On criticism

I remember watching "Up in the Air" (the book is better!). The critics unanimously agree on George Clooney’s "raw portrayal", but reading those pieces of criticism left me wondering if a critic can ever identify with Ryan Bingham the way some of us do. The Us who've taken the red-eye, and have spent time picking shoes that don't get caught in the dreaded metal detector. Can a critic ever feel the coldness of the hotel room, and the abandon with which one approaches a single-serve conversation at the end of a tired day across a bar stool? Can a critic imagine how troubling it can be - being “professional” towards a task, a job that one’s not entirely convinced about? Can a critic feel how some of us treat frequent flyer miles and the free upgrades to be only quantifiable incentive for a lack of a personal life? Can a critic ever feel how disconcerting it can be when the guy at the reception in a hotel looks at you and says "Welcome home!"?


--
Roger Ebert has argued that video games can never be art. It's supposedly a five year old debate, which makes me wonder where I was and what I was doing five years back. Needless to say, his piece has infuriated the gaming community (and a lot of other people), who have since flooded his comment-space and their blogs. I doubt it's because they seek validation, it's only because no one wants to be dismissed.

Which is the thing with gamers, or at least the thing with my friends who play games. They've never tried to educate me or dismiss my interest in anything else. All they ever wanted to do is try to get me to share, and I quote, the "awesomeness" they feel when they play, despite the restrictions of rules, points, objectives and achievements.

The passion and fascination with which they speak leaves me envious. They want me to be a part of the world that changes at every iteration; it turns out different for each player. Which is what art does, isn't it? It's almost always been a subjective assessment, a personal experience. Be it a movie or a poem or a painting, it touches each person differently, so much so that it would perhaps be safe to assume that there is no single way of evaluation. There can be pointers and pathways, but there can’t possibly be absolute rights or wrongs.

Given that awareness, to say something is "not" art is quite strange. It doesn't appeal to me, to others, maybe it does – so good for them. Who's anyone to decide what appeals to someone?

But then again, Critics have always perched themselves on a pedestal, and peddled their opinions as judgment, almost like it is their need to decide for us what is good or bad, what is art and what is not.

Art, like religion, has fallen prey to its keepers.

C+

"C+", someone graded me today, "Wit", "General behaviour", "Overall intellect", adding "What happened to you?"

Needless to say, I was a little taken aback since this came from someone who thought I was intelligent once upon. And if it indeed was once upon a time, I'd retort and fight and turn aggressive on them, or read, or do something to prove a point. I just got upset. "If you say so..", I said. The reason being, that particular compliment was doled out to me for missing a Pulp Fiction reference. The momentary blank out which happens, which shouldn't happen. Slap forehead, yes, but what to do? Am rusty around the edges.

For as long as I have known, the intelligent people have consumed everything that pop culture offered them: music, movies, books, tv shows. To be known as intelligent one has to have read/watched/had/devoured all those things, to be known as witty one has to bring out sitcom references right on cue, and occasionally twist them. So yeah, to have intellect, one has to be a glutton.

That awareness that I am such a shameless consumer, bothered me a bit. If at the end of my life, if the only thing I was left to speak of would be my experiences of consuming other people's experiences, I doubted if it would be something I could be proud of. What have I created? What have I produced? Do I have any thoughts I can call my own? Or nothing can ever be original.

So I set out. I stopped watching movies, TV shows, and for a while, reading. I set out to see what I could see. I set out to feel what I could feel. And see and feel I did. So if you speak of mountains, I can tell you how they are. Or if you speak of the quiet underwater, I can tell you how it is. Even if it was for a brief bit, that firsthand experience, that adventure will have me talking for many years to come, and was a lot more fulfilling than reading about the same things.

Only time will tell whether I've made the right choice or not, but I know for a fact that despite my efforts, I'll always be evaluated for how much I've memorized from creations of people who're truly original.

So yeah, to use a very popular blogger and dear friend's line-

Until next time, see plus...

Normal

"Why are you like this? Why can't you be normal?"
"I don't know what qualifies as normal."
"You know like other people, people who want an ordinary life. Marriage. House. Car. Kids. In that order."
"I think my life is pretty ordinary."
"No, you're crazy. You want crazy things."
"Once I get my driving license, I will be on rung#3 of ordinary."
"Then you'll find something else, random."
"I'll drive a stick shift."
"See..."
"Sticks are cool."
"Why can't you want what others want."
"You expected otherwise? You fed me all the stories of your mother and her adventures and how happy you were doing what you wanted. I want all of that freedom."
"Sounds good in stories. Who would've thought you'd take it so seriously and turn into a gypsy."
"Sometimes being Bohemian is conforming as well, only differently. But to be honest, I am not addicted to the idea of being a nonconformist."
"Still..."
"Ma, all I ever want is to not be afraid of wanting something, regardless of whether I get it or not..."
"You take after your grandmother."
"That's a compliment."
"I think we gave you too much freedom."
"Too much freedom? No Ma, am tied, as tied as tied can be."

Fwd: Past Forward

Dad sent me a forward, a Powerpoint presentation, and he and I ended up having an argument over emails. Yes, it's in the genes, picking up an non-issue and having tedious arguments which follow like streets (and twisting metaphors on their feet.) Hell I could write a post on it, but I won't inflict the pain on you, unless you want me to.

But that's not the point. The point is, the forward was so bad, and so damn bad that I loved it. It was like watching a bad B-grade Hindi movie. And that's when I thought, that these forwards, the original weapons of mass distraction, are all but gone from my inbox. Gone are the days of the subject lines: "Fw: FWD: Fwd: FWd: [tbc1998_thebest] Family(Beautiful mail) Must read.", "Amaaazing video [Must watch]", "Too funny", "awwwesome" all with an "enjoy" in the body of the email as the sender's helpful comment. No more retelling of "History Mystery..........Lincoln & Kennedy", in font size 45. No more doing to death of "Cow economics", in pink and blue and green and black. No more "Tips for staying young....... NICE". No more wmv attachments. No more studying the forwarding trail and knowing the email addresses of strangers. All gone.

Now, link sharing is through FB, video sharing through youtube, "good morning" sharing through twitter. Save for some people in my parents generation, no-one else seems to send them. At least to me. It's good, but it's also sad because the glorious opportunity of judging people on the basis of forwards they send is now gone. (I am like my mother. I stereotype. It's faster.) A friend of mine once broke up with a girl who made the ultimate mistake of sending him a "Gud morng!!!!" forward replete with pictures of soft-focused flowers leaning in all directions. A friend of mine lost his job because he accidentally sent his lady boss some misogynistic stuff. She wasn't offended by the content, but by the all those hopping gifs. Ok, the last bit is made up, but this bit is true: a friend sent a wedding invite in that format, peppered with animated gifs, and am sure many people missed the joke, not giving him credit for his degrees, and skipped his wedding.

So yeah, I'm really glad that these are all but gone from my inbox. Do you still get them?

Pay per clique

Dear Mr. Vir Sanghvi,

This issue is nearly five days old and I am opining now because I feel the need to. What's strange is, when I first read your post about how the bloggers are the bad people of the Internet, I wondered why you were bringing up an issue that was roughly five years old. Nobody complains about bloggers anymore. For some strange reason, you seem to have just discovered them.

Don't get me wrong, I am barely a blogger, but I read a lot of them, and I will tell you why. For that, I'll have to go back to my origins --

Like in any educated middle-class household, as a part of my education, I was forced to watch the news and read the newspaper, to inculcate a love for current affairs, opinion and language. In the evenings, we were forced to sit in front of the TV as Salma Sultan and Rini Khanna (née Simon) told us what happened in the world that day, with a certain amount of indifference. Once a week, on Friday nights, I was allowed to stay up late and watch Prannoy Roy on "The World this Week" (Loy Mendonza's title track gives me gooseflesh.) Back then, Hindi was Hindi, and English was english, we were told to respect language. For analysis, we had to read the newspaper or magazines..

All this reading came with the strong belief that the people who were writing in the newspapers were qualified to comment and were the best people to do so. That they wouldn't write just to please us (or please anyone, for that matter). Having never seen their faces, and content with those little caricatures (by RK Laxman) accompanying their pieces, we put our blind faith in these could've-been-pseudonymous writers. To be honest, to me, Jug Suraiya never felt like a real name, but it didn't matter. I liked reading what he wrote.
Similarly, when movie reviewer gave a movie his "stars", we assumed that his judgment was right, because he knew what he was talking about. Even if we liked a movie he didn't, we assumed we'd missed something. We would perhaps not even admit that we liked it. In fact, for a long long time, I barely blogged because I always assumed my opinions were wrong.

Times have since changed. (Times has since changed too. Heh.) In the papers, instead of Mukul Sharma's Mindsport, we have "news" about Konkona Sen Sharma's latest party appearance. On Live TV, for current affairs, we have a journo shouting at us from outside the gates of the Bigg Boss household. In studio, for opinions, the moderator is shouting at the panel of analysts, all in some undecipherable mishmash of a language. Hell, now the media people are even shouting on twitter. Amidst all this, we, the then middle class, now haunt silent spaces to find good opinions and good writing. We find this noise to be unbearable and it seems easier for us to ask our friends for what they think. I don't remember when was the last time I read a "valid" movie review. These days I just ask a couple of my friends, read a couple of blogs -- people whose taste matches mine. Even if I don't agree with them, I read it for all the wit and good writing. I also take it as my responsibility to tell them of my opinion, sans fear. I usually put in some effort to articulate my thoughts. You could call it clique formation, you could call it forming a network of people you can trust.

It works fine for me as a reader, but why does it upset you?

I don't know what your exact grouse is, but it seems to be one of these: that the bloggers don't take your opinions seriously, or that that the bloggers are not qualified to opine, or that you are no longer the elite, or that we've found our friends who don't talk "at" us, and we prefer taking a weighted average of their opinions.

This was our little party. We hung out here, in our crowded little dark rooms, happy by ourselves. You seem to have entered the place right now, breaking the fourth wall, and are upset at us for having a party.

Sincerely,

--

PS: Am not sure if Mindsport is still published. Can someone please tell me?

PPS: Other better posts on this topic: Manu, Lekhni and this for all the revie-wit: Manu, again.

Twinkle of my sky

You know I've been thinking a lot about death. Three drafted, one published, and one published-and-retracted post later, my brain is still trying to make peace with the mechanics of loss. My brain still tries to get the early mover advantage on grief. I think it's a phase thing. You know how 25-year-olds discuss getting married, 30-year-olds discuss midnight feeds, and 40-year-olds discuss clogged arteries? My parents are losing their peers, and I can't offer them comfort that their friends went and became stars in the sky.

--

I realized yesterday, I had forgotten how to look at the moon. I had forgotten how the moon looked. Crescent, half, full, spotted, pimpled, you know the phases. Sometimes there is no reason to look at the sky. Sometimes there is no reason to spot the Orion or the Big Dipper. Sometimes there is no reason to draw the line to the Pole star. Sometimes there is no reason to wish on the lone star.

I realized yesterday that the night sky had stopped being black. It had stopped being the metaphor for a maiden's hair. Instead, it had turned into this nightmarish shade of ink blue. It looked faded. The salt and pepper was gone. It looked like all the stars had been forgotten, and hence they went undercover. Ah, the blinding city life, the bright lights have taken the twinkle away.

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art...

One of my mother's students committed suicide. Dad informed me, adding, "The 3 idiots effect."

I didn't ask for any other information, because sometimes it is easier to deal with statistics than dealing with real people. However much we try and shroud it in euphemisms, "13 people died" is far easier on our tongue, on our mind, than saying "Ma's student passed away." However indifferent or concerned we pretend to be, it always seems closer home when it happens to someone we know.

I can't imagine the parents are going through. Ma feels as guilty perhaps, being the teacher, and I wouldn't blame her. She has always taken it as her responsibility to counsel all these kids about their adolescent problems with love, puberty, alcohol, career, studies. I wonder if there are many teachers who take as much effort as she does, to connect with the students. Needless to say, she is immensely popular with her brood. So with all the honesty they give her, I can imagine why she would feel guilty. If she had spotted signs early on, that what this kid was going through was more than what other kids are also going through, maybe a life could've been saved. It may just be that she finds it unethical being part of a so flawed education system where students/kids are humiliated in school and at home for not performing well. I don't know, I will have to ask her.

What is also interesting is how many people have connected the dots and drawn a line to the movie. We can't help it, it's the job of engineers and scientists to collect stats, and present it as a trend. Somewhere along a trace of that line, the individual and his problems get lost. As I said, sometimes it is easier to deal with statistics than dealing with real people. "Suicides are on the rise after 3 idiots"-- was anyone even collecting statistics before the movie was released? Was anyone even serious about them? Plus, I fail to understand why 3 idiots has collectively had such an impact, but not a movie like Rocket Singh. How does watching the movie create such a big impact? Why do kids suddenly identify with the character, and like him, to take the harsh (or easy?) way out of life's troubles?

Which brings me to the bigger question - is the blame really on the educational system or on the society in general? The way it seems to have evolved, everyone seems to want to raise a prodigy, you know, a multilingual blackbelted rockstar with an IQ of 175. Studies, exams, education are just a small part of this.

I was reading some posts here and there about how the government could help it with educational reforms etc. The policy is important, but this could also be the issue of mental health in general. I still believe that the onus for it lies closer home. We see our family, our friends, our neighbour's kids. It should be easier for normal people to see signs of depression or anxiety in people who are amongst us. It should be easier for us to accept these as a valid illnesses. It should be easier for us to accept that some people need help, and not be dismissive about it. The govt can only do as far as to create helplines and ease up question papers and collect stats, but unless there is a broader social change, an acceptance of the individual and his mental state, the problem will perhaps not go away.

Dirty Rock

Finding NiMo.

I slip underwater effortlessly and at that depth feel calm and peace that comes with being in control. And yet that control comes with an equal amount of dread -- something could go horribly horribly wrong. Every time you take that risk of doing something else, something different, apart from being on the couch, you take an unassisted step forward. Scary, yes, but the thrill makes up for it.

--
"Age is just a number" or "30s is the new 20s" -People who say that are really really old. Youth is wasted on the young, and yet, nothing's perhaps ever wasted if you've devoured every little bit of whatever was on your platter. I feel I have.

I finally feel comfortable in my own skin. Of course, the butt's too big and the hair's too frizzy and I haven't still bought the Ferrari I swore I would. Frankly, I don't care. I don't feel the need to drastically alter myself because I know nothing's going to change much. I don't look over my shoulder for approval. I am way more confident than I ever imagined I would be.

Gone is the anger of the early twenties, or the slogfest of early-mid twenties, or the crisis of mid-twenties years or the sinking feeling of mid-late twenties or just the tic-tac-toe of "what's up with life" of really-late-twenties. There's a life to be lived, and I feel I am making the most of it.

--
To be fair to me, I never had a consistent list of what I wanted to achieve before I became this old. It's been switching every year. Earlier on, my to-do list was filled with silvery shiny things and checkboxes, now it's just the hope that I'd not be ashamed to have a pink haired day. Someday, someday!

So yeah, since I record gifts, this year, I bought myself a birthday card.

End of a yearn

1. Quit job without having another
2. Moved to a new house, and did it up.
3. Wrote, a lot.
4. Got my diving license.
5. Sketched/drew/painted things I am proud of.
6. Baked my first cake.
7. Traveled, and a lot.
8. Trekked to the Everest Base camp.
9. Dived in the Great Barrier Reef.
10. Didn't waste time on movies (rather, kept the resolution from feb).

And many others. Not bad, not bad at all.

Happy new year, y'all.

Accident p0rn

--
Written a little while back.
If it wasnt so tragic, it would be funny.

--
I find myself sitting in my odd spot with a bandage around my left thumb. Not much of a difference. I use the thumb for the space bar and nothing more, so it's not so hard to type.
Gone are the days perhaps where the thumb was the important tool for warriors and poets. How to hold a bow and arrow or a pen? Ha, times have changed, we modern day warriors and poets can manage without our thumbs. The forefingers pull the trigger, and well, we type. Even it's use as the ancient phallic symbol has been replaced with the middle finger. Tom Robbins wrote an entire chapter about the importance of thumbs. I can't seem to remember any of it, except what I would perhaps not be able to do without my left thumb, is hitchhike in the commonwealth countries.

The friendly doc told me to ensure the nasty fella stays dry. I told him I am a veteran in this department. I get loyalty bonus points from dressing companies. I even know the latest fashion.

--
Cut to late march 2009.
I woke up that morning trying to open a carton to find something. Someone had left a swiss knife on the dining table (to open a bottle of wine, of course), the blade of which went into my palm. It bled a little, not much to merit panic. Two days later, the whole thing was full of goo and stuff, and it was impossible to move my hand. I was in pain, hallucinating, screaming, threatening to write my will . An incision and drainage had to be performed, under general anaesthesia. The last memory was that of laughing gas. I woke up from the stupor the next morning to get it dressed and discovered a hole in the middle of my palm. The resurrection happened on easter, I kid you not. Did I ever have any doubts about me being the child of God?

But a few days before the bandages came off -

And a few days after I was given the laughing gas -

I tripped and fell and landed up with a gash on my forehead. It has left a lightning shaped scar right above the left eyebrow. And not some itsybitsy clipartsy scar, but a real lightning shaped scar, which seems to turn red and throb every time I drink red wine. I feel it's a message, but and yet to decipher it. May be it's morsecode.

Of course, true to myself, not to be defeated, I still decided to run the JPM corporate challenge - a 5.6km run through the heart of the city, the central business district. Ever so popular with the cutthroatmanager type people, who lack civil behaviour. One of them gave me the elbow, so I jumped off the pavement and stepped on a discarded bottle, twisted my ankle and fell, skinning my left knee. I was left with running only 1 km, and I had no choice but to limp the rest of the way.

It was only april, the cruelest month.

By this time, the horoscope came chasing my back to indicate, that the dosha (flaw) found last december was making me accident prone (that's the topic of another post)

So then, after a few inconsequential cuts and bruises, A was made to sit through a 4+ hour pooja to reduce the impact on my behalf, because women, as you would perhaps not know, have no rights to pray for themselves (or so I assume). I dutifully sat through it, touching his right shoulder, hoping the faith would heal and protect.

Soon after I got back, both of us were in a bike crash. Though safe, we landed up with major skinning of all body parts, which took a while to heal and completed the match-muched set of scars. Of course, after the initial shock, my immediate response to sink into terrible self pity, assuming I brought it upon him, and losing faith on the dosha vendors.

I will not get to the story of the crashes and tsunami warnings and the close calls, which actually are entertaining and sound adventurous, and will take the tragedy out of this story while I need your sympathy.

Now the thumb - a little kitchen accident which happens, happens to the best of us. It understandably made me hyperreact and run to the doctor and feed myself three years worth of antibiotics.

My body is a war zone, full of land mines, scars and pits and spots, all ugly on a grown woman. When I was all of three it was a big deal to have a band aid on the knee, now, I wonder if men still find it enviable.

The jokes arent tiring, the advice is. This includes: not venturing out of home evvaar (though half the accidents have happened while I was, in fact, home), realigning the feng shui of this house, and getting pregnant (don't ask.)

But I wish people would say some encouraging words, because I seem to have lost all confidence. That doesn't stop me from doing anything, but it has become a hassle to lose confidence in something seemingly innocuous, like peeling potatoes, and this constant thing that keeps running at the back of my head that I am accident prone, and so I am waiting for the next disaster to happen.

I am the next disaster waiting to happen.

Gonna fly now.

Running is something I talk about a lot, but I never get around to doing as much as I talk about it. Yep, it's one of those things, which people believe I love, but while I've confidently spoken to all my running friends about my intentions, minus the odd short (~5km) runs, I never actually got around to registering for an event till this year. Most often than not, I am plain lazy to register on time, and such events are usually oversubscribed in Singapore.

The other problem has always been that I find running extremely boring, which is not surprising given my extremely short attention span.

This year, I also finally found the gear I so needed to be able to keep at it: an iPod shuffle.

So the night before the Standard Chartered run (SCSM), while other people were busy carb-loading and hydrating, I carefully sat and planned the music I so needed to pace myself, and to help me keep going without realizing what was going on.

Speaking of hydrating, it didn't help that SCSM kept sending me scary messages the whole of yesterday asking me to hydrate. So much so that I woke up with sweaty nightmares a couple of times and found that my throat was parched..

Now comes the best part -

I decided to take a cab in the morning. The plan being, I will go as close to the starting point as possible without tiring myself out even a leettle bit. I got in and before I could say a thing the Sardarji at the wheel asked me in impeccable Singlish, "Why you going to run so late ah? I see people run from 5 o'clock, you know."

I patiently explained the strategy of staggered starts. He further went on to explain the best route to take to get closest to starting point. Trusting him completely, I proceeded to adjust my headphones in place and checking my playlist, taking carefully measured sips of water from my bottle.

Then he decided to talk:

"Where in India are you from?"

I explained my middle-east-origins, which he was expectedly clueless about.

"Close to Calcutta", I said, hoping to help.

"Worst place in the world. So dirty, so ugly. I nevaaaaaar want to go there evaaaaaaar."

I smiled.

Then it hit rockbottom.

"Doctor say, running very good. I say not very good. Three friend die you know"

"One fellow, he went New Zealand, three day he run. Then too cold something he die."

"One more fellow, last week, his heart stopped."

"One girl, she came asked me to find army gear for her. I help her buy. She run for charity. I never hear from her again."

I kept quiet. I was scared, of course. Two seconds later, he asked me if I knew anyone else who was running.

"Man or girl?"

"Girl must not run"

Ultimately, he stopped at one end of Robinson Road, and said "That's it miss, I can't go any further. You have to get down here."

Annoyed at myself for having trusted, because I knew the road was blocked, I paid him, asked him to keep the change as I didn't want coins jingling in my pocket, and landed up walking all the way to the start point, which as people in Singapore would vouch, is quite a bit. On the way, I crossed the 2 km and 3km mark for the full marathon course. Needless to say, when I finally got there, I was sweaty and thirsty, and very scared about my heart.

I also saw the early finishers of the full marathon on Anderson bridge while I was trying to navigate my way up and down the underpasses. A six-foot tall african, followed by a six foot tall chinese, followed by that cute guy from gym. Hell, the cute guy from gym runs? I didn't know that.

The run itself was uneventful. It was crowded. Like the entire world had nothing to do except get up and run on a nice Sunday morning. The point with such slow crowds is that one lands up being better off walking, because even at your fastest, you are slower than the average walker. And given my past experience with aggressive women, and men, and given the warnings meted out by helpful taxi guy, I decided to stick to my lane and run slow. I finished slower than the last time, and thankfully, am still alive.

High, and disoriented, and sweaty, I took the train back home.

--

Strange, I needed so many words to write about a 10k. The one who finished the full marathon, needed very few.

... and let dive

You know when we were growing up, and getting from 6th standard to 7th standard was a big deal. It was like something to be conquered. As I read somewhere, a three and a half year old knows the difference between being three and being four. I am three-and-a-half  years old. Ever seen a kid who is not proud saying that?

Sometimes I feel that I need that metric just to experience the ecstasy of taking a number down. Floating around aimlessly with little joys and without tangible milestones simply won't do. I guess that's why people run marathons. 42 becomes that number to run for, to say I've been-there-done-that. 

Does one need milestones to find happiness? 

Now I am being all scatty. This is right after Cyn called my blog a sleek minimalistic condo. I wonder why she would say that. Must be true. This is where the dirt is under-the-fancy-rug-swept, there is no storage space, and money-plants grow, ironically, in empty wine bottles. Plus, though this place impresses others, the truth is that however long I live here, I never seem to belong. 

But I digress. As always, I digress.

"Collect your thoughts", a friend in college used to say, "collect your thoughts before you dive into the middle of it all"

There you go, back to the point.

Diving is something that has given my life some semblance of that structure. From a non-swimmer who struggles in the choppy waters, and panics, I transform underwater and move around somewhat elegantly, somewhat effortlessly. Somewhat, I said. Don't push the limits of that somewhat. It would sound trite to say I belong, but I really do enjoy the water above my head and nothing but my equipment to trust. Such a heady feeling swimming among the fish above the corals. And the addictive silence. There is absolute peace and quiet for noone can talk. You communicate with signs and symbols, and commit what you see to memory, so you can come to the surface, and check the name of that brightly coloured fish which held your attention for that little bit.

When I started, I was into the star spotting- the stingrays, the turtles, the sharks. Hard to find, and always the lone rangers, it can make ones dive trip worth bragging about.  That was then. Now I am content and much more confident identifying the gorgonian fans and batfish and spotting the odd clownfish moving in and out of anemone. It is always full of odd surprises. Sometimes you find the jellyfish being eaten by small fish. Sometimes you find yourself engulfed in a school of barracuda. Sometimes a rabbitfish comes and befriends you. Sometimes you squint your eyes to spot a pufferfish. Sometimes you make up names for the redfish bluefish yellowfish. 

Such joy!

Don't get me wrong, as much as I pretend to be good, I am far from it. There are many people who have clocked many more dives and are much better divers. I barely started.

So, why am I writing all this? 

Good question.

Hmm. 

Saigon kick -2

Due to the brilliant response of the first part, I have decided to post part two. You people are very kind.

---

The day after we went to Cu chi, we woke up early and made our way for another tour - to the Mekong delta, which is also a two hour ride from the city. I wasn't very sleep deprived, so I decided to listen to Romeo who was nearly bleeding with songs and information about the superstitions about birth and death in Vietnam. For instance - farmers would ask to be buried in the farmland to prevent the wayward sons from selling the farmland.

On the way, we visited a temple of the Cao Dai (Pronounced: cow dye) religion. Primarily monotheistic, they have symbols from all religions placed inside the sanctum. God is symbolized by the left eye as it's supposedly closer to the heart.


From there, it took us about twenty minutes to get to the Mekong Delta. "The waters in the delta are not dirty, but red because of all the alluvium in the soil", Romeo informed me, reminding me of the word "alluvium" which I hadn't heard for many years. Needless to say, the area is very fertile, and has a lot of rice fields. Vietnam is (was?) third after Thailand and India in rice export (of course, that could be related to the consumption, but still..).

The delta tour itself can be not very high energy and exciting, save for the ride in a canoe, through a canal, where you wear those hats, and the arms of strong women render your years of gym useless.. Oh yes, we did visit a couple of "staged" villages - you know the kind where everything is how a village is in our imagination, where we were served snacks, and fruit and tea and chewy coconut candy, which got stuck to my teeth and prevented me from speaking for a full 15 minutes.

For me, the best part of the trip was identifying different fruit trees. I, for one, had never seen a grapefruit or a dragonfruit tree. (Yes, many of you haven't seen a dragon fruit, but it's alright.)

I slept through the two hour return trip finally finding comfort in the singsong voice, while A indulged in a conversation about Mooncakes and ricefields and the city.

We made our way to the Ben Thanh market in the evening assuming it would be a handicraft af-fair with loads of local made stuff, but it turned out to be a night market with the original duplicate (read:Chinatown type) stuff, which I wasn't too keen on looking at, because I had no patience to bargain. Bargaining needs not heart, not liver but powered up lungs. I gave up and decided to get fleeced by one of the tourist shops instead. Vietnamese lacquerware paintings are unique but almost all the shops sell identical stuff, and are affordable.

Then someone recommended us to see the water puppet show, and trust me, it turned out to be more enjoyable than I could've ever imagined. Mostly depicting life of farmers in Vietnam, the deft hands of the puppeteers standing in chest deep water tell folk tales and mythology. They are accompanied by musicians with banter in their voices. The puppets are language by itself. A and I still laugh about some of the jokes moving our hands about and jumping around.


The city is best seen on foot. One is better off staying in District 1, and then walking around and getting lost on the map. It is the best way to get by and to spot the life as it passes by. You see a swarm of 80cc motorbikes coming at you as you cross the road. You see the mess of overhead cables as they mark the corner of the streets. You see scared lady drivers swinging their handlebars left-right left-right to dodge you till you make up your mind and stay still. You see old ladies with the traditional baskets on a pole doing the hop-walk. You see the joy on people's faces as they dig their teeth into scrumptious street food. Walking is the only way to enjoy the vibe.

Which brings us to the food. One of us couldn't stop drinking coffee (Ha, gotcha, wasn't me!). It smells of coconut and tastes like Vanilla and does random things to your tastebuds, giving a weird caffeine kick. I, on the other hand, was addicted to the food. I have always been a huge fan of fresh rice paper rolls (Summer rolls) and prawn on sugarcane but now I am willing to cheat on my love for any other cuisine and start a torrid affair with Vietnamese food.

Banh Mi is this sandwich type thing, which is made of baguettes, and has meat and a gooey vietnamese style sauce making it delisshhus.

Pho, or noodle soup has beef pieces, soft noodles and broth. I don't eat beef, so carefully picked the beef pieces out, and drank the broth anyway.

Vietnamese are of the habit of putting fresh herbs in their food as opposed to cooking and cooking with a whole lot of unidentified powders and pastes like we Indians are used to, and hence leads to flavours where every note is identifiable and hence comforting. I am told there are a lot more vegetarian options in Vietnam, because of the strong Buddhist roots, but I would be wary since though there are more than enough Vegetables in the food, the fish sauce and condiments may contain some stuff they don't want to admit.

Food is religion, I have converted.

Beer, umm, there is 333 (Ba ba ba) and Sai Gon, both palatable, drinkable, and muuuuuch better than Fosters (which is my rock bottom for beer and gives me the rash). I have a rule of drinking only the local beer when in any new town. Rice wine is worth a try I guess, I didn't try any, since beer is cheaper, and closer to my belly. Many pubs and clubs with live bands use random number generators to price their beer, so it's better to be cautious.

There is this atrocious drink called snake wine, where you see rice wine bottles with snakes and scorpions and weird things. Booze is already poisonous, why adulterate it with more? Plus, I read that the venom is denatured by ethanol, so what's the point anyway. And with that I end my carefully crafted justification of chickening out.

--

PS: Apologize for the delay in posting. I have another trip to write about now.

Saigon kick -1

As expected, this thing begins at the very end of the trip. One always thinks about what one has seen and done at the very end, mostly while sitting at the airport. One can't help it. So as my travel companion struts away to a much needed foot massage at the airport, I trudge to what I think I need most - quiet time with my computer. Just so you know, I can see the "spa" from the corner of my eye, and can spot more men walking to the place than women. Women are always blamed for their indulgence, but I love the way men manage to peddle their indulgences as "need". "I *neeeeed* this" doesn't quite sound the same as "Oh well, maybe I should buy myself a new bag". You would find a guy wistfully staring at a piece of art which doubles up as a gym trainer and a rocket launcher (a.k.a an iPhone) he so badly *needs*, when you know and I know it doesn't even match the furniture.

Anyway, one is attempting a travelogue about their recent trip to Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. And all you kind people should encourage me. For info, it's logical, not chronological.

--

Ho Chi Minh City nestles in a spot in the south of Vietnam which if you stare at the map long enough, looks like its wrist. Formerly officially known Saigon, it was named HCMC after the city was captured by the North Vietnamese forces at the end of Vietnam war. It is still informally called Saigon by the locals. All on that in wiki, if you're keen.

I was ashamed of how ignorant I was about the intricacies of Vietnam war till I actually visited the city and felt the vibe of a place which can perhaps never forget. The words "War veterans" and "Agent Orange" is thrown around a lot for anyone's comfort, and yet the details seem to have slipped right through my history lessons. For those who don't know and don't care, and to cut a very long story short-

Vietnam was occupied by French after the Second world war. The Geneva Accord of 1954 which kicked the French out and essentially divided it into two states ("pending national elections"): - The North ( Democratic Republic of Vietnam controlled by the communists) and the South ( Republic of Vietnam controlled by, well, what the vietnamese call a puppet govt placed there by the US). To prevent the communist forces from rising to power (and to harness the mineral resources in the area) US entered Vietnam.. The North vietnamese army (Viet Minh) led a conventional war, however there was a guerrilla operation run by VietCong against the anti-communist forces in the south.

If you find me a little biased in the above paragraph, it's only because it is hard not to emote after seeing a city which has assimilated war into its identity. I will try to sound more indifferent from now on.

Hold on!
Back to the beginning -

So, soon after we landed, after an early morning budget flight which made toast out of us, we had to bite into the morning traffic jam. As expected, despite what we thought was smart bargaining, we got nearly looted by the taxi driver, like tourists often do. It's the fate of a tourist - however cautious one is, however much one reads the stuff online and prepares - printouts et al -- one almost always gets cheated on the first ride from the Airport to the hotel.

Once we reached the hotel, we realized that time travel had given us an extra hour that day, we asked the kind lady at the tour desk downstairs, to take us to the Cu Chi tunnels.

Soon enough our friendly tour guide arrived, shoved us into a van, handed us a bottle of mineral water each, and decided to give us our money's worth by not letting us sleep through the ride. Going by the name Romeo, he spoke good English, and gave us, the clueless two, trivia about the country and her people and their superstitions. He didn't stop till the van did.

The Cu chi tunnels, which are roughly two hours away from the heart of the city, were built by the VietCong during the war, and are work of wonder. Up to 10 metres underground, and having upto three levels these were mostly dug using shovels. The tunnels are for the petite and small ( read: size XS) "because they knew that it is impossible for the westerners to fit". It's hard to imagine how people lived down these rabbit holes for years, and how kids were born inside those tunnels which barely have any light, and were often infested with poisonous ants and scorpions. Sectors have been widened to fit the tourists, and lights been installed, but one still needs to crawl and it is still too dark and narrow and can get claustrophobic. It's barely a treasure hunt as you would imagine it to be.

The other highlights of the tour are the booby traps and other ingenious methods used by them using mostly the scraps from the enemy - scrap from shells used to make the weapons, rubber tyres used to make slippers, soldiers' uniforms to throw the "German" dogs off-track. There are B52 craters, unexploded bomb shells and broken tanks which were damaged by the land-mines. One does realize the uselessness of such massive brute-force type tanks and weapons (?) in a war, when they were up against short and quick and agile people using common sense and intelligence.

A day later we made our way to the Reunification Palace. A little after the US withdrawl from the Vietnam war, a tank of the North Vietnamese Army (dramatically) bulldozed through the main gate, ending the Vietnam War -- an event recorded as Fall of Saigon (wiki, if you please) and reunified the country under Communist rule. The p(a)lace itself is full of rooms full of furniture, which can best be described as regal or imperial, and collects all things stinking of affluence (read:wastefulness) of the (then South vietnamese) govt. It can get boring, but I guess it holds a lot of importance for the Vietnamese people. The interesting part here is the basement under metres of concrete which is like one of those "War bunkers" you see in movies - full of maps and old communication devices where the generals point with those long pointer things and plan their attacks.

A final stop on the War trail was the War Remnants museum (formerly known as "Museum of American War Crimes"). The "American" bit was dropped sometime in 1995 (and they perhaps had no choice but to) after they normalized the relationship with the United States. There are tanks and bombs and missiles and all tangible war remnants kept outside, and one can't help but wonder about the amount of money spent in shipping those things over halfway across the world. The inside of the museum tells us the tale of the war, and is replete with pictures. There is an temporary exhibition about the true remnants of the war -- pictures of victims of Agent Orange. It was a defoliant used by the American army containing a toxic (and banned) agent dioxin which poisoned their food chain and resulted in innumerable birth defects. Indifferent as I may sound while telling you what it is, the exhibition is not for the faint hearted. A gave up after walking through ten pics. I saw around twenty, and stepped outside as if closing my eyes and getting away would prevent all things bad from happening in the world. How I wish. All around me, people were walking with their mouths covered, in disbelief perhaps, that the most celebrated war veterans, the most celebrated presidents were party to such damage, such carnage, such mutilation of life.

Nothing, I repeat, nothing ever justifies war and a war like this. Nothing justifies death of people, even if it is masquerading as nationalism. The entire vietnam war left millions dead, (including ~50,000 americans, if you please). In Cu Chi area, of the 16000 people living in the tunnels only 6000 survived [to be verified], I am told. I don't even want to get to the amount of money which could've been put to better use, perhaps. Was it even worth it?

--

PPS: If there is one person who has read till the end of this post, and hence I get one comment on it, I will write the part two. Else, you miss the best parts.

PS: Art work -- my own.

Breathe and be

There are days when I miss you. You were the one full of dreams and ambition and need to kill the world, or make the world keel. You are not the same anymore. Full of doubt, full of need to validate yourself against what others have to say, dwelling on the words, quotes, pulling notes out of your hidden pocket, insecure as you can be.

There was a time when you were quiet, not saying anything for you were afraid, measuring words, deleting them, controlling them, shifting them, spacing them as need be. Now, vocal as you are, it seems futile, for you can't tap your feet with the times, eschewing nails (for they are a pain when you type) as you have walked too far down a path which seems to be familiar to others, and yet is not remotely what you are, on a road better as less travelled as it can be.

The dreams and hopes and flights seem to evaporate into the cumulus, a cumulative accumulation of what you've learnt, they cloud your judgement, trap you into your future, rain doubts, drain hope. And it's not a future less traveled, it's as done to death as it could be.

Sometimes I wonder how you became so emotionless. Sometimes I wonder how you can go through the motions. Once upon, the very notion of a motion put you into a fit of love or rage or hunger or anger. Now you look straight through life and death, guiltless or wallowing as the case may be.

As I said, though double the size, you're not half the person you used to be.

Face of things to come.

In a near dystopian future, mutant fortune cookies take over the world, they save your personal information, oozing venomous messages to all those who dare challenge their supremacy - "Make all you can, save all you can, give all you can". All the helpless people can really do is give in to the oddball addiction. 

Human beings are constantly monitored, being accountable for every single stray thought that steps into the frame - "So, update us, what's on your mind?"  Their colleagues, friends, fathers, mothers and big brother silently watch. Humans feed, humans read, lapping up every bit of information thrown at them.
There is no such thing left as free will. Every decision taken through a series of questions to the one, tap of a finger, click of a button -  "What is my purpose in life?" "What should I have for dinner?"

People rub their eyes in the morning, wake up into a world where they can't dis-like things - they can only "like" the stuff. People compare people, rate them, order them, hand out superlatives. Flick of a wrist, click of a button. "Friend-unfriend", "Accept-ignore" "Red-pill, blue-pill"- they make their choices, the screen flashes in protest and they become a part of the system.  

The farmers become the herds -- some 11 million of them. They grow cash-crops - eggplant and strawberries. Somewhere, a lonely black sheep strays into their neighbour's farm. She feels very sad and needs a new home. There is no one to help them out.

While the farmer toils on, the soldier fights the new enemy. The mafia slowly takes over the city.  The war wages on, as the pawns in the battle lose their energy, health, and stamina by the minute.
Then there are the guerilla warriors who form the resistance, fighting the cookies and the mafia. They have no weapons -- they fight with their bare hands -- poking and throwing snowballs as they find spots to hide in a box.

Somewhere my taste buds protest, overwhelmed at all the force-fed information. Somewhere my cause to ignore a protest kicks in. Somewhere, I ride the nightmare where Facebook is skynet, and resistance is futile.

Somewhere I give up hope, somewhere I get bored of it all.

--

Gah, I really got bored writing this post, but decided to post it nonetheless, so don't complain about the abruptness of it all. kthxbai.

Just about fair

It's funny how I speak to people with completely different results. At any given point of time, with certain people I am open to their point of view, their ideas, and with certain others, I become a person who wants to drive the point across and is not receptive to anything.

Manu brought this point about the SRK issue and infinite justice, and made it seem simpler than algebra. His piece touches upon of the varying ideas we have about things fair-unfair, just-unjust, things we hold dear, and the greatest common denominator very few have - objectivity. Dang, can't believe I lost a chance to argue the point on twitter.

The weird thing is, I had a long drawn writeup on the matter, but I now realize this discussion is way past it's expiry date, and there really is little point belabouring it. So here is the gist of it -
--

I remember once sitting on a terrace, much before my present life of sloth, with a couple of drinks and do what young-single-NRIs do best on Friday nights- argue about what's wrong with India. It's a way for us to justify the selfish choices we have made. We let go of a lot to live this life, and prevent ourselves from tripping over guilt when we watch Swades, because we have made that choice of giving up a life full of struggles in "our" country, just to be happy in our little worlds where things run like clockwork.

And in one such moment, a friend had an epiphany. He chanced upon the idea which one lives by in India -- the fact that law isn't the same for all. For something as simple as a license renewal to something as elaborate as a hit-and-run, the law will hardly ever treat two people the same way. The sad part of it is, even young-bright-urban-educated-upright-individuals like you and me, give in to the system. or find ways of solpa-adjusting our way around it. We simply don't have the time, or the patience, or the courage, or the conviction to deal with it.

What additionally bothers me is how we pity ourselves when we hear of any incident involving someone "powerful". "If it can happen to him, imagine us..". So the "outrage" that loyal fans experience is also bundled with a whole lot of self pity.

Tell me, why is getting frisked unjust? It may just be fair on a gazillion others who are traveling. One man's suffering for the greater common good. I've been "randomly" selected for the "special safety screening channel" more than once - Shoes off, belt off till the metal detector gives me a clean slate. If they could, they would perhaps try and account for the iron in the blood. I even opted for ceramic fillings, because I am petrified of the beeps. I don't think it is unfair in anyway. I am fine with it, since I am sure others are frisked too.

As far as the racial profiling goes, given the current state of world affairs, and given the havoc the religious extremists have created, they are perhaps just trying to live by what the statistics suggest to them. You can't blame them, can you? Agreed that statistics are flawed, as Nicholas Taleb would argue, but statistics just give us the reassurance we so badly need. Tell me, what other way is there to tell?

Life, on the move

The fifteen year old calls. She tells me she is now obsessing over apocalyptic events. I don't have to try hard to find the correlation between that and her impending board exams.

A little while later -

I fly out to this beautiful city. The ride from the airport to the heart of the city warms the cockles of mine. A glimpse of a lot of spots from the past. This is where she lived. That is where we stopped that day. Pronouns infest my mind, my eyes resolve the anaphora. I will perhaps never fall out of love with this city. Never.

A little while later -

Children of brothers and sisters unite in a violin shaped Hall. All share muffled laughs as kids crack jokes decidedly adult.
"Didn't you find the botox joke funny?"
"No sweetheart, at my age you don't."

Two angels, now grown up, and the coolest aunt plan a sleepover. They plan to giggle through the night. "Gimme gossip, yo"
"D and N are going out."
"Since when?"
"Sixth grade. Can you believe they were seen making out in McD's? McD's of all places."
"Oh wow", I say, dealing subconsciously with the facts of life, and trying to get rid of the mental image of a six year old D with a water bottle hung around his neck asking for a kids meal at McD's. Of all places.

I wake up to see her hair beaded with red thread, and my nails painted an apocalyptic purple. Work of the devil or the work of a 13-year old. I don't have to try hard to find the correlation between that and the fact that she played the lawyer the night before. Yes, on that stage.

A little while later -
Shamelessly flaunting these badges of honour, I trudge to meet an old partner in crime. He makes me wait at the wrong mall where Lush smellscapes and jobless people surround me.
I run to the right mall braving the traffic. One could make a movie out of that little ordeal of mine.
One eats lunch and then one hunts for coffee.
Some seemingly tone-deaf DJs loop MJ.
A stack of spoons falls in a loud protest.
I laugh.
He talks.
I suppress an accidental yawn.
He curses.
I explain, "Coffee makes me sleepy. That's why I have so much of it"
He doesn't buy the argument. Who would? (But it's true.)

A little while later -

I go to the town tucked away on one side of the world. I drive through the lines joining points on the landscape: End Point, Endless Point, Peacock point so on and so forth.. Things have changed. A garden rests where end of the world used to be. A building has come up where the road used to be. A university has come up where peacocks used to be. On that odd drive, I spot a house painted apocalyptic purple, oddly named "John Corner".

A little while later -

Clouds turn an ominous shade of grey, it could be Day after Tomorrow. The skies unfold. The rains I had prayed for, so earnestly, land up in the middle of my vacation.

--
Edited to add: Since you asked, the person who gives wrong directions to restorants, is this guy, someone we fondly address as Punmaster t9

Life, suspended

The word "auto" never ceases to amaze me. Autorickshaw. Auto, the self, inspires a sense of freedom that one can't explain while taking any other mode of paid transport. A taxi seems very upmarket - like you would walk out of a mall holding a gazillion paperbags and wave for one. Calling it a cab is even more deprave. To be honest, when I first started calling it a cab, I just couldn't stop - "Cab" "Flag a cab" "Call a cab" etc.

An Auto on the other hand free, open, odd-wheeled and stands for that: the self, the independence.

--

One has broken the terms of the house arrest and ventured out in an auto. Fwee. But that was in the evening. Before that -

One little boy, in the house behind ours, refuses to get out of the shower. Squeals of protest.

One little boy, in the other house behind ours, annoys the hell out of his mother, and gets it from her. Squeals of fear.

One little boy in the house facing ours, a year and a half old, figures the doorbell out. Ting Tong Ting Tong tingtongtingtongtingtong.. Squeals of joy.

They all squeal in tandem.

One speaks to a friend, tells him about the unbearable heatwave which has claimed lives and ones brain in the process. One even manages an apology for whininess in the midst of profuse sweating.

"What's the weather like?"

"40 degrees, and it's only 10:30 am."

"That is nothing, 45 degrees here"

Okay, yours is bigger than mine. One is sorry, for having told you that one has air-conditioning at home.

Ma calls one for the nth odd meal of the day. One brilliantly stuffs themselves.

Dad calls, asks "Tell me, what's happening?"

"Breaking news: The milk got spoilt."

He changes the topic, "Is it raining?"

"Yes", one says, "Two drops fell."

"It's a sparrow crying."

One then gets back to hobnob the loverchild, the mac, which crashes for the 10th time. It perhaps rebels. One had decided to call it Macartney, but now thinks Macavity suits it better. Evil evil. Too much thought. Brain collapses under the pressure.

One then takes a break, guzzles water.

Ma uses the opportunity, the gap in one's mind, to ask if one is hungry. Considering how much she hates being even in the vicinity of the kitchen, even the question is a valiant effort.

One calls a zillion people. Or chats. Or emails. Or uses telepathy.

One speaks to another friend. He calls one a girl and a tube-light, in no necessary order of preference. That's a bad exit strategy in a conversation. One has never pretended to know all, then why is one being drowned in conversations involving undecipherable jargon, and then being judged for it? If you were that smart you would be able to explain it, instead of calling one a tube-light.

Brillig.

Meanwhile, one forces Ma to watch the Blue Umbrella. Halfway through, she promises never to watch another movie with Pankaj Kapur in it, if he is the one who has indeed stolen the umbrella. Fine, let's wait. She lusts after the umbrella too, "When you go to Japan.."

We are a dramatic family.

Dad calls again, with a more oddball question than ever "If a ball is thrown up in the air, when it reaches the ground what will be it's velocity?" One answers, to the best of their abilities. "And the force?" "Mass times g, no?"

It is the evening - one finds their way to a small DTP store to print five sheets of paper out. Five, no more. He prints. "This is the best I can do." Two people walk in requesting for help with download. One little gigs, two little gigs.

One flags an auto. Negotiates. Refuses. Walks off. One plays games in which noone loses. He chases, agrees. So does one.

One then rides with the wind, two little sparrows cry, dusk settles like dust.

That auto-ride smells of humus in the soil, of hope of rainfall in the air, of the little rebellion in the sky and more importantly, of all pervasive freedom.

Fwee.

--

PS: Bits of fiction.

Heatstruck

When life gives you lemons, make a lemonade. Or wing it right back and add lemons of your own. That is not too difficult, since lemons grow all year round. Mangoes, on the other hand, choose summers. One must suffer to enjoy the fruit. We are but slaves to the king of fruits.

I'm sitting in the middle of a heatwave. Home, and virtually under house arrest. You know snowstorms in movies - same situation, less fur. I am such a weatherwhiner. Leave me in any situation and I will complain about the weather, save for the fragile season of fall -- I'll never complain about the fall. Or mangoes.

So yes, it is 40 degrees. Clothes stick to you. Dust finds it's way to the table top. The milk gets spoilt. The kids don't play on the street. The schools are closed. I haven't written a word for two days. People have been visiting. People have been visited. I have watched enough bad movies to put me off bad movies for a lifetime. This firangi apple is getting baked. My brain is getting fried, my wit has melted. I'm just a bundle of reflexes.

Thankfully there is homefood. And mangoes.
--
Edited to add: Thankies to youth icon Manu for the first line.