Flinging the stones of freedom....

Submitted for the contest , "Is the Indian Media Misusing its Freedom" by Blogadda.


You know that thing about living in glass houses and learning not to throw stones. ? And you suddenly realize that these days , the stone throwing goes on as before, but that glass is getting tougher....

The growth of media (print, television,Internet etc) in India has parallels with the growth of various aspects of society in India.


The first newspaper (the Bengal Gazette) happened in 1780, the first moving picture show (cinema) in 1895 and radio broadcasting began in 1927, essentially reporting stuff from a British perspective. Along with the stirrings and support for the independence movement, there was a quiet rise of some landmark local language newspapers and media across the country , guided by some great figures in the Independence movement such as Lokmanya Tilak.

For a society that gobbles up 99 million newspaper copies (in various languages) as a country, has 81 million Internet users, and nearly 1400 television broadcast stations, that is an amazing increase to have happened, and that too mostly in final 10-15 years of the last century. An abnormally skewed rate of progress.

True, we have a free press and media; true, we faced times of trial during the notorious emergency days; true , that we solved that in flying colors in 1977; but we need to remember that developing too fast has a downside, and sometimes affects individual judgement , as well as the perception of the magnitude of profits.

For a country with a 60% literacy rate , countless languages and dialects to cater to, an opening up of the economy and markets field to private players, and a growing population in the ages 25-30 age bracket, the situation resembles a hungry person faced with a massively attractive food buffet.

The media and society food habits in India have some amazing parallels.

In my childhood in the 50's, food was a need , not a hobby. Meals were traditional, cooking methods had remained essentially unchanged, and willful transgressions in the imbibing of food were frowned upon. The rice-dal-chapati-sabji-raita thing was supreme. Tongue tickling elements like pickles, chutneys, fried savouries, had their place in the scheme of things, but never took the place of the main items.


In an astounding parallel, the media in those days, which was primarily Print, was, mostly (barring a few sensationalist papers always involved in personal vendetta politics) sedate, polite, quietly informative, and respected. Very often local news was given priority. There were things you printed and things you didn't. And you had copious amounts of proofs to support any sensational disclosures. News paper owners were there, and were rich, but had , by and large, what we call, scruples.

Over the last 50 years, this state of affairs has been massively disturbed, in food systems as well as media habits. Today tongue tickling and mind tickling things rule the roost. People make meals out of what is called "chatak-matak" stuff; reams of research is done of vada-paos, pao-bhaji's , chaats, tikkis and stuff, because there is a demand. And similar is the case with media; people demand to know sensational stuff, conventional news is considered boring, and the media obliges, one way or the other, with blatant disregard for privacy, assorted types of sting operations, the path being often prescribed by the various sponsors and advertisers in the media.

Old methods of healthy earthy cooking have given way to stuff slathered in exciting textures and colors. Identical things happen in the media world. Accuracy is often sacrificed at the alter of TRP's , just like healthy caloric values are sacrificed at the alter of taste and tingling tongues.

When you have a presumably stable system over a century suddenly mindlessly accelerating in , say 30 years, you get what we call today's media and today's health problems due to indiscriminate utilisation of low value but high sensation value knowledge and food.

Yes, the media today appears to be irresponsible, but so are we. They are the way they are because we allow them to be so. Abnormally simplistic news items are blown up, shouted from the OB vans, printed across 8 columns in newspapers, and you sell so many thousand copies more than your nearest competitor. You can always print a retraction in fine print on page 4, but the damage is done. Just like we are ready to pay sums equivalent of someones monthly house payment, to have a meal of questionable nutritional value at some famous society place, because it tickles our taste buds, and sense of self-importance no end, and what the heck, anyway , there are fancy doctors to recommend meds if things do not agree, and gyms with astronomical fees to slim you down.

And so we are back to the stone throwing from glass houses. We ourselves pretend to live aseptically in antiseptic glass houses. Surreptitiously enjoying every bit of throwing that's going on. We even throw stones ourselves, but like those in the construction business will tell you, and observers of societal mores will tell you, the glass walls have gotten stronger, and shameless. They don't break.

And so we think nothing of intruding into a widow's privacy, sticking microphones in hospital wards to grab dying declarations , grovelling in front of pseudocelebrities and arranging for them to become stars. As far as TV was concerned 26/11 was all about the Taj, Trident, and the Chabad house. Cama and Albless hospital , those that delivered babies that night with mouths clamped, to avoid the marauding terrorists, the several Cesarean surgery patients who quietly left the hospital the next morning, with their day-week old babies to take the trains home, were not considered newsworthy.

Inaccuracy is ignored and defeated by wishful thinking, as happened when , during the Vajpayee-Msharraf Agra meeting, Hindi Star news reported , at variance with other channels, that the agreement was on the verge of being signed/just signed, and this was soon followed by visuals of a grumpy Musharraf walking out on his way back from Agra to Pakistan.

And so, until we realize we are sliding as a society, we are as much to blame as the media. We do it under the guise of individual freedom and independence, they do it for business reasons. Every business house is known to patronize certain sections of media. Some business houses even own newspapers and television stations.

We are responsible for the media we have. And so if you ask me if the Indian media is using its freedom in an irresponsible manner. the answer would be , that it has grabbed whatever freedom we have given it.

It cannot be viewed in isolation. It reflects the undisciplined society we have evolved into.

We have got the media we deserved.

A mad Soliloquy

Submitted for the Blogadda "Moments of Madness" contest.


Half a century
and more,
of a life
with
deep troughs
and
mad peaks...

An 8 year old
only sister
terrorized
by water depths,
learning swimming
and
dared by some
boys
to jump
from
the first floor
diving place....
And I jumped,
eyes shut tight,
but on the side,
lacerating my thighs
against the pool walls,
all the way
down
the terrible 15 feet....
and back up again --
a mad moment
of victory
which
shut up
the fellows for good....
but alarmed a mother
who wondered.....

As a grad student
in the US,
appearing
for an evening meeting
of women professionals ***
wishing to award a schol....
there wasn't a place
to sit
and play my sitar
(which I played well)....
and then
in a completely mad moment,
I climbed onto the
dining table,
took my position
and
played the piece;
a few days later
the mad moment didnt look so mad
when I got the schol....:-)

And then
there have been
moments of madness
which have decreed me a fool,
but probably
not in the eyes
of Someone Up There....

Leaning out of
a Mumbai bus
stuck in a jam
just after
a torrential
onslaught
of rain;
Spying
brilliant fresh
methi bunches
on a vendor 's cart,
in an
inspired
moment of madness
I bargained with him
through the bus window
and bought
four wonderful bunches
which were passed to me
via various passengers,
as the vendor
ran
behind the suddenly starting bus
to collect the money I held out....
To the intense
embarrassment
of a daughter
but
intensely envied
by the other women in the bus....
the methi parathas
were extra special that night!

There have been other
Mad moments,
that have remained
in my mind

Like
wanting to stamp
in a rain water puddle
when
the lady who thought
Black was Bad
and White was Fair
walked next to me
in her
white
spotless
capris.

Like wanting
to blow
my famous whistle,
to confuse the cops,
as
corrupt chaps
in tinted cars
passed by
holding up traffic
with their z-plus security...

But some folks think
writing this
has been an
uncontrolled
long
mad
moment...

And it continues .

Wading through the
forest of mad words
and madder artists,
I am at my maddest best
when I blog....

A mad life.

And you thought
that is
a mad moment ?

Are you mad ?


*** Altrusa International

Summer of '57.....

The summer of 1957. I was eight.

Saturday evening at dusk. It was on one of Pune's then main thoroughfares. A very ordinary looking three storey structure, with a name written with a grand flourish across a background of cement flowers, cracking at the edges.

We were in a special area on the first floor, with nicer tables and chairs, than say the ground floor, where flinging a towel on your shoulder, and shouting out the order in convoluted complex English, was the style of the day. We had folks who sedately moved around asking what your order was, kind of whispered it to the next important functionary, and the four of us sat at one of the hexagonal tables, that seemed to have an imposing huge stone as a table top, terribly at variance with the folding metal chairs.

The two of us were so excited. In those days, such trips were rare. Going out, per se, was not the done thing. But this was special. A celebration. I forget the reason. It was enough that we were there.

We watched the folks at the other tables. Not too many mothers there. Every now and then we would watch waiters coming with full trays, hoping they would stop at our table. The elderly waiter would smile at us, seeing our desperation.

Finally, the waiting ended. It had arrived. My first crush . Alphonso Hapoos Mango pieces crushingly slathered in hand churned mango ice cream, presented in a boat shaped false silver plate, with two spoons; one flat and the other , normal.


There was a new light in my eyes. The waiting was all worth it. I could keep on looking at it, but the latitude and longitude of Pune ensured, that the crush would lose its solidity, if I followed that path.

I followed his eyes, now focused on the crush in front of him. Did he get more ice cream than I did ? Were his mango pieces larger ? Was I jealous ? Was he jealous ?

We started picking at the ice cream, enjoying the flavour as it tingled the tongue and built up a sensation of wanting more. There was a technique we followed , on such occasions, which were not frequent at all. The idea was to keep eating small amounts, so that after an unbearably long time, the other person's ice cream got over, and you still had a half plate of the crush in front of you.

The trouble was he had the same idea. And so you have the story of my first crush, redolent of Alphonso mango fruit, and completely blanketed by mango ice cream so to speak, now trying to lie at the side of the fruit pieces, in puddles, probably disgusted at the stubborn behaviour of the imbibers.

My father looked at his watch. he had promised to bring us home by 7 pm. It was getting late, and my brother and I, out on this special treat with him, were making things difficult trying to win, as to who came last.

"OK. You both have 5 minutes. I want everything lapped up, no wasting stuff. If you can't eat it, then slurp it or drink it. We need to leave......"... the referee had spoken.

This was the best part, and we dug in, ecstatically drizzling the melted ice cream over the orange pieces, and literally wolfing it down, and you could see the extra large servings sliding down our throats as the food pipe , in peristalsis, appeared to shiver delightedly from the cold, as it directed the now mushy crush down into the innards, amidst sensations, that cannot be described adequately in words. A cooling feeling at the bottom of the stomach, and before it got over, there would be another mouthful , the mango and the ice cream once again delighting all the senses. We'd sniff the cold spoonful before we ate it, and revel in the aroma of hapoos, cream and saffron.

There would be a sound of a chair scraping, and we knew we were running late. The last semi solid, nectarish mash of hapoos and cream would be drunk straight from the boat shaped plate, paying scant attention to the milk moustache that made its appearance.

My father would offer his handkerchief. We would use it only after licking up the moustache stuff first.

We would emerge, as the street lights came on. Not too much traffic on the road, and crossing was easy.

I have been around . Crossed the world . I have seen the advent of cones and sundaes, and ice cream available in packs in shops. I have seen the 32 flavours. I have seen what is called a softie. I have also see ice creams where the shape of the glass is more important than what is inside, as ice cream. I've seen it thrown into glasses of Coca Cola, and sold at ridiculous prices, and called ridiculous names.

But. What remains, etched , for eternity, in my heart, is the memory of this first crush.

Melting moments , of the icy Alphonso type....

Eyes of the beholder.....

(Submitted for the Travel Photo Blogadda Contest)

I am not much of a photographer when it comes to profusion of colors, compositions, brilliance etc. These things leave me tongue-tied as well as hand-tied.

And so I take pictures of things that convey an oddity/story/situation to me....


This was in the Cellular Jail in Port Blair, Andaman Islands. The floor which houses the cell occupied by Veer Savarkar. The rooms were nothing to speak of either in size or ventilation. But each room had this huge cast iron pucca latch, which actually went through the wall before it engaged with the door on the right, for locking. In a completely unplanned way, the evening Sun ensured that this would be a prison photo.

---

Singapore Jurong Bird Sanctuary. What was captivating was the attitude of the flamingos, as their keeper appeared with , maybe , instructions.

What made me laugh was the supreme indifference shown by some, presumed paying of great attention by some, and lots of inter-flamingo chitchats that were in process , with them blithely showing their backs to the keeper. Reminded me of lots of meetings back home, and just a little bit of the Miss Universe contestants , given the grace and statuesqe bearing and confidence of the flamingoes...

---

Ross island, very close to Port Blair , Andaman Islands, was a British military settlement before independence. Almost like a town. Today it houses the ruins of the old settlement and an establishment maintained by the Indian Armed forces. It can take several hours to completely go around the island. Wandering across a complete ruined settlement, while returning to the boat, I came across these ducks, marching so, in line, led by the commanding duck.... Just thought the ethos was so appropriate....

---

Mountains and peaks, stretching far into the distance, at the Grand Canyon, Arizona, USA, a fossilized tree, appeared to be invoking something , hands raised to the heavens. The thick branch on the left seemed to be opening up a beak, crying out. Surrounded by the amazing panorama of mountain colors, small peaks and plateaus , bare and strong, standing through centuries in support. I often wonder what such a tree must have observed over the hundreds of years...

---

At another point , at the Grand Canyon, the Colorado River, snaking through the valley deep below. I thought the plateau on the right actually resembled giant feet, of some standing deity or super entity.

The hugeness of the feet matching the grandeur of the Canyon; a watchful patron God, as it were, supremely standing on the river bank and mountain, protecting the ancient set up....

---

Whackers of the world, Unite !......

(Submitted for the Blogadda "Whack!! this Wednesday" contest) (747 words).


Just think. The amount of times you’ve wanted to shout at a complete stranger, and when beyond tolerance,in plain words, whack him/her.

Then read on, and thank the Internet for allowing you perform the violence virtually.

Standing at the signal, several kilos of veggies loading my clavicles, waiting for a pedestrian signal. The signal changes, we start crossing, when a really fancy car, continues to move ahead. Tinted windows, uniformed chauffeur, guy in sunglasses reading a newspaper in the back, cellphone stuck into his ears.

The inability to notice signals, the defiance of civic norms, and the lack of concern for some who may come under its wheels is inexplicable. The crossing public, me in front, intersect with the car. Shouts falling on closed windows. The car doesn’t stop. A direct hit on the bonnet of the car with 5 kg of vegetables in a bag does the trick. Today, dented cars count more than dented humans. No dent anywhere on the psyche of the fellow inside, who seriously needs a whack.

Sometimes , it’s the way folks drive their minds. Like at the local recreation centre, open to all, with certain rules. You’ve stood in line, obtained permissions, followed rules, and noticed how sincerely the folks who work there behave. Comes someone, whose bigness of mind falls hugely short of the bigness of his emoluments and position in the hierarchy. He shouts and threatens the guy at the counter, because he dares to point out rules to him, The big chap is a month late doing his renewals. He speaks about going to higher ups. What an amazingly bad example to the young ones there. But abuse of power has made him deaf and blind. I wish it made him dumb too. Seriously needs a whack, or even two.

Ten years ago, I was lucky to rush with someone, in an ambulance, on a Sunday to a big hospital some distance away. A plaintive siren today, falls on deaf ears in traffic. Some cars and buses tentatively move to the side, but are thwarted by two wheelers, that plague Mumbai roads today. They squeeze through gaps, even scrape past your toes, overtaking the ambulance. The ambulance and the patient in trauma, struggles through the traffic, led by two wheeler monsters who think they are pilot wheels leading a luminary’s car. Whacking is really the minimum these guys need. They can’t be whacked enough.

Take the guy with his shameless moves in a packed bus. Standees only. Double the amount of people in half the space. Women, children, office goers, seniors. You push your daughter ahead of you, and stand directly behind her. But everyone doesn’t have someone. Another young girl struggling with her books and purse, trying to reach the exit. The queue moves every now and then when folks need to get down. The girl pushes ahead followed by a “decent” looking fellow, close behind, who presumably also needs to get down. She gives him a disgusted look as she darts to the door to disembark. He grins, and gets down at the last minute. I watch with growing anger, crushed somewhere in the middle of the bus. She could also be my daughter; the guy needs to be severely whacked.

The elderly lady who has driven in to buy some fruits from the gully off the main road. She trudges back laden with bags, and sees another car parked at a weird angle , making it difficult for her to leave. She knocks on the drivers side, where some guy is busy with headphones, stretched out in A/C comfort, waiting for his Memsaab to return. He ignores . She knocks, the bags of fruit loading her uncomfortably in the hot sun. She walks back to her car, then back again to knock. Finally a kind soul on the road does some concentrated window banging. The fellow inside erupts, abusing the kind soul and the lady. Possibly emulating his master. I’m disgusted. No amount of whacking will suffice here.

Sometimes it’s the pool. It’s the peak of summer. Changing rooms are crowded. Mothers more concerned about swimsuits, Children, least bothered. We go in to change. Loud conversation between two mothers in change cubicles, on fairness and dark skins. Running down of a good swimmer who happens to be dark. The trouble is, she is there, in the changing room. The mothers have just miseducated their kids.

The question is, how do you whack minds ?

---------------------------------------------------------------

Whack them hard!

Has politics gone to the dogs ?

The Bharatiya Shwaan Sabha recently held an Extraordinary General Body Meeting in the far corner of the Rose Garden at Rashtrapati Bhavan.

While there have been rumours circulating for sometime about the brewing discontent in the Shwaan population in Lutyen's Delhi, things came to a head on repeated barks received from Karnataka.

The fuse was lit when the BJP president recently referred to Mr Lalu Prasad Yadav and Mr Mulayam Singh as dogs who liked to lick certain feet.

Reliable sources indicate that unrest actually began when an ex-PM called the Karnataka CM a Bxxxxxd, and then people were at pains to explain that this was like calling someone a son-of-a bitch.

Tiger, who is actually a dog, but the President of the National Shwaan Sabha, protested vociferously at being associated with the two Yadav's , and called this the biggest insult faced by his party. He was accompanied by Don , the Karnataka State Shwaan president, and was being interviewed by Varkha Mutt on the lawns at India Gate.

" My party, the Bharatiya Shwaan Sabha, has been the only party with no defectors so far. Our members have participated in all the country's law and order events, and played a leading part in the fight against terror. We Bow only in front of those who are Wow. Thats the Bow-wow principle......

We do not like being associated with geriatric ex-PM's and their spouting of abuse , neither do our lady members like explanations being given by others. The Ex-PM may have been called Kaminey in Parliament during a no-confidence motion, but we Kuttas of India have very different standards. The Left has been advising us to hold out for Shwaan Reservation Bill. But we are real patriots, and prefer to spend our time in active duty rather than making deals in Parliament.

BUT WE DEMAND AN UNCONDITIONAL APOLOGY FROM THE BJP PRESIDENT FOR COMPARING US WITH LALOO AND MULAYAM....."

Latest reports indicate a massive gathering of dogs at Parliament House, getting organized to hold a protest rally. Several dogs from Raisina Hill were seen racing into Parliament for the Rally.

Delhi Police, have sent a posse of their best chaps to guard the House, and avert any possible biting altercation, where the two Yadavs are concerned.

Of course, as in any political party, entry of a goonda element cannot be denied. This is particularly important in view of the fact, that latest news from the Health Ministry indicated adulteration in the latest rabies vaccine bought in large quantities from Bulgaria.

According to the latest Home Ministry notification, the two Yadav's have now been elevated to Z+++ security, in view of the threat and bite perception from the Shwaans.

Death:, by a sister, of a sister, for a sister....

Whodunnit ?

(Submitted for the Mystery Fiction Blog Contest at Blogadda. Ajay Nair has written a story called "Reunion", laying out some clues. He also paints a great picture of the mentalities of everyone involved.

And we are supposed to solve the mystery. Possibly happened as below.... in 398 words :-) )

Lila was democratic that way.

In death, as in love.

She had experienced and distributed her love equitably in impulsive, willful , hurtful and careless ways, and commitment to an individual, never kept her from seeking new pastures. Her leap from paramour to paramour was always dramatic; courts, cases, shooting, riding off cliffs…. The gift of a virus from G, and public perception of that virus, today, didn’t always imply death, and she was smart enough to know that.

Unlike Sia.

Who never really got on with Lila, never wore the snake armband. And Lila never forgot the drowning episode.

Sia, who Lila was never able to control.

The person who died was actually not Lila, but Sia.

The drugged tea was meant to throw suspicion on the narrator. The bullet necklace kept the pointer firmly on R. The scarf was a reminder of M’s wild behavior which she suffered. Her interaction and tangling with G was public matter, and couldn’t get any worse.

Sia went in last. Lila, probably convinced her to wear the armband , once , for her sake, and Sia did, not knowing that the red on the snake head-hood was actually blood from Lila’s arm , studded with the virus. Lila probably offered her a sit-down tea, two sisters, having a presumed last tea together.

Sia reeled under the poisoned tea. Lila, giving up all pretence, got up, and forced her to exchange clothes, and places. The spread of artifacts on the floor and bathroom was probably the extent of a surprised tussle. Lila wore Sia’s clothes, and emerged outside, head down, weeping. Everyone of Lila’s suitors, would be sympathetic to a desolate sister. The tears would work.

The tea was having its effect on Sia. She came out after Lila , wanting to explain.

But no. She shivered. It was affecting the brain, and she was confused.

She emerged in Lila’s clothes, wrapped as a patient would be. No grace and charm , like Lila; but a woman trying in hurried gestures to convey something, which never emerged.

T'was all over. . The meeting, the reunion, and this world.

She shuddered and returned to the room, unable to comprehend what was happening.

One illuminating moment , it occurred to her that she was drowning.

Lila had not only succeeded in pointing fingers at her paramours, but she had won in the end.


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And you know, regardless of what one looked at, in Lila's house, the predominant image that stayed in the mind was this .