Mafhoom adaaon ka teri kya koi samjhe?

Baat inme hai kuchh aur, bayaan aur hi kuchh hai

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Uff tak na kare mooh ko, hazaar aaye kaleja,

Tootey hue dil walon ki aan, aur hi kuchh hai

I am called 'The Torch'

My name is The Torch, and I am unhappy. I am staring out the window at the world from the room on what feels like the fortieth floor of a posh hotel in the Capital of the Republic of India. I sit here, and in order to help you visualize me, I suggest you think of a woman in a black veil, her sad and tired eyes looking as if they have cried too much to produce any more tears. You might think it to be a strange name, given as one’s name usually does not tend to have the article of the English language that one uses to indicate uniqueness suffixed before it. But let it be known, that it is not because I have any grandiose ideas about myself that this peculiar name has come about.

I am a torch, yes, and if I were to be left alone to mingle with other ordinary torches, I would just be a torch and not The Torch. But I am not being left alone. That is not my fate.

Rather, I am famous. Which is just a simpler way of saying that there are thousands of tongues, Indian and non Indian, that are twisting, turning and conspiring with their two thousand accompanying lips to form my name in a rainbow of emotions ranging from anger, to annoyance, to humour, to sarcasm, to despair, to what not.

But there is one that is missing. The one I used to like being associated with the most. My lost lover. Pride.

There was a time when I used to be lifted into the strong and able arms of young men and women, athletes or sportsmen usually, who would take me and run a run that was a celebration of their health and their life. I used to dance with the wind that would push back the hair of the man or woman carrying me, and I was free and happy.

Countries used to look forward to the day when I would land on their soil. Now, I think it would be fair to say that times have changed.

In a short while, I will be escorted by uniformed men carrying guns, down to my bullet proof car with tinted glasses. I will sit in the back, quivering in silence, as I pass the familiar streets I have visited years ago. People, who know I am in the car, will either shrug, or shout obscenities at me. Like stones being pelted by a crazed mob at a woman who has been raped by her uncles. If I had the strength or the voice to, I would raise it in protest. But I have been sapped of both the strength to shout, as well as the trust to plead.

I will step out of the car, eyes downcast, surrounded and suffocated by 15,000 policemen who don’t know me, or my past. But only know that they must crowd me to protect me. Protect me from what? Or whom? I wonder. Whose side am I on? What have I come to stand for?

‘What do they think of me?’ I will wonder. Do they also think I have no right to be here? Or are they the unfortunate lot who, given their meager salaries, cant really afford opinions?

My grand trot (I cant, as much as I would like to, call it a run. Circumstances have beaten it down to a trot) will extend long enough for this Government to claim that they didn’t ‘show open protest against China’ and were ‘courageous’ enough carry the flame, confident enough in their abilities of warding off crazy protesters. It may fool the Government, but it will not be long enough to fool me, or the million bright minds in this country. I hate this pretend show of courage. I don’t want to be shown off while being smothered by protective covering. If you want to be proud of me, be proud proudly.

I will cringe when the wind beats against my being. I will probably tremble with the unease that my bearer will be carrying in his heart.

People are being stupid, quite honestly. And by people, I mean the Government of course. It’s a strange thing about democracies actually. I wonder if a democracy is anything but an elected dictatorship. They are going to block roads (for long periods of time of course, since they want to keep the timing of the run under wraps) and force people to keep away from my trot and me. People will be stuck in their homes or their offices, students wont be able to get to their Spanish language classes, and revelers wont be able to revel in India Gate Lawns.

My reverie breaks as I turn my head to hear one of the armed men in my room whisper to another “It’s time.” With a sigh that falls on deaf ears, I rise half heartedly.

What am I really saying here? I am neither asking for the right to be here, nor confessing that I don’t have that right. I am not commenting on the should-ness or should-not-ness of my presence. It is not my place to say those things. But it is your place, oh proud Government of the Republic of India, to have the- pardon the language- balls to stand up for whatever principles you allege to stand up for. Or, as other might put it, choose some principles to stand up for.

I want to run on the streets among the crowd. I do. But I want my run to be a symbol of sportsmanship, energy and accomplishment. Not a half trot on the limping legs of an on-the-fence Government that wants to run just to show it’s tyrannical neighbour that it doesn’t join the others in protest.

"Don't mix politics with sports", say the 'torchers'. "But how can we participate in an international event that is being hosted by those murderers", say the protesters.

All I have to say is that I am utterly displeased at the state of affairs that have necessitated this argument.

And even if we believe that one should not mix politics with sports, this isn't about that at all. That isn't even the point here. The point is that the GOI should have just said "Sorry, we support the Olympics but we cannot make such security arrangements" or "We don't see the point of having this run. It is against the spirit of the Olympics, and the spirit of sportsmanship, and the spirit of the Torch"

I am The Torch. And I am unhappy.

Some Ophthalmological Consequences of the Anatomical Differences Between theTwo Sexes*

TQ: When you check men out, do you look at anatomy?

Holy Cow: Umm....Don't think so. No.

TQ: Okay

Holy Cow: In fact, any man dressed in attire which even allows you to do that, is clearly not worth checking out and is best avoided.

* Idea for title inspired by a paper by Sigmund Freud on "Some Psychological Consequences of the Anatomical Differences Between the Two Sexes"

The Glamour Doll of the Indian Government

Ms. Renuka Chowdhury is the minister of state for women and child development, Government of India

And I would like to say a few things about her.

Recently there was an Indo-Africa forum summit organised by the Ministry of External Affairs, which I had the good fortune of attending. In an interactive session held at Taj Mansingh hotel, she was the chief guest or some such fluff.

So she arrived, with an inch thick layer of make up on her face, smiling at everyone as if she were Angelina Jolie attending the Academy Awards Ceremony. She had to deliver the inaugural address in which all she did was praise the UPA, praise Sonia Gandhi, praise Manmohan singh, and of course, play her trump card for women's empowerment- Pratibha Patil. (Most of her sentences had the following words in varying combinations - my government; the present government; our great leader Sonia Gandhi; the stable force behind all change Sonia Gandhi; Sonia; Gandhi; UPA Chairperson)

There was no substance whatsoever in what she said. She just kept acting all heroine-ish and talking in a sultry voice and throwing her head back and laughing in an attempt at sexiness. Like a vamp.

She came across as the kind of woman who would sleep around to get what she wants.

It was quite disgusting to see her behave the way she was, and I basically wanted to throw up.

Then, her over-stressed and over-worked junior from the Department (a word here on the horribly tyrannical power hierarchy within ministries. I mean, the Personal Secretary to the Personal secretary to the Under Secretary lives in absolute terror of the Personal Secretary who is terrorised by the Under Secretary who fears the Joint Secretary who has sleepless nights because of the Secretary who gets flustered and flaps his/her wings like a Duck caught in tar at the thought of the Minister) gave a presentation on the work of the WCD dept. in which they spoke of all their schemes etc without saying a word about how successful / unsuccessful they have been.

And then when the African parliamentarians were asking really important and good questions to her, she gave generic answers like "he he, actually it has taken so long for the men to wake up and listen to us"

One excitingly intelligent lady from Sudan pointed out to Renuka that even though women had their own ministry within the Govt., it would be better to have women ministers in more departments. She also bluntly stated that, and I quote "...Madam, you may be a minister of your department, but you still have to beg the finance minister for funds"

Rather than answering the question as another intelligent woman would have, and trying to understand what the lady was saying, darling Renuka said "...My dear, we don't ask the Finance Minister, we order him. And he jolly well listen to us. Ha ha"

I mean, what was that, really?

When another African parliamentarian told her that she had seen a lot of Indian women sit on the ground rather than on chairs and beds etc, Renuka said the most outrageous thing

"...that's a cultural practice. It should be separated from a social or gender issue. We Indians like to sit on the floor. Even when I go to my village I sit on the floor. Its a healthy yogic posture (!!!) No woman is denied the right to sit on the chair or bed"

Utter crap. I was in villages of Rajasthan early this year, and several women said they were not supposed to sit on the charpoy, because that was a privilege afforded only to the men. Moreover, many women who were seated, actually stood up when men walked past because they couldn't be seen sitting when the men were standing.

Anyway, she kept evading the core issues with answers of this kind. It was despicable

To top it all, when she was asked about the women scavenging on the streets along with their children, she said it was "an organised crime" in India and "he he, you know we Indians are also have a lot of mischief"

Then she mentioned that Rural Employment Guarantee scheme (which btw, is not being implemented the way it should) as a solution to the problem of people living on the streets in the cities, and said "so we are trying to tell them that you know you can work if you really want. So there really is no reason for you to sit on the road expecting to be fed and taken care of "

What the hell is she talking about anyway? If a million homeless women turned up at her doorstep tomorrow, asking for work, even under the NREGA, is she going to give them a job??

The Integrated Child Development Scheme includes creches for children whose mothers are working. At these creches Midday meals are provided. There has been talk recently about the quality of these midday meals being quite poor, and not very nutritious. You know what Renuka's bright idea was? To include biscuits to make the meal more nutritious.

My mother and I, and several others I am sure, provide nutrition in the form of biscuits to children on a daily basis at traffic lights. Is it wrong for us to expect that the provisions made by the Central Government for the same will go beyond just biscuits then?

She finished by saying the Africans should definitely "go shopping because its great"

Flamingos- Lake Nakuru, Africa

Glimpses of Africa

When three discussed the 'bee' and the 'thee'

This post led to some exchanges between Holy Cow and "Thee", and Holy Cow and Scoop.

Allow me to share some points of consideration.

'Thee', being an aficionado of elegance, and somewhat of a connoisseur of poetry and prose, thought that the last line was too long. It was suggested to change it

from

"Once upon a Rose
There sat a little bee
Then it flew away

And that ended their story"

to

"Once upon a Rose
There sat a little bee
Then it flew away,

Thus ending their story"

While agreeing that it was more elegant in its rhyme than the original one, I preferred the first one.

Let me tell you why.

One reason I liked the poem, was because of its similarity to Khayyam/Fitzgerald's verse from the Rubaiyat. The verse in question is

"There was a door to which I found no key

There was a veil past which I could not see

A little talk a while of thee and me there was

And then, no more of me and thee"

I love this verse. It is so simple in all its existential truth and glory. It doesn't connote a causality of there being no more of "Me and thee" because either one of them left the other.

Similarly, the old version of the poem doesn't suggest causality while the newer version does. It suggests that the reason for the story's end was the departure of the bee.

Scoop read the post, and said she liked it a lot. I told her what had ensued between 'Thee' and me and she tended to like the newer version more. Her reason? She said she understood what I meant but she liked the sadness in the newer version.

Let it now be stated clearly that the Holy Cow also likes the newer version in its own right, when considered independently.

However, changing the old to the new would necessitate dissociating it from the Rubaiyat, or my interpretation of that verse from the Rubaiyat, which I did not wish to do at any cost.

P.S. You know what I could accept though?

"Once upon a Rose

There sat a little bee

Then it flew away

Thus ended their story"

Okay. I will add this bit as an edit to the previous post.


P.P.S -

Scoop- "My thee" is .....?
Holy Cow- Yeah. Since Khayyam says, "Me and thee"
Scoop- I figured
Holy Cow- Even though I absolutely hated using the possessive adjective "My" for "Thee"
Scoop- I know. I am actually quite surprised you said "My". That's the first thing I noticed!

Holy Cow has problems with the use of possessive indicators of any kind with relationships of choice. Use of words like "He is mine" or "She is mine" don't go down well with the Holy Cow. She doesn't think anyone is anyone's.

Bistar ki silvaton se

Yeh mehsoos ho raha hai

Toda hai dam kisi ne

Karvat badal badal ke...

A rose and bee. A me and a thee

Once upon a Rose
There sat a little bee
Then it flew away
And that ended their story.*

I like this little poem. It is short and simple, and it reminds me of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam (y Fitzgerald). Discerning one's will know why.

*Jointly composed by my Thee and me.

Edit:-


After much deliberation, another possible version of the poem could be


"Once upon a Rose

There sat a little bee

Then it flew away

Thus ended their story"

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