IIT - A Sociological Analysis

In the following thousand words, let me make an attempt at defining what IIT exactly is – in a critical sociological analysis of the ecosystem that an IIT campus is. For the sake of completeness, I intend to elucidate some of the problems that IIT and related systems face in the light of this analysis.

At the outset, let us not squander time by challenging the potency of the JEE and ride safe on the assumption that the IITs attract some of the brightest minds of the country. What we often choose to neglect is where these bright minds come from. Some may argue that all children are not really born alike. At least the statement must not be assumed false. Let us also not debate these assumptions and avoid claims or comments on the similarity of the sociological break-up of IIT students to Indian society at large. I could certainly prove empirically, if not otherwise, that the majority of IIT students are from the middle to upper-middle class of Indian society. Perhaps the coaching class fee barrier keeps the lower strata out, and probably the charm and viability of higher education abroad applies for the other conspicuously absent section. These arguments on cash flow, however, are hardly convincing.

Moving on from a previous statement, the Indian middle class is generally apathetic, self-driven and self-centred. This is almost truly reflective of the average IIT student’s mentality. It’s a blatant and unrepentant indulgence, sometimes refuge, in a “do-your-thing” attitude. Social issues, for example, are illogically, yet conveniently labelled ‘can-not’. In fact, a definite divisive line could be drawn here between the Indian middle class and their Western counterparts. This resides in the definition of what is ‘public’ and what is ‘private’. Indians inherently believe that as long as their own house is clean, whatever litter they throw outside is legitimate – or worse, they just couldn’t care less. On a particular instance, I saw someone wearing a doomed look after a “drop of ketch-up on my shirt accident”. The same person threw the paper plate he used to clean his act up in a post-box a while later. Don’t feel sorry for him. It’s in his culture. As a contrast, other parts of the world were brought up with the definition of private being anything that could even be partly under your control.

On similar lines, IITians, although individually brilliant, are perpetually engaged in a rat race which gives them no constructive result but makes them pay for a blinkered vision of things around them. Even though IIT may have tonnes to offer in terms of knowledge, learning for students is restricted to a direction that achieves tangible benefits. Arguably, there is a certain comfort level associated within the boundaries and rationales created. As an apt analogy, there is a gated, secluded atmosphere on campus. But in my opinion, that shouldn’t give us an opportunity to ignore harsh reality. Even if life is comfortable, there is no reason to hide from responsibilities towards the greater good – that especially rests on the shoulders of IIT students. Whether they knowingly signed up for the social responsibility is also a debate. However, there is an inherent contradiction here. Given the responsibility of belonging to a developing nation and a recently empowered class that can make a difference, there is still rampant apathy. True, widely accepted success metrics include money, power and challenges. IIT students are no exception. The rat race, though, is not an optimal solution for achieving the same.

IITs also pride themselves in the meritocracy that they have established. Today, however, one’s class, exposure, upbringing and economic status have a staggering reflection on merit. This was the basic argument for reservation when it was established. To prove these hindrances have been removed and reservation should now be abolished is anything but an easy task. Although the entrance mechanism makes meritocracy an innate aspect to IIT, it really isn’t. On the other hand, I would define meritocracy as the egalitarian principles adopted in evaluation during the degree course. There is simply no room for lagging behind. This could be extended as far as saying that there is no room for different, say, creative individuals. Further, there is an ambiguity as to how success is defined, following also from an earlier discussion. The alumni in Silicon Valley are generally called ‘successful’. Are they? Their contributions back to the country, to the taxpayers who paid for their world-class education, leave a lot to be desired. On the other hand, is Dunu Roy, who has spent the better part of his life after IIT uplifting tribes in M.P. successful? Maybe not, he was supposed to be an engineer. The two seem to be contrasting in nature – clear opinions could be formed by different people. I could, on the contrary, side with both given that I can’t equate the two principles.

Minor observations could be the angst characteristic of the age-group in question. Social responsibility, again, is usually restricted to the self in such cases. A leading statement would be to call it immaturity and irresponsibility. Deviance, although not rampant, exists – the post-box incident for example. On the other hand, civil disobedience is also deviance. Another minor observation is a general sense of complacency amongst IIT students. This substantiates the secluded atmosphere on campus – oblivious to the ‘lesser’ mortals and their unimportant deeds and issues. I could bet that a majority of IIT students wouldn’t know about the recent developments in their own fields, let alone the nuclear deal or the assembly elections. What’s worse is that I fear most just wouldn’t care.

Finally, IITs gear to be world class. In that search, the authorities don't want to deal with "messy" issues. Folklore consists only of the success stories – again substantiating the ambiguity of the success metric. Anything bordering on politics is never discussed – has also been accepted by the Public Relations Office. In a compromise on the attempt at staying a full-bodied meritocracy, non-academic staff (not contributing to the success metric) is poorly treated - some are on a temporary basis for the last 20 years. Professors and students are pampered, though. These characteristics reek of elitism – which isn’t always as great as it sounds for obvious reasons.

To be fair, though, the structures that exist breed success, as is known to the common man. Professors acknowledge that students have a higher understanding of subjects, which may not necessarily be in their own pet area. Probably, there is a general correlation between intelligence and intellect. Given the intelligence, the intellect is probably there somewhere. Maybe I just haven’t found a considerable measure of it yet. In the attempt at forcefully teaching every student at other colleges, IIT students have a general sense of freedom. The authorities trust them to make the right choices. The entire process defines this very structure. To that effect, the other places operate on egalitarian principles as opposed to the elitism here, which isn’t – really – always as bad as may sound.

Roe v. Wade

Excerpt from Freakonomics, by Steven D. Lewitt and Stephen J. Dubner.

"This concerns a young woman in Dallas, Texas, USA named Norma McCorvey around the early 70's.

Like the proverbial butterfly that flaps its wings on one continent and eventually causes a hurricane on another, Norma McCorvey dramatically altered the course of events without intending to. All she had wanted was an abortion. She was a poor, uneducated, unskilled, alcoholic, drug-using twenty-one-year-old woman who had already given up two children for adoption and now, in 1970, found herself pregnant again. But in Texas, as in all but a few states at that time, abortion was illegal. McCorvey’s cause came to be adopted by people far more powerful than she. They made her the lead plaintiff in a class-action lawsuit seeking to legalize abortion. The defendant was Henry Wade, the Dallas County district attorney. The case ultimately made it to the U.S. Supreme Court, by which time McCorvey’s name had been disguised as Jane Roe. On January 22, 1973, the court ruled in favor of Ms. Roe, allowing legalized abortion throughout the country. By this time, of course, it was far too late for Ms. McCorvey/Roe to have her abortion. She had given birth and put the child up for adoption. (Years later she would renounce her allegiance to legalized abortion and become a pro-life activist.)

So how did Roe v. Wade help trigger, a generation later, the greatest crime drop in recorded history? As far as crime is concerned, it turns out that not all children are born equal. Not even close. Decades of studies have shown that a child born into an adverse family environment is far more likely than other children to become a criminal. And the millions of women most likely to have an abortion in the wake of Roe v. Wade—poor, unmarried, and teenage mothers for whom illegal abortions had been too expensive or too hard to get—were often models of adversity. They were the very women whose children, if born, would have been much more likely than average to become criminals. But because of Roe v. Wade, these children weren’t being born. This powerful cause would have a drastic, distant effect: years later, just as these unborn children would have entered their criminal primes, the rate of crime began to plummet.

It wasn’t gun control or a strong economy or new police strategies that finally blunted the American crime wave. It was, among other factors, the reality that the pool of potential criminals had dramatically shrunk.

Now, as the crime-drop experts (the former crime doomsayers) spun their theories to the media, how many times did they cite legalized abortion as a cause?

Zero."

Why Bhuvan was right to take up the bet

Imagine you are Bhuvan in the movie Lagaan. You are part of a group of very poor villagers who are finding it very difficult to pay their taxes. A sadistic British officer Captain Russell offers to bet with you. If your village can beat a team of English cricketers, you and all the villages in the district will be exempt from tax but if you lose, the taxes will be tripled. This is why you should accept the bet.

I will be talking to you about three things - a) How in special cases some people can make decisions for the majority, b) How the juxtaposition is fair, keeping in mind the consequences c) Why the probabilities aren't as skewed as shown below and a relative cost-benefit analysis. Finally, I'll follow my substantives with a summary.

First and foremost, in principle, there are and have been exceptions when one man can make decisions for the majority even when it is logistically possible to have a plebiscite. An influential and earnest person, that Bhuvan is, is a respectable member of the community. Now, even though his ideals may not agree with some, a respectable member of the community has the duty as well as the right, to set to paper the pathway for self-determination of the community - if given the option. Bhuvan doesn't have to choose anything, he is paving the way for his community to prosper in the best way he that he can comprehend. The repercussions will and must be shared by the community, no doubt, but so are the benefits. In the special case of being exposed to this option, hence, it is legitimate for Bhuvan to take a call to the best of his rational capability. On the same point, one could further argue that plebiscite would have led to confusion and deadlock when such a gamble is given. Arguments would have continued indefinitely - on whether to take the gamble or not. In such a case, one person must take a definitive call, and the community must place trust in him - expressing solidarity and working towards a better tomorrow for all, given whatever decision he has taken. The keyword here is solidarity. Let the man choose.

Now, secondly, we make bets all the time. This case is only an extrapolation of the same. We make miniscule bets to the order of this: if I have unprotected sex with a stranger, I am gambling for my health and that of the community; if I decide not to go for work today, I am gambling against my profits and that of my employer. Just because in this case the relation to the community is so explicit doesn't mean that you neglect the innumerous times you have taken decisions for the community all by yourself. Cricket and taxes are unrelated, no doubt. But that doesn't mean they can't be wagered against each other. If I'm exceptionally good at something, I would bet anything on it. On the other hand, if I knew a game would be fair and competitive, and had no other option, I would perhaps go ahead with the bet and fight till my last breath. The latter is exactly the case at hand. Hence, there is absolutely nothing irrational about the wager. There are benefits and costs to every wager - but they still exist - which is exact premise of this argument.

Finally, the probabilities of Bhuvan managing to win the match aren't as devalued as shown below. It is a game of cricket, after all, between two amateur teams. It is plain to see that very little skill and strategy is involved. However much is required, can be developed with the help of a memsaab, who knows the game inside out. Strength is of course similar, if Bhuvan's eleven don't have an advantage that is. Ploughing fields and lifting heavy weights renders them strong and competitive in any physical sport for which the lads are trainable. Clearly, it isn't that difficult for them to win. Even the crowd is behind the unkown lads from the village. With a little luck, which is pre-eminent in any bet, the village might be exempt from taxes for life. More than just a benefit, it's the Holy Grail for this community.

In summary, to deny the draught-ridden villagers the hope of being exempt from taxes for life is criminal. Especially when the chances aren't really stacked up against them, when there is a definite chance and an achievable result in sight. Especially when wager is legitimate and when Bhuvan, as a member of the community, has the duty to make the right call. The right call is to take a shot at the easily beatable game of cricket.

Why Bhuvan should not have taken the bet

Imagine you are Bhuvan in the movie Lagaan. You are part of a group of very poor villagers who are finding it very difficult to pay their taxes. A sadistic British officer Captain Russell offers to bet with you. If your village can beat a team of English cricketers, you and all the villages in the district will be exempt from tax but if you lose, the taxes will be tripled. This is why you should reject the bet.

The entire premise of my argument lies on three key ideas - a) Whether one man has the right to take risks on behalf of the entire community, b) What's at stake for the man, and more importantly for the community and c) A cost benefit analysis - if they take the bet and if they don't, which should summarize my case.

Firstly, in principle, one man on his own whims and fancies has no right to choose his community's fate. This goes against the basic principle of the right to self-determination. Let me tell you why. Communities that are not under structured governance are usually utilitarian - they believe in the maximum good for the maximum number of people. Although they realize that impinging on someone else's rights is not just, they do understand innately that it requires a few to forgo in order for the majority to prosper. This is nature. Though they may be illiterate, they have the basic rationality to make a decision of this nature. Therefore, now that it's established that everyone is utilitarian and is rational enough to make the decision, the right to self-determination of the self leads on to the right to self-determination of the community. The adrenaline rush of Bhuvan may or may not be in the interest of the community. I doubt if they would like to leave their prosperity to his whim. A simple measure to solve this is plebiscite - which is not infeasible for obvious reasons in this case.

Next, let us examine what's at stake for the community. Tripling of taxes, which I will show later to be very likely, is exactly what is at stake. To play a game of cricket, and juxtapose it against losing out your life's savings is a clear mismatch and should only be kept aside for story-tales and motion pictures. If you're rational, you couldn't possibly compare something as grave as taxes and a fun and frolic walk in the park, chasing a leather ball. Hence, again in principle, to even consider this irrational bet keeping in mind the two aforementioned things juxtaposed, is a farce. This will become an autocracy only if you allow it. It is in your hands. Further, what is in it for Bhuvan? A clear play on his ego, keeping a memsaab in mind, impressing her Radha and all that jazz. Isn't it plain to see? Even if you're irrational enough to consider the bet, will you delve deeper into the unknown by placing your trust in a man with misplaced intentions?

Further, let's talk specifically about this case. If you agree to the bet, what's at stake as far as the community is concerned? No taxes, or triple taxes. That's an easy call for the community to take. Clearly people would love the concept of no taxes. No doubt. Now throw in the probabilities involved with respect to the bet, and also the deterministic possibility to continue with the same amount of taxes. Also, let's talk about the probabilities. Clearly, the village team has no idea of cricket. Comparing them with people who have invented the game and brought it to this country is anything but sane. Considering Bhuvan has the sole responsibility to inspire, train and captain the team is a tough task for any young man who has the sole distinction of secretly watching the game from a distance. Now that that's dealt with, consider this. You have two and only two options - one, to give me Rs. 1,000 or two, to take a gamble as follows: you give me nothing with a probability of 0.05 and Rs. 10,000 with a probability of 0.95. Simple decision analysis tells you, a rational person that you are, that taking the gamble will lead you into heavy trouble. This is the cost of taking the gamble, which is far less than the Rs. 1,000 to buy your way out of it. Obviously, negative of cost is benefit, and hence maximum benefit is minimum cost. This basically summarizes the cost-benefit analysis.

On all three counts, my friend, may God save you if you take the bet.

Hyderabad

There is something about a monument that makes you love it immediately. It isn't how much you think the Nawab or Shah or Mughal emperor spent on it; it isn't the reason why it was built in the first place; it usually isn't the sheer size of it. You just know you love it. Just like you know your mother is thinking about you. With the Charminar, though, it just didn't happen. I'm sorry.

The Seven Tombs. A congregation of tombs of the seven Nawabs of Hyderabad. I think it's a half decent idea to keep the remains of a dynasty together. For some weird reason. That apart, really good place for lovers and lovers of open spaces alike. Beautifully landscaped and a refreshing change from the hustle bustle of the city. It's just that kind of place which gives you an opportunity to take a moment, if you know what I mean.

Ah, well. This was the start of me relating this thought I had borrowed from somewhere to almost everyone I knew. One of the primary differences between Indian and Western mentality is the definition of what is private and what is public. Indians could let everything march of to hell, given just that their own house is clean. In fact, that's the saddest part about the festival of Diwali. That damn story. For the uninitiated, the old woman told the entire city to not clean their homes, just so the Goddess would come tumbling to her doorstep only. Culture reflects selfishness. Reformers like Swami Vivekananda introduced the concept of seva. This is sad to me. In the west, people were brought up with strict laws and they incorporated care for public property within their culture. Hyderabadis, though, unlike most other parts of the country are extremely emotional about things similar to the picture. The most attractive part of the Golconda Fort, for example, has been closed because people have defaced it so horribly. You can see museum guides telling little kids to get the hell of the ledge. Cool.

It's almost as if the responsibility of globalization has been thrust on the shoulders of the ancient city. Personally, things like these are just a reminder for me to take it slow.

Oh, the Hyderabadis know their way around the kitchen. Some of the best tikkas I have had, apart from the trademark biriyanis. I don't know why, though, they really don't know how to mix a drink. I sure they'll catch up.

The Qawwali. I was fortunate enough to arrive in Hyderabad just at the end of Ramzan. Everyone was out in the mall, cheering for one or the other team. The grandmas were tapping their knees to the beat, the children were bouncing around. The parents were shopping. City life.

This picture really does speak a thousand words. It summarizes the entire city in a snapshot. Hyderabad exemplifies diversity in India. Hindu, Muslim, the rich, the poor, the middle class, daily wage workers, the High-Tech City - the entire cocktail that makes India the beautiful place it is. A city still coping up with media exposure, the people still don't really know where things are headed. Two wheelers, auto rickshaws, Maybachs. The High Court in the background puts everything into perspective.

Finger Exercise

/*Rant

Okay, that's it. I'm sick of abbreviations. If you're lazy, the least you could do is move your limb a few extra millimeters, and have the courtesy of pressing a few more buttons on your terribly underused keyboard. You need the darned exercise. If you aren't lazy, which you probably aren't, considering you've read this far, c'mon! You can do it! T-y-p-e i-t o-u-t c-o-m-p-l-e-t-e-l-y! See, that wasn't that hard now, was it? If you're retarded, start reading this again - from line 1. And that makes a mutually exclusive set. Cool?

I really don't understand the reason or the point. It isn't cool, it's hardly funny. How can omitting the vowels from a perfectly delightful word of the Queen's language be constructive? While you "save time" typing those skanky things, I waste double the time comprehending your excuse for a decipherable sentence. There is a reason why language was developed. It's for me to get what in hell's name you're saying. It didn't take you a lot of finger exercise to screw that nut up the wrong bolt, did it? Oh, no, please, it won't affect the life expectancy of your keyboard. If you didn't know, it's supposed to be doing the things you're not letting it do. Even if it makes it kaputt, do make the right choice between getting a new one and wasting away what's left of the poor language. Further, it's insulting to me that you don't consider me worthy of a few extra precious seconds of yours. I'd be grateful, please, do the honours. If you have trouble writing SMS's (oh screw you, that much is allowed) because of space crunch, sacrifice the grammar. I know we're equally bad at it anyway.

AFAIK. IMHO. ROTFL. Get a life and use it to construct comprehensible sentences, if you'd be so kind.

Rant*/

Random Roxanne

Sleep deprived, you walk on broadway, thinking to yourself, "Was it worth it all?". He says to you, "Roxanne, you don't have to sell your soul tonight." It isn't that easy after all, is it? Saying isn't believing, is it? You tread on beaten paths; losing your footprints among the millions, thinking, "It really doesn't make a difference, does it?". "To whom?", he asks, checking his Guide to English Grammar. This is stupid, isn't it? I'm sick of asking questions that you wouldn't ever answer. Red light, green light, yellow. I wish it just stops at yellow. People would just stop and look around. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the thought for the day.

"I'll force you to sit here and mark you absent!". And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the threat for the day.

DreamTheatre 02

Disclaimer: The following chronicles are accounts of dreams. They might not make any sense whatsoever, but I find it imperative to record them. So there go the chronicles of a million contradictions and random, involuntary thoughts. Although I am tempted to include them, no interpretation, no separate facts, no representation of real life or real things is intentionally added here. There is no theory subscribed to. All coincidences are purely imaginary, and bear who-knows-what resemblance to anything living or dead.

We're at some kind of gigantic secret medical research facility, complete with ineffective tube-lights, a few bright lamps, seepage, huge mortuaries with no sign of life or death, randomly spilt blood-stains and the familiar odour of chloroform. By 'we', I mean a set of people with some known faces. We roam about aimlessly in the facility, until we're given a small, but heavy box that must be transported to another place. And this must be done with the help of the dilapidated truck that I am to drive. I don't seem to have the slightest idea about driving that god-forsaken machine, but I'm doing it anyway. I'm leaning outside, steering with one hand, clutching with one foot and when I have to shift, I lean inside and reach for the gears. I rarely go beyond the first gear. The gears are awful. With the other hand, I'm waving, almost routinely, at pedestrians, Shanghai-style rickshaws, kids playing on the road and hawkers to move the hell out of my way. I'm going at nothing more than about ten kilometers per hour. The road seems very similar to Lakeside, I think to myself. On the left side, though, exists a vast expanse of barren wasteland and on the right, buildings very similar to those at the IIT Bombay campus.

Once we reach the destination, I transform into a little boy. The place looks like a Vietnamese war camp. The infiniteness of inundated mud, guns and explosives detonating in the distance make up the faint view of the stretch between my feet and the horizon. I'm not bothered. I find myself playing around with three other kids. One of them is a girl, and she's the eldest among us. Of the other two boys, one is barely an infant. We decide to go into one of the temporary tents. There is a black and white television there, playing a video. The video has the four of us being molested by a middle-aged man. I shall forbear describing the excesses of this scene but to say the least, it isn't pretty according to either classical or contemporary ethics. We purposefully watch the entire video, and laugh wildly about it soon after. We rush outside into the dirt and grime ourselves filthy in the mud, none of us wearing anything below the waist. We jokingly fight, trying to reach a consensus as to which one of us screamed the loudest on the video.

Four women notice and stop beside us. One of them immediately relates to what transpires. They take us to the small, heavy box and open it. Within lies one photograph and she asks if that was him. Yes, it was.

Slow Regression

The other day, during that awesome Electronic Music and Beer festival at Bandra, I had a little bit of an introspection-cum-forecasting session in the midst of it all. The music was thumping, the alcohol flowing, and nobody really cared about anything other than just having fun. And I don't blame them. It was self-indulgence time.

Point one. It's absolutely mind-boggling what holding a bit of money in one's pocket does to him. Never thinking twice before ordering that extra bottle, never thinking once about the 300 Rupee entry-charge. I feel entirely free at times, then entirely miserable for wasting my hard-earned cash away. Then I start to ponder what it's really meant for. But no, this is not a socialist pondering debating the intricacies of "to each his own" and the general idea of philanthropy.

Point two; and this one, though it may come as a surprise to the reader, is about music. Background. Currently, anything in the vicinity of Western/Indian Classical Music, John Mayer or Electronica/Techno (as many galaxies as may exist between them), I would pay to hear (in the context of ready availability at a single click). And so at the gig, I was swaying away to glory to the evil, Satanic visuals and heart-incapacitating beats - basically dying a slow, excruciatingly painless and altogether fun death. Hours no bar. Exhaustion preceded the impending disintegration, and we stopped. And then there was this moment. Am I going to be doing the same thing twenty years down the line?

More importantly, would I be listening to the same music twenty years down the line? Different generations like different genres of music. Uncontested fact. But over the years, as one regresses on to be a part of the previous generation, do choices and tastes in music, art, film, food and the like alter? Within the personal paradigm, I find that I have a lot in common with my future self. Connoisseur of alcohol and music, advocate of a welfare-state, *WB in general. And that isn't going to change. However, the general question is still at large.

Is it a question of our body refusing to respond to certain external stimuli? Does the mind stop shaking to the beats of Electronica, rather subjects its moods to some flowing Philharmonic pleasures? Do taste buds and stomachs jettison the idea of infinite beer and embrace the grace of silvery wine? And if so, when and how, exactly?

Then comes another thought. You are only as young as you want to be. Age is hardly the factor determining youth, isn't it? It is your outlook, the way you think, that makes and keeps you young. No wonder creams, no self-help books, nothing. And no amount of Electronica, beer, hair-gel or stupidity can prove you to be youthful either. If one has such tastes, but not the angst, he's just plain ol' vanilla silly, or as the youth terms it today, a wannabe. Urrgh. And on that ugly word, let's just call it a night, a very beautiful night at that.

PS: There's a vowerld of a difference between being 'deft' and being 'daft'. Irrelevant, but just wanted to keep it on record. Just don't leave me alone here, it's cold, baby, come back to bed. Irrelevant, again, but, wow. John Mayer. Personal insecurity. Wow. What will this fix? Enough, now, enough said.

Charkha, an attempt at an Album Review

The Album ‘Charkha’ by Rahat Fateh Ali Khan. Get it, play it over and over again. Then slash your wrists and die*, because you’ve heard it all. Enough said.

But I will say more. After listening to the album, one has two options. Either he remains dead silent and lets the light bouncing off the tears streaming down his face speak the encrypted story of a thousand words, a million expressions and countless summer nights of wonderful dreaming; or if he has started writing something about it, he just never stops.

Before attempting my hand at classifying the art into any kind of genre, there are a few other things that I must touch upon. First, I have never heard anything that felt so familiar, so one with me. Maybe it’s the Indian soil reeking from every note, every ‘harkat’ completing every antara. It has the capability to touch people. Second, the lyrics – I am yet to found out who the creator(s) is (are). But the day I find out, and fate permitting, our paths cross, I will touch their feet. I don’t understand a word. But I can relate to them at some other level that simply cannot be explained in words.

This reminds me of an anecdote. About a year ago in Delhi, my mother and I visited the Nizammudin Chisti dargah – someone had advised mother to feed hundred needy ones a meal. Not that I believe in any such rituals as an opportunity to redeem your lost karma points, but I went ahead with it just because the idea was noble and for the sheer thrill of seeing a new place belonging to another time-zone and another culture. I went, I saw, I was moved. But then there was Mirza Ghalib’s dargah right there. I went, I saw, I touched his feet. Creating such poetry isn’t a skill, it’s a gift. Whatever respect given to such great men is just not enough.

I’ve heard a lot of sufi and Hindustani Classical music, owing to my parents. Although this album doesn’t belong to either, it pays homage to both. That is the beauty of it. The music is haunting, the compositions heart-wrenching. And from this horrible state of pain and terror emanates a gulf of pure pleasure, and joy of existence. I’ve also heard a lot of Rahat Fateh Ali Khan. He is gifted beyond doubt. People compare him with his equally superb uncle Nusrat, but I believe he has invented another class for himself with this album.

Finally, it delights me happy that there are people that just wouldn’t let these beautiful things about our culture die, despite giant alien influences. I want to do my part. Someone teach me how to sing, and then how to compose. Enough said now. I shall go back to meditating in my own state of trance.

*The apt description of the album borrowed from another review. I don’t feel the slightest bit of shame.

On Civil Disobedience

Saint Augustine once said, "An unjust law is no law at all." Hence it becomes my right, rather my duty, to resist such laws - either by violence or by civil disobedience. You should pray I choose the latter.

One Big Family

This tall lanky friend of mine goes back to his hometown, to give JEE fundae to his fellow villagers. Not surprisingly – as is the case with most North Indian cities, a good-looking young aspirant enquires sweetly, “Bhaiya, aap kitne ghante padhte the?” My furious and embarrassed friend answered, but only for the sake of completeness; the sake of universal action-reaction balance – you know how. Then he recounts overhearing another two lovely girls on a gear-less scooty, mercilessly aiming pot-shots at the poor fellow, “Arrey, yeh to wohi bhaiya hain na, jinhone JEE clear kiya tha?” He, then, also recounts the lovely experience when this other beautiful girl came to his own house, just to call him ‘Aap’. Yes, ‘Aap’, nothing more, nothing less. For the record, he is still single.

Aunty (Enti, Aantiji, in Hindi), Uncle (Ankal, Ankilji, in Hindi), Bhaiya (Pronounced the same in Hindi, spelt who knows which way, among its various variations), Didi (Same as the previous parenthesis), Bhabi (I’m bored of doing this time and again. In fact, I’m scared. Repetition makes my shudder in my dreams that very night. Especially when associated with Hindi songs of extremely poor taste. By the way, sitting inside long parentheses which have no real relevance to what is actually happening in the outside world is comfortably cosy; and blissfully ignorant; and horribly wrong. I like :) – household ways to address people we don't know - are chanted in such merry unison that the entire nation resonates with happy family vibrations.

I have a problem with this, though. Apart from the obvious stereotype that this creates – the wicked Aunties and the loving Didis – I hate what these titles do to our psyche. Another fine example, if the ones before weren’t enough follows. A lovely young woman, draped in the finest salwar-suit one could imagine – the perfect ‘Wife to Be’ magazine cover face, might go to her neighbour’s house looking for that eventful bowl of sugar, only to discover that the lovely old Aunty isn’t in. Oh, but her strapping young lad, exactly-her-age-plus-a-day years old, is. And she, once the natural carnal instincts give way to the fallout from the woefully horrible fact (The fact that she knows about it, speaks a lot for itself) a mere sentence ago, politely asks, “Bhaiyya, thodi chini hogi?” The very fact that you might consider, instinctively as it may be, to call me incestuous, is testament to my hypothesis. Heck, what hypothesis, it frikkin’ exists, happens every frikkin’ day.

The ‘y’ in ‘Bhaiyya’ couldn’t be longer or more in-your-face, quite as much as the spatter from that little bubble bursting – the one that the poor chap created, with the two of them dancing on a strawberry cheese cake with snowflakes engulfing the love that’s in the air. All right fine, not the perfect dessert for a wedding; but hey, try them, and you’ll know ‘y’.

I must also address the wonder that is ‘yaar’. Although the savoir-faire that using this one of a kind pronoun is, one isn’t quite making the requisite noble efforts that we as Indians must, to make this beautiful world one big family. An open request to all lovely ladies and gentlemen is in order – please do not – repeat – do not exaggerate the number of ‘a’s between ‘y’ and ‘r’.

I’ll tell you what I like about this phenomenon too. It is the best alternative to “Dude, ‘sup?” or “What’d’yoo want, bitch?” or “Hey girl, what type'a stereo you got?” Period.

I sign off in hopes that people remember the names of people they know – even the first one, if not entirely convenient – while they’re alive. If Miss World reads my obituary after I die (Apparently, they’re writing obituaries for living dudes and bitches too. Cool!) and calls me ‘Bhaiyya’, I couldn’t care less; but while I’m alive – Hey! The name’s Tarun, and you can call me whatever you want, baby.