sensationalisation of Yakub's hanging

The high level drama surrounding the hanging of Yakub Memon has made a martyr out of a terrorist. While the ethical grounds of capital punishment is debatable, it is equally unfortunate that Memon's hanging has turned into a sensationalised case for a misplaced sense of sympathy. The tragedy of his family and friends is inconsolable but so is the trauma of hundreds of others who lost their loved ones in the Mumbai blasts. Punishing criminals is not simply about delivering "justice" to the victims, it is a message that such dastardly acts will not be tolerated. Shifting focus from his crime to the post-hanging sentimentalities (so much so that more media space has been devoted to him than to the demise of Dr. Kalam) is sad and undesirable.

The Crow Killer...

The “caw caw” of the crow is omenous. It hinders the success of a journey and it brings diseases to the people who hear it. That is exactly what she said. And with a conviction strong enough to shake the foundation of the Statue of Liberty, or atleast it seemed so, for we really don’t know whether she is a crow-eater as well.

Our house is more of a garden. My mother, an ardent lover of trees and flowers, has filled up every available corner with plants. It almost appears like there is a house in a garden rather than a garden in a house. And the balcony hasn’t been spared of the shades of soothing green and bright yellow clusters peeping through them. She waters them every morning and afternoon. Today Fate had scripted an afternoon adventure with the “crow killer”.

Mother was standing in the balcony, after having watered the plants, and watching the labourers at work with bricks and cement on a little construction above our garage. Our woman of the day arrives at this precise hour to play out the script. A crow had committed the grave mistake of cawing while she was on her way to a very important work. Immediately she took out a gulti from her bag and aimed a stone at the crow. She missed it. The crow flew away and perched on another electric pole. As she was about to aim at it a second time, my mother called out, “Hey, what are you up to?”. And our crow-hitter shouted back, “Killing this bloody crow! Such an omen! Am on my way to attend to a very important business”. The poor lady thought she had won over my mother’s confidence by enumerating such a valuable fact about the cawing of crows. Her pupil, however, reacted quite contrary to her expectations.

      “What! You better stop that nonsense right now!”

An aghast dispeller of omens, at first taken aback, hadn’t yet accepted defeat at the hands of the lady in the balcony. She hadn’t yet put her best foot forward.

            “You are such an ignorant woman! Do you know that the cawing of a crow brings diseases to people residing in the area? Don’t you ahve children at home?”.

“And who has sent you to ward off diseases from our neighbourhood? Everybody is quite healthy. We hear the crows everyday.”

The woman, still hurling angry accusations at my mother for being ignorant, started walking away. At this moment, Bidisha’s mother makes her entry from the corner stage. Standing at her balcomy she comments,

                   “Maybe she eats crow meat. Many people have it.”.

She wouldn’t have uttered these words, had she realised that our messiah wasn’t yet past hearing range.

      “What! I eat crows? People who eat crows live on railway platforms. I have a house. What do you mean?”.

Aunty slipped inside the house as my mother continued with her comments. She derives a sadistic pleasure from intimidating people with sarcasm.

           “Then close all your doors and windows and stay in your house, and don’t come out. There are crows everywhere.”.

By this time, a few neighbours had already peeped out of their windows to have a clearer knowledge of the commotion. Some giggled. Our flustered crow-killer took to the gully that leads to the adjoining neighbourhood, shouting mad comments. Heads withdrew from windows. Mother came in laughing and proposing that the lady would have made the perfect bride for my father,

                    “Both would go on talking illogical stuff all day. Then your father would have learnt his lesson.”.

( father thinks mother is illogical. My sister and I, referees in every domestic fight, have concluded that they both get illogical when quarrelling with each other.)

Meantime, I guess, the ‘lady with the gulti’ went hunting omenous crows in the next neighbourhood. The cawing crow proved such a hindrance to her crow-killing in our neighbourhood. I hope the crows keep cawing to impede the success of the assassinator of their race. Caw! Caw!

ob-la-di  ob-la-da...

Yesterday while browsing through The Beatles’ playlist, the phrase “ob-la-di ob-la-da” caught my attention. It at once sent ringing in my ears a similar phrase from the Kumar Shanu hit “do dil mil rahe hain”, from the movie Pardes where it has been extended with an ‘ob-la-do’(to rhyme with “I love u”). without further ruminating on issues of plagiarism, I double-clicked on the title and the speakers sang aloud,

       “Desmond had a barrow in the market place”.

Cheerful music, simple and sweet lyrics- but what made me google the song was a sudden reversal of ideas in the concluding stanza. The lines,

                       “Desmond lets the children lend a hand...
Molly stays at home and does her pretty face...
And in the evening she still sings it with the band...”

 gets reversed to

                    “Molly lets the children lend a hand...
Desmond stays at home and does his pretty face...
And in the evening she's a singer with the band...”

This unexpected reversal of gender roles amused me, rather intrigued me. On a little research I discovered these amusing theories and rumours about this song.

The least interesting of them was that vocalist Paul McCartney reversed it by mistake while recording and the Beatles let it be for a humorous punch. However, what’s a dish without a dab of spices. So, with no considerations for dyspeptic complaints, allow me to catalogue the more interesting rumours.

The most popular among them is the notion that Desmond and Molly are gays. However, Desmond has been clearly referred to as a “he” and Molly as a “she”. So, I would rather reject this one too.

 A more feminist read comes to the conclusion that it is an attack on the popular discourses of the feminine and the masculine. The lady is no more the only one who stays at home “doing her face”. She works to earn bread while the man rears the children nd tends to his “beauty”.

But the best is yet to unfold. There was a rumour in the September of 1969 that Paul McCartney died in a car accident. The Beatles kept it under covers and Will Campbell underwent a Paul McCartney plastic-surgery. Molly is Paul’s wife, Linda McCartney who went out singing in her band while the new Paul took care of his operated face. So, you want to tell me that the Paul who lives to this day is not the real Paul! Duh! What about the voice? If there is any voice-surgery too, let me know. I have long wished for a Lata Mangeshkar voice.

The most accepted theory is that the Beatles were high on marijuana while recording this song. Infact, there is a lot of laughing going on with the song. And their advice at the end,

    “Take ob-la-di ob-la-da”

Refers to getting a similar high. The more virtuous have been horrified at this because they believe “ob-la-di ob-la-da” is a phrase straight out of the language of the Yoruba tribe which means “life goes on”. But they did clearly mention “take ob-la-di ob-la-da”. Those tricky geniuses!

I guess, after all, the Beatles have succeeded in what they had intended to achieve through a Desmond-Molly reversal. Loads of amusing theories indeed. Till then,

  “ob-la-di ob-la-da brah..

Life goes on.”

Frustrated promises-

Of calls

That havn't arrived:

Of letters,

Awaiting replies-

As the lamp of life burns away.

Optimistic bubbles

burst forth-

On frothing uncertainties;

Hopes lie flat,

Battered-

On tossing waves of existence.

I breathe on.

What's On Your Mind
"what's on your mind?" Facebook asks me everyday I log in. And I, which is not very often, as my friends will agree, land up writing something sad, or cynical, or pathetically pseudo-intellectual. Well, and there are people or well, 'is someone' there in the FB world bout whose "impressions of me" i really care about (u see, am not one of those smart, hep phlegmatic individuals who can do without caring). So, i have often done this crazy thing of typing some "of the moment impulse" status updates and then comfortably deleting them before anyone saw them. Crazy, you think so. I wager you're on the right track.

But today, hell ya, lets come out with wht's in my mind.
Joke..that's the word.. i finally got the joke of life and am laughing my heart out. Want to throw a party, have a barbecue, only tht my right leg hurts. Some muscle thought it will play around a little while i was asleep, nd well seems it fell in love with some other muscle nd lo, they are all entangled and am feeling the pain of their love... and whnever i stand up, their love-making picks up momentum.
Well, so mashi, who prepares my food and has kept me alive for four years in kolkata and who is also privy to a lot of of my sulking romantic attitudes, is down with fever. And am following a highly balanced diet, to say the least.. almost nothing by the morning and heavy "butter masala something" recipes by night. Yesterday i tried my hand at cooking..well it turned out well, all that potol-er dalna and uchhe bhaja, but my leg.... it is supposed to be pampered with rest, so no cooking today.. maybe intention is to make the lovers get bored from being in the same position and separate... but errr.. wht if its "true love"... sucks!
Just finished reading some highly philosophical stuff. Thinking of getting on with another book. That's the best way to keep your own creepy thoughts at bay. But FB reminded me of my mind....
And here i am with this essay..
well, i have been missing Mr. Somebody a lot today. we talked for two minutes, i lazying round at the corner of my bed and he in some busy cubicle of his office; i in my crazy tone, he in a rather dignified official tone. The serious reserved tone made me feel nice, assured is the word, of what, don't ask me.. i myself don't know.

Well, and I did this tedious job of actually posting this on FB. And then I was already thinking of deleting this post.. but flip, here i changed my mind as smoothly as i change my numbers every six month. And it remained. And i was flattered by the "likes", self-obsessed as I am.

Don't ask me about my mind, i can go on rambling for ages...
I guess this is my cue.. water will go away, yes, water goes away too.. so I better limp downstairs with the bottles and fill them...

The Insignificant ‘Other’.

Salma and Bobby- they were my companions on a lonely Friday evening in march. After my honours classes had got over, I decided to sit down for a while at the Hedua park, sandwiched between Bethune college and Scottish Church college. The street lights were beginning to flood the busy lanes of Kolkata. There is a man who sells tea inside the park. He gives an inquiring look everytime he passes by you. I do not and will never know his name- he is dumb!

I gave him my usual smile and bought myself a cup. There is a swimming pool inside the park. Yellow dissipated lights kept themselves afloat on the calm surface. People were taking their evening-walks. I had myriad of thoughts flashing across my disturbed mind- real troubles and apprehended troubles. I had slipped into my own world, sipping tea and gazing at the water, contemplating life. The reverie was broken by sharp sounds of clapping hands, asking for money. I looked at them. I heard two boys passing by me remark, “Eh, hijra re. ekhoni chatbe sala! Chol, onyodik-e chol.”(hey, eunuchs, man. They’ll bug us now. Come, let’s go the other way.”). And they turned and walked off in a different direction. Their behavior was pretty normal. Sad thing was one of them realized why the boys had changed ways and stole a smile that you could say as something between a melancholia and a mock. And what else could they have done, in this in-between-ness that fate has thrust upon them?

When they came in front of me, I did something that I could never imagine to have done a few years back. When I was a kid, I did feel afraid of them. But today, I asked them if they would like to sit and chat with me. They looked at me for sometime and then complied. They sat on either side of me. The chai-wala was making his second round. I bought them two cups of tea.

“What is your name?”

“Salma.”

“And yours?”

“Bobby.”

“where do you people stay?”

“Sealdah.”

Bobby asked me, “So, what do you do?”

“I am studying in a college.”

“I see. We don’t have to take up these troubles, you know.” Bobby gave this mocking smile.

Salma smirked and added, “No-one would take us into schools in the first place. And even if they do, others won’t let us survive there, would they?”

And both of them laughed aloud!

I kept quiet, staring at a banana peel someone had carelessly thrown on the pavement.

“I want to write something about you.”

“And what do you want to write? We become neither lovers nor terrorists!”, Salma winked at me.

Bobby added, “And yet they feel afraid of us, don’t they?”

I gave them an embarrassed nod. A chana-wala was passing by. I asked them if they would want to eat something. They said ‘yes’. So, I ordered for three mixed-chhola. Salma paid the bill to an astonished chana-wala!

They did not stay long. They said they could not. Before we parted ways, they shook my hand and said, “You’ll be a great person someday.”

People say that eunuchs have powers of prophecy! For one moment I was really happy, and then I hated myself for any kind of joy that had made its way into my heart. Am I so selfish, so indifferent to others’ pain?

Salma and Bobby are two of those insignificant ‘other’ who are not recognized by the society – they have been barred from education, job and life. And what is their fault? Who are we to disown them as part of the society? Who has ever said that only those people with biologically-logical sexual parts are eligible to participate in socio-political-economic affairs of the society? Who are we to jeer at them? It could have been anyone of us!

Politicians raise cries of love for the so-called religious and communal minorities. Where are the ‘other’? Do they vote? Is this our democracy? The “other” are looked upon as jokers in this circus of the world- as the mystical ‘other’ whose curses come true and are looked upon with awe, sometimes fear and often, disgust.

I wonder why Gandhiji never thought of the other harijans who are very much a part of the society! Maybe some of them would make it to the army, someone would come up with the genius of a scientist, someone a teacher, someone a doctor!  What a waste of human potential!

The Government can open schools for them, train them in art and crafts, sports. Why can’t they play cricket?  The government has made reservations in educational institutions and jobs for the physically challenged. And what with the eunuchs? They can walk, hear, see, talk, write- but nothing is done to improve their situation, and all because they lack sex-organs!

The world is funny, ain’t it? And we obviously don’t care, do we? We do not have time, ain’t it? Yeah, no time to think about them and do something about them, but enough time to make up jokes about them, right? C’mon then, my friends, let’s sit back and share a laugh, shall we?

A piece of  memory  from school days…

The last class of Thursday brought sir Mathai back to the environmental studies class. He seemed weird, not only because of his partially bald head but also because of his plum features and extremely short height. However, that wouldn’t have evoked much laughter from the naughty depths of our hearts had he not spoken wrong English with such great confidence!

So, ever since he had delivered his lecture on the extinction of dodos, the students learnt the term ‘shotten’, for that is what sir had said, “Dodos became extinct because they were shotten dead.” Sir Mathai’s chief concern seemed to rest on the unfortunate ‘ jatropa’ plant. He had, someday, probably dreamt of making a lucrative fuel-business out of the plant and turning into a millionare. However, his dreams remained confined within the four walls of the classroom as his words echoed in the ears of the students either completing homework or playing a game of cross-and-circles or omitting numbers to a ‘BINGO’ or busy penning down in a rough sheet of paper all the grammatical errors that he made in his speech, only to be turned into a butt of jokes later. Sir, I suppose, on his part loved our class for he lived under the illusion that we were busy taking down notes on “earth-dying-of-smoke”, “we-throwing-out-carbon-dioxide”, “a world minus pollution” and so on.

However, that day the boys at the last bench had started playing a new game. For this they had collected all small pieces of chalk and preserved on the lower shelves of the desks. The game was simple- they were setting up a new aim each time and throwing a piece at the prey. Each time a chalk hit a girl or boy, he or she would turn back only to find a bunch of innocent faces engrossed in the jatropa plant! This would have continued without any disturbance had not Prachi placed her complaint, “sir, somebody threw a piece of chalk at me.”

Sir stopped his lecture.

“Who throwing chalks at Prachi? Stand up or I going to check you.”

The attention, which he otherwise failed to posses, was now completely his! Shreya and I lowered our heads to conceal the amusement. So, with another twenty minutes remaining for the bell to go, we knew our environmental studies class for the week had already come to an end, replaced as it seemed by sir’s frantic enquiries to find out who dared to play throw-a-chalk in his class!

“Who telling me honestly? I never liking such things in my class.”

Everyone kept quiet. Finally, realizing that he wasn’t born with the mystery-solving capabilities of Mr.Holmes, he thought it was better to return to dodos, plants and water, “This happening last time, I warning sincerely.”

After a small murmur, which mostly consisted of regrets that the boring lecture would resume, the most shocking incident happened- a piece of chalk bounced back from sir’s forehead and fell on the table. The confusion had not allowed anyone to see who the dare-devil was! Though amused, we indeed regarded it as something which shouldn’t have happened. I looked back at the so-called hooligans of the class- Rajeev, Sumit, Rohit and Dweep with quite a what’s-wrong-with-you-guys look, but they seemed equally puzzled, and frightened, I would add.

“who was that?”- sir spoke short sentences properly! With this, before we could quite discern what was happening, sir walked towards the back-benchers and started checking their desks. At last, the investigation-officer in him! People never get down to action unless it affects them, you see!

He found the pieces under Rohit’s desk. The class thundered as he placed a hard slap on his left cheek.

“sir, I threw the chalk at Prachi but not this one at you.”

It is in human nature that when they are accused of bigger crimes, they confess their real crimes, which seem smaller in magnitude compared to the accusation.

“shut up! You coming with me right now. When I small, we worshipping teachers, and this what you do?”

Sir dragged Rohit out of his place to take him to the principal’s office, all of us fearing the possible consequences when Pilby (the great Pilby whom I have already introduced to you in my first post ;-)) stood up, “Sir, it was me who threw the chalk.”

The whole class felt silent as all eyes turned towards him. It all seemed so unbelievable to me, because Pilby was the quiet kind of guy, you know. Even sir, quite taken aback by his bold confession, let go of Rohit and kept staring at Pilby at a complete loss of words.

“Sir, I wanted to throw it at Prachi for making that silly complaint of hers. I missed the aim and it hit you.”

Prachi always sat in the first bench, which is why his explanation seemed pretty plausible plus his bold confession and honesty drew our complete sympathy towards him.”I am sorry, sir.”

“Go stand the blackboard. I talking later to you.” (read as:go and stand near the blackboard. I’l talk to you later).

Sir resumed the lecture and for the first time, we seemed to listen to what he was trying to explain. I occasionally looked at Pilby who kept hanging his head all-time low. Finally the bell rang the death-knell of the class and all of us fixed our attention on sir and Pilby.

“I definitely punishing you harder, but honesty deserving reward as well.  Doing such things anymore?”

I bet I could have cried down from relief.

“I am sorry sir. I won’t do it again.”

Like small kids all of us started clapping at sir’s clemency!

Sir must have felt very good at this as he added as an epilogue, “when somebody confessing, you must forgiving. But if doing same thing again, then never forgiving.”- and all of us broke into a huge roar of laughter with a renewed sense of respect for sir that students generally develop for a buddy-like-teacher!

P.S.- that day Pilby and I were the last ones to leave the classroom. I told him with an angry-mother-like   voice (;-)), “don’t do this again, Pilby!”… with a small grin playing on his lips, he said, “hmmm, yes ma’am.” And then well, Pilby got my first kiss on his right cheek, for his honesty, you know… ;-)