shop in Calcutta. This is where you find real books, creatively displayed with minimal fuss but maximum impact. Most likely here you will also find an owner or manager who doesn't blink stupidly when you ask if he has the unedited version of Wasteland or C.S. Lewis' non-fiction work. He or she will wisely not only guide you to the correct shelf but will also recommend companion books or ask if you agree with the premise of the work, thereby generating a stimulating discussion and your quota of intellectual exercise for the day.

No, I do not mourn the demise of ugly superstores. I am Meg Ryan with my cause for the little bookshop around the corner except that I won't end up marrying the idiot who owns the big bookstore just because he's cute.

I doff my hat to the people who have the unmitigated courage to open a little bookshop in this troubled climate and do not pander by selling accompanying cartoon stickers of Spiderman as an incentive for children to read. I salute the parent who drags his child into the less glamorous arena of the little bookshop and trusts that the Mad Hatter's Tea Party will be sufficient to intrigue his child. And I definitely salute every writer who chooses to read at a small, real bookshop where the listening audience asks intelligent questions because they've actually read the book they're holding.

Peace, Fuzziness and Love

Now isn't this just terribly ironic? The Nobel Peace Prize has actually started a fight. Peace? Fight? Get it? I'm sure you do. Now I know that it seems quite the odd thing to award this apparently highly prestigious prize to a man who has just about started his job and frankly hasn't had enough time to produce any real results yet. Other than showing us he's a nice bloke really, with a slightly scary wife with a fondness for granny cardis. And showing us his pelvic moves on the Ellen DeGeneres Show and his wit and repartee on the Dave Letterman (vomit) Show.

Apparently, initiating a conciliatory move towards the Muslim world sent the Nobel committee suits in Scandinavian regions into a complete tizzy and they couldn't wait to hail-all the man who explicitly said that Muslims must not be seen as the Axis of Evil. Oh my! Fancy that? Can you believe it? Muslims are not to be shot deader than ducks at a royal weekend hunt just because a few guys crashed a few planes into a few buildings! Dear me, whatever would we have done had Obama not told us this?

Now I'm not a big follower or fan or loyalist of any prize that doesn't directly aid the arts (well, for obvious reasons) but like the rest of the world I've been slightly predisposed towards the grandness of the Nobel Peace Prize and while I think it's a tad incredulous to award this to a man whose efforts have yet to produce any tangible and long-lasting effect, I do think it's silly to start a war of words over something that's got the exact opposite intent.

My question is, whose world is going to tumble down if Obama takes the prize away? Better him than Henry Kissinger. Better him than Gaddafi. Better him than Berlusconi. And definitely better him than any monarch in any part of the world.

You might argue that it's politicised. Well what isn't? The very concept of peace talks and peace initiatives arises out of the need to clean up the messy politics and let ordinary folk live.

You might argue that he's not completely deserving of the honour yet. Well who would be, who would also be in a real position to make that 'yes we can' change if not the most powerful man in the world ? (And let's face it; as much as we hate the idea of one omnipotent man, we all know it's true so roll with it)

Let me give you a list of the Nobel Peace Laureates since just the 80s. Tell me if you remember any major achievement that changed the world as you know it from this list and no, you can't Google. (I make exceptions for the UNHCR, Medecins sans Frontieres and Mandela.)

Esquivel, IPKF, Myrdal and Robles, Desmond Tutu, Dalai Lama, Lech Walesa, Elie Wiesel, Yasser Arafat, Shimon Peres, Yitzhak Rabin, Aung San Suu Kyi, Gorbachev, Menchu Tum, De Klerk, Mandela, Oscar Arias Sanchez, Joseph Rotblat, Ximenes Belo, Jose Ramos-Horta, Jody Williams, John Hume, David Trimble, Wangari Maathai, Jimmy Carter, Kofi Annan, Kim Dae-Jung, Shirin Ebadi, Mohammed El-Baradei, Mohammed Yunus, Al Gore, Martti Ahtisaari,
UN Peacekeeping Force

How many names do you recognise? How many concrete achievements do you see?

Welcome to Dystopia

With the headlines in India raging about the swine flu and the machinations of a certain woman in the opposition there seems to be precious little coverage about something that's going to hit India like a tonne of flaming bricks in the coming year. Apart from three to four minute sporadic snippets each day about the situation, no one is addressing the elephant in the room. Drought. No rain. No food. Dying farmers. Dying animals. Yes the PM addressed the situation in a scant outline about what needs to be done. Are the farmers buying it? Afraid not. Have they received the benefits yet? Afraid not. Is this situation getting enough indepth coverage? Afraid not.

Why? Because blackmarketing pharmacists, panic over a pandemic that's claimed less than thirty lives nation-wide and mud-slinging political antics hold juicier value for an audience. Who cares about boring old farmers and their uncoiffed, unsophisticated opinions and their ugly sagging bulls and cows, right? So who cares if I don't get rice next year. I'll eat pasta. Imported. I'll buy a burger. Imported. Seriously, it's not a big deal. We have this shitty problem with the rain every year. Heard it all before.

No one is showing the abandonment. No one is showing the pictures of women shrieking and fleeing across desert lands to find one drop of water for their dying babies. No one is showing the slow collapse and eventual death of a hardy animal like a camel. Because it's not juicy. It's not interesting and it's not happening at your doorstep.

Here are some interesting statistics:

Swine flu in India- affected cities- 12
Drought affected districts in India- 161
Expected swine flu death toll- less than 100
Certain drought death toll- over 300,000

And who gets more coverage? Paranoid people with masks.

Welcome to dystopia. And you don't even know it.

And oh yeah, Happy Independence Day. Let me know if you find something worthy to crow about.