Modi

Ancient writings, General ravings

A Couple of Receptions – Valentine’s Day special

Mani's avatarMani 2 Comments

Valentine’s Day always awakens my romantic nature, as I’m sure it does yours, O most Adored Reader.

Today’s February 13th—the Eve of this glorious Festival of Romance! The Eve of V-Day, that Ancient India gifted to the world under its many original names like Harappa’s ‘Belan Daine Din’, Bengal’s ‘Bela Teeni Dey’, and Tamilnadu’s ‘Vellum Tayen’ (please click here to see my full historical research paper on the origins of V-Day).

I therefore humbly present the first (and possibly, the last) romantic story that I’ve written in my long and inglorious career as writer.

As ever, your comments are welcome; as are rotten eggs and tomatoes, which may be couriered directly to our beloved Member of Parliament Shri Rahul Gandhi ‘s residential address. I believe poor Rahuljee needs to find some romantic interest in life other than Prime Minister Shri Narendra Modi, considering the way Rahuljee oscillates wildly between confessing his  ardent love for Modi  including hugging Modi and blowing kisses at Modi (and other MPs) in the Lok Sabha, and expressing his disgust and hatred for Modi and spewing abuse at Modi in and outside the Lok Sabha.

Bel Tinda Diwas ka Shubh Kamnayen!

A Couple of Receptions

Mr. Vaikuntan sipped his lemonade and gazed approvingly at the crowd milling about in the hall. Like him, they were all dressed in their wedding-reception best. The floor was a seething sea of shimmering saris and snazzy suits, slinky salwars and dashing sherwanis. There were quiet children in loud playsuits, wide men in narrow trousers, strapping women in strapless gowns. The chandeliers quivered with thundering bass-notes from the dance floor to the right, where lasses in daring skirts and lads in flaring trousers swayed and stamped. Temperature and decibel-levels hovered around one hundred, and conversation was conducted at shriek-level. The air was redolent with attar and Paco Rabanne, with the aromas of paneer pakora and dhokla-chutney being distributed by tireless waiters, with the heady scents of romance and celebration.

Mr. Vaikuntan drank it all in. He himself was dressed soberly: black trousers and a light-grey shirt that went well with the silver-grey streaks in his hair. He was tall, slim and clean-shaven, and wore a pair of thin-framed spectacles that might have given him a rather stern look…but for his smile. When Mr. Vaikuntan smiled (which he often did), the smile reached his eyes and his whole face lit up, making him look much younger than his forty-seven years.

He smiled now, as he gazed towards the stage where the bride and bridegroom stood before red thrones and wilted beneath the glare of video-camera lights. She, Rukmini, was clad in a simple yet stunning blue-and-gold sari; he, Varun, wore a charcoal suit, and their faces glowed with the light of love and promise. A steady stream of guests made their way up to the stage to greet and bless the couple. Mr. Vaikuntan himself had met them as soon as he arrived.

“You look wonderful!” he had murmured to the bride, quite truthfully, upon which her eyes had sparkled with happiness and she had rewarded him with a brilliant smile. He had punched the groom lightly on the shoulder and said: “Bless you both, take good care of her, lad!” whereupon, to his mild but pleasant surprise, the groom had embraced him warmly. But all that was half-an-hour ago, and now Mr. Vaikuntan was a little hungry…

“Isn’t Rukmini looking lovely?”

Mr. Vaikuntan looked up sharply. A woman of about forty was standing next to his chair. He rose courteously to his feet. “I’m Vaikuntan,” he murmured with a slight bow, even as his experienced eyes took in her fine dark-brown eyes and stubborn chin, her slender neck, the suggestion of plumpness in her nicely rounded figure beneath the green chiffon sari. Also he couldn’t help noticing her long, artistic fingers, and how well trimmed her fingernails were…

All this took about three seconds. Rather longer than usual for him, doubtless, due to the rather nice perfume she had on. Very subtle, it was, faint yet incredibly alluring, like a blend of champa blossom, roses and the scent of rain-damp earth.

“I’m Vasanthi,” she replied, her eyes grave yet betraying a twinkle of amusement as she looked into Mr. Vaikuntan’s eyes.”I’m a friend of Rukmini’s aunt, meaning her mother’s cousin Urmila…”

“How nice to meet you,” Mr. Vaikuntan responded cordially. “And I’m an old associate of Varun’s uncle.” She nodded pleasantly and they glanced towards the couple on stage and then back at one other.

“How quickly these little ones grow up, hmm?” Vasanthi said and laughed softly.

“Yes, yes, it’s amazing, quite wonderful,” Mr. Vaikuntan replied. He looked into her deep brown eyes, and suddenly, painfully, he was reminded of the wife he had lost to cancer eleven years ago. A moment, or perhaps an eternity, passed.

“Well,” said Vasanthi, “I’ll just go up and see them…so nice to meet you.” She laughed softly again, exhibiting a set of fine, brilliant-white teeth. Originals, Mr. Vaikuntan thought in passing, and watched her glide away to join the steady stream of people moving towards the stage.

From time to time, she nodded and smiled at people she passed. She paused next to a sofa, halfway down the hall, on which sat a little girl with a doll. The little girl’s name was Nikki, her doll’s name was Guddi, and she liked rasamalai, trains, Pokemon, cats, and her little brother Jayant, in that order. Mr. Vaikuntan knew all this because he had himself chatted awhile with Nikki before going up to meet Rukmini and Varun. As he watched, Vasanthi sat down next to Nikki and engaged her in what appeared to be a most animated conversation. At the end of it, Nikki laughed and clapped her hands in glee; Vasanthi rose, ruffled Nikki’s hair and moved on towards the stage.

On an impulse, Mr. Vaikuntan rose to his feet and went across to Nikki. She looked up and smiled in recognition. “Hello, uncle… Uncle, show me how to make train noises again!”

Obediently Mr. Vaikuntan sat down next to her, puffed up his cheeks, pursed his lips, and produced diesel locomotive rumbles. Nikki practiced making the sounds herself for a while. “Nikki, who was that…er…auntie who was talking to you just now?” Mr. Vaikuntan asked when Nikki paused for breath.

“I don’t know… I liked auntie, she told Guddi and me a funny story. She’s a very nice auntie,” said Nikki firmly.

“Yes, of course she is. Er…do you know Urmila auntie then?”

Nikki frowned. “Urmila auntie? No, I don’t know her…but mummy might know. There’s mummy, shall I go ask her?” And Nikki pointed towards a group of ladies a dozen feet away.

“No, no,” said Mr. Vaikuntan hastily, patting her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. Look, I’ll show you how to make airplane noises now.”

He continued to watch Vasanthi while Nikki hummed and whistled and whooshed away happily next to him. Now Vasanthi was holding the bride’s hand, chatting with her. She leaned forward and whispered something in her ear, whereupon the bride blushed and smiled. Vasanthi turned and spoke for a while with the groom, who threw back his head and laughed. A few moments later, she descended from the stage and moved sedately towards the adjoining hall, where the buffet dinner had just commenced. But Mr. Vaikuntan kept his eyes on the couple. As soon as Vasanthi moved away from them, Rukmini turned to her husband and said something. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head, and both of them turned to look at Vasanthi’s receding figure. And then – this is what Mr. Vaikuntan found most interesting – and then both the bride and the groom looked at one another, smiled and shrugged helplessly before turning to greet their next guests.

Mr. Vaikuntan knew the signs. Rukmini and Varun had no idea who Vasanthi was! It happened all the time on such occasions, of course – especially big wedding receptions such as this one, where invitees numbered a thousand or more and where each side invited all their relatives and friends and friends’ relatives and their friends. One couldn’t expect the happy couple to know even a tenth of the guests, Mr. Vaikuntan reflected. And so gate-crashing – intentional or inadvertent – was all too common.

He waited for the rush to subside a little before making his way across to the buffet hall. As he had expected, the fare was rich: a combination of northern and western Indian cuisine. He gorged himself on puris and channa, followed up with two helpings of pulao and kurma, and rounded it off with a generous serving of dahi-vada. He allowed a pretty young thing to persuade him to eat a kulfi, and finally returned to the main hall with a cup of excellent coffee.

He found a comfortable chair close to the entrance and sat down with a sigh of contentment. It was nearing 10 pm, and already a little stream of people was moving past him towards the doors. A pleasant lassitude was creeping up on him; he knew he himself must leave soon…

“Well, Mr. Vaikuntan… I hope you enjoyed the dinner?” It was Vasanthi, smiling down at him.

At once he rose to his feet. “Ah yes, thanks, I did!” he responded. “By the way, I noticed you having a nice chat with a little girl in a red dress…”

“Oh yes, that’s Nikki. I know her parents quite well. You know, Nikki is such a delightful child…”

“Indeed?” Mr. Vaikuntan murmured. “Look! I see them coming up now…are you leaving together, then?” And there was a terrible gleam in his eye as he gazed at her.

Vasanthi turned around sharply, and her eyes widened as she saw Nikki trotting up the aisle towards them, doll clutched in arms. She was flanked by a young man in a safari suit and a young woman carrying a sleepy toddler.

“’Bye, auntie. Bye uncle,” trilled Nikki as she scampered past.

“Bye,” they responded.

Nikki’s parents nodded and smiled politely at them; they nodded and smiled back. Vasanthi stood frozen till Nikki and her family disappeared through the doors, and then she slowly turned and looked at Mr. Vaikuntan.

“Let us sit down,” suggested Mr. Vaikuntan gently but firmly.

She sat down next to him, her eyes locked in his.

“How long have you been playing this game?” Mr. Vaikuntan asked.

She hesitated, looked away and then back at him, and now her eyes were dark pools of despair.

“This is the second time I’ve done it,” she whispered, almost to herself. “Only the second time…and I get caught.” She broke off and drew a deep, shuddering breath. “I did it for fun, no, for…for… for the sounds of laughter, for the feeling that I belong somewhere.”

Her voice was still soft, but her words came tumbling forth, a cascade from some deep reservoir of pain. “I used to be a nurse at Cooper hospital. But I had to leave. To take care of my husband, he was terribly ill. He…he died ten years ago. Now I live in a working women’s hostel. In Bandra. The other women are nice, a few of them are friends, but they all have family, people to go out with, to visit on weekends, on holidays. I have nobody. Nobody. I help out at the children’s hospital in Khar, I love children, and the work keeps me from thinking too much. But the loneliness, do you know how it is to be alone? Really alone? To live in a grey room with nothing but memories, only memories? To spend endless evenings watching stale TV shows, Sunday afternoons staring at the wall, waking up wishing you didn’t have to wake up because you have no one to care for, to love, no one who cares for you, needs you, wants you… ” her voice trailed away and she closed her eyes.

Mr. Vaikuntan sat still, his eyes never leaving her face.

At length she opened her eyes again; they were bright with unshed tears. “I ask you this much,” she whispered fiercely. “Allow me to leave. Quietly. Allow me what dignity I still have.” And she rose and took a step towards the doors.

“Wait!” Mr. Vaikuntan jumped to his feet and took her arm. “I’ll see you out.”

They walked out through the doors into the warm night. Two distinguished-looking gentlemen stood above the steps – the fathers of the united couple, seeing off their guests.

Mr. Vaikuntan felt Vasanthi’s arm stiffen in his grasp as he confidently led her up to them. “Thanks so much, such a pleasure it has been for us to share your joy… God bless you all.” He shook hands with them in turn, Vasanthi folded her hands in graceful farewell, and then they descended the steps and strolled out the main gates on to the busy street beyond.

The two gentlemen watched them go. “Such a charming couple, hmm?” the bride’s father murmured. The groom’s father agreed, and each made a mental note to find out from the other who they were…but later on, for already more guests were queuing up to say goodbye.

On the sidewalk, Vasanthi stared up at Mr. Vaikuntan in wonder, her eyes glowing strangely. “Thank you…” she began.

“No, no!” interrupted Mr. Vaikuntan, still holding her arm. He drew a deep breath. Suddenly he looked nervous, unsure of himself.

“Look, please don’t misunderstand me,” he continued. “The fact is, I really do understand what made you come here…I understand you far better than you can imagine. Because I’m like you, I too know what loneliness is, it is what brought me here today…”

She gasped, but he went on with growing confidence. “You see, I’ve been at the same game for three years now. I work at a printing agency, I help in designing invitation cards and so forth. So I get to know about lots of wedding receptions and other such celebrations, and can choose among them.” He released her arm and looked at his watch. “Listen,” he went on earnestly, “I live in Andheri…so why don’t we take the same train, maybe we could talk on the way? And perhaps we could meet for dinner tomorrow. There is this big Rajasthani wedding reception at Mulund, or if you prefer South Indian, we could take in a Tamil affair in Matunga…”

Vasanthi and Mr. Vaikuntan were married three months later. The wedding was a quiet event at the registrar’s office, but they held a small reception for workplace acquaintances.

It was a grand success. Halfway through, Vasanthi happily whispered to her beloved Vaikuntan that there appeared to be far many more guests present than they had invited…

_______________________________________

[First – and last – published in 2004: at http://creative.sulekha.com/a-couple-of-receptions_102018_blog]

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, Musings, Potshots

One last “Eff Off!” at the Web Spiders

Mani's avatarMani 16 Comments

Are you one of those who despise, detest or otherwise dislike the kind of crap that’s being dished out in the name of ‘news’ by media?  Are you increasingly nervous about discussing politics—especially issues related to Modi and Trump and Brexit and Kashmir and Iran and Triple Talaq and Article 370—because people, even people you know well, fly into a rage at the drop of a secular hat or communal topi?

If so, I’m like you.

I’m scared of the growing intolerance among people. I deeply distrust and often loathe the news that I get via media – meaning all media, including social media.

I see a sinister connection.

That’s why I’m writing this Fèihuà (Chinese: bullshit – click here to know how to say it]

But first, I have a confession to make. Despite my aversion to and distrust of media, I follow media news, daily and avidly, sometimes even with immense amusement.

Each day, I spend between 30 minutes and an hour surfing through a variety of TV news channels, English and Hindi, in no particular order (feel free to gasp in horror): channels like Wion, Times Now, Republic TV, Aaj Tak, Rajya Sabha TV, DD News, BBC, CNN, Al Jazeera come to mind.

Experience has taught me that spending anything more than an hour on these news channels is as pleasant as  swallowing 10 ml of strong ammonia solution; which incidentally I actually did when in school (for details on symptoms, please click here).  It probably explains why I still find a lot of things difficult to swallow; especially in the media.

Oh, and I also glance through the following online papers/magazines at least once each a week: Newslaundry, The Wire, Quint, and Dawn (Pakistan). I also get two daily newspapers—Indian Express and Times of India—on which I spend a maximum of 30 minutes before turning to the Sudoku in the former which takes me anything between 5 minutes and forever. I read select WhatsApp forwards from select friends; I do not exist on Facebook or Twitter or any of the other social media platforms.

Blanch in horror you well might, precious reader; but I inflict this media bombardment on myself for two reasons:

  1. I recognize that I need the media to know what’s going in the world—because the world is too big and there’s too much happening too fast everywhere for me to experience and understand personally. But I simply refuse to take the easy, lazy way out and depend on just one media source for news, or on friends to tell me the news.  I believe no media source is telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth; yet every media house is perforce putting out bits of  truth at the behest of its corporate/political paymasters because it knows that even a semi-literate bakra like me will not swallow pure lies. In this situation, with so many scattered locations of what are at best ‘bits of truth’,  the closest I can get to know the whole truth is to make the effort to sift and scan through every shade of media—from the deceitful extreme Left to the deceitful extreme Right, from pro-CPM through pro-Congress to pro-BJP, from capitalist to communist, pro-Islamic kook to pro-Hindutva kook via pro-Christian kook, from ultra-conservative to neo-liberal—to identify these truth-bits and put them together like pieces of a jigsaw. Without prejudice, without pre-conceived notions, with as much balance as I can summon up in what’s left of my deranged mind. In doing this I have complete faith in my own discerning power to tell truth from lie, right from wrong; yet I remain aware that I can make mistakes, and I try and stay alert for traps.
  2. I enjoy taking potshots at the media for brazenly partisan or false reportage, so it’s important for me to know the various varieties of ng’ombe (Swahili: bullshit) that the media is manufacturing and selling me in the name of news. Only with this knowledge can I develop my own superior varieties of ng’ombe to counter their assault.

It’s not easy absorbing and sifting through so much multimedia garbage daily; it’s not always pleasant.  I know it’s probably futile, and you’re welcome to laugh at me, but still I keep at it— like Sisyphus rolling the rock up the mountain, knowing it’s only going to roll down again. I keep at it because I think this is the only way I can remain – and maybe even crawl along – the top of the slippery, ever-narrowing Wall of Balance that runs between the two great Chasms of Choice that define today’s world.

That’s the thing: everything has become ‘binary’ – have you noticed?

I feel pressurized to choose, all the time, between great extremes, stark opposites. I feel driven to take radical positions on all kinds of issues and ideas and events and things about which I know little and have little or no personal experience on, issues that really have no bearing on my daily life, but that seem to have somehow become incredibly important for me, and every person on the planet, to have and to express very strong views on: political views, religious beliefs, ideologies, causes, calls to war.

And often I feel this pressure too: other people, not just media-folk, are always trying to CONVERT me to their view(s).

And such is the pressure to opine, so immense the flow and intensity of information that batters me, so compelling its power, that there’s no time to think – leave alone reflect. I’m asked to choose at once.  Choose NOW.  At every step, every turn, I am being pressurized to choose between binaries: between extremes of opinion, world-view.

Choose—and be judged. Choose—and be rewarded by group acceptance, or condemned by social isolation.

Choose between binaries like: Love Modi vs.Hate Modi. Love Rahul vs. hate Rahul. Bhakt vs. Tukde Tukde Wallah. Left—Right. Majority—Minority. Brahmin—OBC. Hindi—Tamil. White–Black. Us–Them. Blah–Blah.

Thus far, I’ve managed to gasp “Thloh!” or “Eff Off!” at the Spiders, and those who quote them, without giving in to the pressure of choosing; without becoming a groupie – a bleating Animal Farm sheep, whether of this flock or that.  Thus far, I’ve not alienated friends.

But I’m getting weary, I’m feeling more and more alone.

And I’m writing this because I’m also increasingly alarmed. I notice that people I’ve known for years and decades, wonderful loving people, young and old, are succumbing and becoming sheep; impatient and angry sheep, intolerant and abusive sheep, narrow-minded sheep. They follow cheer-leaders (bleat-leaders?); they echo the crowd; they parrot the safe slogans, the politically correct spiel. It doesn’t take much gentle conversation to reveal that they don’t make the effort to read and research and reflect and work things out on their own.

They don’t have the self-confidence any more. The self-confidence to swim against the tide; to be individual, unique.

I’ve said this before: I believe the information maelstrom on every issue, every subject, every topic, is designed to sap our individuality, our self-confidence; to addle our minds so that we respond like digital switches. ON-OFF. And that’s why, I believe, the whole world is becoming more and more impatient, more radical in opinions, more intolerant of differences.

O noble reader, I do believe every media house everywhere in the world runs on a business strategy that is even more simple, powerful, effective and sustainable than the age-old strategy followed by the shrewd paanwallah who blends a little opium into his qiwam (kimam).

For the paanwallah, I, you, all of us, are loyal clients to be hooked…and to stay hooked on his paan alone for the rest of our paan-eating lives.

Easy way to escape: don’t start eating paan.

But in the Web of Pseudo Reality woven by today’s marketing–advertising–media (MAM) Spiders, using artificial intelligence and Big Data and Allah and Rama and Jesus and Marx knows what other psychometric and information technology tools, we are already hooked, already trapped and secured.

We are a billion little flies in the Web. Flies with brains (sure, go ahead and laugh, I know that leaves me out…I wish). Flies that can make choices.

Our minds are trapped in the Web; the Spiders have painstakingly (lovingly?) wrapped us up in translucent pouches woven from silky-soft strands of psyche that define our personalities, our attitudes and emotions, our responses to stimuli—a thousand and more strands of our own private selves that we have so openly, so eagerly and thoughtlessly placed in public domain over the years. Our Facebook and Instagram profiles, our Likes and Dislikes, our Twitter and Snapchat and WhatsApp groups and follower lists and forwarding patterns, our responses to countless seemingly trivial online tests and surveys, our Google searches, YouTube and Netflix watch-lists,  reading habits, patterns of travelling, shopping, eating-out, entertainment…

Easy way to escape: none. [But for a while you can try screaming “Thoh”! “Eff Off!” and suchlike.]

And the Spiders now feed on our naked minds, for they can better predict and measure our responses to different stimuli, our behaviour in different circumstances. The Spiders use our minds as testing grounds for innovative propaganda ideas and actions on behalf of their transnational political–corporate–religious–criminal–terrorist clients.

That’s why for us, the flies in the Web of MAM, every day is becoming like every other day—a long, blurry, endless  series of frenzied jumps from one stressful decision to another, one crisis to another, one worry to another, with no time to think or rest or reflect. Only the Products of the Day change; only the Products of the Day dominate our conversations when we meet; and each of us must make a YES-NO choice in regard to each Product each day. There is no place for neutrality, moderation, no room for a third way, a middle path…and a pall of dread hangs over the very idea of choosing not to choose. I am made to feel I must choose, one way or the other…or be condemned to the pseudo-death of total social isolation.

And what are these Products of the Day?

You guessed it: Love Modi vs.Hate Modi. Love Rahul vs. hate Rahul. Bhakt vs. Tukde Tukde Wallah. Left—Right. Majority—Minority. Brahmin—OBC. Hindi—Tamil. White–Black. Us–Them…ad nauseum, ads and advertorials nauseum.

So it is that sooner or later, you and I will succumb to making a choice without hesitation. Without thought. To respond instantly and ferociously to just about anything and everything, however trivial, however important.

And as my progressive choices help the Spiders categorize me and adjust their individualized Product presentations accordingly, I easily, almost unconsciously, adopt a certain narrative; a certain ideology; a certain world-view. I won’t even know that my mind is trapped and my vision clouded.  On the contrary, I will continue to think that I’m broad-minded, sober, independent, unbiased; that I am right, WE are right. And I will eagerly try and convert others to my view — because there is comfort in numbers, there is less fear of being socially isolated.

And the sheer beauty, the sheer horror of it all is, my short-term memory becomes shorter and shorter till it dwindles to nothingness. And because this is happening to everybody, I can switch my opinions, my stand on issues, my entire world-view, 180° overnight – or even within an hour —without my feeling in the least bit guilty or ashamed about being hypocritical or deceitful or unprincipled. And without anyone even noticing.

“In the Realm of Subliminal Consciousness, Conscience withers… and Memory dies” – Bakasura the Great, 2477 BCE

I know there’s no escape from the Web while I live. The sleepless Spiders watch; they see all, know all.

So long as I have ever used the Net (and I started  20 years ago), so long as I have a mobile phone, so long as I use any social media platform, so long as I use credit cards and debit cards and passports, I am naked before the cold, clinically efficient, half-machine half-human million-eyed monsters that are the Spiders of MAM.

Even if I fling my phone away, shoot my TV set (and cable operator with it), burn my credit cards and de-register from all social media, I will be as free as a butterfly impaled by a sharp pin on wax paper.

You too.

If you don’t believe me, watch this TED talk to learn how and why the entire Brexit farce-turned-horror of June 2016 was orchestrated by a Spider named Cambridge Analytica and Facebook et al … leaving the peoples of Britain, and indeed the EU, still grappling with the aftermath in August 2019. Watch this TED talk to understand why, and how easily, Russia and Cambridge Analytica manipulated the entire American electorate to turn against Hillary Clinton and vote for Trump as President. If you want a detailed account of all this and much more, watch ‘The Great Hack’ (it’s on Netflix; here is a trailer.)

You might think: “Arre boss, this is all about USA and Britain, what’s it all got to do with India that is Bharat, hahn jee?”

Well…check out how the same Spider—Cambridge Analytica—was wooed by our very own Indian National Congress and possibly other political parties to help win Lok Sabha elections: [click here]

Of course, gentle reader, as soon as you visit any or all of these links, the ‘data points’ that define your existing electronic psycho-profile will instantly be updated and suitably modified by the Spiders on countless databases in unknown locations on the Web of MAM…

And then you will wait, as I do.

You and I  wait, secure and comfortably numb in our own little silken pouches in the great Web …we wait for the next Spider, the next brain-numbing stab of e-heroin that always marks the start of the next Product of the Day campaign…

But don’t worry: we’ll have forgotten the pain, and the very memory of today, by tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

General ravings, Potshots

Political A-SAT and SAT

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ASAT
Stellar vision?

Ever since India successfully conducted its anti-satellite (A-SAT) missile test, our crass netas have given political twists to the event that would make a boa constrictor straighten in envy. Considering the kinds of comments that they and their acolytes are making, and with Lok Sabha polls looming over the horizon, we, the wee people, have good reasons to worry about whether our newly elected MPs will even understand, let alone be capable of handling, critical strategic issues such as space technologies, missile defense, nuclear deterrence and the like.

But there is hope! Unconfirmed and officially disavowed sources reveal that the Lok Sabha Secretariat is alive to the challenge, and is preparing a series of small booklets on science and technology for the enlightenment of our newly-elected MPs.

Here are a few sample definitions leaked from the draft Lok Sabha booklet on ‘Aerospace Science for MPs’:

 Satellite: This is simply another name for party follower or chamcha. Satellites can be of two common kinds:

  • ‘Polar’ or ‘Poll-ar’ satellites are rather unstable, and remain loyal only so long as their leader has a chance of winning in polls.
  • ‘Jio-synchronous’ satellites, also known as ‘Jio-stationary’ satellites, are more stable and loyal, because they are held securely to their leader/party by the attractive gravitational forces of G, 2G or even 4G.

Space Debris: The countless pieces of metal, plastic, composites and affiliated junk that are now orbiting the earth, and that have resulted from the break-up of old satellites launched by different countries during the last 50 years. About 97.9% of all the space debris is ‘clean’ debris, because it comes from NASA satellites sent up by USA. The remaining 2.1% of the debris is ‘dirty’ debris because it comes from Indian and Chinese satellites.

Escape velocity: The very high velocity with which politically connected fraudsters and affiliated crooks escape from India to other countries when a new government takes over in Delhi. ‘Relativistic’ velocity (also known as ‘Maxis’ or maximum velocity) is the highest attainable escape velocity, usually achieved only by crooks who are close relatives of political leaders.

Global positioning system (GPS): A wonderful technology that helps government to keep track of the escaped crooks, and guide them to safe havens when necessary.

Inertia: Describes the tendency of a government to remain forever in a state of supreme inactivity; or if roused into motion (usually by sting operation), to continue moving aimlessly along a fixed path to nowhere until halted by the ‘fictional’ force of Opposition.

Launch window: The auspicious interval of time for a new politician to launch her/his political career by filing nomination papers for Lok Sabha or assembly elections.  Launch window is determined by specialists in astral science called ‘astronauts’. The term astronaut itself is derived from the ancient Sanskrit: astra-nath—‘one who rules over stars’ (Ref: Goru Gauswamy et al., 4300 BCE. Space Explorations. Muttal Press: Takshashila).

Re-entry vehicle: Pathway for political deserters to return to their parent (or grandparent) party. As re-entry usually generates intense heat from party rivals, re-entering politicians require rings of protective coating. Hence, the re-entering politicians are popularly called ‘turncoats’.

Star wars:Spectacular electoral battles waged between stars affiliated to Bollywood, Mollywood, Tollywood and other non-Dawood studios. If firearms such as Shotguns are used by the star-candidates during poll campaigns, we call them ‘shooting stars’. Sometimes, the winning stars are given Cabinet portfolios, in which case we call them ‘acting ministers’ if they turn up for work; or else, ‘deadwood’.

Warhead: An especially strident jingoist, usually seen on TV talking-head shows calling for nuclear attack on neighbouring nations, political opponents, and occasionally, neighbouring panelists.

Jai hind!