Thursday, November 27, 2008

NOTHING (For Jane Frostina, my Life in the time of Death)

Come tomorrow, and reams of newsprint will spell out just one word: MUMBAI. Many have died, and some others might collapse in the hospital. But, we can do nothing. Such is the heartless iniquity of some self-centred assholes that Mumbai’s soul is afraid of dying for ever. But, we can do nothing. The small screen is consuming hours of footage, telling us a story that is hurting us. But, we can do nothing except sit near the TV, shivering at the thought of what is happening. Once mentally screwed up, we can reach out for the remote and move over to some channel that gives us momentary peace. Because of what we are, and because of what we cannot be, we can do nothing.

Heard a politician just now. He was saying, “We condemn the attack….” Condemn: that word has turned into a convenient escape route for these suited-booted netas. Can we ban its usage or, at least, make it a synonym for ‘praise’ so that no politician would dare use the word to express his ‘compassion’ and conceal a systemic failure? Perhaps, we could, if we start a campaign to tell what condemn does not mean when used after a terrorist attack. But, we can do nothing since we know what language can do. Once used by the system that has failed, it turns into a tool that manufactures myths and feeds the masses.

Yes. We can do nothing.

The heart is hopeful. Tomorrow might change, it wants us to believe. But the mind, the rational part of our being, offers a different picture. Tomorrow will not change even if we want it to, it tells us. If America could not anticipate 9/11 – an expression repeated so often that we are tired of it – how can India, poor India, expect what the messiahs of doom have in mind? In today’s times, 9/11 has come to symbolize a defence mechanism rather than a tragedy that brought down the World Trade Center.

Just as ‘condemn’ has become an easy-to-use expression, 9/11 is a metaphor that is repeatedly flogged to say why nothing is right with the world. Have we sat back and actually bothered to calculate how often India has been assaulted in recent years, and how badly it fares when compared to most other countries? We may have, or we may not have. Does not make a difference, does it? We can brood, cry, shout, whatever.

But, we can do nothing.

A few days later, the world will ‘salute the spirit of Mumbai’. Even as many will hide their tears to board trains and reach their distant workplaces, those who have suffered no personal tragedy will write about the city’s ‘resilience'. Every time Mumbai gets back on its feet, what sort of resilience do these bullshitters talk about? Do they know what it means to lose a cousin to a blast? Have they even been close to a train that has been blown to pieces? Have they seen the rich and the poor rush inside hospitals in a tragic manifestation of egalitarianism? Have they ever done anything that has touched a single person’s life? Even as we wonder when the world will come to end, we have reasons to hate everyone who camouflages his absence of sensitivity with a sequence of well-rehearsed words.

But, we cannot stop such people from talking rubbish. We cannot believe in a system that fails repeatedly. We cannot expect more dynamism from our politicians. We cannot stop blasts, shootouts, deaths, and all those bloody AK-47s which can permeate Mumbai with the ease of an amoeba. That being the case, is there any damn thing we can actually do?

Forget it, my friends. Why discuss it anyway? For, think as we might, try as we can, we can do nothing.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

BAND IN THE LAND OF DEATH

We have been hearing some strange music for a while. In the heavy metal track called Life by the Band of Death, the sound of erratic and loud percussion is missing. Where is the BoD's savage drummer The Terrorist, who rips up the fabric of old-fashioned peace with his wild rhythm patterns from time to time? Because of his hibernation, Life won't make news. In the heavy metal world of bomb-dom, the song's minimalism can never work because there won't be any blood on the tracks.

Most of us don't know why the BoD is such a huge success. With its songs titled Blood, Devastation and Kill When You Can – the last giving rise to the word bomb-dom – it has rocked the establishment like nothing ever has. Whenever the band has performed, the masses have been pulverized and the hospitals over-burdened by colossal tragedies. After the act has packed up and left for some other city to play the same songs, the all-lying politicians have groped for explanations about why they came, how they performed, and why they disappeared before the establishment reacted to the possibility of their arrival in the city.

All we know about the BoD is that The Terrorist is a drums-pounding robot who has a blast from time to time. Although his rhythms are monitored by a faceless enigma from a vague somewhere, he is the star of every BoD rock show that assaults us out of blue. Seldom does the establishment track down his act because The Terrorist himself does not know when he is going to play, and where. He destroys because he is drugged; while the mastermind who supplies the narcotics never shows up because he does not have the courage to confront the establishment.

If The Terrorist can't be heard in Life today, that is since the brain behind tracks like Blood and Devastation is busy composing a new song somewhere. So, let us not take Life too seriously. It is not worth it, Devastation being that super hit BoD track we will hear soon.

Sunday, November 16, 2008

BEING DEAD

I met Peter’s body recently. He had died sometime back. Happens, you know. Meeting a dead man, talking to him while knowing that his soul has drifted out of the mortal body a few days back, realising that life goes on but not for ever: death being a form of living just as truth seems like storytelling often.

Peter had died; neglected, forgotten, his body was rotting. Possibly, that is what epitomizes urban isolation. Decanted into a vacuum of solitude for being a bastard, there was he, trying to put his stubborn soul back into the body while it tried to escape through a tiny aperture. Like most stupid people trying to postpone death, Peter was seeking life.

“Can you help please? Please catch hold of my soul and bring it back to me.”

“Show me where it is. I will try,” I said, desperate to help but unable to see the soul.

“See, see, it is there. There, please,” he beseeched, a sequence of staccato utterances trembling out of his dry mouth. Only dead people see souls, which he did.

I pretended to try but couldn’t. When the soul ditches the body, there is nothing one can do.

In life, there often comes a time when helplessness guillotines the nobility of human intentions. Much as I hated Peter, I had met him at a juncture when his desire for mere life had buried all my negative thoughts about the man. The tears in his eyes, his sweat-drenched face, that guilty look which seemed to summarise his penitence for a sin-laden existence, his unkempt hair and beard, the sight of him lying crumbled on the floor: they had driven away my contempt for a man whose only achievement in life was his uselessness. But, he wanted to live. He wanted a second chance, and there was none.

“Sorry, Peter. There is nothing I can do,” I murmured, and dashed out of the room before he could say a word.

“Please, please come back. I beg of you. Please.” I could hear his voice, which faded into inaudibility once I had left the compound of his house. My inability to do anything had taught me a lesson, one I shall never forget.

Impossible is not a word in the dictionary of fools. Just stay away from dead men.