Successful Partial Detox

As against a Partial(ly) Successful Detox.

It’s been a month that I have ‘stayed away’ from Facebook, and have been successful at that. It’s a good feeling. As a mark of being away, I changed my cover photo and profile picture to reflect that, I guess it didn’t make much sense. Only one friend asked me about my absence and I pointed her to my Facebook cover and profile photo. That was my cryptic way of saying, “I am away.”

And, apparently, too cryptic.

My being away from Facebook was not a full detox (that should explain the “partial.”) Because I administer a photography MOOC on Facebook and my company’s page, I couldn’t be completely away. So it was only a detox of status updates and commenting etc, on my profile page, unless addressed directly. The need to share shifted a bit on Twitter for the month, but it wasn’t significant.

All of this meant that I wrote more on my blog (than before, not in absolute terms), had a chance to read quite a lot, support my Premier League team, de-clutter the space around and spend some time with myself, become better at cooking, learning the fundamentals, and start something new (at work). It also helped think about, to an extent, how to make optimal, non-intrusive use of social media. Of all the things, however, it lets you know the value of your presence in social media networks.

Walking away, in a funny way, is knowing where you really stand.

How We Killed the Poets

Sometimes, I think, poets have all the fun.

Writers of prose have been called wordsmiths for a while now, but poets are the elite wordsmiths. If I were to use the controversial (and potentially politically incorrect) yet appropriate Indian terminology for them, I’d say, they were the Brahminical class on word-smithery.

Poetry employs lesser words, often violating grammar; yet has an impact more than that prose can.

I thought of a few beautiful poems that are the epitome of romance; they play now as I write this post, yet I think twice before posting them. These poems are from a few years ago. When times were different. In our new-found eyes, these poems may be anti-this or anti-that. They may be this-ist or that-ist. Did love change from the 70′s to the 2010′s? 

We live in difficult times.

Our words may be our own, but their meanings belong to those who want to extract directional meaning of them, so that they can use it for their own purpose. For, we have taken democracy to the extent that – it is easier to make meaning than ask for it. When we disagreed to disagree. There is much more in life that we have than we had a few years ago, yet we have less of everything.

Romance died soon after we stopped making poets. And we stopped making poets when we stopped reading and listening poetry. 

 

Backseat Adventures

For a while now, I have been taking photographs from the inside of a rickshaw and exploring the nuances of the rickety travel across city streets.

This is just one of the views, for a wider exploration see the entire set. Beyond the visual, one-way conversations, there are those that involve people.

It all started with the rickshaw-driver asking me if the day was still a holiday, considering the low evening peak traffic. I said, I’d expect that people would be back at work; enough time to nurse their hangovers (alcoholic and otherwise), and added, it’s a good thing that the traffic is sparse; I’ll reach home early. No, he said, it’s a bad thing, he’d struggle to get fares.

One man’s ceiling is another man’s floor.

Smaller bits of conversation ensued regarding driving sense, road quality, politics and such, and I was about to give up the conversation as the usual rickshaw banter. He was talking of being a part-time rickshaw driver. Politeness as well as curiosity made me ask him, what his day job was. He laughed, and said that I’d laugh too, if he told me. Since I was on the edge of walking away from the conversation, I said, I’d respect it if he didn’t want to tell. I could now get back to checking my mail.

“Have you heard of IPTA?”

“What?” It sounded like ITTA when he first said it and all the honking and acceleration by trucks on the flyover was not helping.

“IPTA – Indian People’s Theatre Association,” he elaborated.

“Of course, I know IPTA.”

He seemed surprised that I knew IPTA. “My day job is with IPTA.”

“What do you do there?” The default profession would be an actor, but I wasn’t going to stereotype.

“I am an actor and a writer,” he said, and went on to explain that he was an assistant to a writer, and picked up roles when he could. A brief history of IPTA was narrated and the bad influence of money on art was investigated in some detail.

“You could join mainstream and make enough money, films, television, enough avenues out there,” I said, in some part, defending the 100-crore club.

“I am not in it to make money, I want to stay true to my calling,” came the incorruptible reply. “I make enough money for me to sustain and watch movies.”

A Wednesday (2008) was cited as an example of good film-making. Titanic, and Inception got special mention. I asked, if he had seen In Time (2011). Yes, he said. Star Movies. Nuances of conceptual art were discussed. People’s over-reliance on mindless entertainment was lamented. Mumbai’s ability to make billionaires of beggars was lauded in spite of its heartlessness and bad food; unlike Kolkata, where he was from. Vincent Van Gogh featured as an artist who died without experiencing appreciation while he was alive. The role of the audience and the performer was surgically explored – the inter-dependency was confirmed.

“Two hundred rupees,” he said, as I reached home. We both felt that the traffic should have been worse and the conversation longer, but some conversations are beautiful when they are short, unplanned and have an ending.

Rush-hour traffic is a good conversation-enabler.

Couriering Charm

“Name, signature, and telephone number.”

I complied with the usual illegible scrawls I make, on the acknowledgements slips. PODs, they are called by some – Proof of Delivery. I don’t like giving out my phone numbers everywhere, and with my illegible scrawls, I have perfected the art of giving a phone number that looks like, but isn’t mine.

As I handed the slips back to him and reached out to collect the bills, he was scrawling something on one of the envelopes, it was legible and there was a name followed by a couple of mobile phone numbers.

As I looked at the envelope, he said, “You’ll need fire-crackers for Diwali, please call on this number.” Surprised, I smiled back, and I said I will.

I have been thinking about this for a while, and I am quite amused how this person has solved the problem of distribution and marketing. It’s direct selling, he doesn’t have to invest anything (the courier company pays a salary for going door-to-door), he can isolate a market segment, and – it is more personal than dropping a leaflet (they get thrown away).

There is nothing new about using this format for market access. Somehow, this was the first time, I felt, it was personal, without the usual irritating intrusion. Newspaper vendors have been used regularly by local shops to drop cheaply printed leaflets and restaurant menu cards for home delivery. As I open my newspaper every morning, all the leaflets fall to the ground, and from there, they are picked, up only to go to the trash.

Customer irritation as against Customer delight.

Yesterday, The Hindustan Times and Volkswagen decided to put a yellow post-it on the front page. It’s a post-it — it works in a certain way – you peel it off, it comes out easily. Not this post-it, no. It was stuck over a headline about India’s role in the UNSC. And when I chose to read the headline rather than the ad, and removed the badly stuck post-it, it ripped the page.

I find it disturbing that increasingly, almost all newspapers have progressively started devaluing the front page. There used to be a sanctity to the front-page that has steadily degraded. I wrote about this earlier, so I’ll let go now.

So, as selling becomes more ignoble, irritating and intrusive, this initiative by the courier boy was quite amusing and charming. Moreover, it’s a chance to support local entrepreneurship.

All the best to you, kiddo!

In Favour of Magic

To fill up your blog with posts from your other blogs that folks do not read is a way to populate your blog. It is not a way to write a post. It is way, I think, to trick your audience into thinking that you continue to be the prolific writer that you were; the trouble with that tactic is is that you will always know the truth – even if they don’t realise it.

You know that painful paralysing feeling of helplessness you get when you feel betrayed? It’s the same feeling – it doesn’t change based on who has cheated. It continues to be equally disgusting.

And you have to ask yourself why you cheated to start with. The answer is not usually obvious. It requires you to shut down your computer and take to paper and pencil, like I am doing, now.

Then comes that long pause just as you write that sentence; your pen hanging a few millimetres above the paper risking dried ink. In that long pause you wonder if you should go back to your blog editor instead of repeating the task, which you will have to do anyway – because what you have been writing is definitely a blog post – even if your original intentions were not to share it. It takes some determination to continue with the pen, instead of the keyboard.

And you come back to your question about cheating.

A few answers, superficial in nature, peek out of the darkness, seek your attention as potential candidates for your post’s conclusion. A couple of them seem promising and interesting enough – and will allow you to finish this post quickly. Once more, you resist the temptation. After a few more long pauses and doodles later, you see it lurking in the background; trying to hide, as if avoiding attention. You look closer and examine it.

Could this be it?

There is no certainty but something about its constitution makes you want to examine it further.

You are not entirely sure, but you get the feeling its called “The Currency of Appreciation.” And what you see on closer inspection is its devalued self. Once ten units would fill you with joy, but now you need thousands just to feel satisfied. Time and changing paradigms of interaction have eroded its value and divided its format. It is essentially the same thing that you knew – it has changed structure – it feels familiar, but it is not. We now seek more of it and we find ways to earn more of it.

It has to stop soon. Else this pursuit of collection and amassing will destroy the sanctity of my actions. And this currency is bound devalue further as more formats and methods are developed for its distribution. And we will need more units because our attention will be divided even further. It will, however, never be the question of right or wrong but of our personal choice and how many of those units we will need to carry on. More units may motivate us to do more, but choose we must between the pursuit of the units or the pursuit of our action. We  cannot allow ourselves to take a path that will disturb us every time we act, question our action or doubt the creative authenticity of our actions.

The eternal struggle between the means and the magic and their interdependence will continue and continue to bother us: the means to create magic and the magic to obtain the means.

And, if we are unable to choose, we will have to find the balance between the two, perhaps with a bias to magic.

For we can live with a deficit of the means, but we need an abundance of magic.

Sign/Post

It’s 23rd July. I update my Facebook status: A beautiful post finds a place in my head. Now to find the time.

Three people like the status; the post itself does not form, for a long and indeterminate while.

I am thinking of friends. Actually, I am thinking of their absence. The fact that I am thinking of their absence illuminates their presence. They are here, in my head or heart or whatever component, physical or spiritual – that makes them present before me. The make-believe is exhausting. I give up.

This post is not that beautiful post that found a place in my head that I mentioned on Facebook.

This is a different post. It is, I think, still a beautiful post.

-*-

Of the many men who have contributed in creating the most definitive art are the ones who never signed their work. There must have been one, of many like him, that contributed to the construction of the wondrous fort of Sindhudurg. Of the men and the women who worked tirelessly at this engineering feat not a single one is mentioned anywhere. Not one of them felt the need to carve his or her name for posterity.

The brave Marathas built this fort.

Every identity was engulfed in the single identity, in that one single statement. We know of the architect, for that is documented somewhere. We know of the administrator, for that is documented somewhere.

Not a single person who contributed to the erection of this fort is known; documented  - to be precise. Not one of them ever felt the need to document his contribution. Where art has now succumbed to the identity and the pathos of an artist, this is a glaring example of art for art’s sake. A fort? As art? You would be right to question the construction of a fort as art. I will not argue on that.

*

If forts don’t convince you enough, consider Madhubani paintings or Warli art (Not the one that your cousin sells commercially; the ones that were the original)

*

A few hundred years later, young men in gaudy shirts hopeful of participating in popular love or similar such, exhibiting a deep identity crisis, have a compulsion to use chalk or whatever means to carve or inscribe their identity on the stones that an unidentified artist slaved to compose a masterpiece.

While the ones who built the masterpiece never felt a need for recognition, those that visit have a craving to inscribe their identity on a heritage that they are wretched derivatives of. Fie on those wretched souls!

Graffiti psychology has been studied enough, so I shall not even begin to make an attempt to discuss that further. Feel free to Google.

-*-

My best friend and I have a talk about this. She says  that I have made a wonderful statement in saying, “Those that built it did not feel the need to express a personal identity; those that visit someone else’s creation feel the need to display their inadequate identities.”

We – and no surprises here – move to a discussion on contemporary art. I do not know for a fact, where the concept of a signature on a piece of art came from. The need to sign art is a need to express a human equivalent of the God-complex. “I created this”. In contemporary times, to my mind, it is like proprietary software vs. opens-source software. Signed and unsigned. Belongs and doesn’t belong. Those that want to posses art are not much different and the symbiotic relationship between the artist and the audience is perpetuated through the signature. You possess a traditional unsigned Warli and I possess a Souza. Of a few square feet of canvas, my pride is often reduced to the few square inches on the bottom right of the canvas.

Not so long ago, my father used own a seal. A red sealing wax bar, burnt – their crimson simmering droplets on the lip of the envelope and ‘sealed’ with a calligraphic press of his initials. Nothing is more personal than that. Nothing more one-to-one. Only the recipient can see what’s inside the envelope. History is witness of seals. The question therefore is; if signed art is as personal? Unlike the geometric casts of tribal women of Warli, whose representation is available to all of us? Is signed contemporary art available to the privileged few? Not really – we know that. They openly exhibit their expression with gay wanton yet sign it for an unknown exclusivity.

This post has no conclusion.

-*-

That post about friends; I don’t think it will ever get published.

Us and Our Online Ethos

The Prologue

This post was originally published a couple of days ago. I got some of my most interesting, thoughtful comments on that post. However, I deleted that post. I was not happy with what I had written. When I started to write the post, I was quite clear about what I wanted to write. I realised, however, that as the post progressed, it was bouncing randomly all over the place and it ended up being a staccato rant than anything else. Not that rants aren’t acceptable – but when rants run over the original thought, the thought is stuck in the mud.

I have, at the end of this post, added the three comments that I received on the deleted post. They refer to sections in the deleted post, so they are decontextualised to an extent – yet, by themselves they are very valuable thoughts and have their rightful place in this post.

*

The Post

Last Saturday, Rayo, a good friend – who I regret not meeting as often as I want to – asked (said?) this on Facebook:

You know what’s the most interesting thing on FB? It’s you. Not what you read on the Washington Post Social Reader, what games you played courtesy Zynga, what videos on cool things in advertising/marketing/whatever you watched or food you ate. (Well, maybe the food you ate.)

Instead, how about you talk about the most wonderful person you know? Yourself. What you’re thinking, what you’re feeling. What’s happening in your life. Be open. Be personal. Share. Make it interesting. Make it count. Be yourself. Break down your limited profiles. Dare to be the same person to everyone. It’s a social network. So be social. Can you?

I re-posted this status as the “Facebook Manifesto”; he seemed to agree to the title that I had given his status. Facebook themselves would dismiss this caption for obvious reasons.

A while ago, I had posted a thought about Genuine Interest. And I meant every word in the post. The two comments I received were one-word comments – which said a lot. When you get certain one-word comments, from certain people – they are more meaningful: it is proof that you have expressed very well.

As much as I agree with Rayo about what we should do on Facebook, I know we are losing it. There was a time when I wrote about what was happening in my life, what I felt — broadcasting it to my friends. There was a time when Facebook was about friends – it wasn’t about networking. Rayo posted his status update on Saturday. Sunday, I posted a photograph that I had taken early in January. I have been posting many photographs from my archives to Facebook. A friend asked me, if I had quit “working” (The inherent thought being – where do you get the time to travel so much – implying – you don’t have to work, do you?) I took a long time to digest that comment. What did she mean?

It is obvious that she meant it in jest. It did bring to fore the thought, however, of the possibility that this could well be the beginning of the conversion of a perception to belief.

Our social networking has been reduced to sharing the already shared – news that has little connection to who we are. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer. That is the case of links – the currency of the web. We are trading in that currency, in the guise of networking. It is now easy for us to have a thousand “friends” but not know our “friends.” There is granular control to partially or completely block people, or know everything they do on Facebook. We can control what we want to know and see, about our friends. For every person we block completely or partially, someday we will have to wonder why they are on our friends’ list. Not to discredit online social networking: it has been useful. I have met some of the most interesting people online through Facebook, Linkedin and Twitter (and of course through this blog). One, who I now count as one of my best friends, even if we have met just five times, so far. And, make no mistake, I still stand by what Rayo said – we are missing out on getting to know each other, online. The advantage of being online is to overcome the constraints of time and geography rather than posting news, videos, guilt updates, and disturbing photos.

Facebook is the new Orkut.

We more or less do the same thing on Linkedin that we do on Facebook – but we call the people in our network – connections. To my mind, that makes more sense. We are only connected online.

When we can never know ourselves completely in this lifetime, for sure, we will never know others completely. We may not even agree with what others think or believe, all the time. The point of Genuine Interest is not to know everything about a person, nor is it to like everything about another person. It is mutual, and has inherent objective acceptance. My peeve and therefore my agreement with Rayo’s status was that we tend to become different online. Facebook being more personal than Linkedin (for example) leads us to believe something about a person that may not be true. Folks who are most prolific online, suddenly have nothing to say when you meet them, and vice versa. To their credit, I also know (very few) people who are the same – online and offline.

When you discuss people, personalities and perceptions – subjectivity will rule. The “both-sides-of-the-coin” will crowd the conversation. There is no one answer. (as I was reminded in one of the comments). And I wasn’t looking for one. Earlier, I used to enjoy being on Facebook, the noise, however, has got to me and I see no signs of it abating. The more I am on Facebook, the more I feel I should be off it.

In any case, after I have unsubscribed partially or completely to all the noise, there won’t be any writing on the wall.

*

The Epilogue

Three comments were posted on the previously deleted post. They may not make much sense now, given that this post has now changed form – to an extent. But these comments, which are posts in themselves are ones that I treasure for the unravelling of thoughts on friendship, online-ness and genuine interest.

By batulm:

Very thought-provoking post, Atul. In fact, you put together several thoughts that were nebulous in my own mind. These are the reasons why I hardly use FB. Or any other social networking platform for that matter.

But then, the idea of really knowing, really being interested in another person, has also faded away with age and other considerations. It is something that I am re-learning.

By asuph

I read this in the morning, while still juggling breakfast, kid’s morning rituals, and wife’s looks. Okay I made the last thing up, but, the point is, I read it without full attention that it deserves. And if I wait for eternity to find time and attention to comment, I’d probably not, just the way I haven’t to your few posts that I really wanted to comment on. So, at the risk of sounding like I haven’t read the post at all, or have confused it with some other post, I’m going to offload thoughts that the one, inattentive, reading has originated in my mind. I know you’d forgive that, so won’t ask for forgiveness. Silence would have been more inconsiderate I believe.

Trivial: I’m ashamed that I couldn’t even come up with different one word reaction for that post and the manifesto.

Reciprocation: I have a slightly different take on this, and I think you know it, but just for completeness. If I am interested in knowing ‘everything’ about a person, I will try to do that. It would not matter to me if the other person wants to know ‘everything’ about me. Reciprocation is fraught with dangers, and I can be happier by letting go that requirement, and being the selfish person that I am, I chose that over the other, hard, requirement for reciprocation. In fact, with offline friends, I have always insisted on non-reciprocation. I do what I can, because it makes me happy. I don’t expect others to reciprocate. And in the so called ‘real’ life, I’ve been lucky enough to have had people take more interest in my life/well being, than I’ve been able to. It makes me feel a little guilty — because that’s not what I had bargained for, rather the opposite — but then I don’t mend my philosophy.

Knowing all: Consciously/subconsciously, in (I’ll drop so called henceforth) real life, we project selectively. Most of us that is. We’re taught to do that by bitter experience. The child that we were, naturally shared everything. Growing up was learning to protect, project, to balance hurt/disappointment with joy/excitement, to become closed — to various degree to different people, to be aware of circles of concerns and their intersections. How would our online ethos escape that baggage? How would they be very disjoint from ethos offline? And I wouldn’t expect it from other people for sure. About me, I don’t know yet. I stayed away from google+ because somewhere I DO want to be same person to everyone. I DON’T want to think ‘should I share this with him/her’. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to share everything with everyone. So then the FB-me becomes the least common denominator of all those me’s I’d have been with different people. And I grant you, it will be boring compared to the me you’d have got if only you and I were on FB. I don’t have an easy solution.

Do I want to only know you (not you you, but anyone) that I like? Not really. In real life I like people as a whole, or don’t as a whole. It’s not fair sometimes, especially to the latter group. But without loss of generality, the scheme works. I rarely let the people in latter group hurt me, because they don’t have access to the ‘core’ me. The former group, on the other hand holds tremendous power to hurt me, and rarely do they use it. And when they do, it hurts worse than it would have if I had not being doing the liking in a packaged deal way. I’ve been told I don’t judge people correctly. It’s actually wrong. I know I’m taking a risk, knowing that I’m giving away that power, and I’m ready for that hurt, for the rewards are so rich. But then that’s not the point. Point is this: since I do the package deal sort of thing, I actually do not mind knowing things about someone I like that I don’t like. If they’re close enough, I actually let them know it. Sometimes that doesn’t work as I expected because I had judged the ‘closeness’ wrongly. But I don’t change much. And sometimes, I like those things later, I even internalize them. For the I that I am (rhyme with ‘the sam that I am — Dr. Seuss) changes too, and I have to be open to that possibility.

The question is “do I have time to know ‘everything’ about you”. I sure wish I had. And there are some people, you’re definitely one of them, for whom I’d strive to make that time. But god knows I fall short. I don’t have answers for that either.

And finally, people rarely think about activities like FB, like some of us do. Online ethos is an oxymoron for them. If I cleaned my FB contacts off these people, I’d be left with very few. That might not necessarily be a bad thing. But so far, among the noise, there are still some signals. There is still some connection which I’m not sure I want to lose as of now. For, for those few people, I don’t need FB. I can pick up my phone. And so I live with FB as it has become. The day I won’t I’ll just go back to the phone.

PS: two of my ‘best’ friends are on FB for namesake. They rarely share anything there. And yet I know more about their lives than I do about most of my FB friends.

Sigh! Sorry for pedantic reply. I’m still hoping it’s better than no reply.

By Mahendra Palsule:

You say “I will not, in this post, question your social networking ethos” but I think you’ve proceeded to question others’ ethos towards the end of your post.

As asuph points out above, I think most of what you’ve written springs from and applies equally to offline ethos. How much of oneself one is willing to share, with whom, and how, differs from person to person. Even the core idea of ‘friendship’ differs from person to person. Every person has different ways of thinking about friendship. Giving others space to be themselves is a way of respecting their individuality, freedom, and privacy. This includes the way they use phones to communicate or use or don’t use social networks in whatever fashion they choose. The concept of a single manifesto for one social network that should apply to all is abhorrent to my mind. Forget social networks, there can’t even be a single manifesto about friendship!

“My Question: Are you willing to accept a person for who he or she is?”Not sure what you mean by ‘accept’ – I don’t think we have a choice. Other people are who they are irrespective of whether we accept it or not. Even acceptance can mean different things to different people. For example, in a group of three friends A, B and C, A being a smoker may be ‘accepted’ differently by B and C where B criticizes it and C doesn’t. C’s acceptance is in not criticizing it, B’s acceptance is in continuing to be a good friend despite it.Lastly, ‘acceptance’ can also include the acceptance of how the person uses different social networks, and asking or expecting others to use a social network in any particular way reveals a lack of acceptance to my mind.

“Or will you colour your opinions of their personality with your limited understanding of their limited online expression?”Our understanding of others is always limited, whether online or offline. Our understanding of others is always colored by their expressions, online or offline. This is normal, human behavior. Any pretense to the contrary is a sham. What is important to me personally is the awareness that my understanding is limited, and being open to enhance that understanding.

Futility on Facebook

Many of my connections on Facebook recently shared a photo of a girl, called Arwa, who had gone missing in Mumbai. It demonstrated their concern about this missing child. I found out today that thousands of folks re-shared this link and the photo. This is not a new phenomenon, such requests have been featuring on Facebook for far too long.

I also found out today that the missing girl was found by the police on the same day that she went missing. There is now a photo of a newspaper article doing the rounds, reporting that the girl has been found. Folks on Facebook are still sharing the link asking people to help find the missing girl.

I find this exercise futile. Somewhere, deep in our psyche, we feel we have contributed to helping find the girl by letting more and more people know that the girl is missing. Apart from that we don’t do much. Maybe some people actually do something about it – go in search of the girl or something to that effect – but most of us let go of the girl after we have re-shared the shared link.

The link that tells you that the girl is found, is not shared as much. Is it that we have an obsession with sensationalism, that we are quick to share the news of the girl going missing but ignore sharing the news that the girl was found? Is it that, it’s all good that girl has been found, and it doesn’t matter whether we tell our friends of the good news? Would we share thoughtfully if Facebook charged us a few rupees for every share? If every share cost you something, would you share as much? For that matter, if you were charged for every like, would you like so many things?

I think a couple of years ago, there was more original content on Facebook. Now, it has become a browser.

Saving Christmas (And other Festivals)

Soon, most of you will be away, and I hope you will not be checking your emails or your tweets or facebook (Facebook is almost a non-noun now, so I choose not to capitalise it) status updates. It’s a good thing, if you will do that. And, if you do insist on staying online – I hope it is all about you telling me what a good time you are having. So,

Merry Christmas and a Very Happy New Year.

No, I did not say Happy Holidays. Like, for example, the BBC has been doing on its channel.

The world’s changing into too much of averageness, And I will have none of it. Every specific thing that I have known – every festival is being reduced to an abstraction of meaninglessness. Hate me for it, but I refuse to participate in this politically correct (PC) charade

When it is Diwali, I will wish you a very Happy Diwali and Prosperous New year. When it’s Christmas, I will do the same. And I will wish you a Happy Id, depending on when the moon chooses to show itself. Even if it for a moment in that day, I will remember Guru Nanak’s teaching. I will wish you a Happy New Year, when the Parsee, the Tamilian, the Maharashtrain and when the Punjabi celebrates it; when anyone celebrates a New Year (I may not know your new year, that’s another thing). What the hell, if you decide a that a day in the year is a start of the new year, I will wish you then. (Just let me know about it)

I do not do Happy Holidays. Period.

I do not know what they mean. It is almost like wishing you a fun vacation. Which I will do – if you are going on a vacation. But I refuse to do it during a holiday given for a festival. If you look deeper at any festival, it is essentially a time to be with family and friends. To make merry, to connect, to eat together; to enjoy together. And each festival has a ritual, a means — a method — to be with family and friends. Some festivals have protocols. Some fun; some weird. You may not subscribe to them in their entirety, but in your own modified way, you will follow them, let go of your ego and high-practical-scientifically-oriented-thinking for those few days and just be. For most of us, these days, festival holidays, especially if they come in contact with a weekend, are a way to retreat from the daily routine. The significance of the festival is lost to us. Some may think that. I don’t, yet. As joint-families give way to nuclear families, it is the way to go. We still end up doing what we were essentially supposed to do at festivals. We are with family and/or friends and we make merry.

A few years ago when I had wished many of my customers in the US, a Merry Christmas, my colleague, who was based on the US for a while, had chided me for sending these messages. He identified a few of my customers, who were Jews and other non-Christians, and told me that it would be inappropriate to wish them a Merry Christmas. I thought about and acceded to his request and maintained the “Happy Holidays” protocol in the next few years. In my mind, however, I never ever completely agreed with him. He of course, never took the pain to remind me of Jewish festivals when I could wish them, specifically. I later asked him, why none of my customers ever wished anybody in my team a Happy Diwali? My team took the pain to explain that we would not be working for a Thursday and Friday and sent them Wikipedia links about Diwali. Apart from a few generous souls, no one ever wished my team a Happy Diwali. He obviously had no convincing answer. Most of the folks from the US, wished us a Merry Chirstmas, incidentally, in December as they proceeded to their “Happy Holidays”.

Isn’t it blasphemous to wish a Hindu or a Muslim a Merry Christmas? Or, for that matter, wish a Happy Diwali to a Christian? I do not know.

This post may be seen as the cultural incongruence we face, when working with different regions and religions. It possibly is; even, But, we need to make that slight extra effort; we need to understand that abstracting every festival to meaningless averages is not going to help us understand each other better. What will help us, is participating in each others’ festivals. I have been blessed that I was invited to a family Thanksgiving dinner, in the US, where the family kindly cooked chicken for me because they were not sure if I’d eat turkey (I did). I have been blessed that my friend from the UK has visited Lalbaug cha Raja, and participated in the Ganapati Aarti, with me at my home. I have been blessed that my friends, when they have stayed overnight at my place, have offered their morning Namaz at my home.

Most important of all, I have been blessed to have been taught to know and respect cultures around the world and that I can keep this respect alive without succumbing to political correctness. So, whether you are Christian or not, here’s wishing you a Merry Christmas and a Very Happy New Year.

What other people believe and do, does not determine who you are. What you believe and what you do, determines who you are.

We Walk a Tightrope

She must have been eleven or twelve years old. Cyan-ish salwar and a short, but bright red Kurta. She carried an uneven pole to help her balance on the tightrope walk. I watched for a while, as I was leaving.

*

One of the great events that Mumbai is proud of, is the annual arts festival held at Kalaghoda, every year. My best friend is an artist, so we usually make it a point to visit the festival at least once while it is on. It is an amazing smorgasbord of art. Very smart and creative people from various places come there, every year. These are sensitive, aware, and emotional artists. The Kalaghoda Art Festival (KAF) features “burning” issues – environment, child-abuse, over-consumption, religion, support for local artisans, fusion music and the like.

*

Her father wore a bright blue lungi and kept an even beat going. I imagined, it helped her focus, in the din that this city is. I almost imagined her telling herself, just one more step, and then, again, just one more step. The rhythm of dad’s even beta resonated well with the girls chant, I thought. I played it in a few regional languages I know. It seemed to be in sync.

*

It is quite endearing to see artists represent their emotions of the socio-political issues that affect them. Large, scalar installations that demand of us, to make discrete sense of the abstractions of an already discrete problem. I am amused, sometimes, but I maintain the perspective. The taller and garishly-attention-seeking these installations are, I see lesser of art and I see more of personal, shrieking statements seeking recognition.

*

She and her father aren’t allowed in the conclave that exhibits registered and learned artists. Socially-acceptable art requires a certificate: institutional or commercial. Unfortunately they have neither. To my mind, every person in this city would be more appreciative of her tightrope walk: she epitomises the struggle of every man and woman in this city. In a single action she makes their abstract life discrete; in a single action from one end of the rope to the other she presents a performing art. Yet they are all blind to this abstraction.

*

Tomorrow’s blog and news had flowery reviews of the installation art about child abuse. I read it. I smiled. I put the paper away here and closed a tab there.

*

She asked of me, who had apparently noticed the presence of master art in her performance that was bereft of any intention except one – to survive for tonight’s dinner – what did you do? I told her, I am no different. I took your photograph, I also wrote a post (for what it is worth, it was about you). Beyond that, I did not do anything. Success, to me, unlike you is not about “just one more step” – my success is measured in the like count and positive graph on page view statistics.

*

Unfortunately, for both of us, I have become one of those that I criticise.

*

PS: Please resist the temptation for Mumbai-bashing.

Leaving India and Leaving Indira

One of the things I like about blogging (and, generally speaking, the ability to post your thoughts for the world to read) is the power of expression it provides, which, a few years ago was limited by means and by reach. The entire scope of expression was limited to a specific audience. With the Internet and the tools to express, the scope is now global (limited, still, by those who have access to the Internet, but a significantly larger audience is available to you).

And while it is a good thing, it also means that you are opening your expression for criticism and debate from a much larger audience.

Recently, a post by Sumedh Mungee was featured in the NYT’s India Ink section: Why I Left India (Again) – his experiences on coming back to India from the US, and his reasons for going back (again). He has his own reasons and I leave it to you to read the post, if you haven’t already. Needless to say, the post has sparked various reactions from various corners of the world. If you have the patience, you will find the some of the 226 comments (at last count) amusing.

And of the many reactions that have been the result of this post, I’d like to highlight one.

Why I Left Indira (Again)!

All the emotions that all the people have felt due to this post are all worth considering; this response by Amit – to my mind is the best, I have seen.

Enjoy!

Dangerous Decisions

Michelle Martin has an excellent post (and I have contributed to it, yes) about dangerous things to do. She lists seven things – but as you read it – you will find your own. Add to her comments if you can think of one (or two, or a few).

There are quite a few articles out there that will tell you the scientific reasons for living dangerously. Frontal lobe thingies, adrenalin pumping, brain atrophy prevention etc. (See the TED talk in Michelle’s post, for example)

But all the scientific reasons in the world come to a nought, if you have been already consumed and further enveloped in the fear psychosis that governs our lives in these times. In such a situation, any list I point you to, may seem merely (and academically) romantic. It is not something that we will actually do, but a thin smile will cross our faces as we ponder and live each dangerous thing in our imagination.

And I’ll agree with you that your conviction, by itself, to live dangerously is hardly ever enough. It’s the family, friends, and environments that we live in that makes us hold ourselves back. There is said and unsaid convention to adhere. When (and of course, if) we break that convention and the recommendation of our environment – we may be left with no support system. I can assure you – it is a struggle from then on. But it is an immensely satisfying struggle. Newness abounds and there are interesting things to discover round every corner. Even things that you know seem fresh and abundant of perspective. Your instinct and intuition is fired up; highly sensitised.

The same environment in the new perspective will amaze you.

Oh, Just a Conversation

It has been a while since someone has ever challenged my thinking, my thoughts. Along comes an old friend. We are separated by geography, but neither one of us gives a damn.

We spoke of the world we live in. We spoke of the world that will bind us to a way of living. We talked of revolutions that we need to cause, to ensure that this country’s promise lives true. It is so easy to be a rebel, with or without a cause. I can parade my slogan and make you slave to a cause by being a predator on the very emotions that you seek release from. I can penetrate your innermost sense of helplessness and be the icon of your most suppressed expression.

For the most of us, our call and support of the unstudied cause is our re-shares on Facebook and retweets on Twitter. Our understanding of the constitution of this country laid wayside, we are flag-bearers of an unknown colour or emblem, just a current flavour. Our dismay of a prevailing situation overcomes our sense of right. Our call is simple – an uproar. Only on the basis of an inherent outrage that we experience; yet feel completely neutered to act against it.

You see, convenience trumps right – hands down, every time they face each other. These are enemies. Staunch. They will never shake hands. A person I respect a lot, once told me: There are ethics, and then there are ethics, and then there are ethics. I suspect, he was on the side of righteousness, but he was warning me about convenience. I have yet to decipher the meaning of his statement – I believe it was multi-layered – but I hope to get there, someday.

We need to put things in perspective.

For  a millionth time – I am grateful for all my friends out there – irrespective of their ideology. They make me a better person.

Making Myself

An SMS (text message for the rest of you) made its way to my phone, today morning.

There is no such thing as a 'self-made man'
v r made up of 1000s of others
Evry1 who has evr done a kind deed for us
Or spoken 1 word of encouragement to us
Has entered in2 the make-up of our character and of our thots
Gud Mrng Dost  

It was a scary message at first sight.

I usually disregard the feel-good messages that pour in every morning. For one, I hate txtspk. Secondly, I doubt if most people really read and pay attention to the message before forwarding it to their address books – not friends – the address book. There is a difference. Where and when possible I often politely request to strike me off these motivational messages. There are a few exceptions, and therefore, this slightly frightening thought, landed in my phone’s inbox.

Men (and women) are self-made, no matter what. They may – slightly or hugely – be influenced by a few others or a thousand others, yet, they make of themselves by their own choice and by their own doing. No one makes anyone. The thought in the SMS above may resonate well for those who are self-less or self-denying, or even those who have a self-sacrificing, altruistic worldview. It does not, for me.

There is another side to this message that seems to be conveniently missing. It talks of the positive influence — what of the negatives? That should count in equal measure, shouldn’t it? So if a successful person is a product of the influence of a thousand others, what of the utter failure? Do we take ownership of failure but attribute our success to others? The very thought seems incongruous and just-crossing-the-border-of-ridiculous to me. We are influenced equally by the devil and divine that resides in the people who exert influence(s) in our lives. While the SMS itself doesn’t talk of the devil’s play, it is perhaps implied (attributing the common notion of success with the phrase, “self-made man”).

It is almost an inversion of a beautiful story from our childhood: The Brahmin and the Cow

I do not deny that we are influenced by others, that we learn from others, and that we are motivated by the encouraging feedback we get from them – which strengthens our resolve and therefore our character too, but to deny a human any credit (“there is no such thing”) in the developing his or her character is an extreme state.

When life takes a turn to the side of darkness, we are usually called upon to take responsibility for our actions and act to repair. When things brighten up, we should ask the same and take full responsibility for it.

To deny me my hand in my making is to deny my be-ing.

Mobile, Freedom & Slavery

So this is how it really feels like – to blog in motion. Having gadgets that let you do more and more in ways that you didn’t imagine before, is in some ways liberating. But, as Amit so poetically and clinically scalped this sense of freedom, you wonder if this sense of being unshackled is true freedom or a misleading mask of slavery.

Traffic in 1732kms

A follow-up post to Life in 1732kms

Some of my friends, who have left the country for a while, often tell me that “India is happening” and I am lucky to be in the right place, almost saying that it was a good idea that I chose not to leave the country, when it wasn’t as happening. I usually agree with them, don’t quite argue on the situation that really exists, feel good about it and let them feel good about it.

I often wonder, how the guys during the Renaissance felt. That is, the folks who lived and were young when it occurred, not for those who read about it later. While I will never know it, I think I feel the same way. I live in a country that is at the crossroads of being the best place to be live in (in the future), but isn’t there yet. And since it is a crossroad, for various reasons, if it takes the sharp left (or right), we’ll have a very interesting could-have-been story.

Most of the 1732kms that I travelled in the last week of the December of 2010, were on roads that wanted to be more than they have always been. Not just to bear more vehicles, but to be smarter, faster and smoother. Some of the roads have already achieved that, some are in the process and some are only yearning for it. I had a good share of the best and worst roads that week.

One of the worst patches, was from Indore, MP to Dahod, GJ. Work is on along this patch to make this into the short-sighted dual carriageway that is a hallmark of NHAI, but it is bone-crushing in it’s own way.

The highlight of these 1732kms (and why we took an off route) is a different story altogether. No suspense; it was approximately a 20+km traffic jam, just as we left the border of Maharashtra into Madhya Pradesh. Starting at Hadakhed and ending just before Sendhwa, all through Borghat. Analysing traffic jams is fun, if you aren’t the kind that gets frustrated easily – it is an academic exercise, but when you have nothing else to do, it serves useful purposes.

In the five and a half hours that I spent in Borghat, I learnt that there are three levels of complexity that cause such traffic jams.

For one, trucks in India are overloaded to no end. The limit of loading a truck is very well-defined, actually. If it will stay on the truck, load it. What would usually take three trucks to transport, we manage in two (sometimes, horrifically so, we manage in one.) So the traffic jam problem, really starts with cost cutting – at the cost of safety. Don’t get me started on cost-cutting; it is a synonym of short-sightedness: let that suffice for now. Overloaded trucks have a tendency to topple, and two of them did, on this patch. I saw one overloaded truck trying to get out of the way for us, doing a wheelie — and I am not exaggerating. It, no doubt, was a factor of the overloading.

Secondly, we have a very inefficient and untrained traffic policing system that is grossly underpaid to even think twice about refusing bribes. I am sure (but I don’t know this for a fact) that there is a law that disallows a truck to be overloaded. Weigh-bridges at every possible junction stand witness to the potential existence of such a law. Further, (in most places) we have no limits or scheduled times regarding when certain types of vehicles are allowed to ply on certain roads. I remember, way back, in the ’70s, I believe, the Khambatki Ghat, used to be closed at night to avoid accidents. It was a single carriageway then.

Finally, you and I are the one who screw up the most in a situation that is such trucks make worse. We cut lanes, disrupt traffic coming from the opposite side — because we have overwhelming faith in our small and manoeuvrable vehicles. When all the trucks are lined up like an army, we break ranks with gay abandon and rush to meet the oncoming traffic. This, unfortunately is not a highway phenomenon: I have seen this happen even in Mumbai – which I believe has one of the most disciplined traffic etiquette. I am not against overtaking, but the manner in which we do it – defies logic and reason.

Just after Hadakhed, NH3, Mumbai-Agra Highway (Photo taken between Sangvi and Palasner)

But, being there – for those five-odd hours was cathartic for me. Late in the night, with a few headlights directing rays in an almost laser show, a part of me felt peaceful. The other part was utterly frustrated – but I ignored that part. I was able to imagine this under-construction-road, how it would be when it was all done, when we would not give another thought to the travails of those that tread this path when it was being built. I allowed it to become a forced instance for me to stop and think of all the things that have bothered me for long. My friend, tired from navigating for almost 14 hours took a nap. I shut down the car and got out to watch the stars. To be on the incline of a tall hill at night is a revelation. The stars don’t really talk to you; they don’t send messages; nor do they have answers. To get out of your car (because you have no choice) and sit on a ledge that overlooks a far away city, identified only by the lights that it chooses to leave on at night, and wonder at a life — is a privilege. It is a rare experience. To be with a group, but distanced by vehicles that came between us, and therefore be alone — is a privilege. As I sat on the ledge — I remembered what my driving license said on the back cover: Driving is a privilege, not a right. I felt thankful.

A truck driver had got out his kerosene stove and was cooking food. I asked him how long he had been in this jam. He said, “12 hours.” I smiled. I asked him what he would do if the traffic started moving suddenly, with a dart of my eyes to his stove. He shrugged, said nothing. In the moth-eaten blanket of a sky, my life reflected an image, mocked me.

I was sure we would not be able to reach our destination in good time. By the time we would reach Indore, we would really have to wake up hoteliers to give us rooms. It didn’t matter much to me – I was not so sure of my friend and his family in their vehicle, a few trucks behind. (Later, I was to learn, to a happy surprise, that we shared an interesting DNA for adventure — the matter for another post)

We of course, as you may have seen in the map in the earlier post, chose not to return by NH3, and chose to come through NH8 via Vadodra and Surat. The Indore-Bhopal highway, however, was a pleasure – a driver’s dream come true. Somehow, all through the trip though, a line of truck made our hearts sink, bringing memories of that Christmas night that we spent stuck for no reason. Luckily we didn’t encounter any jams as severe as the one on NH3. But it left a lasting impression.

Part frustration – part experiential. And while I am not sure how my other five co-travellers experienced it, I choose to remember the experiential part of it.

What’s an adventure, if you have already decided what to expect out of it.

Related Articles

• Life in 1732kms (gaizabonts.wordpress.com)
• Chinese Drivers Stuck in Traffic for Nine Days (athingforcars.com)

The Fundamental Right to Perform a Duty

I read this tweet by Harini Calamur today.

I wonder why, when people discuss fundamental rights — as laid down in the Constitution – they forget fundamental duties ?

I think I know the answer.

They don’t forget. They just don’t know! I do not know what Harini’s tweet was about, but I suspect it was about the recent comment made by Arundhati Roy. I think, it’s a problem of education, that most of us know our fundamental rights by heart, but often aren’t even aware of the fundamental duties. Civics education needs to be standing on its head, if this is what education is doing.

In society, in the workplace, in the local community, at home, it is all about exercising our rights, with little or no regard for the duties.

Here is the extract from our constitution, Article 51A, which defines what fundamental duties are. There are ten fundamental duties, and an additional, eleventh, was added by the 86th Amendment in 2002, which added a duty on every parent or guardian to ensure that their child or ward was provided opportunities for education between the ages of six and fourteen years. The first ten are:

Article 51A. Fundamental Duties

It shall be the duty of every citizens of India:
(a) to abide by the Constitution and respect its ideals and institutions, the National Flag and the National Anthem;

(b) to cherish and follow the noble ideals which inspired our national struggle for freedom;

(c) to uphold and protect the sovereignty, unity and integrity of India;

(d) to defend the country and render national service when called upon to do so;

(e) to promote harmony and the spirit of common brotherhood amongst all the people of India transcending religious, linguistic and regional or sectional diversities; to renounce practices derogatory to the dignity of women;

(f) to value and preserve the rich heritage of our composite culture;

(g) to protect and improve the natural environment including forests, lakes, rivers and wild life, and to have compassion for living creatures;

(h) to develop the scientific temper, humanism and the spirit of inquiry and reform;

(i) to safeguard public property and to abjure violence;

(j) to strive towards excellence in all spheres of individual and collective activity so that the nation cons levels of endeavour and achievement.

I don’t know why I write this post. But, I am going to post it.

Happy Independence Day

Wishing all readers a very Happy Independence Day. Beyond just an anniversary, a call for independence from the slavery of the mind and imposed belief systems. It applies to the individual, and the nation.

The Grammar of Anarchy – Pragati: “The Politics of Pedestals:
The second thing we must do is to observe the caution which John Stuart Mill has given to all who are interested in the maintenance of democracy, namely, not ‘to lay their liberties at the feet of even a great man, or to trust him with power which enable him to subvert their institutions.’ There is nothing wrong in being grateful to great men who have rendered life-long services to the country. But there are limits to gratefulness. As has been well said by the Irish Patriot Daniel O’Connel, no man can be grateful at the cost of his honour, no woman can be grateful at the cost of her chastity and no nation can be grateful at the cost of its liberty. This caution is far more necessary in the case of India than in the case of any other country. For in India, Bhakti or what may be called the path of devotion or hero-worship, plays a part in its politics unequalled in magnitude by the part it plays in the politics of any other country in the world. Bhakti in religion may be a road to the salvation of the soul. But in politics, Bhakti or hero-worship is a sure road to degradation and to eventual dictatorship.”

(Via Pragati – The Indian National Interest Review.)

An excerpt of the concluding speech Dr. B. R. Ambedkar delivered as Chairman of the Constitution Drafting Committee on the floor of the Constituent Assembly on November 26, 1949.

Writing on the Wall

Amit makes, according to him, an unstructured and a self-contradictory point about an Edge Question, about “How is the internet changing the way you think?“

In spite of his conclusion, it is a point well made. I’d urge you to read his post.

In my comment to his post, I assured him that there was a point there somewhere, though I couldn’t point out the point when I made that comment. Two of my posts came to mind while I was reading his post. One was An Asynchronous Evolution and the other was Of Slow Blogging and Active Participation.

————————-

To my mind – the most we have been affected is by way of diminishing attention spans. The theory of consuming everything in a bite-size, denies us a whole meal – an inability to stay with a thought for a time long enough to make sense.

This (and a few recent) post is proof enough. Malnutrition, of sorts.

Destination: Journey

He held one end of the long thread in his left hand, between his thumb and his index finger. Tightly. As if his life hung by it.

I have been away for a while. And I have been away in a way that I haven’t been away before. On my return, folks have been impressed, surprised and even suspicious about my being away for twenty days. Mostly, because I did not do what we do before we go away for a while. Social norms are such.

I did not make a big announcement of my absence of my being away. I did not tell anyone where I was going. I did not say why. I did not say how. I left my laptop behind. I left my phones behind. I even left my camera behind. I went alone. I didn’t drive. Apart from single-cell powered wrist-watch, I did not take anything electronic with me. Or anything that could transmit or receive. Except my mind. And I used it mostly as a receiving device.

He knew the thread was red, before he slowly closed his eyes. With the index and the thumb of his right hand, he held the thread, leaving just about an inch of the red thread between what he held in his left and right hands. The left hand still tightly holding one end, he started moving his right hand away, along the thread. 

 

It is not that I was sorely missed during these twenty days. I mean, I know I have been missed by some, but nothing in this world came to an earth-shattering stop while I was away. In my world, their world, or the world. But curiosity was apparently increasing with amoebic complexity. Information and knowledge is so over-rated, we think we might actually devolve into Neanderthals, if we didn’t know. Like the commonly used, Oh-if-you-were-on-Facebook/Twitter/RSS-you-would-know statements that we often make.

When I came back, one question prevailed. Where did you go?

I answered: various places. The most disappointing answer I ever gave, I felt, looking at their expressions.

As he ran his pinch along the thread, he felt the texture of the weave of the thread. After a while, the texture and the pull made tunnelled grooves between his fingers, the friction giving way and the thread passing through without resistance.

Most of them were not happy with my answer. The destination — a geographical lock of a latitude and longitude that has been named something, is what we are all used to knowing. That creates a map, an image and a story; instantly in our heads. Maldives, for example. Or Las Vegas. Goa? Varanasi. Phuket, even. These are pre-packaged impressions of the nature and characteristics of “where”. It is often this clarity that we seek when we talk of travel. The destination has to be a tangible surface in this world. All travel experiences thereafter, use this destination as a point of reference.

The feeling of the thread passing through his fingers was an experience that he sought. He didn’t seek the other end of the thread. Though he knew he would eventually reach the end of the thread, that was only an indicator of the end of the experience. Nothing more.