We live in a ghostly age. Everywhere I look, I see wraiths flitting about with the lower halves of their insubstantial forms draped in trousers the diameter of which looks less than even the diameter of phantom legs. Blink and you’ll miss this unearthly sight. But blink again and a kin will come floating by. I don’t know whether it is the bite of their jeans, or the other-worldly joy of being able to fit into a pair of leggings, but these spirits always walk with a spring in their step. Their feet hardly ever touching the ground, they drift about in a realm far removed from the rest of us mortals who have to scrape away a lot of flesh in order to clothe our skeletons.
Recently I was taken in by the unwonted optimism of my inner self (who, by the way, lives a completely sheltered life inside me and is not to be blamed) and I decided to buy myself a fresh pair of jeans. Perhaps it was the sight of so many translucent legs-in-denim that pushed me into the hands of blind tailors or maybe it was the very real threat of finding myself in a stage of undress only suited to a lover’s eyes in public. I rather think it was the latter. Still, I am glad to say that I am no longer the naïve, wide eyed young girl who walked into shop after shop after shop, haunting the assistants in my search for a pair of trousers that would fit human legs. In fact, as I stalked out of the last few of my would-be wardrobe suppliers, I rather think I heard hysterical laughter and dying-duck gasps. But, in my defence, I do think shop assistants should be made answerable for the misdeeds of anorexia-supporting, cloth-constrained guilds of tailors.
Still, whatever agonies they suffered, I am sure they pale in comparison to what my body and soul were put through. My legs were chafed raw with the relentless expulsion into leggings at least four sizes too small. My back feels crippled by the frequent twisting around to see if my derriere looked like something a hippopotamus dragged about. And my soul has a king sized dent from discovering each time that I did, indeed, resemble the hindquarters of a fairly greedy hippo. The last mentioned wound may never heal, and I might have to forever live a cursed half life, especially if my poor, battered soul keeps receiving these socks in the jaw that knock it out cold for days on the end.
The Kalyug of Indian mythology has arrived; the age of the walking cadavers is here. I must admit that I am a tad surprised at how remiss medical researchers are. They spend all their time (and a good deal of resources) trying to find cures for obscure diseases (and publishing reports about the percentage of people with one toenail longer than the rest who will live 5 months longer than their peers, or some other such fascinating fact) while there is an exodus of skeletons making merry on our streets, unchecked. With Kareena Kapoor bringing back the size zero with the swooning sway of her barely-there figure in Tashan, toilets all over the country are reeling under the additional strain, while farmers and other agriculturists watch and weep over piles of food grains going to feed farmyard rodents.
There are, of course, righteous (and rather, for the want of a better word, substantial) people continuously slamming the disappear-into-thin-air physique. But who wants to listen to reason, the voice of reason carries no weight with us.
Anyway, to stop digressing, let me end the day dreams of those of you who were hoping to encounter a half nude girl hysterically wandering about (or shudders, if you pictured an African jungle colossus disguised as a human). You won’t. I did find myself a pair of trousers which do not make me look a like hippo that has been stuffing its face childhood onwards. I only resemble a starved one now, one that hails from the famine stricken lands of Ethipoia.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
Mediocrity
Mediocrity. That shunned state. That foul M-word. The word from which strong professionals shy. Average is passé; perfection reigns.
Yet, in a world that becomes more excellence oriented by the minute, I find myself wondering if some mediocrity isn’t what we need.
Distinction, excellence, merit are all of the greatest essence to a country, an individual, the society. But will they suffice? The excellent, indubitably, has transcendence over the middling, but it gains eminence only when placed in juxtaposition with mediocrity. This seems to me to be reason enough to demand, even expect, mediocrity.
The race to achieve perfection seems to be in keeping with the Darwinian theory of evolution and of the survival of the fittest, but have we ever questioned if it is Man’s place to lower himself to the field of the unintelligent animal? When shall we rise above this to prove that Man is, indeed, Nature’s ultimate creation? We shall need to rise above this quest to achieve wondurous distinction
Have we ever spared a thought for the average, struggling, let us say, artist? He dibbles in his passion. He lives his dream. He is, by no stretch of the word, excellent. But neither is he bad. He is just that, average. He has a thousand cousins. The mediocre writer, doctor, manager---they abound in every field. They throng the world and still they have no role in the great scheme of things today. They are being pushed to the ends of the earth by the great exodus of the eminent.
So where exactly does your average man fit in? In this era of excellence versus. excellence, where does mediocrity belong? We need to find it a place, a position, award it its due recognition, even reverence.
Only so shall we be saved the humiliation of excellence becoming redundant. For if this happens, then where shall we be?
Yet, in a world that becomes more excellence oriented by the minute, I find myself wondering if some mediocrity isn’t what we need.
Distinction, excellence, merit are all of the greatest essence to a country, an individual, the society. But will they suffice? The excellent, indubitably, has transcendence over the middling, but it gains eminence only when placed in juxtaposition with mediocrity. This seems to me to be reason enough to demand, even expect, mediocrity.
The race to achieve perfection seems to be in keeping with the Darwinian theory of evolution and of the survival of the fittest, but have we ever questioned if it is Man’s place to lower himself to the field of the unintelligent animal? When shall we rise above this to prove that Man is, indeed, Nature’s ultimate creation? We shall need to rise above this quest to achieve wondurous distinction
Have we ever spared a thought for the average, struggling, let us say, artist? He dibbles in his passion. He lives his dream. He is, by no stretch of the word, excellent. But neither is he bad. He is just that, average. He has a thousand cousins. The mediocre writer, doctor, manager---they abound in every field. They throng the world and still they have no role in the great scheme of things today. They are being pushed to the ends of the earth by the great exodus of the eminent.
So where exactly does your average man fit in? In this era of excellence versus. excellence, where does mediocrity belong? We need to find it a place, a position, award it its due recognition, even reverence.
Only so shall we be saved the humiliation of excellence becoming redundant. For if this happens, then where shall we be?
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Over the Top
The virtue of simplicity is lost on Indians. The more garish a particular something is, the more is its Indian Quotient. Everything is a riot of colour and music. While it is a wonderful celebration of life, sometimes celebration is unnecessary. Or rather, celebration that involves the auditory organs of the entire city is not always vital. Just as I sit here, pondering over how to put this without wounding our sensibilities (another innate Indian trait – sensitivity that does impressive overtime), a wedding parade marches past blaring its loud music; the obscene gyrations proclaiming to the world that these two wonderful, lucky people are going to be initiated into the world of marital bliss. The joy flowing through me at the thought almost makes me want to go join the party or at least start a wild head-banging in time to the beat. Only, I am not invited. I am just shown tantalizing glimpses of what I am missing. But the distraction is enough for me to lose my train of thought.
At the time of Ganesha Visarjan, when Lord Ganesha is bade goodbye after ten too-short days, one would expect mournful faces to be part of the processions in which Lord Ganesha is taken on the farewell journey. However, from my vantage point in my stranded car (the roads are blocked by delirious mourners) I can see masses of people dancing to chants of “Ganapati Bapa, Moriya!” and I am baffled. Ten days these people have devoted to this deity, whom they profess to love, there has been grand celebration, and now he is leaving them for a whole year, and joy abounds. There is colour in every-one's hair, in their clothes, on their selves, there is loud music, elegant dancing, camels, oxen (or bulls) and elephants; all in all, it is the Great Indian Party. When I shared this puzzle with like-minded people (little did I know), my astonishment doubled. For, my puzzlement was their puzzlement, and the subject of my puzzlement was a non-issue.
Festival times are excellent opportunity to cast silence to the winds and have an orgy of noise. I am sincerely surprised that we don’t see corpses doing the dandia and bursting crackers. But festivity during festivals is absolutely necessary, and if noise is part of the package, then so be it! I am honest enough to admit that my Indian blood boils at the thought of a quiet Navratri.
Anybody who has had the unique experience of trying to study for an important exam while two denizens of the same city are getting married will bear testimony to the impossibility of concentrating on anything other than your punctured ear drums. And the wedding doesn’t even have to be in your vicinity; if you are anywhere within a 10 kilometer radius, you will be an integral part of the auspicious occasion, a ring-side, seasons ticket holder.
Possibly this riot was justified when India was a bunch of villages. A wedding in one family probably meant that the entire village was enlisted to help out. Then this noise would not only be welcome, it would be inevitable. Now though the borders of the villages have broadened, decibel levels have stretched to accommodate the extra distance. One would expect the drumbeats to fade, but they just don’t.
Strangely enough, my idea of having a ground dedicated to weddings, where weddings can be conducted with as much noise as one wants, without making sure the rest of the city stays up with the happy couple, doesn’t have many supporters. And I still can’t see a flaw in the plan. Maybe there is and the noise over load has deadened my senses.
Well, whatever the discussion, the point still remains that noise is here to stay. So with a whoop and a holler, lets drink to the Great Indian Celebration!
At the time of Ganesha Visarjan, when Lord Ganesha is bade goodbye after ten too-short days, one would expect mournful faces to be part of the processions in which Lord Ganesha is taken on the farewell journey. However, from my vantage point in my stranded car (the roads are blocked by delirious mourners) I can see masses of people dancing to chants of “Ganapati Bapa, Moriya!” and I am baffled. Ten days these people have devoted to this deity, whom they profess to love, there has been grand celebration, and now he is leaving them for a whole year, and joy abounds. There is colour in every-one's hair, in their clothes, on their selves, there is loud music, elegant dancing, camels, oxen (or bulls) and elephants; all in all, it is the Great Indian Party. When I shared this puzzle with like-minded people (little did I know), my astonishment doubled. For, my puzzlement was their puzzlement, and the subject of my puzzlement was a non-issue.
Festival times are excellent opportunity to cast silence to the winds and have an orgy of noise. I am sincerely surprised that we don’t see corpses doing the dandia and bursting crackers. But festivity during festivals is absolutely necessary, and if noise is part of the package, then so be it! I am honest enough to admit that my Indian blood boils at the thought of a quiet Navratri.
Anybody who has had the unique experience of trying to study for an important exam while two denizens of the same city are getting married will bear testimony to the impossibility of concentrating on anything other than your punctured ear drums. And the wedding doesn’t even have to be in your vicinity; if you are anywhere within a 10 kilometer radius, you will be an integral part of the auspicious occasion, a ring-side, seasons ticket holder.
Possibly this riot was justified when India was a bunch of villages. A wedding in one family probably meant that the entire village was enlisted to help out. Then this noise would not only be welcome, it would be inevitable. Now though the borders of the villages have broadened, decibel levels have stretched to accommodate the extra distance. One would expect the drumbeats to fade, but they just don’t.
Strangely enough, my idea of having a ground dedicated to weddings, where weddings can be conducted with as much noise as one wants, without making sure the rest of the city stays up with the happy couple, doesn’t have many supporters. And I still can’t see a flaw in the plan. Maybe there is and the noise over load has deadened my senses.
Well, whatever the discussion, the point still remains that noise is here to stay. So with a whoop and a holler, lets drink to the Great Indian Celebration!
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Stupor
A couple of grunts permeated my unconsciousness; the jarring sound forced itself on the blank plains of my mind. Since the stupor of the class was unbroken, I looked around for the origin of the noise, vaguely interested. Then I felt my friend’s dazed pen in my side, and came back to join to un-dead with a start, to realize that the grunts were, in fact, snores, and I was the culprit, or the victim, whatever you want to call it.
This, then, is the general air in our evening class. Dramatic critics talk about the willing suspension of disbelief. The bunch of unlucky slaves in class every evening suspends not only disbelief, but everything that raises Man from the field of the animal. Sir drones on from the front of the class and the only competing sound is the steady hum of the air conditioner. Indeed, most of the time, the air conditioner makes more sense than Sir. At infrequent intervals he turns to the board to write in a sudden fit of energy, and I am roused enough to make illegible scratches in my notebook, marks that will defy interpretation when the need arises. Then it is back to dreamland, where food is the main motif, with sleep a close second.
The fact is all of us in this scene are CA students coming to class from a long day at work, where we get kicked around at the whim of the entire organisation, since we are at the bottom of the pyramid of importance (I speak for myself, but there is little evidence to the contrary that most of my fellows, if not all, reside with me at the base). And before that most of us have attended a similar session early in the morning, a time which God intended to only be used for sleep. After this delightful day when I arrive at evening class, the most I can do is plop down in a lumpy seat and go to sleep. It is so difficult to take Sir seriously about the various methods in which one can calculate the value of the shares of a company, when he is just a vague blur, signifying a three hour barrier between me and food.
Sometimes the voices in my stomach clamour so vigorously that I am tempted to make a dash for freedom; the seduction of hunger is a powerful thing, when Sir will cunningly say the only words in the English language that could have stayed me, “And now for the last sum”. However that is just deception, for he has seen the rebellion in my eyes; he will then continue for at least three quarters of an hour more. When he runs out of material relevant to the topic at hand, he starts to try to entice us with bits of professional gossip. Some of the more susceptible ones give in and try to hold up their part of the conversation on behalf of the entire class, while the rest of us glower, sleepily rebellious, at both the parties to the conversation. When Sir finally gets the hint, we have been stuck in class for nearer four hours, instead of the promised three.
And my extraordinary will ensures that I get home safe and stay conscious long enough to eat. After that its bed time, in preparation for another day, so strikingly like today, that the boundaries blur in my befuddled
This, then, is the general air in our evening class. Dramatic critics talk about the willing suspension of disbelief. The bunch of unlucky slaves in class every evening suspends not only disbelief, but everything that raises Man from the field of the animal. Sir drones on from the front of the class and the only competing sound is the steady hum of the air conditioner. Indeed, most of the time, the air conditioner makes more sense than Sir. At infrequent intervals he turns to the board to write in a sudden fit of energy, and I am roused enough to make illegible scratches in my notebook, marks that will defy interpretation when the need arises. Then it is back to dreamland, where food is the main motif, with sleep a close second.
The fact is all of us in this scene are CA students coming to class from a long day at work, where we get kicked around at the whim of the entire organisation, since we are at the bottom of the pyramid of importance (I speak for myself, but there is little evidence to the contrary that most of my fellows, if not all, reside with me at the base). And before that most of us have attended a similar session early in the morning, a time which God intended to only be used for sleep. After this delightful day when I arrive at evening class, the most I can do is plop down in a lumpy seat and go to sleep. It is so difficult to take Sir seriously about the various methods in which one can calculate the value of the shares of a company, when he is just a vague blur, signifying a three hour barrier between me and food.
Sometimes the voices in my stomach clamour so vigorously that I am tempted to make a dash for freedom; the seduction of hunger is a powerful thing, when Sir will cunningly say the only words in the English language that could have stayed me, “And now for the last sum”. However that is just deception, for he has seen the rebellion in my eyes; he will then continue for at least three quarters of an hour more. When he runs out of material relevant to the topic at hand, he starts to try to entice us with bits of professional gossip. Some of the more susceptible ones give in and try to hold up their part of the conversation on behalf of the entire class, while the rest of us glower, sleepily rebellious, at both the parties to the conversation. When Sir finally gets the hint, we have been stuck in class for nearer four hours, instead of the promised three.
And my extraordinary will ensures that I get home safe and stay conscious long enough to eat. After that its bed time, in preparation for another day, so strikingly like today, that the boundaries blur in my befuddled
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