General ravings

General ravings, Potshots

Arvind Kejriwal wins – gets Anticipatory Jail!

Mani's avatarMani 3 Comments

I write this at a time when our most beloved  Arvind Kejriwal, Chief Minister of Delhi and Aam Aadmi Party leader, has been arrested by the Enforcement Directorate and remanded by court order to the ED’s custody for 7 days.  

As a long-term admirer of Kejriwalbhai, I am overjoyed at his arrest and happy for him!  

After all, Kejriwalbhai has loudly and energetically campaigned for his own arrest since 2021, but despite this the nasty evil BJP-led Union Government has consistently denied him his right to be arrested.

In keeping with his selflessness and generosity,  Kejriwalbhai has also ceaselessly and energetically campaigned for the arrest of leaders of other political parties, such as Sonia Gandhi, since 20i5. However, we’ll have to wait and see whether Kejriwalbhai  emerges victorious in those battles too.

Kejriwal’s decade-long struggles to be arrested – rewarded at last

With his arrest now, Kejriwalbhai has achieved yet another splendid victory over his political opponents, that too just before the 2024 Lok Sabha polls.  

We can rest assured that Kejriwalbhai, and his AAP, will reap rich dividends in the LS polls from the sympathy voters, empathy voters, and above all, liquor-loving voters of India who had never before been able to buy booze at such cheap prices in Delhi at public expense, while AAP’s ‘New Liquor Policy’ ran for about 9 months during 2021-2022. Indeed, data in public domain show that during that time, tipplers were flying into Delhi in unprecendented numbers from all over India – and even from Malaysia, Indonesia, and reportedly Alaska and Inner Mongolia – to buy choice liquor by the mega-litres.

This liquor-inspired air travel to and from Delhi, by the way, greatly contributed to the profits of public and private airlines during 2021-2022… so don’t believe the Modi-led BJP government when it tries to take credit for India’s increased air traffic!

Meanwhile, there is much hysterical speculation in main-scream media about whether Kejriwalbhai can continue as Chief Minister of Delhi while lodged in jail, as declared by his AAP-compatriot Atishi .

I pause now to ponder this weighty question. Can he?  

A throaty chuckle interrupts my musings.

It is the Resident Lizard, whom I have grown to respect for being a political analyst par excellence – though admittedly he’s become a bit of a cynic of late; probably due to his highly acidic diet of flies and assorted bugs.

The Resident Lizard is stretched out beside a bottle of Holland gin with a distinctly inebriated look in his soulful eyes.

“Of course Kejriwal can be Chief Minister while in jail,” he declares firmly.  “It is a practical and low-cost administrative solution in public interest. Particularly so, because Kejriwal  will join a number of his AAP Cabinet colleagues who are already in jail.”

“But is it appropriate?” I ask. “How can we have someone behind bars as leader of the state?”

 “Of course it’s appropriate,” he snaps, after snapping at a passing mosquito and missing by millimeters. “Kejriwal and his colleagues are facing charges in a Liquor Scam; so what better place for them to run the state from than behind bars, be they liquor bars or steel bars?”

Abruptly,  he twitches his tail and scuttles off in pursuit of a high-velocity fly.

I muse over his words as I stare at the gin bottle, whose contents appear to have shrunk considerably since I last saw it in October 2023.

Has my reptilian associate been quaffing gin merrily through his winter months of hibernation?  Warming his spirits with spirit as it were, like so many citizens happy with AAP’s liquor policy?

We shall never know.  

Still, it does not take away from the strength of the Resident Lizard’s words – or of the remaining gin.

Meanwhile,  I can only reaffirm my solemn vow to remain a Staunch Votary of AAP, and to share a crude vision of what the inmates of Tihar Jail might be privileged to see in coming days.

Jai Hind! Hail Kejrubhai!

Beastly encounters, General ravings, Musings, Potshots

What’s in a Mane?

Mani's avatarMani 9 Comments

Once upon a time, not so long ago, while on a stroll in my neighbourhood, I met a girl, aged about 15, long-faced and short-haired, wearing that sulky, world-weary and prematurely cynical expression that’s so fashionable among today’s young urban elite activist-revolutionaries.

“Have you seen Bombshell?” she asked. Her tone was imperious, peremptory; her accent a pleasant blend of the USA’s North-East and India’s North-West.

I gaped at her. “Bombshell? Which…what…whose bombshell?”

She frowned. “Bombshell’s a cat,” she snapped.

“Oh..ah..yes, I see, your cat! You call it…er… Bombshell? “

“Bombshell’s a He or Him, not an It,” she replied in the withering tone youngsters reserve for dinosaurs like me who come from a time when Tweets were what birds did and Spotify was what leaking fountain pens did. “And you’re saying his name all wrong; his name’s pronounced Zhomm-Shell, not Bombshell. “

I gaped some more and her frown deepened. “Well, have you seen him?” she demanded.

“No, no,” I mumbled. “Meaning, I know a few cats around here, we get along quite well, but I don’t think I’ve met your cat…er…Zhomm-Shell. What a nice name…ah… how do you spell it?”

“Why, J-E-A-N -M-I-C-H-E-L, of course…how else could one spell it for Chrissake?” she snapped.

Wisdom dawned in my foggy brain. “Ah, so you’ve named your cat Jean-Michel?!”

“Yeah, yeah, his name is Jean-Michel,” she replied, slowly and patiently, stressing each word and syllable as a primary school teacher would while explaining something to a particularly dense child. “And Jean-Michel’s not MY cat; he’s a stray. He’s just one of the many stray cats that live here, I’ve given them all names, do you understand? So that I can keep an eye on them…”

“Ah, I see,” I muttered weakly, not seeing at all.

“I think I’ll have to change Jean-Michel’s name, ” she went on, shaking her head sadly. “People are so dumb …especially grown-ups…they can’t even pronounce Jean-Michel properly…”

“But does Jean-Michel know that you’ve named him Jean-Michel?” I asked. I was genuinely interested to know, because I like cats and do believe cats are extremely sharp and sensitive creatures. I also wanted to ask her whether Jean-Michel the cat had learned to pronounce his own name properly, but alas, I didn’t get the chance. Her face turned deep red at my query, she stamped her foot hard, glared at me, let out an explosive “Ooff!” which sounded exactly like a bombshell or rather a Jean-Michel (and even that “Ooff” had a Californian twang in it, mixed with a trace of a Scottish burr, or maybe it was a Karol Bagh rasp)… and then, with a snort of disgust she stormed off looking for the elusive feline.

I remember Jean-Michel the cat now, as I contemplate the national hysteria that’s brewing around the names given to two slightly larger cats in Bengal: a lion named Akbar and a lioness named Sita.

For the benefit of readers who might not be familiar with the facts of this case – which, judging by the saturation media coverage it’s receiving, is a case of supreme national importance that might well determine India’s Standing in the World as a Secular Democracy – here is a quick summary:

  • On 12th February, 2024, two large cats – a lion named Akbar and a lioness named Sita – were transferred from the Sepahijala Zoo in Tripura to the Siliguri Zoo in West Bengal.
  • According to the West Bengal government, the cats had been given their respective names while in Tripura. However, an official from Sepahijala Zoo refuted this allegation, saying: “We had sent a lion and a lioness named Ram and Sita respectively from Sepahijala to Siliguri. We are not aware of what happened at the destination.”
  • On 17th February the Vishwa Hindu Parishad (VHP) filed a case in the Calcutta High Court urging the Court to take immediate corrective action, including “changing the lioness’s name to a non-religious one and directing authorities to refrain from using religious names for animals in zoological parks.”
  • On 22nd February a single-judge bench of the High Court directed the West Bengal government to “reconsider” the names of the two hapless cats. During the proceedings, the judge asked the state government’s counsel: “Mr Counsel, will you yourself name your own pet after some Hindu God or Muslim Prophet … I think, if any one of us would have been the authority, none of us would have named them [the cats] as Akbar and Sita...goddess Sita is worshipped by a large majority of people in the country and Akbar was a successful and secular Mughal Emperor.”
  • Meanwhile, West Bengal Forest Minister and TMC leader Birbaha Hansda added her own twist to this cats’ tale by declaring that the whole issue was ‘dirty politics’ by VHP. “We didn’t name the animals which came to us from Tripura Zoo…It is our Chief Minister (Mamata Bannerjee) who will formally give names to the animals...”

On 24th February, the Tripura government suspended Shri Prabin Lal Agarwal, Principal Chief Conservator of Forests and Ecotourism, for his alleged role in the lion-naming controversy. While a copy of the suspension order against the unfortunate Mr Agarwal is not readily available, highly misplaced and usually uncreditable sources say that he is being accused of “not following the Prescribed Guidebook on Secular Methodologies and Practices for Naming Plants, Insects, Terrestrial and Aquatic Animals, Birds, and other non-Human Species, thereby hurting the religious feelings of the lion and lioness concerned as well as upsetting the secular feelings and communal harmony of India’s citizens as a Hole.”

Seriously, O Sinless Reader, this whole business is so very distressful and confusing.

How sad, that all it takes to set a cat among the pigeons in India is to name a cat – a cat!!! – after some historical and/or revered figure.

Surely Akbar the lion would still grunt and belch in his leonine manner and laze around scratching his ample belly if he had instead been named Subramanian, or Sukhwinder, or Prafullah, or Jalaluddin, or Joseph? Surely Sita the lioness would still wolf down her daily rations with feminine growls of contentment had she been named Yvonne or Shahnaz or Jaswanti or Girija or Harbans Kaur?

Now I fondly recall a monitor lizard that used to hang about our terrace here in Delhi, in the 1990s. We named him Ruknuddin. Why Ruknuddin? We don’t know…but it seemed the perfect name for him. Ruknuddin never knew he was called Ruknuddin, of course; nor did he care…he was too busy being a monitor lizard, which role included regular shikar of sparrows, mynahs, pigeons, squirrels, and other citizens that visited the birdbath on the terrace. [To know more about Ruknuddin, please do click here].

What’s in a name, after all? Or in a mane, for that matter?

Especially, we Hindus ought to understand this….considering the joyous elan with which we attach the names of our Gods and Goddesses and Saints to virtually every sphere of existence, from our own names to our business undertakings. Whether we live in Agartala or Alapuzha, Delhi or Dibrugarh, Madurai or Morena, all we need do is step outside to see a plethora of establishments with names like Shiva Wines, Vishnu Hair Dressers, Sai Stationers, Krishna Dental Clinic, Parvati Shoe Store, Ganesh Liquors, Uma Opticals, Murugan Pathology Lab…

To me it’s not ‘wrong’ to do this; it’s not ‘blasphemous’; it’s simply wonderful! Because it reflects a healthy carelessness and irreverence for blind obeisance, unthinking religious orthodoxy.

It underlines the idiocy of reading ‘sacrilege’ into the naming of a lioness as Sita.

So, get off your moralistic and hobbled hobby-horse, O ye VHP comrades..your outlook and behaviour are almost absurd enough to make a Mamata Bannerjee laugh.

To help my VHP colleagues – and indeed the learned judge who presided over the single-judge bench of the Calcutta High Court – appreciate the irrelevance of names as understood in ancient Hindu culture, and thereby shed their needless anthropomorphism and soothe their over-heated cerebro-neural systems, I urge them to listen to ‘Madalasa’s lullaby’ from the Markandeya Purana…here’s a nice rendition with English sub-titling.

Oh…and just to help my friends experience the healing effects of a chuckle, I also offer an ancient, much-disavowed and universally applicable joke on the fleeting importance of names when it comes to the deeper aspects of Life (apologies to those who might find it a trifle risque):

A man boards a flight from Delhi to Mumbai and takes his seat. As he settles in, he glances up and sees a gorgeous woman boarding the plane.He soon realizes she’s heading straight towards his seat. Lo and behold, she takes the seat right next to his.

.Eager to strike up a conversation, he asks: “Business trip or vacation?”

She turns, smiles & says, “Business. I’m going to the Annual World Sexologists’ Convention in Navi Mumbai.”

He swallows hard. Here is the most gorgeous woman he has ever seen, sitting next to him, and she’s a sexologist!

With superhuman effort he maintains his composure, and calmly asks, “What’s your role at this convention?”

“Oh, I’m delivering the keynote address,” she replies brightly. “I’ll draw on my research as well as personal experience to debunk some of the popular myths about sexuality.”

“Really?’ he says, swallowing hard. “Er…what myths are those?”

“Well,” she replies, “for example, there’s this popular myth that men from the African continent are the best endowed, when in fact, it’s the Indian Punjabi Sikh who is most likely to possess that trait. Another popular myth is that Spanish men make the most gentle lovers, whereas in fact the Bengali man is far gentler in lovemaking. However, in general women have found that the best all-round lover, scoring the maximum in all erotic criteria, is the Tamilian man…”

At this point the woman suddenly pauses and blushes deeply. “I’m sorry, I might be sounding a little forward,” she murmurs. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be discussing all this with you…why, I don’t even know your name!”

“Venkataswami!” the man yells. “Venkataswami Chidambaram Mukherjee! But all my friends call me Gurvinder Singh…”

General ravings, Musings

Hamas Tamas

Mani's avatarMani 3 Comments

I’m writing this because I’m afraid.

It’s okay to be afraid in the face of violence; I know that. It’s understandable.

No one understood and explained this fear better than Nikita Khrushchev, who succeeded Joseph Stalin as First Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union in 1953.

Joseph Stalin is counted among the greatest of mass murderers in human history. Stalin had initiated and actively guided innumerable, unspeakable crimes against humanity during his 30-year-rule from 1924 to 1953: large-scale arrests and torture of innocents, deportation of hundreds of thousands to slave labour camps, assassinations, mass executions, genocidal pogroms against Jews, ‘ethnic cleansing’ of groups like Poles, Greeks, Latvians…an endless list of horrors. Countless millions were murdered by the paranoid dictator, including members of the Communist Party themselves; in the year 1937–38 alone, over 680,000 Party workers were executed for ‘anti-Soviet activities’…

Khrushchev was a survivor of the dreaded Stalinist purges. Under Khrushchev’s leadership, the Communist Party held its 20th Session from 14th to 25th February, 1956 (it was called the ‘Secret Session’ because details of its proceedings became known to the world only 33 years later—in 1989).  In his long, impassioned address, Khrushchev stunned the gathered members by denouncing Stalin for the atrocities committed during his rule. At one point, when Khrushchev paused in his speech, someone in the gathering shouted out a challenge to him: “Why did you not speak up at that time, Comrade Khrushchev? Where were you? Why were you silent?“

There was pin-drop silence.

And then Khruschev called out: “Who said that?”

There was silence in the great hall.

“Who said that?” Khruschev called out again, his voice louder now.

Silence.

“WHO SAID THAT?” Khruschev thundered, pounding the table.

After a long, ominous silence, Khruschev murmured: “THAT is why I was silent, Comrade…THAT is why I did not speak up…”

Applause began, slowly at first, gathering to a crescendo.

As I write this, the Israel Defence Force (IDF) is wreaking destruction throughout southern Gaza after a brief ‘temporary suspension’ of its military operations during which Hamas was supposed to return, in phased manner, an estimated 250 hostages taken from Israel on October 7th in return for Palestinians jailed in Israel.  After returning barely two score hostages Hamas reneged on the plan and instead fired a few hundred rockets into Israel; and so once again Israel is spreading death across Gaza.

Israel strikes deeply, relentlessly, wiping out Hamas terrorists by the score and by the hundreds — and with them, thousands of innocents caught in the crossfire, almost all of them Arab Muslims whom we in the rest of the world call ‘Palestinian’, the majority of them below the age of 20; young men and women and children whom the Hamas have ruled for over ten years with all the ruthlessness and cruelty of a Joseph Stalin or an Adolf Hitler or a Pol Pot. Hamas’ leaders and religious teachers have terrorized and brutalized these young Palestinians from childhood; they have deliberately twisted and warped the young ones’ minds using the time-tested media of fear and pain and hunger and deprivation and  ceaseless, relentless, calibrated propaganda…thereby seeding in their fresh young minds a deep, unwavering, murderous, lifelong hatred of all non-Muslims and particularly those of the Jewish faith. Thus has Hamas created a human bank of brutalized, mind-numbed youngsters, which Hamas draws upon to make up its own murderous cadres.

A truly sustainable business model, no?

But then Hamas has only adapted, honed and practised the same sustainable business model  used by leaders and their frightful legions across the world, throughout humankind’s bloody history, to subjugate and exploit and rule the silent, trembling masses.

First, create an Other among the masses you exploit.

Then, even as you exploit the masses, heap all the blame for their deprivations and sufferings on the Other and direct their hatred towards the Other.

And then, guide the masses in massacring the hated Other…even as you prepare the foundations for creating the next Other.

We in India know this business model only too well. We have applied this business model so often and so effectively post-Independence! We could give the world post-graduate courses in how to create an Other in the name of religion, ethnicity, language, caste, class, ideology…and the results of our efforts are clear and tangible, from the slaughters of Partition to this day,

It is a business model adopted and fine-tuned and applied by humans across the planet: by Daesh and Al Qaeda and Taliban and Khmer Rouge and the Nazi ShutzStaffel; by Catholics against Protestants and Protestants against Catholics and Christians against Muslims and Muslims against Hindus and Hindus against Muslims and everybody against the Jews, by the armies of the Crusades and the Inquisition, of Alexander and Attila and Allaudin and Aurangzeb… 

Now, in Gaza, the remnants of  Hamas cower in the vast warren of tunnels and safe houses they have excavated  deep under hospitals, schools, mosques to escape the Israeli onslaught…for, such is their bravery and depravity, these once-men who have besmirched the name of Islam and insulted its Prophet by their monstrous deeds of October 7th 2023, when their cadres swept across the Gaza border into Israel without warning to indulge in an orgy of mass murder, of sadistic pleasure in raping and maiming and burning alive, of slaughtering  over 1500 men, women, children, babies simply because they were Jews.

Now, the Israeli onslaught on Gaza grows more intense and horrific with every discovery by the Israel Defence Forces of the bodies of Jewish hostages amidst the ruins, many bearing signs of inhuman torture.

Now, nations across the planet, the United Nations, the world media, all of us wring our hands in helpless horror at the ongoing carnage in Gaza and the death of innocents. We condemn the Israeli onslaught in Gaza, we call for ceasefire, as indeed we all should, as is natural.

And yet…and yet…the strange and terrible thing is, almost all nations, almost all mainstream and social media, so many of us, carefully, deliberately, avoid any mention of the slaughter of Jews by Hamas on October 7th. That horror is now buried beneath mountains of gobbledygook and whataboutery (“What about Palestinian human rights? What about the illegal Israeli occupation of West Bank?” “What about the Israelis torturing Palestinians? ) if not utterly erased from memory—or completely denied as ‘fake news’ or Israeli propaganda, even though much of the hideous video footage from October 7th is still freely available on social media and the Net, footage that was taken by the proud, gloating Hamas cadres on their own phones, complete with selfies…

 Very few anywhere in the world, leave alone the Islamic nations, dare call the Hamas out for what they are.  So many great leaders, intellectuals, journalists, writers across the world are silent about Hamas’ atrocities on October 7th, silent even in calling out others who echo Hamas’ hatred for Jews. A few days ago, during a US Congressional Hearing on anti-Semitism, even the heads of great universities like Harvard, Pennsylvania, MIT quailed and muttered gobbledygook when asked if they condemn strident calls for the genocide of Jews made by fanatical groups on their own ‘liberal’ campuses [click here and here to view]

Their fear is understandable. I feel the same fear.

After all, today, it is safer for me to be pro-Palestine (if not pro-Hamas), than it is to be pro-Israel.  

If I’m pro-Palestine, there’s less chance that I’ll have my head lopped off or my throat slit (or worse) by an Israeli soldier or Israeli civilian. If I’m pro-Palestine there’s less chance that someone who doesn’t know me, or even a friend, might condemn me as being ‘anti-Islam’…for such has become our world.

I, too, feel fear at calling out Hamas for what they are: inhuman, depraved, hate-filled, genocidal anti-Semitic kooks. But there: I’ve called them out.

I’ll say it again: Hamas is a bunch of inhuman, depraved, hate-filled, anti-Semitic kooks.

Calling Hamas out for its inhumanity does not mean I support the slaughter of innocent Palestinians in Gaza by Israel. It only means I refuse to deny the reality of the horrors Hamas committed on Israelis on October 7th or remain silent about it; I refuse to remain silent at Hamas’ undiminished and unrepentant calls to all Muslims in the world to unite and wipe out Israel and all Jews from the face of the earth.

I speak up only for myself…and only to assert, for my own sanity’s sake, that I reject and condemn violence. I shall not be drawn to compare acts of Hamas violence with acts of Israeli violence or condone one or the other. I shall not compose and balance kookery equations.

 And I draw inspiration from some who know what’s happened and is happening in Israel and Gaza far better than I do, and who HAVE shown the courage to speak up, to call out Hamas for the monstrous creatures they are.

Like reporter Douglas Murray, interviewed on the Gaza border a fortnight ago:  

Of course I’m still a little afraid, writing this. I always am when I speak up against kooks of any kind – including kooks like Hamas.

Yet speak up I must, even if I manage only a whisper, a feeble word spoken here or written there.

At worst I’ll die some day at the hands of some kook or the other; but then I will die only once.

The coward who does not speak up will die a thousand deaths…before dying.

General ravings, Potshots

Lok Sabha elections 2024: why I’ll vote for I.N.D.I.A

Mani's avatarMani 8 Comments

Can we transition from “Indira is India” to “I.N.D.I.A is India”?

O Gentle and Most Valued Reader, I begin this rant with an Affidavit in the standard UNESCO-disavowed format.  .

Affidavit
I, R P Subramanian, do solemnly swear, affirm and declare in this public forum as follows:
1. That I am a registered Indian voter.
2. That in the forthcoming Lok Sabha elections 2024, I shall cast my vote in favour of the Indian National Developmental Inclusive Alliance (hereinafter called ‘I.N.D.I.A’ which expression shall include all its splinter groups, breakaway factions, turncoats, defectors, defecators, and assigns).
3. That I undertake to cast my vote favouring I.N.D.I.A as declared above, barring unexpected and/or unforeseen events that might prevent me from doing so including and not restricted to death; grievous injuries caused by assault(s) by supporters of any and all political parties; Acts of God (which term includes Acts by any and all Religious, Secular, Communal, Communist, Woke, and Somnolent deities and prophets of all sexes and genders present and future); and any and all other force majeure events and phenomena.
4. That I execute this undertaking in full and complete infirmity and unsoundness of mind and senses, and under no compulsion or threats whatsoever from any entities, real or virtual.  

The provocation for my Affidavit is the recently concluded Lok Sabha debate on the No-Confidence Motion moved by the I.N.D.I.A coalition of Opposition parties against the BJP-led NDA coalition; a three-day debate that ended with the entire I.N.D.I.A coalition walking out of the House even before the No-Confidence Motion that they had themselves brought in could be put to vote.

Please don’t get me wrong: I don’t blame the Congress-led I.N.D.I.A coalition for walking out of the Lok Sabha. They did so only to escape further serious injuries to their already-bruised egos.

By the second day of the debate, the signs were clear to me—as clear as Rahul Gandhi’s development agenda for India— that the MPs from I.N.D.I.A were vying with one another in making supreme idiots of themselves as they spoke in the House. Indeed, only sheer will-power and extra-strong coffee gave me strength to hear and watch Rahul Gandhi himself prate about nothing in particular with his characteristic hoarse vehemence, oratorial incoherence, analytical incompetence and overarching adolescence—even as his colleagues cheered him on and thumped their desks—before exiting with an aerial smooch seemingly directed towards a cluster of women MPs in the Treasury benches (although a usually unreliable Congress source tells me Rahul’s smooch was actually aimed at PM Narendra Modi, for whom Rahul possesses deep affection and love).

But most painful of all was to hear and watch MPs of the BJP and other NDA parties, from Jyotiraditya Scindia to Modi himself, systematically tear apart and gobble down the MPs and constituent parties of  I.N.D.I.A with all the gentleness and grace of a pack of hungry wild dogs dining on a felled buffalo.

After watching this farce of a debate, O Dear Reader, I confess that I was wrong in my earlier prediction that the BJP will be wiped out in the 2024 elections. I now realize that it is the Congress-led I.N.D.I.A coalition that is in danger of being wiped out in 2024.

Because, judging by its disgraceful performance in the Lok Sabha these past three days, I.N.D.I.A has placed itself on the electoral equivalent of life support within weeks of its launch.

No amount of hagiographic reportage by Congress’ captive, Rahul-captivated media can conceal the harsh truth: that I.N.D.I.A was taken to the dhobi-ghats, beaten, wrung, and hung up to dry by the BJP-led NDA in the Lok Sabha.

Adding to my alarm at this latest evidence of I.N.D.I.A’s feebleness and the BJP-led NDA’s ever-increasing strength and popularity, is news from abroad that a leading American singer, Mary Millben, has now expressed her support for Modi.

Source: India Today.

I am slightly consoled by my Congress source’s assurance that Mary Millben’s support for Modi  doesn’t mean anything.  “Arre Subramanian-saar,” he says, “this Mary Millben is not even an American; she is actually an Indian Modi-bhakt living in the USA under false pretences, with some hidden agenda to create Akhand Bharat! She is a Gujarati girl; her real name is Meera Millie-ben…”

Yet I still worry.

India needs a credible Opposition.

India needs a credible alternative to Modi in 2024!

I.N.D.I.A needs my support to get off  its life support!  

And so, I shall vote for I.N.D.I.A in 2024…provided I.N.D.I.A still exists when the elections happen.

May I conclude with an inspirational slogan, which I hope Rahul Gandhi will adopt during his campaigns:

Voters of India, unite ‘neath the banner of I.N.D.I.A

You’ve nothing to lose but your brains, which we’ll replace with Pyaar!

Jai Hind.

 

General ravings

My careering career

Mani's avatarMani 11 Comments

For some time now, O most cherished Reader, I’ve been contemplating a change in career.

Not that I’m in a hurry, of course.  

Having voyaged round the sun barely 67 times, and remaining singularly single in status and peculiarly plural in pursuits,  I know I have plenty of time to think about and decide on things like what next to study and forget, what to do when I’m grown up, where to explore work opportunities that bring satori and satisfaction, and so forth.  

Still, I think it’s important to start thinking along these lines while I’m still reasonably fit and independent and flexible in terms of time and commitments…don’t you agree? 

To begin with, I’m really not sure what exactly I want to do.

This, of course, is a huge advantage in planning my future career.

You see, not knowing what exactly I want to do is evidence of my unqualified willingness to absorb new ideas and learn new skills—as unqualified as my general lack of any meaningful academic qualifications. It also underlines my unmatched ability to abandon or forget earlier ideas and skills with equal rapidity. These are, I do believe, attributes that constitute the very foundations of a scientific temper.  All in all, I state without false modesty that I have a mind as uncluttered, unfathomable and uniformly vacant as that of any successful member of the Indian National Congress party: and the Congress, as I have scientifically predicted in an earlier post, is destined to thrash the BJP-led NDA and win the Lok Sabha elections in 2024!

This advantage— of not knowing what I want to do— is further strengthened by the fact that I’m not quite sure what I’m doing now, or indeed what I’ve been doing for the past 30 years.

Before that, I dimly recall, I was a banker, with State Bank of Travancore:  for over 12 years, from end-1979 to late-1992. I quit the bank in 1992,  the year during which the late and much-maligned stockbroker Harshad Mehta raised several thousands of crores of public money from complicit Indian banks and the gullible Indian public with far more ease and success, and far less fuss and public complaint, than any of our Finance Ministers since Independence.  

Let me candidly and freely admit that what I did during my years as banker, too, is no longer clear to me. Indeed, I must add that what I did during those years was never very clear to my erstwhile bank management either.

All I remember is that when I quit being a banker, I was enthused from black topi to pinkie toe with one blazing resolve: to write. And thus it was that in late 1992—armed with a portable typewriter, vivid memories and fanatical purpose— I adopted the guise of a freelance writer; a shabby, worn-out, ink-stained shawl that I still wear with pride, fully 30 years later.

Oh, now I recall a brief summary of my banking career that I wrote in 1994; it was carried as a middle by Times of India—you can read it here.

I also have a LinkedIn profile outlining my writing career! It’s something I created about 17 years ago at the suggestion of a young HR-manager friend. “Everyone needs a LinkedIn profile,” she declared firmly.  (It took nine years for me to discover, with chagrin, that she herself didn’t have one…never trust these HR people.)  I’ve been told my LinkedIn profile is quite therapeutic—it relieves the deepest of manic depressions.

But to return to the point from which I was rudely distracted by myself: namely, my contemplating a career shift.  Without further do, I present a brief resume for your information, entertainment and valuable comments and suggestions. I trust it conveys that I possess vast experience and diverse skills in a range of intensely obscure and significantly pointless vocations and fields.

 [Disclaimer: I shall not be held responsible for any injuries including and not restricted to dislocated jaws, involuntary expulsions of false teeth, sprains or breakages to fingers, bones, etc. caused by slapping or punching hard surfaces in paroxysm of mirth, or any other kinds of physical discomfort or distress that the Reader might undergo in the course of reading this document]

Profile

Basic

Name:  R P Subramanian

Age: Completed 47 years less than 20 years ago.  

Sex: Yes! (Registered readers above 18 years of age may click here for full details)

Marital status.  Singularly plural.

Gender pronoun:  He/Hey Ra/Abbe oye/Saar

Academic

  • Graduate in Science from North Eastern Hill University with Major in Vacuum Speculations and Distinction in Absolutely-Zero Physical Phenomena
  • Advanced research and intensive experimentation on the metabolism of a spectrum of psychoactive cyclic biochemicals including a broad spectrum of naturally occurring cannabinoids and extracts from the flowering Papaver somniferum. Also investigated the neuro-biological effects of the dextro and levo-isomers of certain chiral compounds (notably, 1-phenylpropan-2-amine)
  • Blue Card (‘Good’ ranking) in Class 3, St Edmund’s School, Shillong (1964)

Publications

  • Over 150 highly disclaimed op-ed articles and 400 eminently forgettable letters in Indian Express, Times of India and other mainstream print media; over 300 articles online gathering e-dust
  • Five books and a number of anthologized short stories for children (some of whom have hopefully survived and grown up, older and wiser)
  • About 18 universally unread books on energy efficiency and clean energy technologies in Indian industry

Skill sets  

  • Can walk eight kilometres briskly without forthwith giving up my last meal or my ghost, or alternatively run two kilometres at 24–26 kmph when chased by angry mosquitoes and/or Congress mobs (have demonstrated I can run significantly faster and further when mobs comprise members of  CPI(M) and/or Shiv Sena )
  • Over 40 years’ proven experience running a reasonably clean, dust-free household in which the PM 10 levels are at least 250% lower than the ambient air quality in Delhi.
  • Cooking for over 45 years (mainly veg, some non-veg) with a track record of not having poisoned anybody (yet). 
  • Comprehensive household management including essential O&M tasks such as hand-washing dishes;  jhadoo-pocha; dusting;  hand-washing clothes; Ironing; and primary-level stitching. 
  • Fluent in English and Hindi; proficient in Tamil, Malayalam and Assamese; working knowledge of Marathi and Bengali. Can banter and give gaali in three more Indian languages.

 I eagerly await your comments, most honoured Reader. In the meanwhile, I shall work on my next post, in which I shall outline some career paths that I would like to pursue before the Dreaded Donkeys of Dudgeon decide to pursue me.  

Caught you!!

I knew you’d come here looking for titillation, you naughty devil, you…!!

,

General ravings, Remembering

Rewriting History, and Historical Mam…er…Memories

Mani's avatarMani 2 Comments

History is back in the news.

As the Union Education Ministry, the NCERT et al. embark on yet another exercise at rewriting Indian history, ostensibly with the noble purpose of creating better history textbooks for our school kids, yet again do we see the usual culprits—a plethora of netas and academia and intellectuals and activists and journalists and social media influencers cutting across ideological, political, religious, ignorance and idiocy spectra— snarling at one another over what should or should not be depicted in the history textbooks, and how the depictions should be done, and by whom, and so on ad nauseum.

Sounds familiar, no?

It’s always been like this. Since Independence. Every time a new political formation comes to power in Dilli, our netas and their chelas at once develop acute hysteria over history and  proceed to rewrite and re-rewrite already rewritten history … till the next elections come along and they are thrown out and the next lot comes in and does the same.

Over 25 years ago, my dear departed friend and colleague-writer Ghatotkacha had suggested what I still believe is a fine and most sustainable solution to the problem of how to depict our history…but sadly, no-one paid attention to him and he passed into history.  [You can, if you like, read about Ghatotkacha’s solution here…be warned, not for the faint-hearted or politically correct]

My own earliest yet most vivid and enduring memories of history are of historical mammaries.

Seriously.

I schooled in Shillong from 1962 to 1972, at the St Edmund’s School. The Irish Christian Brothers who ran the school were among the finest of teachers; but they were as thoroughly confused and clueless about the history curriculum prescribed for Indian schools as were the Powers-That- Were: meaning, the political leaders, academics, administrators, and affiliated geniuses at the Union and state levels who were responsible for deciding what kind of history we Indian kids were to be taught in Independent India.

And so, in the absence of any sensible guidance from the Powers-That-Were and non-availability of any decent standardized textbook on history for junior school kids, the Irish Brothers in their wisdom decided that we kids would read from a history book that was a kind of supplementary reader for kids our age in the United Kingdom.  And so in the mid-1960s, from Class 3 to Class 5 if I remember correctly, we kids read from a hardbound history textbook titled ‘The March of Time’, authored by the rather interestingly- named E C T Horniblow and published in Britain in 1932.

The March of Time was a work of extraordinary beauty to us; well written, with large-sized text in attractive font  and many full-page illustrations in colour.

The March of Time was also a work of extraordinary irrelevance to us.

It taught us of historical characters we’d never heard our parents or anyone else ever mention before. We read of characters like Canute, and Ethelred, and Alfred the Great, and Angles, Saxons and Jutes; of Vikings; of Magna Carta (no, not the rock band), of Romulus and Remus being brought up by wolves and roaming around till they founded Rome (or perhaps I got it all wrong and they were actually lost till they found Rome?); of a Roman soldier named Horatio who stood on a narrow bridge over the Tiber with two other soldiers and fought off a million-strong army of horrible villains called ‘Goths’ (or were they Huns?).

I was particularly thrilled by the full-page depiction of Horatio and his friends fighting off the Goths/Huns; because some of the Goths/Huns   bore striking resemblance to adults I knew, including a couple of teachers and relatives.

All in all I found The March of Time very interesting, but quite mystifying.  I just couldn’t figure out what all those blue-eyed fair and lovely people and their stories in The March of Time had to do with my life or my past.

But I didn’t care—nor did any of my dishevelled-collared, muddy-shoed, classmates.

Because The March of Time also gifted us, on page 23 (or was it 25?), with a full-page depiction, in glorious colours, of the Celtic Queen Boadecia.  

Boadecia the Great, Boadecia the Beautiful, Boadecia the Warrior, who led the common people of Britain to revolt against their Roman rulers! Boadecia, who wielded a sword and possessed not only a courageous heart but the most magnificent and gravity-defying pair of mammaries we had ever seen in our less-than- ten-year-old lives.

No textbook in the world has ever been opened as frequently to page number 23 (or was it 25?) as we did The March of Time; no textbook page has ever been studied more intensely, pored over more devotedly or dog-eared more severely than that page with its full-colour depiction of Boadecia the Bodacious baring all (and Boadecia had a lot to bare, and she bared it very well indeed).

Boadecia left a lifelong impression on my/our young minds; she opened our eyes and minds to the beauty of history.

Even while writing this, I took five minutes off to try and find The March of Time’s incredible depiction of her on the Net…alas, to no avail. The portraits of Boadecia in Wikipedia etc. are pitiful, pathetic, fifth-rate imitations of the supremely endowed Boadecia we were privileged to gape at all those decades ago. 

Even today, whenever the word ‘bodice’ is uttered by anyone (admittedly a rare occurrence), all thoughts are instantly swept away from my disintegrating mind by a mighty flood that rises from the Cache of Ancient Memory; and in the flood’s wake there remains only one shining crystalline cerebro-neural vision, untarnished by decades—of  Boadecia the Bodacious, She of the Magnificent DD-scale natural resources.

Sadly, the March of Time itself is now but a mam…er…memory.

Still, considering the ghastly never-ending  arguments in India over how history should be written and taught,  I do believe I and my classmates were luckier than today’s school kids. We had a glimpse of a much better depiction of global history—rather, many glimpses of one glorious depiction of global (if not globular) history—during our school days in the 1960s.

Jai Hind. Hail Boadecia!

General ravings, Musings

ChatGPT, and the Era of AI…AIiiiiyeeeee!

Mani's avatarMani 7 Comments

Has creativity ended…or only just begun?

Today I tried out ChatGPT.

ChatGPT is a ‘chatbot’ developed by OpenAI and launched in November 2022.  It can write virtually anything at all—stories, kid’s tales, essays, poems, lyrics—in any style you choose (however crazy you want it) in less than a few seconds.  All you have to do is type in your instructions in a little box. Try it out here.

So, I asked ChatGPT to write this:

‘Poem in Edgar Allan Poe style on rat and politician’

The response I got, in about two seconds, was this:

Once upon a midnight dreary,

While I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious

Volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping,

Suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone gently rapping,

Rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered,

“Tapping at my chamber door –

Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember

It was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember

Wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;

Vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books, surcease of sorrow

Sorrow for the lost Lenore!

For the rare and radiant maiden

Whom the angels named Lenore –

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain

Rustle of each purple curtain

Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic

Terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating

Of my heart, I stood repeating

“’Tis some visitor entreating

Entrance at my chamber door –

Some late visitor entreating

Entrance at my chamber door;

This is it and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger;

Hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly

Your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is I was napping

And so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping,

Tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you” –

Here I opened wide the door;

Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering,

Long I stood there, wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal

Ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken,

And the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken

Was the whispered word, “Lenore!”

This I whispered, and an echo

Murmured back the word, “Lenore!”

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning,

All my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping

Something louder than before

“Surely,” said I, “surely that is

Something at my window lattice;

Let me see, then, what thereat is,

And this mystery explore –

Let my heart be still a moment

And this mystery explore;

‘Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter,

When, with many a flirt and flutter

In there stepped a stately Rat of the Capitol

Not the least obeisance made he;

Not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But with mien of lord or lady,

Perched above my chamber door –

Perched upon a bust of Pallas

Just above my chamber door –

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling

My sad soul into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum

Of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven

Thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly, grim and ancient Rat of the Capitol,

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

Quoth the Rat: “Nevermore!”

Oh, and if this wasn’t enough,  ChatGPT also offered me a brief, almost apologetic remark that it had created this poem based on Poe’s broad style as in ‘The Raven’ and ‘House of Usher’, and that of course this poem did not in any way reflect or represent Poe’s own work.

Incredible, isn’t it?

But I did something more with ChatGPT, O long-suffering Reader, in the interests of humanity and what remains of my equanimity and sanity.

  I asked myself: what would ChatGPT write if I repeated the SAME request? Would it produce the same poem? Would it repeat itself, plagiarize itself?

And so I logged out of ChatGPT; cleared all cookies and logged in afresh after five minutes (just to give ChatGPT enough time to forget me, I chortled cunningly with all my Jurassic wisdom); logged in again, and once more typed in the following:

‘Poem in Edgar Allan Poe style on rat and politician’

The response I got, in less than a second, was this:

In the dim and dreary streets,

Where the rats scuttle and scurry,

Lives a politician, sly and fleet,

With promises smooth as a cherry.

He speaks of change and progress,

But in his heart there is rot,

For he’s a rat in human dress,

And his words are nothing but a lot.

He’ll steal and lie and cheat,

And grin with a toothy smile,

But all his constituents will eat

The scraps of his dishonest guile.

And when the people cry out in pain,

He’ll simply shift the blame,

For in his eyes, they are all the same,

Just pawns in his twisted game.

So beware, my dear friends,

Of the rat in politician’s clothes,

For his deceit never ends,

And his heart is black as those…

These poems are so totally Edgar Allan Poe-ish that ChatGPT could bring a lawsuit against the estate of Poe for having plagiarized its own style – even though he wrote his stuff 200 years ago – and obtain court verdicts in its favour.

ChatGPT is infinitely more creative and original than any human.

It even makes strong and largely accurate value judgments on creatures like rats and politicians!

But it gets better…or worse.

ChatGPT is only textual. Young friends cheerfully tell me that already, there are AI thingies like ChatGPT available for trial that can compose equally original and remarkable audio and visual works based on your typed-in instructions—however wacky, however outlandish the instructions are.

So, we can all look forward to creating, in less than the time it takes to flick a paint-brush or pluck a guitar string, audio-visual compositions with elements like the following:

  • Blues song in the style of John Lee Hooker with lyrics on Narendra Modi,  Rahul Gandhi, bedbugs and soggy samosas
  • Oil painting in a style fusion of Don Martin, Constable and Botticelli with a sleazy Gurgaon mall as backdrop and featuring Vladimir Putin, Roger Waters, Asaddudin Owaisi, three constipated armadillos, the Ross Sea, and Greta Thunberg with her “How dare you!” look.

Our AI creations have become infinitely more creative than us.

I’m now convinced, O gentle Reader, that after 200,000 years of strenuous efforts at self-annihilation, we humans have finally come close to achieving the evolutionary equivalent of shooting our collective creative arses right off the planet with these latest steps forward in our technological progress. and intellectual retrogress.

Perhaps it’s a damned good thing, too. George Carlin would certainly have agreed.

Still…I can pound away at my worn-out old clay pot, missing anything between 3 beats and 7 beats in every 48 beats in utterly chaotic manner.  Like so:

I bet no AI thingy can do THIS as horribly as I can.

At least, not yet…?