Migrant Labour for Commonwealth Games in Delhi

Positive Development Story - Return of India’s “Missing” Women

Bhairavi is a healthy baby girl born of proud Indian parents at six pounds and two ounces. Had she been conceived a year earlier she might have ended up dead. Another possible victim added to the 50 million “missing” women of India as described by the UN and Nobel Laureate Amartya Sen.

The Delhi government’s cash initiative last year for families with a female infant seems to have at least saved one life but is it cause enough to celebrate just yet?

Revolution of Unequal Measure?

The 9600 Rupee (USD 210) government bonuses offered to parents for every new girl child born in the last year is touted as a critical measure leading to this year’s improved gender birth ratio. Coming from deplorable conditions wherein only five years ago only 860 female births took place for every 1000 male, the current year’s 1008 female to 1000 male birth ration can be considered a revolution.

“I wouldn’t call it a revolution, “says Santosh Pathak, a Statistical Officer at the Directorate of Economics and Statistics, “the spike is most probably a reaction to the cash incentives and less of a sociological indicator.” Even the United Nations Population Fund has unequivocally stated that “the figures are impossible” given that the mean “natural” ratio is not more than 965 females to every 1000 males.

But even as the government is preparing to set up cradles throughout municipal offices of the nation to save unwanted female infants, the survivors of generations past remember the futility of such government policies.

“I was asked to get rid of my baby when the doctors told my husband that I was going to have a daughter,” says Shanti Bhattnagar, 63, an office clerk, “I refused. That was nearly the end of our marriage.” The Medical Termination of Pregnancy Act, 1971 had just been passed and was being regularly flouted by citizens and doctors alike. “My husband was convinced by his sisters and our daughter was born.”

Considering how her daughter turned out, Shanti is more than jubilant. Not only did her daughter succeed in becoming a doctor, she is the first member of their family to go abroad. “A mighty feat for a girl, as some say,” remarks Shanti with a proud smile.

In Search of Conscionable Reform

The world has changed for women as evidenced by the UN’s far encompassing Convention on the Elimination of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW). With over 120 countries ratifying the charter and over thirty years in effect, the Convention still aspires to ensure absolute equality and conscionable accountability.

India is yet to accept all articles of the convention according to Sunila Abeysekera, the head of International Women’s Rights Action Watch (IWRAW) South Asia. Rightly arguing the futility of partial enforcement of rights the IWRAW is faced with the Indian government’s hesitation.

“What good is CEDAW if I can be forced into marriage?” says Sakina Suterwala, 19, a Muslim minority student of political sciences, “The government in its zeal not to infringe on minority rights is condemning half its constituency. We want to be women first, minorities later.”

The rising consensus among NGOs and the youth lies in the support of restructuring mindsets rather than manufacturing opportunities. “The women empowerment schemes of the last 30 years have been hogwash,” says Rama Nagarjun, a professor of sociology, “India is a stubborn country of traditions that have never quiet been washed off their past sins. The post-colonial attitude has only made things worse with a supposed ‘return to roots’ approach on the part of the rural population. And that is where most of these atrocities still happen. Who cares about Delhi?”

The government has provided opportunities in the form of free education, favourable loans and various medical facilities to women across the country. But when compared across the world, India has stepped down a rank since last year to 114 out of 134 in gender equality. The only sub-index where it shows strength, is ironically, political empowerment; active politics with inactive governance.

Nagarjun laments how any real change in the mindsets is yet to be seen. “Boys are still preferred and it isn’t so much right as it is fashionable for a girl child to have a successful education, only if it is to garnish her marital resume.”

But many still look beyond the government for answers.

“Our World, Our Future”

“When Indira Gandhi became the Prime Minister I cried”, says Julia De’ Souza, 68, a retired school teacher, “I was 25 and I believed I could do anything I wanted with my life. And I like to believe that I did.”

“I was lucky I suppose,” she says, “my husband allowed me to study; I had children, made a home but I never relinquished my spirit. I see too many bright girls doing that today. With all the opportunities they have before them I just can’t understand why...”

The city may have just responded to the economics of government policy in its statistical spike or perhaps this year might be the first of the many that marks some revelatory shift in the way that the Indian society behaves. Looking towards the future Julia’s 19 years old grand-daughter Stephanie is less subdued and a full measure more tenacious in her outlook on society.

“Women have changed, some in more ways than one. Be it in the bedroom or the board room, women of Delhi, and yes India have come a long way.” She says with fiery passion, “And it could have been much worse considering our heritage. But we have always been patient and beings of faith. I have faith that our world, our future will not be impeded by parochial traditions and economic burdens.”

But as is the case when we consider matters of faith, it is but in the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen, that we may find the millions of missing women making their return in the generations of tomorrow.

Get Rich Quick: Amassing wealth at 21

When Abhishek Rai turns 21 next year he is going to be a millionaire. Some of this credit should go to the foresight of his parents. But the remarkable fact is that all the decisions leading up to his fortune were his own.

“I received a huge amount, nearly thirty thousand rupees from my relatives for my upanayana ceremony (a Hindu coming of age ritual) when I was eleven,” recounts Abhishek.

“We knew it would be tempting for him to spend all the money on frivolities,” says Dr. Rai, 56, a practicing pediatrician in Kolkata, “but thought better of him to learn the responsibilities and opportunities that come with money. So we opened a fixed deposit account in his name.”

As his 15th birthday came closer Abhishek became more anxious to spend the money. So his parents made a “deal” with him. Dr. Rai’s “deal” with his son involved him having to learn a thing or two about investing.

The idea of easy money and no manual labor was a great incentive to invest says Abhishek. Since then he made all the choices with regards to which companies to invest in and has almost made a career out of that deal.

Abhishek is soon going to graduate with a degree in accounting & finance ready for business school the tuition for which will be paid for by his investments.

“To earn without work is sinful,” promulgates Dr. Rai. “But I’m glad Abhishek caught on to the art of investing and has made smart choices.”

Smart Investors, Young Investors

Regardless of the age, money is serious business. The desire to be wealthy and successful is imprinted on every young mind. Most middle class families leave education as the only inheritance for their children. It isn’t surprising then that young people today are willing to make sure they can live off the interest on that very inheritance.

“Our college has an investment club which maintains a virtual stock market of real world companies,” says Mudita Mithel, 19, of H. R. College of Commerce and Economics in Mumbai, “We learn how to analyze a company; its operations, plans, everything.”

With colleges starting their own investment clubs and young people more interested in the stock market the number of casual yet serious minded young investors has seen an uptake.

“Investing isn’t gambling as most young people think,” clarifies Prakash Shukla, 31, a Dalal Street broker, “True investing is about planting the right seed at the right time in the right soil. Unfortunately most people think only in the short term and suffer losses.”

The key idea behind successful investment is doing so for the long run. Allowing your money to work for you takes time which most young people aren’t willing to give.

Shahrukh Shah, an engineering student in Mumbai handles the investments of his and three friends who all invest in the stock market. “We have no hang ups about delaying our gratification,” says Shahrukh Shah, 20, “We all have to run in the rat race but by saving instead of spending now we may just not have to run that long.”

As more young people make the foray into well informed and disciplined investing, their earning potential increases manifold bettering their chances at financial freedom later in life.

Some Tips

Simple steps to setting up your own investment base:

1. Get a PAN card. All earnings, salaried or capital gain, need to be registered for tax purposes. So a PAN card becomes your doorway to becoming an earning member of society.

2. Open a savings and DMAT account. It is a legal requirement for investing that makes all your dealing virtually accessible online for your convenience.

3. Do the research. Nothing worth having comes easy. Look into the financial broad sheets about the ups and downs in the market. Also refer to financial news and perhaps get a consult from a broker.

4. Buy broad. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket with a single company or a single type of investment. Diversify with equity, mutual funds, commodities and foreign exchange. The greater your spread, the greater the gains and stability.

5. And if you’re really serious then learn the lingo. What are derivatives? Futures? Swaps? The many devices used to trade can often make the difference to a serious investor about how much and how fast they make their fortune.

“There is a whole world worth exploring.” says Ankit Bharadwaj, 52, a self-employed “wealth consultant” and former associate at ABN Amro, “My three rules are – invest in a fundamentally sound company, invest whatever you have as no amount is too small and most importantly take a little bit out every once in a while and have a good time!

Festival Assignment - DurgaFest: The Commercialization of a Deity

By Alex Marchand and Samir Alam

The streets of Chittaranjan Park, New Delhi are nowhere to be seen as thousands of people crowd the space in their final farewell to Durga Ma (Goddess Mother). Amongst the bright lights and smoke that marks the end of the four day celebration of Durga Puja; the entire Bengali borough of C.R. Park is aglow with festivity. After journeying through endless rows of devotees and processions the awe inspiring plaster homage of Ma Durga makes itself visible in its pandal (worship tent) abode.

The massive statue is not only a great attraction but also a source of joy and prayer to many. As it over sees the dogmatic worship of the people below littered around are pundits (priests) who adorn the statue with crowns of flowers. Auspicious tikkas are bestowed on all those who come up to see Her, as a lively festival of dance is underway on a stage nearby, captivating the audience - “in the honor of the Mother, the Druga goddess”.

The scene almost seems stereotypical of what tourist guides proclaim to be the Indian experience and subsequently scores of Westerners travel to see. And yet something is clearly amiss.

“Festive Discounts” and other “Special Offers”

Significant spaces in and around the pandals are littered with commercial stalls. Miniature shops sell everything from insurance, televisions and bank accounts to toys for little kids.

Loud and obnoxious billboards, either in English or Bengali, are seen at every step. And as the last few weeks have turned into the final days, the advertisers have kept themselves busy by offering “Festive Discounts” and “Special Offers” in light of the religious celebrations.

And in an ironically unifying manner it is not only Indian companies that are represented here. Numerous multinationals also fall in line and attempt to gain as much as they can from the religion. When asked, Joy Bondyopadhyay, a representative at a telecommunications product stall explains:

“To organize such a grand festival one needs resources. One needs sponsorship and we are here to help the organizers. It also provides an occasion to promote our company; as it is people tend to shop and spend more at the time of Durga Puja.”

A man sitting at the Ramakrishna Mission, Ashim Tanguluy, a senior veteran of Durga Puja celebrations insists:

“We come here each Durga Puja. The business belongs to the festival, go to the villages of inner Bengal and you will see that it is exactly the same.”

When asked about the conflict between business and spirituality he replies, “No! Enthusiasm is always there. It is a celebration of joy; we celebrate the return of the Mother!”

“One comes here for the entertainment”

There are children running around with balloons and cotton candy. Traditional elegantly colored saris find place alongside tight jeans and t-shirts. The shouts of street vendors are echoing down to the unsuspecting crowds. It seems more of a street party rather than a religious festival.

“The people coming here are very sincere, they come here to pray” assures Samrat, 21 year old business student from Assam. But when one asked to explain the story behind the festival he becomes far less loquacious:

“The Durga goddess beat the demon and then… uh… I do not know much more, it is complicated.”

Until he finally admits: “Yes it is true, one comes here for the entertainment.”

And from a distance the sound of a Bengali rock group can be heard as they replace the dancers in the honor of Ma Durga.

Dangers of Diwali in Delhi

New Delhi: Traditionally a festival of lights, Diwali has now become an excuse for renegade urban bombardment. “It is how Diwali has always been,” says Susheel Gupta, a veteran cracker salesman “people have always wanted bigger and louder explosions.”

However fire-crackers available today are more dangerous than ever before nearly similar to homemade explosives. Easily available to young children at local markets these crackers are a serious cause of concern.

“We like to scare people by throwing crackers near them”, says Abhilash, 13, of Defence Colony “but we make sure nobody gets hurt.” In a climate tense with security concerns, terrorist attacks and such juvenile danger to the public why aren’t these explosives regulated by the government?

Such a blasé disregard for the capitol’s safety is true cause for concern as Diwali allows for easy hoarding for such armaments for later use by dangerous organizations in effect turning Delhi into a minefield.

Israel and Palestine: A Theatre of the Absurd

An Editorial

“Nothing to be done.”

So says Estragon, beginning Samuel Beckett’s post modern magnum opus which simply sums up the state of human kind. He might as well have been speaking of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict; a story of two neighbors perennially awaiting salvation in their existential flux.

Since 1948 the conflict in the region has supplied academics, policy makers, arms manufacturers and even journalists with their livelihood. With displays of support and rationalizations filling numerous libraries since then, the solution is nowhere at hand. Lost in the myriad history of diplomacy and military conflict, all that is left now are semantics and power plays.

But the hopes of the people (on both sides) that live and function daily are not lost. Each side had faith in some Greater Power (not Arafat or Sharon) to lead them into peace if not conquest. However the lesser powers leading the two nations have never held any such faith. Be it the pre-emptive attack in 1965 by Israel which annexed Gaza, Golan Heights and East Jerusalem or the Camp David meet in 2000 where even a Nobel Peace Prize proved insufficient to persuade Arafat to be reasonable and fair. The people of both nations, in however so ever varied degrees of duress, have had to accept fear and anxiety as a way of life.

With further reaching conflicts tracing back to biblical history one thing is for certain, that this spectacle of stubborn and conceited righteousness on both sides of the border does no favors for the many innocents that die under it. A true theatre of the absurd; wherein on both sides the people are but waiting for some sign of peace and stability – however one wonders if at all it serves any purpose.

Is Godot ever coming to Gaza?

Etc. in 3 Parts

1

These random whispers,

Haunting spells

Of less sanity

And pervading thoughts

Meandering my conscious mind,

A valley barren cold

The mind can ask questions

To the bodies wisdom old.

2.

Think dark thoughts

Heavy curtains of satin

Soft and tempting

A luscious and sinful sight

Dark thoughts

Like rumbling clouds

Of night breeze

And khol laden eyes

Their mystery in darkness lies

Thoughts under shadow

Under effect, not of light

Of unseen frights

Dark thoughts

Earthly delights

3.

A calm embrace

Of familiar arms,

In familiar places

From familiar faces

Is not enough

To quench this thirst

Unwittingly demands

An infinite well of sympathy

To drink, to satiate

This pain lost in dilution

Of your forgiveness

Love - the final solution

Mind the Lyrics

"...Had he come to walk among the Williamsburgers of his kingdom

And like the burghers of Calais will a sacrifice be demanded?
To offer up our dreams and beg for mercy empty-handed?
And hapless in our hipness crowded 5 to an appartment
Relegate our dreams to hobbies and deny our disappointment
Cause The Stones in '65 want total satisfaction, kid
But The Stones in '69 see grace in just getting what you need
But if that's a victory then I'd hate to see what I'd look like defeated..."

"...Where us noble starving artists are striving to feed our ego

Our mothers like our music our our friends come to our shows
And if our friends become successful, we'll consider them our foes..."

"...Is it worth being an artist or an indie-rock star, or are you better off without it?'

Cause I mean maybe the world would be better if we were all just uncreative drones,
No dead child, hood dreams to haunt us, a decent job, a decent home,
And if we have some extra time we could do real things to promote peace,
Become scientists or history teachers or un-corrupt police at least,..."

"... was starring into his sunglasses and I was really freakin' out i was like,

Steamboat Willie Bonnie Prince of all this shit, you're like the king of a certain genre
But even you must want to quit like if you hear a record by Bob Dylan or Neil Young or whatever
You must start thinkin' 'People like me, but i won't be that good ever'
And I'm sure the thing is probably Dylan himself too stayed up some nights
Wishing he was as good as Ginsberg or Camus
And he was like 'Dude, I'm such a faker, I'm just a clown who entertains
and these fools who pay for my crap, they just have pathetic punny brains
and Camus probably wished he was Milton too or whatever, you know what i'm sayin'?!'..."

"...But whether it was him or not I couldn't forget the words he'd spoken

'Artists are pussies', like we're wusses or we end up getting fucked
And other kinds of folks are dicks, tall, smart and strong
And born to fuck us up I know,
It sounds really sexist and stupid,
It's a terrible analogy but at that moment on the train tracks,
It made a lot of sense to me maybe it's just some kind of natural balance,
Like 2 types of mental gender that's gone on in all societies,
In one form or another like some dicks were born to conquer,
I probably would if I could but if i'm just a pussy, that's okay
Cause in a few months maybe, I'll put out something good...."

All Quiet on the Western Front - A 26/11 Report

A girl looks on as thousands gather at Gateway of India for the 26/11 Peace Rally on 3rd December 2008

Mumbai: The receding darkness still digs into the vanilla sky above the Arabian Sea. The streets are littered with newspaper boys, tea vendors and the daily commuters from across the island and beyond. Every denizen of this Invisible City attempting to recapture their lives in whatever manner they can. And on the shore near the wrecked remains of the Taj Mahal Hotel hundreds of candles still stand fast in memoriam to face the new dawn.

A lot has changed in the last week. The streets of Mumbai seem quieter, people subdued, the buildings arched as if in silent mourning. But it is not to be misunderstood. The spirit of the city is shaken but not shattered. There are more barricades on the streets, more soldiers geared with automatic weapons behind makeshift forts, metal detectors at railway stations and teams of dogs sniffing the streets on police leashes. In spite of the stand-still of the last few days, the city is back in its fast forward mode. Only the people haven’t quite caught up to it yet.

After all only ten days ago, on the night of 26th November, ten young men of Pakistani origin - barely into their twenties - began a massacre with Machiavellian precision. They ended lives without mercy and smiles on their faces. They repainted the Victorian architecture of the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus with human blood. They decimated the structure and spirit of Colaba Causeway’s 19th century Leopold Café with explosive hate. And then they burnt down the majesty of two sea side hotels – of the past and future – with remorseless hate. In total attacking ten locations across the city and eventually taking more than 170 lives while leaving hundreds, if not thousands, in hospitals.

“Gateway (of India) was our ‘Ground Zero’,” says Tejas Karguppikar, 21, student and film-maker, as he looks over the bay waters opposite Taj Mahal hotel. “I didn’t know on 26th night what was happening. My friend and I were having dinner at Grant Road,” he whispers, trembling, contemplating an alternate future, “just 10-15 minutes away when my father called to see where I was. I couldn’t believe it was for real.” But it was real. The scorch marks on the facade are still visible in the morning light as pigeons circle the sky over the Taj’s dome roof.

It is not something any city can or should shrug and move on from. To deny ourselves feeling is to deny our very nature as compassionate creatures of god. The coping process however has been a particularly trying one. Facing the slow dawn of early December near the Gateway of India is a true reminder of that. Scattered everywhere are the remnants of the night before when thousands descended here looking for peace. It is simply the leftovers of the city’s offering to destiny that never again should we succumb to such helplessness and confusion.

Through the week that led to last night the people’s reactions have been many and varied. Some were devastated, some angered and some too stunned to react. There was outcry against the politicians, the bureaucrats, the police, the governments – Indian and Pakistani – the desire to witness justice and validation for what they had suffered. What they were left with was loss and lots of unanswered questions. And the youth wouldn’t wait much longer.

“I called my friends and family in Mumbai from London, “says Abhijeet Ahluwalia, 22, journalism student, “I knew they would most likely be in the area of the attacks. I couldn’t reach anyone for a long time but finally got through. I was anxious to know where everyone was and what was going on.”

As information started flowing in, it was the youth that felt a never felt a never before felt sense of social responsibility. Communities on Facebook, Twitter and Orkut piled up on the late night during the first day of the attack, co-coordinating efforts to help hospitals, victims, blood banks and start volunteering. Children fought against their parent’s better judgment, fueled with a youthful fire they themselves couldn’t understand. The culmination of their efforts gave birth (with appropriate institutional assistance) to the Peace March that took place yesterday evening.

The rally was more than just a cry for attention from these students. It was a reminder to the world that there wasn’t going to be a next time. As dusk began to descend, the gates of colleges flung open with a flood of students numbering thousands. Groups of students covered the streets all the way from the J. J. Flyover near CST Station, all directed towards the Gateway of India. Groups of hundreds from different college across the city numbering into thousands organized themselves to represent their outrage at the atrocities of the attacks and the irresponsibility of the government.

Large flocks of students dressed in white or tricolor or black; visibly displaying their emotion on their sleeves. Some carrying large banners across the front row, some had slung up effigies of Pakistani and Indian leaders, some echoing with chorus’ of unified voices shouting slogans of peace. There were girls dressed in burkhas alongside their low rider donning counterparts, college hierarchy had come to a dissolve and the message was more important than the messengers. And the message was clear – We Want Answers, We Want Accountability and in some cases We Want Revenge.

“Our banner was painted to clearly show our group’s views,” says Khushboo Lohia, 21, student and local artist. “Our slogan was ‘Stop Reacting, Be Proactive’ - we can’t just sit back and expect the government to fix all this. We need to get involved.” The banner is still floating in the bay below with small leave bowls filled with flowers and candles, and a small chit bearing the names of all the known victims.

“We could only find the names of 122 victims”, says Prakrit Dhondiyal, 19, literature student “They might as well be our names. Any of us could’ve been at Leo’s or Gateway or CST…my friend was shopping at Causeway just an hour before firing broke.” The anger fills his face as tears well up in his eyes. He admits there was a lot more lost in those three days than anyone would dare admit. Perhaps it was a loss of innocence that has never before been felt by this generation. And it is surely something they never wish to ever forget.

“There was a certain hollowness as the night labored on,” says Shibani Bose, student and designer, “Initially I was hopeful to see so many…thousands of people gathered together, with candles and prayers, but there was also a lot of hate.” There is evidence of that too. A heap of banners lies next to a travel booth where people usually buy tickets to have fun at the nearby Elephanta Islands or Ali Bagh Beach. One of them reads “Death to Pakistan”; another says “Muslims Go Back”.

Hate was fast to brew to the surface. Everyone needed someone to blame and for a few it was an issue sufficient enough to manipulate into causing further divisions in the fabric of the community. It wasn’t successful. “There was a group of hooligans trying to cause trouble, “says Mallvika Bhadwal, 20, psychology student, “they were shouting anti-Muslim and anti-North Indian messages. Last I saw of them was one of them being slapped by a young Parsi girl and then being shoved out by a group of local Marathi activists.”

Some students are still here long after the marching is done. Small groups all along the bay wall overlooking the sea. Being watched by security personnel from afar they are for the better part left undisturbed. Puffing on cigarettes and sipping cycle-wallah chai, they have been here since last night. They don’t want to sleep, they say they have been sleeping all this while, finally they are awake.

“The city is strong, “says Amte, the chai-walla who’s sharing a cigarette with one of the boys, “We will get through this. It is good to see so many young people who care. The politicians take advantage of their apathy. I hope this will change all that.”

“I’m not entirely convinced anything will change, “rants Sam, 21, student looking across to his friends in with a provocative stare, “We’re here today – so what? We gathered, Javed Akhtar said a nice prayer, National Anthem, a moment of silence. Great. Tomorrow return to college, exams, jobs…how many of us are even going to vote this election? How many of us are even registering?”

It’s almost a challenge he spouts to his friends. But it is something to think about, everyone falls quiet. Tejas, Prakrit, Khushboo, Shibani and Mallvika all bow their heads in quiet agreement. There is a bitter truth in Sam’s statement.

“But we don’t have to,” says Abha Talesara, 22, literature student, social activist and rally leader, “that’s precisely the point. This event has given us the opportunity to choose what we want to do and understand our responsibilities. Sit, do nothing and stop complaining or at least go out into the world and attempt to be citizens if not revolutionaries.”

Sam nods in agreement. “I guess none of us should doubt that a young and dedicated group of citizens can save our country, “he says with a wistful and hopeful smile “after all, it’s the only thing that ever has.”

Redemptions of Things Past...

Must we perhaps surrender and

Deny our own passionate heart?

Mallu and Shibs at Marine Drive, Vanilla Sky Evening

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Forget the fire within us,

With pedantic methods of art?

My sketch of Abhi and Mallu, Pencil on Paper

---------------------------------------------------------

Deny our minds and our senses,

What feels to be magically true?

My Sketch of Salma by the Drapes, Pencil on Paper

--------------------------------------------------------------

Shape the world by cold rules and measures

Under which we were never subdued,

Optic reflections of Bottled Water, Mumbai, My Room, My Wall

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Forget the frontiers of our instincts,

Under burdens of teachings we ache,

Mumbai Uni Clock Tower - Churchgate, A Rusty Old Night

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Deny ourselves the glory,

The world in our eyes to remake.

Goa with Pari and Axe, A memorable yet forgotten beach.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Take away the inner fulcrum,

Take away the inner light,

Axe Staring in On, Fleeting Express Goa-Mumbai

--------------------------------------------------------------

Take away the visual clarity,

Give it up without a fight?

Abhijeet's , Jaigaon W.B., Religious Sacrosanct Chaos

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Give up your inner chasm,

Give up your naked self,

Thrilled Teju, Byculla Firehouse Mumbai, 4 a.m. Miracles

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Given up your very freedom,

We find immortality withheld.

Susan, Marine Drive Mumbai, Mocking the Twilight Gods

------------------------------------------------------------------------

No joyous drowning laughters,

None echo through the streets,

Lonely Road, Marine Drive Opp. Oberoi Hotel, Apocalyptic Homage

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Perhaps our gods have unmade us,

No more secrets left for us to keep.

Shan grinning, Croissant Cafe Churchgate Mumbai, Flashes of Insight

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Yet we smile like grazing cattle,

Perhaps only alive within our heads.

Roan at Gokarna Beach Karnataka, Realization of the Moving Sun

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pray for the far horizon,

Valhalla - dreams we really dread.

Cosmic Coconut, Gokarna Beach Karnataka, Lonely Planet

------------------------------------------------------------------------

And set with each fleeting moment,

With rememberance of things past.

PnP's, Gokarna Beach Karnataka, The Last Sign, The Last Stand

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When we were masters of the art,

When we mastered our own craft.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Photos taken using a W810i (2MP) and K850i (5MP) cell camera. None of these photos have been Photoshop-ed or are flukes ;)

Photos and Poem by Samir Alam.

Online Journalism Assignment 3 - Listservs

"Forums, LISTSERVs and the Amazing World of Fan Fiction!"

Click this link to see the assignment.

Thanks.

I Tweet, Therefore I Am

Article Draft for UPIU.com

Is Twitter making you dumber?

Well, according to Dr. Tracy Alloway - yes.

When speaking to the Telegraph early this month Dr. Alloway explained how some online applications (like Twitter) diminish an individual’s "working memory" and hence degrade intelligence. The news didn't get any better later on as PeerAnalytics.com discovered in its study that most (just above 40%) of all tweets are "Pointless Babble" as compared to Conversational (37.55%) and Pass-Along Link (8.7%).

Although the term "Pointless Babble" has incited significant response from 'followers' over their subjective definitions, PeerAnalytics.com has promised to refine the study and update its results. Till such time, users are left to wonder what such terms mean to them and how they look at Twitter.

"Pointless babble is anything along the lines of what you're doing or what is on your mind at the moment, said Abhijeet Ahluwalia, 21, a dedicated metal-head journalist, "What I post on twitter is a mix of pointless babble, self-promotion for my blog, and recommendations for songs that I liked."

"I see myself as much part of the Tweeple nation as anybody else", Abhijeet explains "Even our State Minister for External Affairs (Shashi Tharoor) is a Tweeple. Are his tweets Pointless Babble?"

It’s true. The charismatic Mr. Tharoor has made it a point to stay connected to the people by often times cueing them into the day to day (and at times, hour to hour) happenings of the Ministry and beyond; from thoughts on recent cricket matches to reunions with old (and powerful) friends. But the question arises, is it not the craftsmen that makes the tool worthy?

Dr. Alloway's reaction comes amidst serious academic debate about how the internet has become a dissocializing and alienating medium to communicate within. But in simple terms, be it corporations or kids, the craft of twittering seems applicable to a myriad of applications as was indicated in the June edition of TIME Magazine with TWITTER on the cover.

As Steven Johnson explained the unimaginable influence of the 140 character pitch to a random sample of individuals is perhaps the most affordable and innovative method of marketing. It is therefore fair to say that twitter in the hands of a few influential individuals could very well be the new model of politics and popular opinion. Only time will tell.

But what of the many who just enjoy feeling connected and are unconcerned with such theoretical truth?

"I am a twitter addict," says Esha Rihal, 19, Media student and avid blogger, "If not for the restrictions of finance, I'd be tweeting away my minute to minute thoughts from my mobile." And she isn't alone. With over 18 million projected users joining Esha this year, its hard to imagine succinctly insightful prose flowering from most of them. "I sincerely look forward to adding as many of those 18 million to my list of followers then," Esha reacts to the information in a chirpy voice, "after all, we're stronger in a flock!”

However with academics and users divided between what (if any) detriments Twitter might have on their cognitive function one thing is clear - for most of the twitizens of this tweetocracy, to tweet is to exist.

No Control

For Mallu,

4/1/2009

You type down with your hand.

Quiet solliloquies with no end.

Digging your fingeres deeper,

harder into the stem of

that plastic pigeon.

Pleading it to deliver

what you felt from the start.

What you termed as friendship or

the alternative inside your heart.

There is no end to its journey

The message fills only that

emptiness in between;

the spaces and punctuations

unsure itself of what

they mean.

The buttons you tred so softly,

the arrows that point your way,

the messenger to whom you've entrusted,

to speak what you have to say.

And through the void it travels

wireless and free,

unsure of when you'll reach him

or of his will to see.

You stare over the plastic

for the key to rest your fears.

And at the bottom of the barrel

A thought to you appears.

Here.

Control serves no purpose here.

Geek Love

Finite Simple Group (of Order Two)
The Klein Four Group

The path of love is never smooth
But mine's continuous for you
You're the upper bound in the chains of my heart
You're my Axiom of Choice, you know it's true

But lately our relation's not so well-defined
And I just can't function without you
I'll prove my proposition and I'm sure you'll find
We're a finite simple group of order two

I'm losing my identity
I'm getting tensor every day
And without loss of generality
I will assume that you feel the same way

Since every time I see you, you just quotient out
The faithful image that I map into
But when we're one-to-one you'll see what I'm about
'Cause we're a finite simple group of order two

Our equivalence was stable,
A principal love bundle sitting deep inside
But then you drove a wedge between our two-forms
Now everything is so complexified

When we first met, we simply connected
My heart was open but too dense
Our system was already directed
To have a finite limit, in some sense

I'm living in the kernel of a rank-one map
From my domain, its image looks so blue,
'Cause all I see are zeroes, it's a cruel trap
But we're a finite simple group of order two

I'm not the smoothest operator in my class,
But we're a mirror pair, me and you,
So let's apply forgetful functors to the past
And be a finite simple group, a finite simple group,
Let's be a finite simple group of order two
(Oughter: "Why not three?")

I've proved my proposition now, as you can see,
So let's both be associative and free
And by corollary, this shows you and I to be
Purely inseparable. Q. E. D

Prologue to An Unwritten...

Beyond

There is a world that exists beyond our comfort. A world veiled by the obscurity of time and transcendence. It wavers in and out of our vision at the most inconvenient of times. A moment before death, a moment after joy and within the very moments that we blink our eyes. It is a world where we exist without substance of the will. Where the fabric of our morality lies not as a shield but rather the sheath within which we conceal ourselves from our inevitable end. That world is not the thereafter, nor is it to be confused with paradise, hell or purgatory. It is the true limbo of our conscious mind, where the clarity of the divine universe seeps into our timid self, unweaving tapestries of experience that cloud our vision of our final demise.

This world speaks profoundly at all times in simultaneous multitudes of divergent voices; directing our every consideration and commenting on our every inaction. It is the source of the guilt of apathy and the surge of sincerity with which we face everyday life. Only its purpose, as nearest approximation is to undo all that which we spend our existence in doing. To pass judgment on unready minds, to the nature of their ability, to comprehend true judgment. A judgment not of the oppression of greater powers but of the acceptance of our own timid ones. It is the realm of sincerest disambiguity of the self. Without cognitive dissonance and moral rationalization. It is the ultimate refuge of the soul and the final descent into the true madness of existence.

It is in this world that we will all find ourselves shortly. Not without provocation of doubt or the instability of purpose, here we shall undo what our lives set out to do – to not exist. To cease our primordial function to dissect ourselves. To not merely ponder at human concerns but metahuman concerns as well. To direct the physical beyond the physical. To taste and savor the varieties of joy and pain and purpose as we allow ourselves to enjoy with the truest knowledge of judgment. It is the flat infinite world where the atheist and the polytheist represent their conscious morality under the patronage of all competing Gods.

A world of wonder and amazement that, like life, as soon as shall be witnessed shall be insufficient to satiate the higher species of our creation. The ever limited vibrancy of thought and ideal, unbounded by the limitations of perception and known physical realities. Not dependent on imagination and mythological existence but witnessed as wished from the bowels and wombs of the pure human circumstance. In equal measure, our representative in the metaphysical realm. It shall lay bare our insincerities without malice and let us be, to serve our own ends with this greater knowledge.

It shall be a garden to those who have envisioned it so, an idyllic virgin oasis to those who have desired it and the sulfurous trench to those who believe they deserve it such. It shall hold all the promise of a childlike hope along with the hapless insanity of a nihilist shell. It shall be of no bounds to any reality which we are unwilling to accept. It shall be of one person and of all. It shall merge at the blurring of convergent perception. The lines that divide the amoral from the evil, the well intentioned to the well conceived. The lies of the self that hold true here do so as long as the self holds them to be its truth and the difference between parallel truths within them disappear, compelling a choice on to all those who witness it.

It shall be a glorious beginning of realization that all that existed before is not only inconsequential but of infinitesimal importance, in manners so contradictory that mirrors shall not show us a reflection of our world but simply a coincidental reality. Such is the vastness of this post existential realm that the initial realizations will be slow and painful. Growth will be at a cost and immeasurable in its worth. Every moment of certainty will be crowded with the possibility of a greater unknown. Such glory will be bought forth from this experience that neither man nor woman would conceive of willing to exist as they are gendered and confer on the choice of identity of the human race. Such a congress will be everlasting so far as the mechanism of the universe allows it to be.

The universe of its plane will be the milestone to cross. Surpassing beyond even the control of the magnanimous deities that inhabit its plane. A guarantee that an existence without transcendence is worth much less than a life without consequence. This story will meander towards and through that world in an unpredictable manner to interpret only one such experience. Alone unworthy of thought but in lieu of any other, the only thread that binds knowledge and curiosity together to propel us into the vast realm of meta-divine possibilities.

The man whose story we shall witness will be called (for all lack of cosmic irony) Joseph K.

In My Place

So its been 20 days since i moved to Delhi. Just 20 days since i uprooted all of my known existence from an asylum city (albeit a beloved asylum, one that only lifelong inmates can love) and committed myself to a future of uncertain profession. All this while simply looking for a fresh start towards the same old goal. And today marks, possibly, the first official step in that direction.

I got my own place. Its nothing fancy. A small room with just enough space for a lonely bed (a double bed), cupboard space and the usual amenities. On the upside it has the largest "balcony" anyone will possibly have and is walking distance from the university.

My arms are still aching as i type from all the heavy lifting of bags up three steep stories of stairs. My mind is weary and prone to persistent alliteration. However it is now my home. I had some friends over in the evening to deflower this space into something more than just a roof and walls. We spent most of the time out on the balcony, sipping, puffing and yapping away. It was a fortunate moment for me as i'm sure all of it was going on in my absence as well - now i too am a part of it.

The views are panoramic and the night breeze omnipresent. The day heat ebbed by the pleasant ambiance of the moon and the suburban twilight. Buzzing dragon flies hopping among flower pots towards a mystic dance of ritual copulation. i am free to be whatever i wish. If only i could figure out what that is - soon.

Friendly chatter of histories and proclivities take up much space in our conversation. Serving to allow catharsis and connections too difficult to come by in any other way. Scars are compared and lessons of heartfelt poetry recited (Urdu) much to the applause of the ignorant masses who follow the poet along linear translations. It is a good beginning. Ideas and interests, hopes and beliefs, all intermingle in this somehow secular belief in our individual self. Secure in its foundations of the NOW if not the THEN. We muster it all together, pretending to be a singular organism with no independent organs. Its is a collaborative conspiracy to elude fate.

It happens without any thought or provocation. We carry forth the conversation to its patient end and realisations of the next days commitments to our lives. We live life in a few segments between classes and lectures. For now it is enough. Til then we will always be found in my place.

Online Journalism Assignment 2

A Comparative Review of Three News Websites

click above

Please don't plagiarize, its not that good anyway.

Cheers

Sleeping Dogs Lie

Here is a story from another Antique Land written by yours truly. Enjoy.

She imagined that her arm was broken.

Right or left, it didn’t really matter. The point was that it was broken, or at least might have to be, one way or the other. She just knew that bad things would happen otherwise.

And the only question she could think of was: how would she rather have it – quick and painless or embarrassingly drawn out? Because yes, it would be embarrassing.

Well exactly. Obviously the right thing to do would be to be done with it as quickly as possible. Sever, wince and if required repeat. Bring on the tears and then hope for mercy. Could it possibly get any simpler?

However.

However, however, however.

What if you were really looking for the sympathy vote, the look that negates all the wrongs in the world and makes you the epitome of empathic appreciation.

This was the dilemma that she had to consider.

She thought all this in the moment right before, or during or in the second right before she stepped into the house. The arm she had been contemplating was in reality no metaphysical arm. From the fingertips to the yet blossoming blemishes, all enveloped into that cursive and nurturing skin, held to its certainty by the very bones that she loved were not an abstract to her. Its presence across the classroom piano back in her convent pigtails and rolled up skirts composing chopsticks were not an illusion of Descartian reasoning. They all belonged to her.

And she was afraid considering the possibility of that arm hanging like a flaccid wrench caught between the spokes of her brother’s cycle or her mother’s sewing machine gave her no moment of comfort. Not the least bit. There was an almost sexual intimacy with which she loved her arm and it wasn’t a likely possibility now that she would ever love again.

The moment was taking forever and she was almost quite certain now that Sphinx was asleep. Not that if he wasn’t it would make much of a difference but the vaguest possibility made all the difference to her arm.

The moment of this crisis wasn’t in the present as she saw it. It was hours ago, nearly eons to dear old Sphinx. It was at its inception with an idea, like many terrible things are, and yet it didn’t seem so terrible at the time.

And it began with Sam.

Last name unknown. By her at any rate and consequently by anyone else privy to the incessant yammering of her mind.

She supposed someone, somewhere in this abyss must’ve known his last name – tagged him with an undeserving legacy (as all legacies are) and offered him a diploma in some school with it or spoke sternly to its effect at the dinner table or possibly even yelped during an insatiable tryst or illegibly scribbled into an application form for his health insurance. She knew it must’ve but it was just getting to hard to picture it at this point.

Sam, she imagined was a good five years younger than her. Which wasn’t a problem of course. Nothing wrong with that. He obviously still had a good, throbbing, gesticulating non severed arm in his future, maybe. But her immediate concern was once again ensuring that Sphinx was out of sound if not out of sight.

She danced down into the hall of the spacious apartment on her toes like a very graceful albeit old St. Bernard and looked around, very much again like a St. Bernard. Her tussled black tresses clouding her vision of the periphery of a once welcome home.

She wiped the flowing hair off her face and walked down the hall into the living room trying to listen intently. But whatever sound was coming from the outside or from the street would never really reach her brain, cause as careful as she was being her heart was working the jackhammer into her arteries pounding out whatever acoustic talents she might have had. Unknowing to her, the right hand had at that very moment figured out the Chopin Concerto in E minor.

Or perhaps there really was a jackhammer outside; digging into the street what she imagined would be her shallow grave, or her arm’s grave, if they have such things, or if she was allowed one. She would like that come to think of it she thought. A nice mausoleum to her arm, a memorial of talent spent on stupid things like…wait, we’ll come back to that.

She slid across the living room to the adjacent balcony making one final sweep for Sphinx in the family area of the house. Immediately a cool night drizzle accosted her face in a melancholy realization that the rains had arrived. Bloody brilliant she thought, rains finally and I won’t even be able to cup my hands to gather the dew drops for Sphinx. She wasn’t sure those were the kind of thoughts that would serve her best at that moment so she moved on.

As the tense sweat mingled with the diluted rain acid burnt down her chest she felt a sudden dilution of everything sweeping over her at an atrociously torturous pace. An uneven cleansing of her sins, the smells and scars across her breast and neck. It was perhaps one of the nicest things to happen that day. It just occurred to her how massively pathetic that idea was but then again insisted that context is everything.

She wished she would just close the latch and light a cigarette. Not that she smoked but now would be a time as any to have an ambidextrous go at cancerous puffs, at least she’s be safe against arm cancer, if there was such a thing.

As she was turning the curve on the future of her arm and how it would never go to other countries and visit strange people or places she realized that the subdued jackhammer was no longer yammering anymore. It had withered into a soft, scraping, shuffling noise and was definitely not coming from her heart. That noise was most certainly external.

Someone was making an utterly hopeless job of coming out the bathroom across the hall. She fixed her eyes to the hideous door. Yes, there are hideous doors and she knew that the top notch designers can pull one of them from their britches first thing out of bed no problem.

She held her breath, feeling the nausea of the evening filling her lungs with the fruity bitter stench of her evening delight. Sam had promised her a fragrant free evening. And yet here it lingered on her tongue. She considered maybe it was just an illusion, only real within her and to the outside world as nonexistent as a real post-modernist novel or truly original music.

She knew she was being naughty for all that it was worth now in her head because afterwards she wouldn’t have a leg to stand up on. Figuratively speaking of course, legs are a lot sturdier than arms; they don’t break easy, so there’s no point in really trying for anyone, she hoped. She liked her legs almost as much as her arms, they had never been quite as talented but they always got her where she needed to go, not to mention they came with such comfortable padding for all those hard to sit places. She corrected herself; her mind was wandering again to escape the tension.

The hideous door (oh God it was still hideous) rattled a bit and didn’t open. She reached out in the hopes that before it ever did she would somehow make it to her room and give her arm at least a few more hours before breaking. Her parents were early risers. As she sprinted across to her room, she finally heard the whine. It was coming from the bathroom and was unmistakably that nurtured and practiced cry of Sphinx.

So there he was she thought. Best to leave him be she figured, not draw attention to herself in the morning or set up a time line of her excursions. Her parents slept at ten and she could claim she came in at 10-oh-five and maybe save the arm. Sphinx was no good at keeping secrets. He’d give a burglar the safe combination if he could yelp in primes (or they had a safe).

She closed her room door behind her and shook off all the moisture from her hair and dress. Turning to the bed she meticulously emptied her pockets off all the evidence; the baggie full of Lucy, the lighter and pipe. She couldn’t imagine a worse place for all of these things to end up at than here, perhaps the police station where Sam was keeping the night warm, but then again that would be worse for him, not her.

She opened the ally facing window and threw out the lighter and pipe. She was still not all together she thought when it seemed as if the pipe was taking an unusually longer time to hit the street four stories below. But it did go off as intended, soaring into the blackness and reverberating to the sound of a sonorous disappearance followed by that of the lighter and then the loud insane screeching of a car alarm.

The panic and irony were not lost on her. Only her mind was taking its own sweet time in coming around to the entire concept. A part of her agreed that she could panic; but another argued that it wouldn’t really do any good. Sam was right, that weed was some transcendentalist shit. If only it was Kantian she wouldn’t be in this mess.

She slammed the window shut trying to fend off the electronic serenade of polyphonic incrimination that attempted to follow her. Things were going bad much faster than she’d anticipated. She had just started to look forward to the possibility of slamming her own arm into the window and claiming that she’d been at the ER with a kind stranger to get it repaired. Conveniently sidestepping the issue of her hanging around with a known college drug (in all fairness weed isn’t a drug she thought) dealer who’d had what seemed at the time to be an overdose, medically revealed to be a peanut allergy. The Absurdity of her evening did very much embrace her with a benign indifference. Camus would be so proud.

Her parent’s room started trembling and she could feel it in the wind chimes. Her father was disgustedly getting out of bed with a roar as he use to on Sundays when he had to go to the office. He was a kind man she thought, not a mean bone in his body. It was her mom she wasn’t sure off. Those Sundays were worse off cause her mom wouldn’t leave the house and maintain the disgruntling in lieu of her husband. The teamwork of righteousness could really get trying for a 17 year old girl.

Puritanicalism aside she figured her mom wasn’t all that bad either. She was just old fashioned and didn’t take kindly to secrets, lies and well anything else that was illegal. If only drug laws had been reformed she wouldn’t be forced to break her daughters arm. She wouldn’t do it of course, but somehow it’ll get done. The mommy mojo voo doo was strong in this house and no anomalous possibilities were out of the question.

As her parents room started stirring to life in the early Sunday morning (oh God why did it have to be a Sunday) she darted out escaping into the hall bathroom, abandoning whatever plans she thought she might have of salvaging the night.

She just touched down on to the toilet seat to steady herself that the door pounded her out of complacency.

“K.! K.! is that you?” her dad’s voice came creeping under the bathroom door.

“Yea dad! Just a sec…”

She needed more than a “sec” and she wouldn’t know what to do with it even if she did have them. The baggie of Lucy was still in her terror stricken hands and she was quickly running out of pretend pee time.

“K.! What are you doing at this ungodly hour? Mrs. Ghosh called! She saw you at the hospital, she saw you with a boy…”

Oh god, her mother’s voice was impeccably sharpened to the accurate syllables that would drill right into her weak delinquent wannabe heart.

“…and are you alright? You’re not hurt right?” her father’s concerned baritone filtered in filling her with guilt beyond all damnation.

She quickly paced around to the sink and saw Sphinx’s collar all meshed and tattered in its quiet frustration. It would be good to be that collar right about now, she mused. Where was Sphinx anyway?

Pulling back the bathtub curtain she saw as expected Sphinx rising up on his back in the tub slipping around like there was no tomorrow. A figure skating Labrador if there ever was one. And as much as she’d like to credit divine imagery to her salvation she dropped the little plastic baggie in front of the dog and tried to drown out the still screaming and calming of her mother and father.

She was a bad person. And she knew she was gonna pay for it. But Sphinx would be fine she assured herself, he’d swallowed a condom once (in circumstances strangely familiar to this) and she’d hounded him out on to the streets the next two days till he disposed of it without a hitch, completely undamaged and un-torn, the condom and himself.

She fixed up her hair and opened the door with all the grace she could afford herself, implanting a look of deep concern and ease onto her face.

“Mom, Dad, relax. I’m alright!” she gently but firmly answered much as she’d seen her mom do it when she knew she was in control. “Some friend of Percy from the village fell sick at dinner so we just took him to the hospital. He had a peanut allergy or something. Percy spoke with the doctors and he’ll be fine. Is Mrs. Ghosh alright? Why didn’t she come over and say hello?”

Her parents eased but she could tell her mom’s sixth sense wasn’t completely at bay. She nodded and hugged her daughter to reaffirm that she was alright. Taking in a deep breath of her hair and face as she pulled away, this forensic mommy was still convinced that a lack of odor was evidence of some other wrong doing.

“Is Sphinx alright in there?” her father asked “He’s been hell all evening, howling and yelping. Your mom thought it was an omen that you were in trouble” he added with a sarcastic wry smile on his face.

Her mom slipped past her into the bathroom to investigate and found Sphinx relaxed, lying on his back in the bathtub taking in the wonders of the ceiling tiles and how so many of them were like mystical diamonds crashing and dividing into each other against the deep blue sky.

She looked over her mom’s shoulder and saw Sphinx much like she had been just a few hours ago and couldn’t help smile.

Her mom glare back at her knowing something was wrong and the best that she could come up with in return was –

“Sleeping dogs lie, mom, let’s just sleeping dogs lie.”