It’s-never-too-late sort of Happy New Year to you!

Some years back, seven or eight years, one client of the agency I was working with at that time woke up on one fine morning of the second week of January, and with some shock and horror, realised that he had not yet thought of printing a new calendar for his company. “Don’t worry! It’s not too late,” he was told, a little later in that morning, when his frantic call was answered by the agency executive. A few hours later, around 11 in the morning, I was greeted, as usual, with an ‘It’s urgent! We’ve to print and deliver it by tomorrow evening’, as I walked in to the office.

“What’s it?” I greeted the executive back, as usual again.

“ A calendar. Since we have no time, just three options will do.” Came the reply.

“Why just three? We have about a year in our hands!” I was trying my best to pretend that I still haven’t learnt how agencies work. Needless to add, I didn’t succeed at it.

A few more hours later, after a good time talking with colleagues about almost everything except a calendar over many coffees and cigarettes, the executive was informed that three options would be impossible by evening, but surely two could be delivered. The executive pretended disappointment, as that was the practice. Ask for more so that what you get wouldn’t be too less.

“The concepts are already ready. And very unique” I informed him.

“Unique too?”

“Yes. Not unique, as usual. But truly unique. Unique as in U.N.I.Q.U.E.” I could see him smelling a fish, as I announced that.

“It will have dates on it? I want all the months and all the dates on it!”

“It sure does. We don’t have enough time to shoot a pin-up calendar without dates!”

“Are you going to suggest me to buy already printed calendars and stick our client’s logo on it?” The executive had started to think creative, as he usually do when he turns to be too sceptical.

“That’s a brilliant! I never thought of it! We can keep that as the third option.” I was sincerely thrilled at the idea.

“What are your two U.N.I.Q.U.E. concepts then?” He asked, while preparing his best for the worst to come.

“A calendar that starts its dates on 21^st of March, and one that starts on 1^st of April”

“What?”

“A zodiac year calendar. Or, a financial year calendar. Our client can take his pick. And now you have figured out a third option too. In case…”

“But…”

“I told you. These are U.N.I.Q.U.E. concepts, worth to win a few awards” I beamed. I never knew these kind of calendars existed. Neither did anyone in my office or the client’s.

The conversation ended at that. The assignment was approved and eventually dropped by the client, who later realised that he can do business without a calendar of his own. And he also knew a calendar of his own wouldn’t have helped his business anyway. At least, for that year.

I had almost forgotten about this incident. Every working day in medium size advertising agencies having clients with no big budgets and/or stupid Communication Managers, is filled with such. What they say is true. Advertising is indeed fun. I remembered about this conversation, when, I was staring at this year’s calendar that sits right in front of me. I had just turned its first leaf; the dates on it starts on December 22^nd.

Another reason that prompted me to write this piece was reading my friend JM’s once-upon-a-time-an-excellent blog. “One thing I don't want to do is tell more lies to myself,” he has written. If you can count that as a resolution, it’s a very brave one. If one is honest about it, that is. The allusions about truth can be pretty tricky. For anyone. Everyone that I know of, who went searching for it ended up finding a void, namely God and its derivatives. The end seldom justifies the means. And there are people, who stop before the first rock that blocks their way.

If you are one who’s been told many times that you should take praise and criticism in the same vain, I’ll offer you my two-paisa wisdom to it. You were told very wrong. What you believed, if you had believed, is the perfect recipe for vegetation, not one that develops intellectual and emotional maturity. Laugh whenever you can, and cry when it’s must.

I could have written about something else. About the new racism raw between Indian and Australian cricket teams. Or about Tata’s new car, and why I’m ashamed of that mass exploitation, which is hailed as the greatest success of the New Indian. Or about the finest bike ride I had so far, and why that made me feel guilty. Or about the biggest joke of recent years – the new Reliance IPO. Instead, I would wish you a very happy New Year ahead. It’s at least, a lot easier. Let me add few more words about the New Year wish. It’s not going to be happy, even if billions sincerely wish so. Before calling me negative, pessimistic, cynical, or anything more, remember the fact that the year just passed on wasn’t very happy either and you were fine with it. The last day of December and the first day of January have never been too far. And things might change overnight, just might.

Sreesanth must be a commie, ponders captain Ponting

Indians are caught behind the wicket on a racist googly from none other than the masters of the game, the Australians. The majority of Indians believe the whites are superior in everything they do and fancies to imitate them to near perfection. Including, their racist behaviour. But before coming to that aspect of India Shining, let me clarify my thoughts on the alleged racist abuse against the Australian cricketer Andrew Symonds. I doubt how many people knows about his West Indian lineage; and it would be a safe assumption that the crowd were booing at his braided hair and painted lips than his tanned yet fairer skin. And it was not Symonds, but the Australian media who brought in the racist interpretation. Here Symonds is the scapegoat, and it is evident from his later comments that he realises that. He grew up in Australia, and knows a thing or two about racism.

Then I read about what the Australian captain is reported to have said. “They’re fairly passive sort of people, Indians, and he’s probably one from [the] left field.” Ponting said, referring to Indian pacer S. Sreesanth and his aggression in the field, according to the report. May be he should barter his name, Santhakumaran Sreesanth meaning ‘calm young boy of serene grace’, with Rudra Pratap Singh. Pointing has of course seen the red flags fluttering alongside the Indian national flags among the crowd in Kochi, Sreesanth’s home ground. Now, it’s not about Ponting’s commie-phobia, but about his trouble in accepting Indians not being a passive sort of people, as they are supposed to be. I’m not very sure Ponting had to say the same when he was India for the first time for a tour, in 2000 or ’01, about the girl he tried to molest in a pub. I always thought he looked a lot like that guy called George W. Bush. I know, Ponting doesn’t deserve such a huge insult.

The media, and general sentiment about the issue among the public, both in India and Australia is almost consentaneous. Indians played badly and behaved badly in the field, losing a series at home for 2-4. There was a time, not long ago, being in the Indian team required much more than talent, and a time when the players were ‘safe’ in the team in whichever manner they played. Winning was only for personal gratification of not losing, with almost no responsibility on the team. Making such an accusation is not without considering those few exceptions, but it is a just summary. Things have changed, because old ways are inadequate to sustain the fast growing business. Talent has of a little more importance in the selection criteria now.

I stopped watching test matches, ball by ball, quite a long time back. Still some of that old love is left in me. Cricket is not as charged up game as football, the first love. Well, when you put a ball between two strong legs, you ought get a good supply of testosterone, and cricket can’t match that excitement. The beauty of cricket is in its subtleties. The late cuts, or the leg break that whisks the bail off the off stump. Its beauty is in the lack of a second chance. It takes only 10 balls to finish a game, and it’s all about evading those ten deadly balls. Its beauty is in the abundance of chances. It takes only a few overs to turn the game around. A backhand half volley of Jim Courier from the baseline would inspire one to yawn, but an almost same movement before the wickets will give you a beauty of a cover drive.

Sledging is an acceptable practice in cricket. It’s no great surprise that two teams that uses it to the hilt are the now mellowed down South Africa, and Australia. “They pretend the aggression and that sort of backfired,” commented Australian coach after the India tour. To me it’s a clear admission, or claim, that Australians don’t pretend it, but mean it. “The Australians match the personal aggression with the bat and ball,” wrote enlightened Indian media. The trouble I have here is not whether Indians can use sledging successfully, or can win the game without it. My trouble is taking the argument that it is right for Australians and not for Indians, in a good sports man’s spirit. My trouble is in accepting that Australians are naturally aggressive and Indians are passive, and to buy the opinion that it should be so. It’s nothing but well accepted double standards – one so fair and one not so fair.

The Australian team is the finest among all current teams. You have records to prove that. Captain Ricky Pointing is arguably the best among the captains. They have reasonably good bowlers and about alright batsmen. They field well, and win games. The experts call it winning by playing as a team. Sledging is not personal insult, but a pressure mounting tactic, they explain. All true, from the surface. Indian bowlers are never counted as above average, that’s after beating every side they played against. When they say Indians can’t field well, they should give the extra credit to the bowlers for taking wickets without adequate field support. When they say Indians can’t field well, they shouldn’t be giving much credit to the batsmen scoring against them. When they say Australian fielding is impeccable, they should also admit each run scored by Indians against their finest bowlers is of the highest order, and worthier many times over that scored by their batsmen. But to see it like that one should evaluate the game beyond the scorecards. Winning is all that matters, they tell me. And when Indians win, they tell me Australians didn’t play their usual game.

It’s not the story of this series, it’s the same story that I’m hearing ever since I started reading sports columns. It was a very rare occasion of losing a series at home. Two of the four matches could have been won, if it were not for a few mistakes; and it would have been a 4-2 series win. That’s a lame argument in justifying the loss, but if Indians had won I would have got to read that they won by chance and sledging. I have nothing against losing, and don’t believe winning is the only thing. Indians usually win all the series matches at home, and rarely win any abroad. Indians rarely win abroad only means someone else wins at home; still, I never have read about that point of view. The people, who tell me Indians make pitches that support spin bowlers, don’t tell me all others make pitches to support their fast bowlers. This imposed feeling of guilt, and lack of self-esteem is not a very surprising thing for a nation that was colonised for over 200 years.

“Whatever logic you may say, but it’s a fact that we are way behind the Whites – in physical and psychological capabilities.” One of my good friends, who has seen a bit of the world informs me. “May be, it’s purely for socio-environmental reasons,” he adds in an attempt to cover-up the factual error in the argument. He is not alone in this view, he has got majority of Indians with him. Including most of the cricketers. And that shows on the field. With such an attitude, the best thing one can aim for is measuring up to them, once in a while, and then calling it luck. That’s why very often we end up reading Indians won because the opposition didn’t play their best game.

The induced aggression seen recently among Indian bowlers has something to credit to their coach Venkitesh Prasad. He is one who had to take it lying down during his playing career. And this attitude change should go deeper than the expressions. It can only be called a change on the day people start to accept it as not just mere pretension. And the up coming Australian tour can be a real test for it. If some of the eleven can prove it, then the rest of the billion can try to follow it.

While Australia is a topic of discussion, I would like to bring back another subject, that’s not so cricket, related to Australia. I had posted this piece sometime back, explaining the racist, genocidal policy of the Australian government, and called for to sign an online petition put up by Ridwan Laher. That post was the most visited on this blog to this day, getting more than 2000 hits for that page in a week. And hardly anyone among those visitors decided to sign the petition. I got some responses saying they are afraid that would affect their job, because the companies they work for has Australian clients. Another person wrote in and said she’s planning to travel to Australia for higher studies, and do not want to risk her visa. All you people, if wish, can sign the petition as anonymous. Still, I suggest you not to do it. A short but credible list is always more powerful than an inflated one. Those who like to spread the word through their blogs can get the banner from Tom.

Don’t silence me, bro!

There’s some more good news for those who have, by now, learnt to love bad news. Water cannons and tear gas shells are on their way out of the scene. TASERs and other stun guns will soon be antique pieces. Don’t get upset, or protest. I’ll tell you the good news I promised, for sure. It is about what they call the Silent Guardian. Even the much-celebrated Chinese torture techniques will look like squirt guns before the Grand Guardian.

The U.S. military equipment manufacturing giant Raytheon, the makers of Patriot missiles that got famous during Papa Bush’s Iraq war, has announced its new find. They are very particular about not calling it a ray gun. And as far as their claims go, this new Direct Energy Solution, which a layman would call a Direct Energy Weapon, is not designed to cause any permanent harm, but only to inflict pain and make people run away from places that the same people might want to walk to, or accidentally had stepped in to. The peace loving technological innovation is christened as Silent Guardian. But the message is quite vocal: Shut up and run.

In its final, field model, it will be a square transmitter that can be mounted on a defence vehicle. When activated, it’ll emit a microwave radiation that is tuned to the exact frequency to stimulate human nerve endings, to simulate the sensation of extreme pain. It can be effective up to half a mile of distance. According to Raytheon, the radiation penetrates only to the depth of 1/64^th of an inch, and thus wouldn’t leave any visible injuries on the victims. Don’t you think bloodless wars are going to be fun?

Daily Mail had a report on the equipment, a few weeks back. The reporter had seen, and experienced the effect, of a tabletop prototype of the weapon. He describes the sensation as equivalent to touching a red-hot wire, minus the burn injury. The field model mounted on a defence vehicle is potent to give the same pain all over the victim’s body. As per Raytheon experts the maximum a person can stand the pain is for a second. They didn’t tell whether the radiation will be emitted only for a second, or for an hour. The reporter humbly admits that he was not able to stand it even for a second. He had tried it only on the tip of one of his fingers.

The Silent Guardian is not that new an innovation. It’s only the latest, and one of the most potent inventions of the like. Dazzlers, that can cause temporary blindness to human eyes and electronic sensors were in use even at the time of WWII. The other direct energy weapons under development and production include particle beam weapons that can cause permanent damage, and laser and sonic weaponry with worse effects.

It’s not lethal, and absolutely harmless, asserts Raytheon. But that’s what TASER International claimed too. As per the count until 2006, there are over 150 deaths caused by the administration, often unnecessarily, of TASERs by the police in US alone. Just like TASER, Silent Guardian too is introduced as an alternative to lethal weaponry. But unlike TASER, the new weapon fixes its eyes on war fronts. But what I see is them being used by the police to handle protesters and mobs.

When thinking hypothetically, and with blind optimism, such an invention is a wonderful solution for peacekeepers. A Raytheon executive gives an example of a situation where it can be the only solution. He talks about a situation the US military faced in Iraq, where the combatants had taken media personnel as human shields. The invaders were left with the option of letting the combatants escape, or kill the non-combatants along with them. And it is in such situations a Silent Guardian can be of great, and only, help. And it could be the best possible ammunition against violent mobs. Or even peaceful protesters, like the one the world saw in Burma a week back. Well, Buddhist monks are a different matter all together. Remember the picture of a monk who torched himself and sat there like he was dreaming, during the Vietnam War protests?

Killing is unavoidable in wars. The amount of killing and destruction is the sole determinant of a victory. If victory could be accomplished without destruction, the war wouldn’t have happened in the first place. And that’s why machines like the Silent Guardian are of no great use. Or, of great use, where it is not necessary. Like in a prison as a torturing tool. With the police, where they can have some harmless, sweat-less fun.

Raytheon have no plans to sell its product to countries with questionable human rights records, informs the company executive. Except the United States of America, of course. The vast majority of the company’s US$ 20 bn revenue is contributed by US government’s defence purchases. That’s something they call the Military-Industrial Complex, and the Iron Triangle. Something, which was criticised and warned against by even Eisenhower. It was no surprise to anyone when the biggest contributors to the last Presidential campaign in US were Lockheed Martin, the top most military equipment supplier in the world, and Raytheon. They would most probably retain that status in the coming elections too.

The economics of war is not as complicated, when one looks in to the complete picture. In his 1961 masterpiece Catch 22, Joseph Heller simplifies it as simple as it can get – with the story of the character Lieutenant Milo Minderbinder. In a free economic system, which is the fuelling idea of the contemporary libertarian discourses, cluster bombs and chocolates are given equal rights. More rights to the one, which can make more profits, quite deservingly.

In the US, the country that spends more than half of the global military expenses every year, many organisations and individuals are frequently heard of denouncing the wastage of State money on unnecessary military movements and wars. For a taxpayer, that worry might have some weight. Not as much as they are told to be though, as war is only one of the major GDP contributors for that country. This country, the USA, is home to seven of the top ten defence contractors in the world. These seven, including Raytheon, together has the revenue of about US$ 150 bn, only from defence contracts in a year. It’s only the revenue of the seven companies of the 44 US companies in the list of top 100 global defence equipment suppliers. Procurement cost specified in the last US defence budget is a mere US$ 84.2 billion, and is just about half of revenue of the top seven companies. There are more than 150 such companies in the US with global businesses. The specified amount is not inclusive of the expenditure on the war on terror. But the same equation works there too. More than 95% of the spending of the government is paid to its own citizens – as salaries and procurement charges. And it opens up the market for its powerful GDP generators. That way the US dollar is not only staying safe inside the US, but also sowed and harvested from the fertile desserts of Iraq and Afghanistan. I’m not ignoring the cost of human lives, but that’s only worth the labour it can contribute, and is a cause of spending than earning, in a capitalist system.

While we are at it, let’s talk a thing about capitalism. It was on this day, in 1967, Ernesto Che Guevara was shot dead and buried under a runway in Bolivia. 40 years after his murder, that famous portrait of Guevara for which the photographer Alberto Korda never received any royalties, is merchandised on anything and everything imaginable. From vodka bottles to bikinis. Many Catholics in Bolivia pray to the legend that the call Saint Ernesto of La Higuera, and the Christ of Vellegrande. “Shoot me, coward you are only going to kill a man,” Guevara had told his executioner. This solider, Mario Teran, received a free cataract operation by Cuban doctors under Cuba-Venezuela Operation Miracle programme, last year. And the news of it is being now celebrated in Cuba as a great act of unconditional forgiveness of the revolutionaries. Guevara proved to be a failure not just in Congo and Bolivia. More than a man was killed. If not then, by now.

Another thousand miles

Blisters on your bum can do wonders to your mind. Surprisingly in a good way, provided that you earn those burning blisters in the right way. There are quite a few such good ways on the Kerala-Tamil Nadu border. This borderline runs across the Western Ghats, which geologically is not a true mountain, but a faulted edge of the Deccan Plateau. Still, at elevations of 3000-6000 ft, the ranges sure give you a true feeling of the mountains. And monsoons are the time to ride through them, if you believe your skin is naturally waterproof.

There are ten excellent routes across the 600 km long Ghats that we have travelled, of which six are on the Kerala – Tamil Nadu border, and the rest four on the Karnataka border. Two of these routes, the Teni-Munnar and Athirapalli-Pollachi, are so frequented by us that we know them as much as we know the streets we ended up living. So much so that, the teashop owners on the route know us, and greet us with ‘It’s been a long time!’ when we pull up. Well, this time, it had been a long time indeed. Even the guard at one of the check posts exhibited his familiarity by asking, “Veettil poyittu varua, alle?” (On the way back from home, eh?) It’s a great to feel home, while on the roads.

If you ask me which is the most beautiful of these ten routes, I’d be fighting in my mind for an answer. Either the Athirapalli-Pollachi route, which has countless waterfalls by your left and right along its 40 hairpin bends, or the Bathery-Ooty route lined with majestic, centenarian Eucalyptus trees could be called the best. Then, the Teni-Munnar and the Udumalaipettai-Marayoor routes are equally good. The Tenmala-Tenkasi and Kumali-Kambam ones are not any less good. The Mysore-Mattannoor and Madikeri-Badiaduka routes too equal in their beauty. It’s a tough time deciding, and an easy time riding. By the way, there’s this overcrowded National Highway 47 that takes you from Palaghat to Coimbatore, through the dried-up, plain land gap in the Western Ghats, which we would never consider taking. All these Ghat routes are pretty much deserted. This time, we hardly saw two or three vehicles, while we were crossing the uninhabited stretches of the route.

There were a couple of unpleasant incidents too for us. In one, we tore our jackets at the elbows. No great fun. But we were happy that we didn’t buy the Rs. 17,000 jackets we had plans to buy. Then the next day morning, we maimed a son-of-a-bitch. A very bad feeling for another few hours. Still, was consoled by the thought that it didn’t tear more of our jackets, or killed that son-of-a-bitch, which didn’t listen to its mommy and was looking only one way while crossing a two-lane National Highway.

Apart from that, and a broken clutch cable – which we changed in a record time, the bike was in as good mood as ours, with its engine sounding like a song. With a puny 350cc engine that’s placed too high on the bike, a Bullet may not make a decent cruiser. Still, the machine is simple and sturdy enough to make a real good companion on the road. It rarely gives problems, and even if it does can be fixed by yourself. The only instance it gave a serious trouble in the 50,000+ km long company so far, was when one of its valves got screwed up. It took an hour to find a mechanic who knows to work on a Bullet, and he took the whole day to change the valve, granting us a great time with chilled beers after chilled beers on that boiling-hot day. The next day morning we woke up and changed the route we had planned, only to have a pretty nice surprise. Instead of a Chennai-Bangalore-Mysore-Ooty-Chennai, we ended up doing a Chennai-Bangalore-Mysore -Madikeri-Bangalore-Chennai. Nothing to complain. The general rule we follow while riding – to ride half the days you have in one direction, and then find another route back, avoiding the roads you already have taken – proved to be the best riding plan. The extra beer was only a treat we deserved. Hope, the roads will never run out.

During monsoons, the greenery of the Western Ghats, especially the South Western montane rain forests, is contagious in every sense of the word. The lush green life almost vaporises into the air, filling it, and filling you in turn. And when the drizzling stops, the mist comes folding you in its cold, moist comfort. As the roads take you winding the hills, one after the other, cute dark green pyramids of little hills turbaned with light, lone, white clouds, play hide and seek with you. When you are riding towards west, there’s nothing much of a chance with the South Western monsoon. It will come pouring, when you least wanted it, right when the wind had dried your wet clothes from the previous shower. But when you are riding to the east, you can play chase with the hovering rain cloud, and can even beat it. On the plains, you have a better chance of winning, than on the hills where every alternate turn will take you back under the clouds. And if you stop for a tea, like the legendary, lazy rabbit, the cloud will take you over, and wait for you to finish the tea to splash its grace on you. And there are times, when you think you have almost left the clouds behind, but still at your heels, and the road takes a right turn, right in to the middle of the cloud. Right then, with a childlike excitement, the clouds shower the rains, and the losers grin a stupid grin, warning each other to be careful on the slippery road.

Once the Ghats are left behind, you are out in the scorching sun again. But, during monsoons, the clouds cover up the sun most time of the day and give you the best riding climate possible on that terrain. Still, the plains are boring in comparison, even with the fresh greenery of the fields, and swelled up rivers that unless stay as depressing stretches of sand dunes most part of the year – credits to over 50 dams that are on the South Western Ghats. When you are back on the National Highway pestered with trucks, and buses, and cars – all of them believe asphalt roads are not for bikes; bikers don’t pay toll at tolled roads, after all – there’s only one thing to look forward to, other than a truck coming against you on your lane. The evening, and the drink.

The drinking dens in Tamil Nadu are very different from the ones you see in the neighbouring states. I have written about them earlier, still they are worth telling again. Through out India, one can find same services offered in different classes, under the same roof. An economically viable colonial hangover. In trains there are up to five different classes of comfort – or discomfort, depending on the end you are looking at – provided, obviously, at five different rates. At a bus station we have three or more different ‘types’ of buses that commute the same routes – equal distances, almost equal speeds, but very different rates. At a restaurant, one can find the cheapest self-service counter, slightly expensive service area, and a premium priced air-conditioned dining area. To substantiate the price difference, and the faithfulness to the colonisers, the plates and uniforms of waiters are kept to match the each class. The food served though, is from the same kitchen. Bars are no exception. But slightly different in Tamil Nadu.

Alcoholic beverage marketing is under the complete control of the state government in Tamil Nadu. All the retail shops are owned and operated by the government, with its employed staff. They are called Wineshops for some strange reason, and sell every alcoholic beverage except the wine. These places don’t serve alcohol, as a rule, but only sell you bottled drinks. There will inevitably be a small shop close to it selling disposable cups and water and cola and pickles. Though, drinking in public is an offence punishable under IPC-268 and IPC-502, I never have heard of an instance of the invoking that law in front of a Wineshop. Apparently, IPC-502 says, “Whoever, in a state of intoxication, appears in any public place, or in any place which it is a trespass in him to enter, and there conducts himself in such a manner as to cause annoyance to any person, shall be punished.” You can actually sue someone for talking nonsense, if he/she is drunk.

In contrast to these retail shops, the bars that are licensed to sell and serve alcohol are luxurious. With cosy couches in an air-conditioned hall, and 5 to 6 varieties of snacks on the house with the drink. They also put low wattage bulbs in different colours to lighten up this luxury. The bar we walked into went a step further. They serve every drink, except beer, in wine glasses, may be with the same allusion as of the Wineshops. No, not even brandy glasses. That too with stirrers, which are logically placed upside down in each drink. While paddling in the rum and water in our glasses with the broadened end of the stirrer, my companion said, “the laughs are on the house!” “Very entertaining place,” I replied through the laughter. And there were no more miles to go before we sleep.

God save goddamn atheists!

Of late, many Buddhas have been laughing. Laughing all the way to their banks. It’s of course a pleasant change. Atheism, today, is a very profitable, and thus successful, and thus desirable, business. Hemant Mehta, who authored the recent fly-of-the-stands I Sold My Soul on eBay, is one such blessed atheist. He claims to be a very friendly atheist; so friendly that he’s happy giving speeches even at churches. If they are willing to pay, that is. You can read him without paying a penny at Friendly Atheist and eBay Atheist.

I’m an atheist only as much as I’m a Christian, and that would probably categorise myself to be called a Hindu. Thank God! Atheists are only atheists! One fornicating atheist can differ in his or her reasoning from another, and still be saved from burning for eternity in hell. For that reason I’m free to agree or disagree with JP, who writes in Criminalenglish. He had posted an interesting read on the subject sometime back, which has some questions listed by Hemant Mehta, with JP’s own answers to them. These are questions that are commonly asked to atheists by the naturally sceptical theists. Theists, against popular belief, always look for rational answers. Well, not always, but for sure, always from atheists. Here are their logical questions rooted in Christian theology, and my not-so-very-logical answers rooted in a Christian upbringing.

Why do you not believe in God?
More or less for the similar reasons why I don’t listen to Britney Hilton or watch Bollywood movies. I don’t enjoy it; and I don’t feel it’s necessary. Call my answer a glib. Britney is not God, you might say. Thank God for that! I’m too kinda friendly sort to theists. Whenever one of those evangelic believers sincerely starts feeling sad for my soul, I reassure them with their own words. There’s nothing rational about faith. It’s God’s grace. You either have it, or you don’t. And if you are really worried about my rotten soul, please run to the next church, fall on you knees, and tell the God to courier one big piece of grace as soon as possible to my address. You will have to pay in hard cash at the Church; I don’t think they have started accepting credit cards.

If you want a theological reasoning, I can give you one. A very Christian one. I have my answer in Mathew 19:16-19. When a man came and asked Jesus, what should he do to have eternal life, he was asked to follow the Commandments. The man asked which commandments; and Jesus deliberately omitted the first three of them. The only three that has anything to do with God and Humans. The first three commandments tell that there’s only one god, and every one should believe only that god. Take your pick. Believe in your Bible, or believe in your God.

Where do your morals come from?

Thank you for assuming that I have some. I’m not a nihilist. The cardinal sins are my fundamental virtues. Lust help me to see beauty in every woman. Gluttony enhances my sensual pleasures. Greed differentiates living and surviving for me. Sloth saves me from the insecurities of the rat race. Wrath keeps the fire in me burning. Envy gives reasons for me to grow and look forward. Pride breaths life into me. Now, how did I realise that these are virtues, and not sins? Use your head, and you might find out.

What is the meaning of life?

Currently there are over 6 billion meanings that are strutting around. Some are similar, but never the same. You are free to choose what suits you. Life is existentialist.

Is atheism a religion?

What’s that you call a religion? A set of canonical, irrational laws? A group of meaningless rituals? A parasitical clergy? A huge mass blindly follows an irrational way of living? In those terms, atheism has a long way to go to qualify itself as a religion. Atheism is almost as old, or even older than, theism. There were well established atheist schools of thought that denied the existence of a creationist God as early as in 500 BC in India. There was even the classification of atheists who believed in the scriptures and those who don’t. Samkhya and Mimasma sects of Astika school and Buddhism, Jainism, and Charvaka sect of Nastika school of thought. Even the theists were rational sceptics. “You should reject an illogical task like a straw even if the order comes from Bhrahma,” said Brahspati, one of the authors of Rig Veda. “Regard only that which is an object of perception, and cast behind your back whatever is beyond the reach of your senses,” wrote Maharshi Valmiki in Ramayana. The rationalist philosophy, unlike what Christians believe, is a few centuries older than Plato. And there were people who debated about enlightenment, a few millennia before Emmanuel Kant gather up the courage to ask, “What is enlightenment?”

If you don’t pray, what do you do during troubling times?

If you pray hard, you won’t miss the bus, and the boat. When I was younger, that’s when I was in school; I was a very pious theist. For six years I defied the universal law – children walk to school and run back home. The distance to my school was about 800 meters, and situates over a hill that looked steeper than Everest in those days. All of 183 steps to the courtyard. The regular school assembly started at 9:50 and ended at 10:10. The teacher arrived in the class, if he also is not late for school, at 10:13, giving you three crucial minutes to sneak in. And I used to, very promptly, leave for school at exactly 9:57, with a bag that weighed about 3-4 Kg. En route, there were four dog-points where unchained dogs waited. One has to slow down, not to invoke the wrath of the holy canines, even if he’s trying to break the record of 24 Remember, o gracious Virgin Marys in 7 minutes. Praise thy lord! The dogs, and the teachers, never barked at me on a single day for 6 years! The dear Lord was also manipulating the question papers and already written answer sheets for these 6 years, for a charge of one rupee per paper, and five for a really badly attempted one. Let me testify once again that it had worked perfectly. But later, I figured out it would be a great kindness, if I give enough respect to my efforts. I really don’t think 24 Remember, o gracious Virgin Marys in 7 minutes would have teleported me, or God had changed the printed questions or written down answers. Now, I pray to give me back my money.

Should atheists be trying to convince others to stop believing in God?

Those who has strong sense of social responsibility, and genuinely worried about the exploits of religion should. As for myself, I believe strongly in individual responsibility.

Weren’t some of the worst atrocities in the 20th century committed by atheists?

Yes. Just some, though. Most of the atrocities were committed by committed believers. Mussolini was almost a good Christian by the time he was the dictator. Hitler too by no means was an atheist. Neither is George W. Bush. Or Shimon Peres. Or Osama Bin Laden. And why specifically 20^th century? May be to avoid the discussion on Crusades and Inquisitions and the Churches’ whole-hearted support to colonisation, I think.

How could billions of people be wrong when it comes to belief in God?

That’s a very democratic way of trying to win the argument. And reason to believe Christianity is the right religion as of now. It’s not a question of majority, and even if it is, the theists are at the losing end. Because, I believe no one really believes in God, whichever religion they belong to. Believers support the rituals in the mere hope of that might help, and for the lack of balls to take any risk in life without it. If you disagree, show me one person, ever lived or living, who followed every word of the scriptures of his or her religion as it is written.

Why does the universe exist?

Now, don’t expect every atheist to be an evolutionary physicist. It was there thirty years back, and I hope it’ll be there for another 30 years. That’s more than I could ask for.

How did life originate?

Mine? My daddy and mommy copulated, I think. An amoeba just heard the question and you got it into splits. Whether it was the chicken or the egg first originated, neither would sing hallelujah, for sure.

Is all religion harmful?

Is the kitchen knife in the hands of a rapist harmful?

What’s so bad about religious moderates?

Are opportunism, hypocrisy, and passiveness to exploitation also taught as great religious values?

Is there anything redeeming about religion?

Yes. Some believers do get enlightenment, open their eyes and might start using their heads before maggots start feasting on their brains. All the egalitarian philosophies are rooted in religious values and talks against the fallacies.

What if you’re wrong about God (and He does exist)?

In that case, She will have one less person lamenting to her.

Shouldn’t all religious beliefs be respected?

Of course. But not without including all the contradictions. Once you are managed to do that with a sensible head, that might make enough sense to give up almost all the beliefs.

Are atheists smarter than theists?

I think so. No atheist will be sceptical enough to ask, ‘Are theists smarter than atheists?’

How do you deal with the historical Jesus if you don’t believe in his divinity?

You mean, Biblical, I guess. Well, I like that guy a lot. When asked to turn stones into bread, he said, ‘Man shall not live by bread alone’ (Mathew 4:4). And when asked to turn water into wine, he said, ‘Fill all the pots with water’ (John 2:7). How can I not like him? He also said, ‘the Sabbath is made for man, and not man for the Sabbath’ (Mark 2:27). Isn’t this philosophy any less existentialist?

Would the world be better off without any religion?

To me, it would mean no more festivals! No poorams and utsavams. No pooja holidays. No Christmas. No long weekend on Easter. (Now you know, why they call it the day Christ was crucified a Good Friday.) I’ll better opt to have all religions and it’s stupid believers around.

What happens when we die?

“What do I care? Put me in an oil expeller and run the mill, if you want,” answered the wise Sri Narayana Guru, when asked how his body should be treated after his samadhi. “If a beast slain in the Jyothishtoma rite will itself go to heaven, why then does not the sacrificer forthwith offer his own father?” Asked Charvaka. If I they are going to do what I ask, I would ask them to turn my body into fine ash in an electric crematorium, and put it in a toilet and flush it proper. One has to live all his life amidst thick shit. And just by the time he starts to feel okay with it, you shouldn’t make him feel out of place. I just hope they won’t leave my body in a morgue full of necrophiliacs. Not because, I’ll suffer from agraphobia after death, but only because I’m hedonistic to the core.

The White eclipse of the land of the red sun

OR, The territorial pissing over a 100-thousand year old civilisation

“Aussies have been on the piss, getting pissed, drinking piss, drinking more piss and, most definitely, taking the piss for the past two hundred years.”

– From the website of an Australian beer brewer

Pissed, as a slang meaning drunk, is quintessentially Australian. My search for the reasons of the origin of the term didn’t return any satisfying answers. A possible logical explanation is not a very difficult one. Alcohol is a diuretic, meaning, a substance that prevents the secretion of ADH that instruct kidneys to reabsorb excess water. Naturally, this effect causes kidneys to produce diluted amounts of urine. Alcohol relaxes muscles, and one of the first muscles to affect by it, is the sphincter muscles of the urethra – second only to the muscles of your eyelids. Now put one and one together and you will end up in the loo when you are drunk. This physiological trivia is not as trivial as most of us might think. It has an astounding effect on human civilisation and its explanations of evolvement.

It was in The Songlines, by Bruce Chatwin, I first read about the native Australians, and amazed by their superior, almost parapsychological, mental faculties. About their abilities to read land like a book. About their abilities to code and decode geographical information in the form of musical notes. Songlines are songs that describe the journeys of a Totemic Spirit. Sometimes spread across hundreds of miles, with each community singing only the part that crosses their region. Astonishingly, an experienced singer of one community is able to identify the geography when someone else sings another part of his Songline, without understanding a word of it. I have never been to Australia, or have met any of these native Australians in person. Most of the things I know about them is from this book, The Songlines, which I read eight or nine years back. After that I sure have read more about their life and culture, including the much celebrated, almost amateurishly written, novel Walkabout. The Songlines is widely criticised for being colonialist and thus unreliable as a source of information. Nevertheless, it sure has told me many untold stories about the world’s oldest living culture, and I have found his narrative neutral and detached in most parts of the book. In the book, Chatwin describes the following conversation with a policeman he met in a bar:

“[…] ‘So why do you bother with them?’ The policeman jerked his thumb at the Aboriginals.

‘Because I like them.’

‘And I like them,’ he said. ‘I like them! I like to do what’s right by them. But they’re different.’

‘In what way different?’

The policeman moistened his lips again, and sucked the air between his teeth.

‘Made differently,’ he said at last. ‘They’ve got different urinary tracts to the white man. Different waterworks! That’s why they can’t hold their booze!’

‘How do you know?’

‘It’s been proved,’ said the policeman. ‘Scientifically.’

[…]

From having different waterworks was an easy step to having different grey-matter. An Aboriginal brain, he said, was different to that of Caucasians. The frontal lobes were flatter.

‘I like them,’ the policeman repeated. ‘I never said I didn’t like them. But they’re like children. They’ve got a childish mentality.’ […]”

That’s what you can derive, when you think with your piss-mechanism. The native people were living in the land for about hundred thousand years when the Europeans landed on their coast in the late 18^th century. In the next 100 years, by the time the nation christened as Australia was established, the native population was reduced to about ninety thousand from over a million. Of the 750 native groups, currently there are about 200 that survived the hospitality of the guests, constituting 2.3% of the current population with about 90% Europeans. Majority of these native Australians today live in the urban areas – bearing the mark of misfit, uncivilised, inferior race.

The Northern Territory Land Rights Act, 1976, is one of the most important legislations made in Australia after the founding of the nation. The Act was made to give back some rights, mainly ownership of their sacred land, back to the natives. Northern Territory has about 1% of Australia’s population, and is the least densely populated area in the country. Nearly half the geographical area belongs to the four Land Councils under the 1976 Act, though the native population is hardly 29% of the total in the Territory. The native population in NT is hardly 12% them in the country. It’s not that only NT is aboriginal land, or the rest 88% belongs to nowhere. It’s just that the Whites had already taken over all of the other regions except the desserts by then. And then, they found enticing deposits of minerals in the Northern Territory. And then, they found the most suitable land for nuclear waste dumping. And then, last year, the John Howard Government amended the 1976 Act. The effects were not as fast paced as the White man’s calculations, though they had managed to sign a deal for a 200-year lease of land for nuclear waste dumping.

In this time of trouble, Howard gets an inquiry report – tastefully titled, Little Children are Sacred – on child abuse among aboriginal children in the Northern Territory. The 320-page report reveals some shocking facts. Like, the miners widely engage in prostitution with children as young as 12 years. The report clearly states that it’s not just aboriginal men who commit the crimes; and the widely believed view that aboriginal culture and laws protect the abusers is a plain myth. The report strongly says, “The Inquiry believes there needs to be a radical change in the way government and non-government organizations consult, engage with and support Aboriginal people. A different approach is urgently needed.” It very clearly says that the government service provision is pathetically inadequate, and there should be an urgent need to take the aboriginal ‘world view’ seriously, instead of imposing the European ‘world view’ on them. Howard flips all these pages too quickly and stops at where it says, “The Inquiry was not told many stories concerning intra-familial child sexual abuse. However, given the experiences of the community mentioned above, and noting the findings in other Australian jurisdictions, it is safe to assume that it is more prevalent than was identified in consultations.” Howard found what he was looking for, and his government decided to ban alcohol in the region and take over the communities slashing the aboriginal rights.

If you have failed to grasp the connection between the report and action, that’s only because, there’s no apparent connection at all. “"Let me say there is not a single action that the commonwealth has taken so far that corresponds with a single recommendation,'' Ms Pat Anderson, one of the authors of the report that suggested 97 recommendations for the problem, tells us. “The Government is treating aborigines like children,” a fuming Ms. Anderson, who headed the inquiry team, told the reporters. Seems like Prime Minister Howard’s attitude towards the aborigines is not any different than that of the drunken policeman Chatwin describes in his book. But there’s much more to the conspiracy.

The 2006 amendment of the Land Rights Act, 1976, allows individuals to own land, and enables them to get loans on a subsidised interest rate on that land. It’s a pretty old trick. Someone who’s not happy with the community elders decides to own his own land and approaches the bank. The bank, happily gives the loan, taking the documents. And the owner will most probably lose the land to the bank in a few years. The region, with 29% of people with ‘inferior waterworks’ has the highest per capita alcohol consumption in the world. Alcoholism has been a major concern for the communities for years, and the elders are obviously against the drinking behaviour of their people. Howard thought, an alcohol ban would be welcomed by the elders and ‘piss off’ the drunkards. That would naturally increase the chances of the drunkards wanting to be ‘independent’ and go to the banks. Exactly the kind of people they wanted to come to the banks with land. The exaggerated publicity on the grounds of alcoholism and child abuse will prevent leading socio-political agencies from opposing Howard’s move strongly. Anyone opposing the new legislation can be portrayed as ‘supporters’ of alcoholism and child abuse. Something, any organisation that needs public support will be wary of risking.

The new legislation is ready to be put before the parliament. It will scrap off almost all the rights aborigines were granted. The permit system will be removed, and any non-indigenous person can go to the aboriginal areas without any prior permission. The customary laws or cultural practices will be stripped off from their validity in courts, while all other ethnic groups in the country will continue enjoying the privilege. The Government will take over the aboriginal lands for next five years. It proposes to completely stop the funding of Community Development Employment Projects (CDEP), through which over 30% of the aboriginal adult population earns their and their families’ living. The sole income for majority of the families will be stopped that way. This means, they will be more vulnerable and completely dependent on the federal government forces, which will be taking over their lands for the next five years. That’s the wisdom of the highly evolved Caucasian brain.

Let me quote a passage from the very popular novel Walkabout by James Vance Marshall. It’s a small novel the describes the story of two American school children stranded on the desert plains of Australia by a plain wreck, who then meets an aborigine boy on his walkabout – the six month solitary journey on foot across his ancestral land as his test of manhood. The passage that describes their first meeting reads like this: “The three children stood looking at one another in the middle of the Australian dessert. Motionless as the outcrops of granite they stared, and stared, and stared. Between them the distance was less than the spread of an outstretched arm, but more than 100,000 years.” The rest of the book tells a few things humankind learnt to forget in the100,000 years.

One of the very basic beliefs of the native Australians is people don’t own land, but the land owns everything that it allows to grow on it. One of many things the ‘highly evolved’ Europeans can never understand. The European idea of evolution and advancement of civilisation is pretty much skewed. And with their industrious colonisation efforts across the globe, they have successfully established their notion and standard about being civilised and advanced, in all modern communities. This allusion of evolutional advancement is the very foundation of their assumed superiority. Educated people all over the world are blinded with the belief that equality means rising to the levels of European standards of human development. I am too uneducated to understand how a society that can go helpless and paralysed, if all the electrical fuses burn simultaneously, can be called evolved and superior. Call it a highly optimistic society, if you want. A society that survives only on the hope of having every fuse intact. Or, one that is too dumb to think of such a high possibility of a few fuses burning together.

Ridwan Laher has initiated a campaign that calls for a global tourist boycott as a message of protest against Australian government’s move to take over the aboriginal lands. The campaign plan is to collect signatures of all the people around the world who think Howard Government’s move is insanely racist, and against basic human rights. More than an attack on human rights, it’s an effort to destroy a superior civilisation by a pathetically crippled one. Go and add your name to the list of people who supports the campaign. You can do it either by going to Ridwan’s blog, or by clicking on the banner you see on the right hand side of this page. Don’t support the campaign thinking you are helping the aborigines; they don’t need yours or anyone else’s help. Their way of life has survived a hundred thousand years, and will survive even after yours and mine bite the dust. Add your name, only if you think, you, the Australian government, or anyone else has no right to endanger their life and their 100-thousand years’ wisdom of land and life. The petition is open only till October 17^th, 2007. If you have a blog, and if you support the campaign, you can get the banner to display in your blog from Tom.

You can download and read the inquiry report, Little Children are Sacred.
You can also read more about:
The report authors' reaction to Howard's move
Withdrawing the plans of existing government funding
Plans to nullify the validity of customary aboriginal laws

I’m a racist, and other terrible truths you don’t want to know about me

No one, absolutely no one, has ever fucked up as many of twentieth century human minds as Nietzsche did. People love to talk about themselves; and at the same time, people are timid about doing so. And to them, to all of us, that line from Nietzsche, comes as a very comforting, see-through blanket. He wrote, and I quote, “Talking much about oneself can also be a means to conceal oneself.” The tricky part is that ‘can be’.

After the great invention of the idea called forwarded mails, the next big thing that goes around the netted world is tags. A privilege for a few among the 200 odd millions of human beings who call themselves bloggers. A rarity dubbed as privilege, just like Napoleon’s aluminium cutlery. And, with great pleasure and pride, let me announce the news that me too is tagged.

Amooma, the youngest granny alive in the blogosphere, pulled out her Pen Knife and asked me in a grunting voice that is reminiscent of the legendary Ma Baker – “Confess your secrets to the world now, or…” Someone who doesn’t know how to swim and caught between the devil and deep blue sea would most probably try to strike a deal with the devil. And I’ve decided not to invite the wrath of the granny.

There are three rules that I must follow, which can be summerised into two. 1. Write about eight random facts/habits about oneself, and 2. Ask eight other people to do the same. Though the prime motive of the game is to popularise one’s blog by the network it can build, it can also serve to the purpose of providing the pleasures one can get by peeping into someone else’s silly life.

While tagging me, Amooma had described me as a person full of paradoxes – not because she knows me that well, but because of her love for wordplay. But she is absolutely right about me. The reason is, everyone, and everything can be seen as a paradox. Or, like what they say, every coin has two sides to it. Cheques don’t have, but they will make you sign on the back to make it up. All facts I’m going to disclose are paradoxes. It would give me two very brilliant advantages. Firstly, I can bring down the number to four, because they come in pairs – but preferring to play fair, I have decided to keep it eight instead. Secondly, whatever I’m going to say would be also true when you negate them. The idea fits perfect for me.

While telling the facts about oneself it’s very import to number them carefully. Otherwise, people will miss them, because people take facts that lie between the lines for granted. I must have told twenty or thirty facts about me so far in this passage, which many of my readers have missed to notice. That’s how the world is. Consider the first line of the novel Moby Dick, which would be, arguably, the most brilliant opening line for a novel ever been written. It reads: Call me Ishmael. That simple, 3-word imperative sentence actually tells many facts about that person. Let’s count them.

1. His name is not Ishmael
2. He doesn’t want to tell his real name, or he has no permanent name.
3. He doesn’t believe his name is very important, but knows people always need names.
4. He likes, or at least doesn’t dislike, the name Ishmael.
5. He has no other documental evidence for his name.
6. He’s a vagabond, because only a vagabond can afford to live without a name.
7. He is not related to anyone in the story, by blood or bond.
8. He’s not a fanatic believer of Judaism, or Christianity.

Here you go! You have eight facts, implied, if not explicit, among those three simple words. And there are many more that you can find. But then, I can’t say: Call me Herman.

There’s one small trouble with facts about people. They do change with time. One might end up loving madly something he or she used to hate from the bottom of the heart. Train journeys, as in my case. Or will become comfortable with something, which was not very enjoyable, like talking on the phone. Or even hate something, which once used to be one beautiful dream, like shaving the face. This means, there's the inevitable condition – I’m free to change any of the following facts without prior notice or permission at any time in the future.

Well, I’m a very secretive person, almost cynical. And I go around throwing statements that I’m this and I’m that! I grew up reading c-grade literary weeklies in Malayalam. They were called Ma weeklies, because all their names started with a Ma. Mangalam, Manorama, Manorajyam. The name, Ma weeklies, was coined by the very intellectual readers of another weekly, which publishes b-grade novels. Ironically, that too was a Ma weekly – Mathrubhumi. Mathrubhumi has played a great role in Malayalam literature, flourishing it in the 60s and 70s, and nipping every budding writer during 80s. We had textbooks big enough to keep these weeklies inside without getting caught. The first lesson in keeping things secret. And the stories told me how important it is to keep secrets. You can be blackmailed, tormented, or even killed if your secrets are out! And if the secret is your secret moles, you might have to commit suicide. It still gives me a shuddering chill through my spine, when I hear, “hey, you have a mole here!” I’m a regular guy; I can’t wear my underwear over my pants.

Two. I wish at least one of my fingers were a screwdriver. I opened a computer for the first time on the very next day I got one – it was a rented one. I was very disappointed with it, there’s nothing much one can dismantle inside a computer. Have opened almost every single tape recorder that had stayed near me for more than a week. And to my good luck, the power promptly went off, whenever a porn videotape was inserted into the player. Opened the carburetor, when the tank nozzle was clogged - because I was waiting for a good reason to open the carburetor for a long time. The temptation is almost equal to that of stripping a girl, when you get a free hand. All you would want is to screw it back properly. Machines have a mind of their own. And deep down in their hearts, they love being pampered. Normally, every machine will start working if you just open it up and close – whether it’s a simple cigarette lighter, or a clock, or a motorbike engine.

Three. Nothing disgusts me. Well, almost. Those things that are generally described as disgusting or horrifying seldom make an impact on me. A rotting corpse under the debris, or a bleeding person at an accident site. A cockroach’s leg in my food or a piece of recently discarded faecal matter on the pavement. But, seeing people making a dramatic display of disgust at such trivial things disgusts me!

Four. I’m a racist. More precisely, I’m religiously anti-white. Most of the few people I truly respect and look up to are whites – the writers, the musicians, the moviemakers, the sportspersons, the sailors, the mountaineers, the philosophers. Many of the most interesting people I’ve met in my life so far are whites. Many of the few regular readers of this blog are whites. The dislike is not personal, but more general and prejudicial. For the unavenged injustice done by the white communities all across the world. There’s no single white nation that didn’t grow rich without insane exploitation of other countries, or communities. Razing communities and cultures and peoples. When it’s a historical fact that India’s share of world’s wealth fell from the pre-colonial 22.6% to a low of post-colonial 3.6%, I have great difficulty to accept that the best way for human development is of what the West practise. And they haven’t stopped doing it, whether it’s the indirect exploitation with trade laws favourable only to them, or direct brutality of the kind they do to the aborigines in Australia. When a whitey shoots an African, or an African shoots a whitey, it’s another whitey who gets richer. And when they talk about liberty, equality and fraternity, it disgusts me!

Five. I do get angry. I’m pretty much an indifferent person, I rarely get irritated, or even bored. I’m too lazy to acknowledge insults most of the time. If a stranger spits on my face, it’s most probable that I’d wipe it and ask ‘why did you do that?’ But I do lose my cool for the silliest of reasons. If I am very, very angry, I’ll go mad. If I’m very angry, I’ll go silent. If I’m angry, I’ll ask for an explanation.

Six. I’m scared of the traffic. I’m scared to cross the roads without traffic lights. It’s almost impossible for me to cross roads with traffic in both directions and have no dividers. And I’m equally scared to ride a bike in the traffic. I once rode a scooter from Chennai to Bangalore, and the last 10 kilometres inside the city almost gave me a heart attack. So much so that, after riding with my brother for over 50,000 kilometres, he wanted to make a tee shirt for himself, with the line on its back – IF YOU CAN READ THIS, MY BRO GOT MARRIED, OR LEARNT TO RIDE. You will never read it.

Seven. I’m a dispelled member of Workaholics Anonymous. Not because I couldn’t quit working, but because they couldn’t. As we all know, the idea is inspired from AA. And one of the hardest facts about an alcoholic is: one drink is too much, and a thousand is not enough. My firm belief is that it should be the same for a workaholic. They didn’t agree. They are okay with working moderately! Like an alcoholic having just six drinks a day? Not happening. I quit. And I’m seriously planning to establish the true Workaholics Anonymous. Or shall I name it after me? I’m procrastinating it only because it’s work.

Eight. I’m a virgin. It’s a very embarrassing statement to make in a metrosexual world for a heterosexual man, where even queers are cool. “Can’t you even take a girl out and get her drunk, and be done with it?” Ask the metrosexual guys. “Can’t you just tell them that they are very different and listen to their crap for an hour or two, and be done with it?” Ask the metrosexual girls (Yes, the adjective is not just for men anymore. Gender neutrality, you know). NO. Says me. I’m a man of ideologies. I’m usually an honest one too. That statement about honesty can surely put me into trouble! And, when I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be. I ask in immaculate innocence. “Come again?” And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be. Hail Mary! Blessed art thou! So am I.

That’s eight for eight. Now I need to tell eight people to do the somersaults. I would rather ask the same person to do it eight times instead. Someone, who’s really good in changing facts too often. I tag George W. Bush (Jr.). It’s still debatable whether this Harvard Business School graduate can read, but I’m pretty sure that he got a blog with a pink template with cute little flowers, where he writes sweet little poems. Don’t believe me. Believe it only when CIA releases its secret documents after 20 years. Then you will read about how they were popularising his blog among Eye-rackey children and African children, to use it as the most potent brain-damaging tool. And if, even he won’t take up my tag, who else will? So George, you have 560 days more to do it.

State of the art

Exactly at 12:58 p.m, on October 25, 1999, Yuan Chai and Jian Jun Xi had the greatest performance of their life. They had named the performance Two Naked Men Jump into Tracy’s Bed. It took fifteen minutes for the artless guards at the art gallery to realise that the performance is not part of the installation, while the enlightened crowd was applauding to their highly artistic minds’ content, who realised the fact only when they read the next day’s newspaper. Much to the disappointment of the audience, the guards had to withdraw the unfortunate men from the scene before they reached the climax of their performance. It was not moral policing, but only coitus interruptus, in the most profound, artistic, figurative sense.

The act was performed at the occasion of that year’s Turner Prize, United Kingdom’s most publicised art award that amounts to £25,000, which is organised by, and at, the Tate Gallery, London. And the installation, which these performers had volunteered to improve by their ingenuous concept, was the famous, and/or infamous, My Bed by Tracy Emin. This artistic piece is the artist’s own double bed, unmade, with soiled clothes and assorted objects lying around. Once it was almost destroyed by a gallery keeper, who tried to clean up the mess. It failed to win the Turner Prize that year. Turner Prize, after all, is not an easy catch. It’s named after J. M. W. Turner, said to be the first of Impressionist painters, and is awarded annually to a British visual artist under the age of 50. One of the earlier winners was a film called 60 Minutes of Silence, which is an hour long shot of a group of people in police uniforms standing still. Every single winner has the art quality that has outdone this particular one, in some conceptual way or other. The 2001 award was given to a work, which was an empty room with its lights going off and on. Presenting the award to the winner that year, Madonna said, “At a time when political correctness is valued over honesty I would also like to say right on motherfuckers!” A statement that would provoke anyone to doubt whether her breasts are real!

My Bed has almost a milestone-ish importance in my own meagre art knowledge; it was the first ever installation art piece I came to know about, though later I read that the first piece of its kind was Fountain, a urinal turned 90 degrees from its normal position with the name R. Mutt written on it, which Marcel Duchamp installed in 1917. The genre became one of the most important expressions of art as concept art started gaining popularity in the 60s. When Charles Saatchi, impressed by the work of a group of artists, and opened a show with their work in 1992, and called it Young British Artists (YBAs), it was a new beginning. A beginning of the end of old means of art.

Saatchi bought Emin’s My Bed for £1,50,000, which provoked one of her former boyfriends to offer another bed of hers, which he owned, for just £20,000. He was not very serious, but Saatchi was. Tracy Emin was one of the founding members of the Stuckist movement along with this former boyfriend, Billy Childish, and few others. And the Stuckists’ fame is all about demonstrating against Charles Saatchi, YBAs, Tate Gallery, and the Turner Prize. Another of her boyfriends was an art curator who had worked with Damien Hirst, the most prominent of concept artists alive today. Soon after meeting him Emin shot to fame with her definitive work titled Everyone I Have Slept With 1963-1995, a blue tent with many names on the inside of its flaps. And that was how one of the founder Stuckists became one of the prominent YBAs.

Of all the YBAs, no one has got the fame that matches Damien Hirst. In 1991 Saatchi offered Damien whatever amount he requires to create a new work. Damien ordered a 14-feet tiger shark from Australia, and put it in a glass tank filled with formaldehyde. Damien called it The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living, and billed Saatchi £50,000. Twelve years later Saatchi sold this invaluable piece of art, which by the time had turned into a rotten piece of shark meat in murky formaldehyde solution, for £6.25 million to an American art enthusiast. Generous Damien Hirst offered help to the new buyer, by allowing a replacement of the rotten shark with another. The cost of restoration is undisclosed, but the formaldehyde injection procedure, which ensures that it will last for another 200 years, alone had cost a million USD. In 1995 Hirst had won the Turner Prize, and the award winning piece, Two Fucking and Two Watching, featuring a rotting cow and bull, was banned by public health officials from exhibiting in New York for the fears of ‘vomiting among the visitors’. Possibly, the reason that inspired Hirst to offer the help to restore his rotting shark.

It was only a few of days back I read about the latest work by Damien Hirst called For the Love of God, prompting me to write this piece. His latest work is an 18^th century human skull, in a platinum cast and studded with 8,601 diamonds, created at the cost of £8-10 million, and is priced for sale at £50 million, qualifying it to be the costliest piece of art ever been created. I am not attempting to be an art critique, for I believed to have a highly underdeveloped right brain that doesn’t allow me to appreciate anything modern than the surrealistic art. Nevertheless, I’m quite amused by some simple facts about the people I was talking about, especially Charles Saatchi and Damien Hirst.

The YBAs are children of the 60s, grown up in the turbulent Liberal revival era and influenced greatly by it. It was the powerful ‘Labour is not working’ campaign designed by Charles Saatchi’s advertising agency that brought Margaret Thatcher to the Downing Street office, and it was the oppressive measures of her junta that kept the rebellion alive among the artists in that country. I won’t blame the prevalent mediocrity for this state of affairs of art. Mediocrity, after all, is the sticky glue of civilisation that keeps societies from falling apart. And people like Saatchi or Hirst are the microbes inside the colon of the same society we constitute. And the moist pieces that come out of that colon are the product of the society, not the microbes. The microbes are well aware of it, and it’d be better, if we too are aware of the same fact.

Damien Hirst creates all his works with the help of his assistants, and was never hesitant to acknowledge that. In his opinion the real creative act is conception, not execution, and the progenitor is therefore the artist. Once, one of his assistances who was leaving asked for one of the pieces she had painted for him. Hirst told her to make one of her own and keep. As she insisted on having one the works she had done for him, he said, “ The only difference between one of mine and yours is money.”

I see Damien Hirst in his deathbed, with all sorts of tubes going in and out of his body, making one of the finest installations possible. And I see him conceiving his last work lying down there – A huge glass tank filled with formaldehyde, in which a larger than life human hand with all its fingers folded, except for the longest one, is kept suspended. That big finger will be made of inflated phalli of dead donkeys from Africa, and faces of major art collectors will be imprinted on each. This incredible piece will be named The Virtual Possibility of Life, in the Mind of Someone Dying.

Check out Damien Hirst's White Cube profile, and some of his works.
Read the Guardian blog, on his latest work For the Love of God.
You can also read extracts from an interview of Damien Hirst by writer Gordon Burn.

The great bank robbery

“Hello! I’m Sweet Mouth, from Cut Throat Inc. Do you like to have a credit card, sir?”

“Of course! I would love to have one!”

“Sir, we have silver, gold, platinum…”

“Wait! I’ll tell you my requirements, and probably you can choose the best one for me.”

“Sure, sir.”

“I don’t have a job.”

“That’s absolutely fine, sir. All you need is three month’s bank statement.”

“I don’t have a bank account, either.”

“Don’t worry sir. You can open an account with us.”

“I don’t have any address proof, I stay in a small room that has no documents.”

“It’s ok sir. You can give me your telephone bill, that would be enough.”

“I use a pre-paid connection. You were lucky to get me, it will get expired by midnight”

“I’m sorry, sir… I don’t think…”

“Don’t say it. I need a credit card. Nobody would need a credit card as much as I do now!”

“But, sir…”

“I’m ok with a copper, or wood, or plastic… or even a paper one”

“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t help you, sir. You don’t have a salary slip or bank statement…”

“That’s exactly why I need a credit card! If I have money in the bank, why would I want a credit card?

“You are right, sir. But…”

“Alright Sweet Mouth, please let me know if you come up with any plan that suits people like me.”

“Sure sir. Thank you for talking sir. Bye, and have a nice day!”

That particular kind of ‘nice day’ she wished me about four years back is yet to arrive. A nice day, with one or more credit card bills, a 3-year personal loan, a 5-year vehicle loan, and 20-year old housing loan to pay off. This sort of mortgaged life is one of the most desirable options one is left with these days. And it is pretty difficult to choose the easier way of living.

Today, one can’t live without banks. I still can keep my money stuffed inside my bed, and it will give almost the same amount of interest any bank would. But to do that, I’ll have to take the money out of the bank first, that’s the catch. No one pays in hard cash. Even bearer cheques are hard to get. That’s the second catch, or the catch on the catch – you can’t survive without a bank account.

Fifteen years back, when I opened my first bank account, all needed was two signatures from my father and three from me. And two passport size photographs and fifty rupees. With another fifty rupees I would have got a chequebook too! Opening a bank account was not that easy once I moved out of the little town where everyone in the bank from the peon to the manager knew not just me, but even my forefathers. But then, I had the sweet option to live without a bank account. Salaries were given in hard cash, or bearer cheques as you demand. And then came the new age banks. Banks with carpeted floors, flower vases with fresh flowers, and couches to sit and wait. And when I entered in one such bank for the first time, about six years back, I was offered a comfortable chair, coffee and a bank account. All they had asked for was three of four of my signatures. The sweet chap with a tasteless brown necktie didn’t even ask for my photographs; he shot me instead, with a Polaroid camera. And if you see that photograph, you won’t fail to notice the puzzled wonderment in my half-popped out eyes. And in three or four days, the magic card and its secret code reached me in separate mails. The world had really changed; I had no other option, but to believe.

The traditional banking used to be one of the simplest businesses on earth. With an easier logistics than a teashop. You take money from people giving them an interest, and then you give it to other people for a higher interest. But with this simple way of business it’s almost impossible for banks to have cozy couches and coffee for their customers. And just for the comfort and convenience of their customers, these poor new age banks are pushed to adopt dubious methods, departing from their simple business model.

For a person like me an offer like allowing zero balance was the most comforting of all thoughts. There were innumerable instances the thought of my-hundred rupees-that-I-can’t-have came tormenting, while coughing-up for the cheapest, yet precious, bottle of alcohol. The new banks only demanded an average quarterly balance of five thousand rupees, and I can withdraw to the last paise. It took exactly three months for me to figure out the new business model of these generous banks. Average quarterly balance means I have to keep at least five thousand rupees in the bank, just like a lifetime fixed deposit! Not exactly like a fixed deposit, because they wouldn’t be giving me the 16-20% interest on my deposit as the old, grumpy banks. And if I didn’t keep the balance they will charge 40% interest on the amount as a fine! Not at all fine with me. Still I can have zero balance, only if the amount is a multiple of hundred, because ATMs keep only hundred rupees notes. And if try to withdraw the amount less than hundred from their cash counter, they will charge hundred rupees as the service charge. That means, the banks can keep the change. When was the last time, you tipped like that while being sober?

It’s not just an almost interest free, lifetime fixed deposit, and free change I’m giving to the bank. Just for my added convenience of cozy couches and one time coffee. I’ll pay hundred rupees every year for my ATM card; and I’ll pay usage charges if I access the ATM more than thrice a day when I’m in town, or more than twice in a month when I’m outstation. If I use my card to make a purchase, I’ll pay a service charge for that convenience too. Cheques are more profitable, especially if they bounce. If a cheque is bounced, the bank doesn’t have to pay anyone. Not just that, they will charge fine from the one who issued the cheque, and from the one who presented it!

At this point, I’m more than tempted to tell an anecdote. One Mr. Nice Guy opened a bank account to help his MNC-bank-executive friend, who had a tough time with the necktie and the sales target around his neck. Mr. Nice Guy gave five thousand rupees, and three days later his ATM card and secret code came in different mails. A couple days later the code for telebanking came by another mail. And a few days later another mail came with the codes for Internet banking. Mr. Nice Guy didn’t bother to open any of these mails, because his only good intention was to help his friend to reach closer to his target, not to use the account. About two years later, Mr. Nice Guy went to the bank to close his account and collect his five thousand rupees and its nominal interest, and found his account has hardly two thousand rupees. A sweet bank employee explained it very sweetly to the furious Mr. Nice Guy. He was charged hundred rupees for his Internet banking facility, making his balance in the account to rupees four thousand and nine hundred only. And every quarter, he was paying the fine for not keeping his average quarterly balance of five thousand rupees, like a very comfortable customer.

Since I had learnt the secret behind the cozy couches and stories under the carpets the hardest way, I was not very surprised to read the news that in US alone banks make 40-50 billion USD through unexplained service charges. Service charges for giving you back your own hard earned money, which you had lent to the bank! And this figure is only for personal banking. I couldn’t find the corresponding figure for India, even after googling for hours for it. But, I’m sure, even if the amount they make in profits would be less in India, the percentage wouldn’t be much less. And I believe, even the ones who will explode with anger at a rickshaw driver for two extra rupees are more than comfortable with these glossy banks’ grand robbery. Now I understand what they exactly meant by zero balance.

“But – you see, a bank or a company can’t do that, because those creatures don’t breath air, don’t eat side-meat. They breathe profits; they eat interest on money. If they don’t get it, they die the way you die without air, without side-meat. It’s a bad thing, but it’s so. It’s just so.”

– From The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck.