There but for the grace of ...

This is a totally chilling interview. (Link from Thejaswi Udupa)

Not because of the picture of Guantanamo. Not because of what it says of the subversion of justice by the US Govt. and army, not because at one time we still thought of the USA as a supporter of fair play.

But because the kind of torture mentioned here is child’s play compared to standard practice all over India. It makes us realise how inured we are to the reality in our own country.

Some of my colleagues used to make gentle fun of me because, on the occasions when I got involved in the process, I used to stop the “interrogation” from getting violent. On two occasions within my first few months of field service, I was able to get information by scaring the person/s being interrogated. Play-acting, hard-man-soft-man stuff that probably would invite censure in some countries, but at least the person on the other side of the table was not beaten up. I compare that to the stories from a man who used to be a very good friend. “F***er, do you have any idea how difficult it is to break a human bone?!” He broke his hand during one such interrogation. “That’s why the lathi is indispensable.” This from the man who used to lecture me on ethics in the days when we were mugging for the exams together.

Pvt. Neely in his interview speaks of slipping into alcoholism because he couldn’t cope with the guilt of what he had done. And I think of the reality in India. Of the 8 year old girl who was brutally beaten by a UP cop on suspicion of theft. Of a man who is now mentally and physically crippled because he was suspected of rape. And I wonder, do these people never think of how the man at the other end of the lathi feels as it swings into his stomach? Does it take a special kind of insensitivity to be able to hurt another human being in cold blood? And if it is so common, perhaps the insensitivity is the norm rather than the exception?

And I am very afraid.

Update: Another Kafkaesque story of persecution (link from Sanjay Anandram). This was posted on the Tehelka web-site, so I’d like to see some cross-checking. But I don’t remember any of the a-v media following up this story. If true, this is terrorism too. Are we going to do anything about it?

Anomie

It’s a strange feeling. Like coming back to a house where you once lived. Perhaps when you were a child. Or at least many years ago. Remember that scene in Yaadon ki Baaraat where Dharam Paaji finds the toy gun? Like that.

But you can never go home again. It isn’t there.

So once in a while I open up the Philippic and check the dwindling footfalls. And read the last comment and wonder whether I have the energy to respond. Then I go 'Pbbrrrrttt, boogeritt' and look at the clock opposite and go back to work.

This last month or so – ever since my laptop was stolen – I’ve had good intentions of taking time out to post on this blog. Or the other one. Hasn’t worked. Camera-phone pics of an omelette are … well, nice, but not really a post. I can’t write a post any more. Because I don’t have my laptop. Such a stupid dependency.

The other reason, of course, is that work is climbing up my a … ummm, my walls? (Right, we shall take a short break for the libertarians to fall about laughing at the idea of a gorment paarsen WORKING. Quite done? Good, so where were we …) I’m beginning to hate having to work for a living.

I lie. I have always hated working for a living. It’s just that now THIS particular kind of work is really getting to me. 'Nuff said. End of whining session.

It doesn’t help that the city now has the most beautiful weather. As I tap away right now, I can see the ugly buildings off Park Street smiling in the evening glow. Like, say, Antara Mali photographed by Probuddha Dasgupta. Know what I mean? We KNOW they’re not really good-looking (at all at ALL) but man, they can be made to look good. This kind of a November evening, I should be out on the street feeling the city blowing in my face. Converting the moment into words that scroll through my mind’s eye like a teleprompter. And I can feel the old writing urge welling up in me but there’s nothing to say. Because that requires THAT chair and my laptop and a half hour to myself. Whereas all I have is this office and deadlines and a consuming feeling of guilt and tension because this is NOT my work. Bgrrrtttt.

Not that life has been bad. My brother-in- … arms is in town after half a decade (yes, I know I could have just said 5 years, but this is MY blog so sneck up), we’ve been having a series of bachelor nights that have left us exhausted, we’ve found what is possibly the only all-night coffee bar in this city and we have a huge stash of Bandel cheese and sossijis. We’ve even had the obligatory boys’ night out. With three young men, a black Scorpio, pub-hopping, drunken declarations of male bonding, loud tuneless chorus singing in a public space at 3 in the morning, large coffees with THREE shots of cream. Hell, one of the young uns is nice enough to drop by my office and give me a neck rub when I’m feeling chewed. Life should be good.

Which it kind of is.

But I miss my virtual inglenook. Where I can mumble to myself and tap away and then hang it on the line and wait for the gang to turn up. And eventually nice people like the Prof and the kids from jheel paar and nice ladies and maybe even A Goddess and the Smart-Asses from Stateside and the Funny Men and the Goo-roo and the Bombay Brigade and the Aphrodites of Angst and the Dervish from Delhi and the People without Names and the People who are Just a Bunch of Keyboard Characters and … well, all of you is what I mean, you know it, I wait for you to drop by and say Hullo and I can stir and wave my pipe-stem at you with a ‘hurrr hurrr gorblimey’ kind of grunt and then settle back into a tobacco doze.

That’s what it is. I miss my addiction. I miss my blogs. I miss you guys. And I’m out of green apple vodka too. Damn.

Monday blues on Tuesday afternoon

The Times of India reports (Sunday 26^th August) that the Marwari Sabha felicitated Arvind Singh Mewar, the ancestor of Maharana Pratap. Longevity!

A search for Victoria Falls on Google Earth produces Victoria Falls, Georgia, USA. You thought the Middle Kingdom was a fantastic conceit?

And listening to the Moody Blues’ When the tide comes in while driving to office, on a cloudy morning with the breeze feathering the waters, is NOT a good idea. Puts paid to work. (Especially when I view this video and reminisce on a walk along that same route some years ago. Lousy version, though.)

****

That city

A swelling plume of smoke links a spindly chimney to the blanket of clouds above. I can see the light-towers of the Jawaharlal Nehru Stadium, round-shouldered against the horizon. A crow perches on a nondescript cable looped from tree to tree on the other side of the road, looks around, clears its throat and emits a tentative caw. Concrete piles emerge from a sea of green, shaking the foliage off their shoulders, blinking.

Damn this meeting. I’ve woken far too early. From a bizarre dream, my uber-boss berating me for not getting the right break-up of dahi vadas for the balance sheet, the Finance Ministry is bound to object. This could point to anxiety about the AGM today, coupled with regret over dining on an insubstantial Caesar salad last night. But don’t ask me, I only dreamed it.

The clouds on my right are turning pink. Then … I remember an Amar Chitra Katha cover, young Hanuman leaping at the sun. He’d have to be quick to catch this one. Huge, orange, lowering, it rolls above the horizon and springs into the cloud-bank, a minute’s worth (or two) of colours flaming like a ‘70s Bolly wood poster. Nice entry, bud. Hope you can top that when you go off-stage in the evening.

Headed towards the airport. The AGM went off surpassing smooth, the proceedings have been packaged and presented for approval. I can afford to relax and hitch a lazy eye over the car window. For the second evening in a row, I wonder at the greenery of Hauz Khas. It must be a magic jungle in the winter. I should … but I know that I won’t venture beyond Nehru Park.

There ARE things about this city that I like. It’s just that the unpleasantness takes front and centre in my memories. Must work on that.

Meanwhile, the sun that tortured me this afternoon has skulked off behind the clouds. No airport sunset. Welsher.

Hooloovoo?

The trouble with non-specific depression is that you don't know WHY you're depressed.

It's worse when you're supposed to be an airhead who doesn't get depressed anyway. Nobody believes you can be depressed.

Including yourself.

Sucks.