Tum Tak and the end of words

 There is a story i remember my father telling me about nusrat fateh ali khan's qawwalis.

At the end of almost every song, the lyrics would be exhausted and the singers would only endlessly sing alaaps. Or sing the same single line over and over, in different new ways.
My father said that this signified that whatever could not be explained in words
Could be expressed in music in its purest form.
Music, therefore, has the power to convey what words fail to.
And in sufi qawwalis, this inexplicable zenith of every song was god. Or whatever you call it.
This interesting thought came back to me while listening to Tum Tak from the film Ranjhana. Written by Irshad Kamil and composed by AR Rahman.
The lyrics talk about a lover in complete awe of his object of affection. He says that all of his 'manmani' (stubbornness) exists only 'tum tak' (till you).
In so many words, he talks about how all of his childishness, his cleverness, even his free will ends with her.
The deeply problematic nature of the film aside, the song is about the complete surrender of the self to one's lover.
In many ways, this resembles the sufi idea of complete surrender to the almighty, and seeing him/her/it as the ultimate object of love.
It has echoes of the bhakti that Meera had for Krishna while singing love hymns in his praise.
And, just like those sufi qawwalis from my childhood, the songs ends with the words 'Tum Tak' being repeated over and over again.
But they assume a slightly different meaning here.
The quick repetition of the two words, one after the other, begins to sound like a chant.
The two words dissolve into a musical union, a literal chant.
And not just this, the alliterated sound of 'Tum Tak' also serves as vocal percussion, very much like 'Dhinka Chika', 'Dhoom Taana', 'Dhoom Pichak Dhoom', and 'Dhan Te Nan'.
To me, the song is a unique description of single minded devotion towards one's object of affection (expressed in so many words), reaching a crescendo and ending at its only logical conclusion - complete surrender (expressed in the same words, but now bereft of their literal meaning, reduced - or elevated? - to their musical phonetics). 

As the qawwals believe: when words fail, music takes over. 

Main raat ko akele neeche ghoomne kyun aata hun

Main raat ko akele neeche ghoomne kyun aata hun

Lockdown ke ghanton baad

Jab 1.30 bajne ko aate hain
Mai apne ghar se neeche utar aata hun.

Ek-ek saans duniya andar leke
Khud ko behlaata hun
Ke shayad duniya thodi si
ab bhi meri hai.

Shayad uss dare hue insaan jaisa
Jo sadiyon baad kisi pralay ke baad
Duniya mein khud ko iklauta jeevit paayega

ho sakta hai wo darr se zyada
Sukoon mehsoos karey...
Kyunki ek kshan ke liye apni khudi se
duniya ke sarvanaash ko
Jod na paaye
Aur khud ko insaniyat ki collective guilt se
Alag mehsoos kar sake

Saans apne aap mein jab ek bhaar bann jaye
Toh saans ke bagair angdaayi lene ko
Tarasta hun.

Ghar ke andar ye surakshit laash
Baahar gosht ke lothde se thodi zyada kuch
maalum hoti hai

Bohot zyada bhi nahin
Kyunki saans aakhir udhaar ki hai

Jab aadhi-chhichhli saans lene ki aadat pad jaati hai
Toh jab kuch kshan ke liye poora dum bharta hun
Iske pehle ka har ek kshan
Jhooth lagne lagta hai.

Lagta hai inn khule phepdo ki chhaap
Mann ke kisi surakshit kone mein qaid kar loon
Par sapnon ka kya hai
Jitna yaad karo utne bhool jaate hain

Jab tak wapas oopar aata hun
Neeche jaana yaad nahin rehta
Shayad isliye har roz neeche
Kuch naya dhoondta rehta hoon...

Migrants

there were centipedes inside my wall, this morning,

in sleek dank holes you would swear aren’t there.

they’ve been around here since before me, i think;

and before this wall stood here. 

their colonies predate my housing society,

with its lockdown rules that are strictly enforced. 

prohibited for everyone, but, for the entry

of those who just can’t be disposed. 

they walk in a hundred strides, unmasked,

compelled to stick to margins and corners.

they pick up the crumbs left behind by us,

and recede like dutiful performers.

we ‘own’ property that wasn’t property.

by possessing we devalue possession.

today it might be mine to keep,

but, in time, am i even my own?

the centipedes are out of sight until

they die by the dozen in the flood of my shower. 

in the cleansing of my body’s filth,

they are destined to be run over.

i am stuck at home for most of the day,

and venture out for a nightly roam.

but they walk through sunshine and shade

their hole in the wall no longer ‘home’.

i see them walking, everywhere,

when all my chores are done. 

unthinking and in a fit of rage,

i spray them with some venom.

they writhe, collapse, turn over and die

they all fall like nine pins.

victims of my entitled guilt

and killed by my indifference. 

next day, i sigh at the sorry sight

when more centipedes appear on cue,

they're brought to life by the morning paper,

and die by primetime news.

Necro poetry

She gently sways with the ebb and flow, 

Of a naughty draught of air.

Her toes gliding woefully close to the floor,

Her grotesque Kali tongue licking the strands of her hair.

I hold her legs and hoist her up, daintily

Freeing her weight from that murderess, gravity.

As her muscles relax from postmortem stress

She lets loose some flatulence right in my face.

The gentle purr, a sign of life,

The inelegant smell of residual vitality

Leaves her in my gentle embrace

And I am almost swooned by this lovely disgrace.

I lay her down on a bare white sheet,

Massaging her limbs out of rigor mortis.

I am tempted by her protruding tongue, blue from strain, 

To hold her, kiss her, lose my restraint.

I blacken her fingertips to record her prints

Forcibly holding each finger like a kid's.

She resists, in death, as if still around

Her face transfixed in a resolute frown.

I notice, up close, the hair in her nostril

Her moles, her folds, unguarded and still.

I pull back her pants with a jerk, as far back I wish

To reveal the growth of a flourishing bush.

Unthinking, unmindful, I pull down her undies,

And lick her thick, inglorious shrubberies.

If she were alive, she'd moan in ecstasy,

In death, she is far better at ease.

Later, at the morgue, I shave her legs, her ass, her face.

After stuffing her chest with a cotton duress.

I lick her wet and kiss her dry,

As I dress her before being burnt sky high.

Like a doll, she lets her saggy breasts,

Be reined in by my choice of vests,

I sew her mouth shut in a permanent smirk

Not before filling it to brim with my sweet cum.

Her skin heaves and falls at my tools' command.

I slip into her feet the highest heels in demand.

In her final dress, she looks elegant beyond belief,

I celebrate her dead beauty before it is defiled by grief.

Jab Harry Met Sejal movie review

Worst film ever made.

Jagga Jasoos' references

Hidden somewhere in the spit-fire lyrics of a song montage from Jagga Jasoos is what I think is a clever self-reference. 

Jagga's adoptive father encases a full year's memories in a single VHS tape he sends him annually. Sometimes he sends him life lessons, other times he is busy explaining the difference between an off-spin from an on-spin ball. In one such message, we hear him drop the following words of wisdom: 'chor ki chori jab tak pakdi na jaaye, tab tak wo artist.' ('as long as a thief's thievery isn't caught, they are an artist'.)

I think Basu is subtly referencing the controversy around the originality of his own work here. His previous film, 'Barfi', had entire sequences lifted exactly from their source materials, which range from the 2004 Hollywood drama 'The Notebook', to some of the most iconic stunts of Charles Chaplin and Buster Keaton. Of course, Basu vehemently defended himself by choosing to call it an 'homage' more than anything else. 

Once again, with Jagga Jasoos, many similarities have been drawn with the comic book adventures of Herge's young Belgian 'whippersnapper', Tintin - all of which Basu has roundly rejected. After having seen the film twice, I do feel it bears a great resemblance to the Tintin comic books, both in tone and plot. The beats and gags are also greatly similar at times. In fact, the emotional bedrock of the characters of both Jagga and Tintin is the same: finding a long-lost relative. 

Herge's personal favorite Tintin adventure was 'Tintin in Tibet', in which the young investigative reporter appears to have lost an old friend in a plane crash. He embarks on a deeply personal journey to rescue him from the snowy peaks of Tibet, the crash-site, based on a dream that convinces him he is alive. Jagga has similar motivations and beliefs as Tintin in the comic book. 

Moreover, both their globe-trotting adventures bear a great degree of sameness. Both rely on a hell of a lot of luck. Both work with fumbling, faltering side-kicks. Both take place in faraway lands with made-up names. Both have the same fucking haircut. There's a scene in Jagga Jasoos where he steals an airplane and learns to fly it on the fly (pun intended!); this is the same trick Tintin applies in The Black Island. I am sure I can pick out at least half a dozen more similarities, but that is not the point here.

The point I am making is that Anurag Basu takes a much greater inspiration from a completely different source altogether. This is neither a stylistic nor a tonal inspiration, but an even greater, spiritual one. The film keeps talking about 'the red circle', one in which people who are destined to meet must end up together at one point or the other. This quote is attributed to Gautam Buddha by Jagga as he explains the theory to an unimpressed Katrina. 

In reality, there exists no such quote by Buddha. The saying was instead coined by Jean-Pierre Melville, one of my favorite filmmakers of all time. For the benefit of those who do not know, Melville re-defined the Gangster film, the Heist film and the Neo-noir genre in the 70s, making just over a dozen films in his short career. He is considered a major influence on the stalwarts of the French New Wave. Look him up if you have not. 

In the year 1970, he made one of his three major masterpieces, a film titled, 'Le Cercle Rouge'. This translates to 'The Red Circle'. It opens with the following quote, attributed to the Buddha:

A still from 'Le Cerle Rouge' (1970)

"When men, even unknowingly, are to meet one day, whatever may befall each, whatever the diverging paths, on the said day, they will inevitably come together in the red circle."

The thing with Melville was that he liked fucking with form. He made an almost-silent gangster film when the genre was known to be loquacious. He almost single-handedly defined the concept of a 'code' among gangsters and between criminals and cops, wherein both respect each other for their respective jobs. They live and die by these rules as honorable men (rarely women, unfortunately). This would go on to inspire Tarantino in some of his best films: Kill Bill, Resevoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction, Jackie Brown, etc. Melville even fucking gave himself the suffix 'Melville' because Melville was his favorite author. Also because he could, that's why. 

Anurag Basu borrows the concept of the red circle from Melville, something I don't see a lot of critics talking about, let alone the audience. In fact, I find it hard to believe that Basu did not know the line was not spoken actually by Buddha at all. I think he really meant it as an homage to Melville, by keeping the fiction around the quotation alive.

Which brings me back to the line that started it all:

'As long as a thief's thievery isn't caught, they are an artist'.

With this single line from the film, I have a feeling Basu is being that cheeky kid who thumbs her nose at the substitute teacher in school. He is challenging critics to find all the references in his films. Or maybe he is mocking himself. Or maybe he is passing a secret note to the Melville fans in the audience. 

That, or maybe I'm overthinking. 

PS: I absolutely love the film, which is why I saw it twice. I feel it is a fiercely original piece of work despite its very many influences, because of the way it weaves them into a tapestry that is unique from all of its parts. Please go invest time and watch it! 

From dust till dust: a love poem

We see the same lights,

The same sun, the same stars.

A million shadows from the ancient past,

The reflection of everything, alive or dead.

Stardust are we, and to stars we will return,

After suffering together on this pale blue dot.

A spec of a spec of a spec in time,

Two minuscule drops in an ocean, sublime.

We float around and swim about

Without will, without tact

Attracted by ethereal bonds,

Until we come to die.

In this dying light of day,

I long for the touch of your lips.

Tired, paining, suffering bodies,

Yearn to unite for once.

While searching for meaning in faraway lands,

We forget that death does not end life.

It took us a lifetime to realize,

Non-existence is what bookends life.

As they take away your mortal shell,

Away from me, forever to be;

My very being shatters and breaks,

For one glimpse of you among the stars.

I know you’re now a cosmic entity,

Unconscious, un-living particulate matter.

I still remember looking up at the stars with you,

Until you became one and I can only wait.

Maybe a million years hence will an atom of me,

meet one of yours in the blankness of space.

Maybe a flash of recognition, or maybe not,

Will come upon what is left of the two of us. 

Anvi's protraits

Went on an overnight trip with my friend from college. Took a few experimental photos of her on my mobile phone (Moto G4). 

[Update: All photo editing has been done on my phone. No photoshop, simple CC.]

Here are a few, in pretentious monochrome: 

For a change

Corporal shell

A minor annoyance

Battle hardened

Don't look now

Hmm?

Every time I said I love you

[Writing prompt given by my friend, Aditi:

Every time you said 'I love you', and what you meant when you said it - in chronological order.]

The first time I said I love you was out of convention. It was cool to seal it with a kiss and those three magical words. Magical, not so much; but they got you in my pants, so to hell all else.

The second, third, fourth and fifth time I repeated those words, it was fashionable. It was to show we were ‘it’. I spoke it just loud enough so your friends could hear, and just low enough so my parents wouldn’t.

The next hundred thousand times I repeated those words was out of habit. Out of the fear of breaking routine. Out of competition, to defeat you at the game of saying ‘I love you’, as if to say my love is greater than yours. Almost a matter of correct punctuation.

I didn’t know it then, but the hundred thousand and sixth time I said ‘I love you’, I meant it. On a lonely night when you were shattered and I held you in my arms, alone, not out of lust but support; not out of habit, but want; not out of convention, but desire. I said it because I absolutely, balls-out, from the bottom of my fucking heart, lungs and kidneys loved you to hell and beyond, more than any other living being in the world. 

The last time I said I love you was a whisper into void. I hoped you were listening, but knew you were not. And that was the end of it. 

My idea of appreciating art by criminals - in 3 points

1. If a criminal makes good art, their talent is in now way lessened. The art-piece should be appreciated nonetheless (as in the case of Chinatown, The Triumph of the Will, Annie Hall, Last Tango in Paris and Bajrangi Bhaijaan).

2. The piece of art must not earn benefits for the artist, a criminal, unless they have served their punishment in full. Go ahead and download Annie Hall illegally if you are convinced by the allegation leveled against its creator. Don't watch Bajrangi Bhaijaan in theaters if you are convinced of its lead actor's guilt. Watch Chinatown on fmovies. 

3. The greatness of the work of art should not lessen the punishment meted out to the artist, a criminal.

In the words of Arnold Schwarzenegger, "I think that (Polanski) is a very respected person and I am a big admirer of his work. But, nevertheless, I think he should be treated like everyone else."

कल

डर कब लगता है?
जब कुछ खोने को हो।

कल मैं उससे एक साल बाद मिल रहा हूँ .
हम पिछले साल मिले थे।
सुनने में अच्छा लगता है, परी-कथा जैसी.
काश आम-कथा होती।

आज और कल के अंतराल में
ऐसा लगता है एक अर्सा झूल रहा है।
कल मैं कोई और होऊंगा, आज कुछ और।
अंत समीप आते देख, डर लग रहा है।

मुझे मृत्यु का भय है।
शायद भय से ज़्यादा शर्म।
मेरे मन में मौत सबसे बड़ी विडम्बना है:
एक पल आप पूर्ण रूपेण जीवित हो, और अगले ही पल पूर्ण रूपेण मृत।

इसलिए मैं कभी तैयारी के बिना नहीं मारना पसंद करूँगा।
मतलब महाशय घर से निकले थे ज़िन्दगी भर के ख्वाब ले कर,
पर बीच रास्ते अचानक मौत हो गयी।
आम तौर पर मैं अपनी मौत स्वीकार कर हर दिन जीता हूँ।

पर कल अपनी मौत के लिए मैं तैयार नहीं हूँ।
सोचते हुए शर्म आती है कि यदि अगले क्षण मैं मर गया, तो लोग अख़बार में headline पढ़ के कहेंगे,
'बेचारे ने मौत के ऊपर blog लिखा और मर गया'.

कल जैसे दिनों के लिए मैं जीता हूँ।

मेरी बाई मुझसे क्या कहना चाहती होगी

NOTE: This is fictional.

पिछले कई दिनों से मेरे घर में काम करने वाली बाई नहीं आई।
काफी दिन उसकी राह ताकी, अंततः सोचा कुछ मुश्किल decisions लेने ही पड़ेंगे।
अगली बार जब वह आई, तो मैंने उसको नौकरी से निकाल दिया।

रविवार का दिन था, मैं ठीक से नींद से उठा भी न था।

पिछली रात से सोई मेरी गर्लफ्रेंड भी मेरे सिरहाने हलके खर्राटे ले रही थी।
मेरी बाई की आँखों में आंसू थे, काम से निकाले जाने का खूब सारा उमड़ता दर्द, और शायद थोड़ी शर्मिंदगी...
पर क्या उसकी आँखों में मैंने कुछ और देखा? हाँ शायद...

वह कोस रही थी मुझे, और हर उस चीज़ को जिसका मैं प्रतीक हूँ।

'अविवाहिक ही किसी बाप की बेटी को घर ले आए?'
'आज तक जितनी गन्दगी तेरे नर्म बिस्तर के नीचे झुक के घुटनो के बल निकाली, उसका हिसाब भूल गए?'
'बिना 30 day notice के काम से कौन निकालता है'?

'साले तुम सो कैसे सकते हो सुबह साढ़े ग्यारह बजे तक'?

'खुद से निचलों के चेहरे पे यह एक तमाचा नहीं?
अम्बानी-बिर्ला की उत्श्रंखलताओं पर तो खूब विरोध व्यक्त करते रहते हो,
खुद का दोगलापन दिखता नहीं?

तुम गांजा-सिगरेट का कचड़ा ज़मीन पर ऐसी अदब से फैलाते हो, मानो मैं तुम्हारी बाई नहीं, दासी हूँ!

पैसे की मेरी मजबूरी का फायदा उठा के मेरी एक-एक दिन की छुट्टी का हिसाब रखते हो!
साले गरीबों की बस्ती में आ के ही क्यों तुम्हारे अंदर का तर्राट bargainer जाग उठता है?
सुपरमार्केट में जा के क्यों नहीं पाई-पाई का हिसाब मांगते?

कमीने, तुझे पता भी है मेरे घर में क्या चल रहा है?
एक पति है, नालायक, जिस से न दिन रहते काम होता है ना रात।
माँ बाप हैं जो अपना पराया धन बेच आए किसी अंजान मर्द को।
और एक है तू, जो हमेशा अपने आलिशान महल में इस सब से अंजान सोता रहता है।

अब तुम कहोगे कि तुम बहुत मेहनती हो, काम के पक्के पाबन्द हो।
दिन भर अपनी कुर्सी पर बैठ के अंग्रेजी के बड़े-बड़े शब्द type करते हो।
नौ से पांच पूरी लगन से काम करके तुम यह अपेक्षा करते हो कि सब तुम्हारे जैसे ही कर्मठ हों।
और कभी कभार कविता की भावनाओं में बह कर कुछ पंक्तियाँ समाज के दबे कुचलों पर भी समर्पित करते हो।

बहुत बहुत धन्यवाद कि तुमने मेरे बारे में इतना सोचा।
पर थोड़ा और सोचते तो पाते कि मुझमें और तुम मे फर्क सिर्फ तबके और अमीरीयत का है।
गौर करने की बात है कि यदि मेरा जन्म तुम्हारे घर और तुम्हारा मेरे घर में होता,
तो क्या आज मैं यह कविता लिख रही होती और क्या तुम रो रहे होते?'

इतना कुछ अपनी आँखों से कहकर वह घर से और मेरे सुस्त Sunday से चली गई।
मैंने आँखे मलीं, मुह धोया और वापस अपनी गर्लफ्रेंड की बाहों में लिपट के सो गया,
Sunday morning वाले खूबसूरत सपने देखने।
सपने सच्चाई को सहनीय बना देते हैं, मैंने खर्राटे लेते हुए सोचा और नींद में मुस्कुराया।

right wing wankers just crossed a line

I'm a very politically inflamed guy but choose to keep it in my pants unless there's something REALLY extreme said or done. Indian politics, as most of us who don't live under a rock would know, has never been anything BUT extreme. This compels me to call out bullshit from time to time, mostly on my facebook profile. 

Now, let me tell you- I'm no activist or political know-all; in fact I'm closer to being complicit in all the stupid shit that happens in the political arena these days than anything else. So, for the most part, I aim to make no real difference to the status-quo. A figure like me can be likened to the trope of the Gangster Wife, or for want of a better analogy, the humble Nazi footsoldier who was 'only following orders'. I turn a deaf ear to handicapped beggars and charity-appealers, but still rant about wealth inequality on heated facebook comment threads, thus riding the Hypocrisy Express on a first class ticket.

But every once a while something so ridiculous comes along that shit hits the fucking sky. To not call it out for its stupidity tilts the needle of my moral compass to 'criminal offence'. 

Asaram Bapu, accused multiple times of being a child rapist and a murderer, is arguably the father of dick moves across the spectrum of right-wing wackos. Him and his pro-Hindutva pals have led rancid and lethal hate campaigns over the years about 'Love Jihad', boycotting Pakistani artists, the politics over beef ban, national anthem and many other minor to major issues. 

Their muscle flexing has grown in rabidness after the ascension of the BJP at the central government in 2014. I had privately predicted the rise of these dastardly elements in an argument with my father when the Modi sarkar was elected. Modi himself may not be at the forefront of this fuckall socio-religious thuggery. But his proximity to the Sangh Parivar, documented to have played a role in the Babri masjid demolition - among many other controversial incidents - cast serious doubts in my mind about his integrity to bring these misguided miscreants to books.

Sadly, there exist no better political opponents to Modi as of now, which is dangerous for a diverse democracy. All other regional leaders are either too weak, divisive or corrupt. They have made careers out of politics and filled their personal coffers while at it. 

But more on all this some other day; let me go back to Asaram Bapu and the point of this post.

Bapu and his minions run close to fucking 400+ ashrams all across India, but mostly in the 'pak sarzameen' of Gujarat. Kuch din toh guzariye pls.  

Still not convinced? Read some personal testimonies!

Bapu Ji also runs about 40 'gurukuls', or boarding schools which have been mired in controversies related to mysterious deaths of its students. Some parents have accused the staff of practicing black magic, only to later retract their statements in court, under no pressure from anyone at all. 

Sounds a lot like Hogwarts, eh?

	Hogwarts	Asaram’s gurukul
Secretly teaches magic	✓	✓
Students die under mysterious circumstances	✓	✓
Occasionally hounded by official authorities	✓	✓
Sometimes muggles get a whiff of what’s happening but eventually lose their memory	✓	✓
Led by a bearded old man whose sexuality is dubious	✓	✓

Apart from being a part-time court liar, prison inmate and clown, Bapu ji also excels in single handedly keeping the venom of Western cultural influence at bay from the gullible Bharatiya masses. His campaigns to shun the allure of culture-eroding vices like Valentine's Day and Christmas celebrations have manifested in parallel festivals of his own. 

He announced 14th February to be marked Matri Pitri Poojan Divas ("mother-father worship day") and 25th December to be celebrated as Tulsi Pujan Divas (Basil Worship Day). Surely, these six-sigma certified, ISI-pramaanit Indian festivals could not be observed on any other two days on the Kaalnirnay calendar.

The most cringeworthy effort to publicly promote the latter is in the form of a recent straight-to-DVD, barely feature length film, '25 December: Ek nayi pahal'. Here's the trailer:

Ouch. The cringe was high with this, right? Picture abhi baaki hai. Turns out they have simultaneously released the full movie on youtube. 

Unless you have assimilated the entire experience in 1.5x speed like I did, stop reading here if you care for spoilers. Actually no, just read on; this is truly a spoiler proof film, the only one after the Ebert-certified Inception. My spoilers will only add to your anticipation to witness this unique movie first hand.

In the opening scene, we are introduced to textbook baddie Rocky, who is always chucking around strategically-placed cardboard cartons for some reason. His teenage angst has led him away from the path of goodness and godliness, and the heathen spawn has taken upon himself to stop the pious folk of his housing society from worshiping the Holy Basil ('Tulsi'). While the other angelic kids are busy prepping for the Tulsi worship gig, villainous Rocky reports the public nuisance to the cops. The cops come knocking at the right place and time (for once!) and are just about to cancel the shenanigans for totally legit reasons when...flashback happens.

Turns out everyone in this moronic society is an Asaram supporter and has pimped out their unassuming kids to his gurukul. The young-uns (all suspiciously males) have been brainwashed to sabotage the livelihoods of anyone who deals in cow-flesh ('gau mata hatya'). The story of their twisted efforts to stop cow-flesh trade and other equally worthless pursuits melts the heart of the policemen in charge and they let the show go on. The District Magistrate makes a special appearance and leads the chanting of 'Hari om!' for the enthralled crowd.

One of the kids then goes on to enlist the benefits of tulsi - from being a cure to cancer to an ozone-releasing miracle herb. Poor Rocky takes to the stage and accepts that he had been led astray from the noble path of goodness and...Hinduism. Yes, he does not openly say it, but he confesses that he also 'used to be a Rohan once', and that it was now time to go back to being one. Ghar wapsi, anyone? 

No one, at any point, openly targets Christmas or Christianity, but the words 'sharaab aur kabaab' are repeatedly used with disgust and revulsion. The word 'party' is detested; 'utsav' is suggested as an acceptable replacement. Everyone is repeatedly told to observe the 25th of December as Tulsi Pujan Divas alone. It's not like any other major festival falls on the same day, right?

Asaram Bapu demonstrating the number of fucks he gives

And yet, my major problem is not with any of what I just mentioned. I don't really give a shit about misguided, brainwashed masses as long as they are adults. They're already fucked. The chuck-chuck train has long passed for them. 

But it is when children are taken away their childhood by adults with an agenda that I lose my shit. Don't drag the fucking kids into your hateful, sexist, xenophobic campaign. Leave them home with better role models. Let them truly make up their minds. Ensure they get the unbiased, neutral account of the world they deserve during their formative years. Don't pass on your fucked up legacy to them.

This goes for everyone who brings along their young ones to political and ideological rallies. Don't. Let them stay home for a day instead, with their Barbie dolls or Hot Wheels, Hardy Boys or Nancy Drews, or whatever it is that sells these days. Don't snatch away their sense of wonder and exploration for your selfish motives.

I am not a parent so I am in no position to say whether I can guarantee the same for my kids (if and when I have any), but I will try. In any case, it's not like we are leaving this place for them in any good shape - this is the least the future generations deserve.

I write this with the biggest FU to everyone who uses kids for their agenda. Fuck you for messing with the children.

We failed you.

Insulin shot: a short story

Ma calls out for dinner.

That’s my cue. I open the refrigerator and reach for the tiny insulin glass bottle on the door panel. I grope through baba’s medicine box for a fresh syringe. It’s such a habit that I can literally do it without taking my eyes off the mobile screen.

I load the syringe with the exact quantity of the transparent medicine, with some help of the markings. Carefully, so as not to form bubbles. I give the needle a shake to let the extra drops fall. This I can’t do without looking for sure, so I restrain myself from checking the Instagram feed.

I walk to where baba is sitting, like every day, on his special reclining chair, enjoying the angry debate on TV…

But something’s wrong today. The TV is silent; the suited news anchor is speaking over everyone and the supers are spitting fire, but it’s all on mute. The look on my grandfather’s face is one of abject loss. His eyes are looking away, as if following some wayward thought. The TV seems on only on account of a habit half observed.

There are about ten of us in the same house but no one notices him because, well, old people.

“What’s up, baba?”

He looks up at me but it’s not like when someone is jolted from their thoughts and brought back to reality. He turns to look at me very gradually, and I see something frightening in his eyes. It’s hard to put down in words but the fuzzy warmth about him is gone. His eyes are vacant, drained and tired. I haven’t seen him in this shape in the seven years of our insulin-shot ritual.

*

My grandfather has been diabetic for more than 35 years now: a little more than twice my time in the world. As a kid I would watch mortified as he would fearlessly apply the injection on his bare stomach, ten minutes before the day’s last meal. I would run and hide in my room every time dinner was announced.

As I grew older, my fear turned to fascination. When I was about 10, I remember him calling out to me as he was about to take the shot. Nervously, I walked up to him and sat on his lap.

“Do you want to puncture my tummy today?” he asked me in his genial dada ji voice.

I whimpered at the idea but quickly recovered. Curiosity dictated that I nod. He handed me the syringe, showing me how to correctly hold it. He bared his fat belly and wiped the spot of the injection with a piece of cotton. Then he signaled me to go ahead.

I nervously brought the syringe closer to his belly; I think my hands trembled. He held my arm and guided it towards him. Slowly, the needle pierced his skin and I discharged the insulin. I looked up at him to gauge his pain but his beaming smile did not wane even a bit. I was awed.

This became a part of our routine. No sooner would ma, chachi or dadima call for dinner than I’d run to baba to ‘puncture his tummy’. It became our bonding session: those ten or so minutes between the injection and the dinner being served.

Baba generally had been a very self-motivated individual. He’d retired as a star journalist when no one else in the family saw any merit in the jhola-chhaap profession. All my uncles and aunts and distant cousins had gotten themselves involved in our family business, which functioned more like a clan now.

“Truth be told,” baba said during one of our insulin moments, “I’m sure they all hate my guts.” He looked over to where my dad and younger brother were, enjoying a cricket game on TV. “Can’t say the feeling isn’t mutual!”

We had a laugh about things that would have seemed so revolting outside of context. And I won’t say we always talked progressive and intellectual all the time; oh, we trash-talked a lot. Sometimes he would comment on the shortness of bua’s pants or ma’s closeness to chacha, which created doubts in his mind regarding her fidelity. “But that’s none of your business, and I am sure you are seeing things.”

“They called me the sharpest eye in the newsroom…”

He would often hold on rigidly to his opinions, like when we passionately debated on the subject of the existence of god. I’m a militant atheist and he considers himself a high-caste Brahmin, so a clash was imminent. We continued to debate all through dinner and up till bedtime, but he did not budge an inch from his standpoint.

But at the end of the day, we agreed that we had had a damn good argument. No one else would give us much notice. Only occasionally would someone look up from their TV screens or food plates and give an impervious glance. Nobody got us. And it’s been like this till date.

*

“Tell me?” I crouch down and pull up his shirt. He wipes his face with the back of his palms and looks at me, now with a restive manner. He appears like a man who has just about made a momentous decision.

“I want to tell you something really important.”

I let go of his shirt and let it fall. His voice is clear, stern and very serious; the kind that demands immediate and absolute attention.

“I am only telling you this because,” he pauses as he glances to the sides, then continues, “you’re the only one who will understand me and not freak out.”

“What’s up?” I ask.

“As you know, I was in and out of hospital all of last week due to my breathing problems…”

He had been briefly hospitalized after a nasty asthma attack triggered by dust and pollution. For about 5 days, he had been under observation and I could not meet him for that duration. I had been busy with work and had not thought much about it. It had not been a particularly serious illness, so it was not a cause of any considerable distress.

“In those few days lying on my bed, with an oxygen mask plastered to my face and intravenous drips pierced under my skin, I had a spiritual revelation. I realized the frailty of my body. I haven’t felt any weaker and helpless before. For the first time in my life, I could feel myself getting older and sicker. I think a big part of my spirit died on the hospital bed when I was finally discharged.”

Another call for dinner from the kitchen interrupts him. My younger brother is engrossed in his mobile phone. Papa is nowhere to be seen, probably confabulating with a business buddy in a room inside. There is commotion and activity all around, but we are alone.

“You don’t need to feel so down, baba,” I console. “All these things come with age.”

“That’s what I am afraid of. I am afraid of turning into this incapacitated vegetable that will be as good as dead. I do not want to die slowly and painfully in some hospital room away from family, away from friends…away from you. Everything I’ve done in life has been on my own terms. I was once a young hopeful man like you, ready to make a dent on the world. And over the years, I have made quite a dent by doing what I always wanted. I have bravely faced thugs and exposed the wrongdoings of the rich and influential. I’ve fought fights with gusto and stood up for what I know to be right and fair. I have loved, I have failed and I have succeeded. I have lived all facets of my life and I have played all my roles as a man of God. My life’s targets have been achieved and I can now die with no regrets.”

I cannot bear to look at him anymore. He is no longer the listless wreck he was just moments ago. In the course of his speaking, his demeanor has changed and his face has gained color. His speech is clear, articulate and impassioned. He speaks like a man possessed, a hawkish debater who has found the flaw in the opposing argument. He is speaking with an intent that is scary for me as his granddaughter, which makes me look away and contemplate.

The news anchor barks soundlessly on primetime. My brother aggressively pokes the touchscreen of his smartphone, perhaps caught in a tense moment in a video game. The plates are being laid out on the dining table.

Baba holds me gently by the chin and lifts my head towards him. His face is serene and his eyes sparkle with a youthful charm; he’s made up his mind.

“I have lived every moment of my life on my term. I want to end it on my terms too. And I want your help with it.” He smiles enigmatically. Then he looks at the syringe in my hand, filled with the right dosage of insulin.

“I’ve already taken two extra doses of insulin before this, but only a third can make it potentially lethal. I want you to go ahead and give me what I want.”

The syringe drops from my hand and falls on the ground. I cannot believe this is happening. I pick it up; luckily, the needle is still intact and the liquid has not dripped.

“You are an intelligent young girl, uncorrupted by the cynicism and reasonability of adulthood. I know I can trust you to make the right choice. In case I die, I already have a suicide note saved and ready in the drafts folder of my email ID.”

I know the ID and password of his email account because I am the one who set it up for him.

“I leave the rest to you. If you’re logically convinced by my argument, you should go ahead and puncture your baba's belly, one last time.”

His argument is airtight, and I know the stubborn old man cannot be talked out of it. The weight of the decision trembles me. Dinner is served. Papa appears from an inside room, still on the phone. Chacha and chachi take their places at the dining table, oblivious of me and baba. The news anchor is out of breath.

The syringe with the lethal dose beckons me.

THE END