After all the ruckus about the Liberhan Report, just one lone voice in the media made any sense on the subject. That voice was R Jagannathan’s in the column he writes in DNA every week, and it aptly summed up all that most of us were thinking about anyway. Read his piece here.
The great thing about R Jagannathan’s writing is that it does not take a lofty, over-learned view of things. Most editors of most publication houses entrusted with the task of writing edits seem to want to show their readers how much they already know, how much they’ve already observed while you, the callous reader was looking elsewhere, and how much they still have to educate you. Jagannathan does not fall into that trap, and I have never seen his writing talk down on the reader.
Jagannathan’s premise, I am very sure, has already been echoed by a majority of the country that thinks about things seriously. Why a toothless report on an incident that happened 17 years ago with no Action Taken measures and with, frankly, hardly any substance on any matter? What is the average Indian supposed to make of a report that states what the country already knows and has seen so many photographs and video clips of? Surprise! Key figures in the BJP, Bajrang Dal, Shiv Sena, Vishwa Hindu Parishad and others were involved in the demolition of the Babri Masjid. Another big revelation? The demolition was not a spontaneous act but a pre-meditated one.
Well, yawn.
Of course it wasn’t a spontaneous act. You don’t eye the Masjid sourly over your morning glass of cutting chai and say, “It’s ruining the skyline around here. Let’s pull it down.” Of course everyone of the aforementioned parties was involved; didn’t they confess with bluster and bravado after the act?
“Seventeen years of effort have yielded a mouse,” writes Jagannathan. “A close reading of the Report shows that Liberhan wasted everybody’s time and the taxpayer’s money in these 17 years. His disclosures do not add anything significant to our knowledge of what really transpired that day. He did not need 1,029 pages and Rs 8 crore to pronounce judgement on the Sangh Parivar, for the latter has never hidden its agenda from anyone.
After fulminating against all and sundry, Liberhan does not even clearly answer the central question: which specific individuals actually brought the structure down?”
A kick on the seat of the pants to Liberhan. Why I feel particularly cheated is because while this Commission was sitting on its rear end compiling notes and ordering takeaways for lunch, the country was rocked by ghastly terrorist bombings, one in the Bombay of 1993 courtesy Dawood Fucker Ibrahim. Since this demolition, and later, Godhra, the country has known no peace. So were we so far-off in expecting that some ghosts would be buried and some hard answers to an issue that accelerated the phenomenon of serial terror attacks on the country?
One more Commission required, then?
p.s.: On a tangent, but not much considering 26/11 just completed a year, 'Interval by Chacko' in Mumbai Mirror today is quite illuminating. Read here his take on portrayal of terrorists in Hindi films.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
Going to seed
It has been about five months since I've been out of the professional race.
My parents are unhappy about it. My husband doesn't know what to make of it. I frankly wouldn't care.
It's not easy living on a single income for two people. I have been working on and off, and am expecting just two cheques not worth anybody's time. If those come on time, and I doubt that they will, some of the rent will have been taken care of.
I've been working since college. I was lucky I chose a profession that gave me a headrush every single day - the urgency of the newsroom, the deadlines that rattled me just once, the continuous learning process. The last two years of active work were rather subdued. I worked for a paper that was based out of Mumbai and I quit under rather controversial circumstances at the peak of the economic recession. Of course, I secured a job that paid much more than the earlier one before I quit, and that was my last professional achievement before I called it a day in May this year.
Now I manage the home. People who know me don't think that's such a good idea. Sometimes I don't think so too. Sometimes I file a story and make myself some chai in leiu of encouragement. Then I go back to doing the dishes and mopping the floors and cooking dinner. I don't think I debase myself by tending to the home.
My only crime, as far as I can see, is to leave the husband to look after the cash inflow. It's a big crime, in this day and age, and I feel like a cow.
My parents are unhappy about it. My husband doesn't know what to make of it. I frankly wouldn't care.
It's not easy living on a single income for two people. I have been working on and off, and am expecting just two cheques not worth anybody's time. If those come on time, and I doubt that they will, some of the rent will have been taken care of.
I've been working since college. I was lucky I chose a profession that gave me a headrush every single day - the urgency of the newsroom, the deadlines that rattled me just once, the continuous learning process. The last two years of active work were rather subdued. I worked for a paper that was based out of Mumbai and I quit under rather controversial circumstances at the peak of the economic recession. Of course, I secured a job that paid much more than the earlier one before I quit, and that was my last professional achievement before I called it a day in May this year.
Now I manage the home. People who know me don't think that's such a good idea. Sometimes I don't think so too. Sometimes I file a story and make myself some chai in leiu of encouragement. Then I go back to doing the dishes and mopping the floors and cooking dinner. I don't think I debase myself by tending to the home.
My only crime, as far as I can see, is to leave the husband to look after the cash inflow. It's a big crime, in this day and age, and I feel like a cow.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Oh, sweet love...
It's not like you have to carry the thought in your head consciously...every time it knocks you over when you're least expecting it, that's what makes it special.
The one thing I excel at is falling asleep. But wait, that's just half the story - I really excel at not just suddenly falling asleep but staying asleep no matter what. I swear I would have slept through all the screaming and woken up only when the tsunami smartly slapped me on the face. Point is, NOTHING wakes me up. So conceive my emotion two nights ago when, after I supposedly stirred in my sleep and bumped into the husband, he sleepily started patting my head. That woke me up promptly.
When I pat his head in similar fashion, he instantly curls up into me and sleeps like a baby.
It's the goofy grin he gives me when he's trying hard to open his eyes every morning (on the rare mornings that I'm up before him). It's the way he'll always be the first to apologise, thus making me feel (and look) like a child. It's the way he'll spring awake, compulsively saying sorry if he kicks me in his sleep. It's...oh, so many things...like having a warm blanket that works best only for you.
So even though he's always late and never around till the rest of the world goes to bed and I'm pottering about heating dinner, he's argumentative and refuses to see reason on certain topics, I still welcome him with a grin when he comes home every night. The boy is mine...
The one thing I excel at is falling asleep. But wait, that's just half the story - I really excel at not just suddenly falling asleep but staying asleep no matter what. I swear I would have slept through all the screaming and woken up only when the tsunami smartly slapped me on the face. Point is, NOTHING wakes me up. So conceive my emotion two nights ago when, after I supposedly stirred in my sleep and bumped into the husband, he sleepily started patting my head. That woke me up promptly.
When I pat his head in similar fashion, he instantly curls up into me and sleeps like a baby.
It's the goofy grin he gives me when he's trying hard to open his eyes every morning (on the rare mornings that I'm up before him). It's the way he'll always be the first to apologise, thus making me feel (and look) like a child. It's the way he'll spring awake, compulsively saying sorry if he kicks me in his sleep. It's...oh, so many things...like having a warm blanket that works best only for you.
So even though he's always late and never around till the rest of the world goes to bed and I'm pottering about heating dinner, he's argumentative and refuses to see reason on certain topics, I still welcome him with a grin when he comes home every night. The boy is mine...
Friday, September 25, 2009
Respond, already
Sending out an email requesting an appointment on Monday and not getting a reply till Friday, is just mad. Like being laid out in the OT for a month and everyone else coming in after you gets their surgeries and leaves.
*PHOOOEEEEYYY*
*PHOOOEEEEYYY*
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
I is writing
The story of Devrat is taking shape, slowly. Wish me luck and don't disturb me.
Also, if anyone is up for making chai for me thrice a day, you're hired.
Also, if anyone is up for making chai for me thrice a day, you're hired.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Why I must blog more often
Because it gets me in the mood for writing something better later on.
Because my blog does not judge or make 'Tsk tsk' sounds on the rare occasions that I confess something staggering.
Because it does not tell me to shut the fuck up after a while, like people do.
Because it does not sulk if I haven't blogged for a while.
Because I only have to remember such basic details as username and password when logging in. No hassles about forgetting birthdays and anniversaries and such.
Because it lets others benefit from my pearls of wisdom.
Because I can change its appearance whenever I want to and it doesn't accuse me of not accepting it the way it is.
Because it is generally accepted that a blog, however public, is actually the blogger's private space.
Because I've been blogging for a while now, and it really, REALLY helps me unwind. Now for some writing.
Because my blog does not judge or make 'Tsk tsk' sounds on the rare occasions that I confess something staggering.
Because it does not tell me to shut the fuck up after a while, like people do.
Because it does not sulk if I haven't blogged for a while.
Because I only have to remember such basic details as username and password when logging in. No hassles about forgetting birthdays and anniversaries and such.
Because it lets others benefit from my pearls of wisdom.
Because I can change its appearance whenever I want to and it doesn't accuse me of not accepting it the way it is.
Because it is generally accepted that a blog, however public, is actually the blogger's private space.
Because I've been blogging for a while now, and it really, REALLY helps me unwind. Now for some writing.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
HATE how expensive this city is
Yes, nobody asked me to live here and all that, but sometimes the greatest city in the world is just too pricey for its own good.
I mean, come on. At a decent income, all you can hope for if you're looking to buy a house, is to save like magpies for about three years and then take a home loan. The money you save will help cut down on some of the amount you will have to raise through private sources (which your bank needs to know about, to appease their gossipy selves). Once your home loan is cleared, through a uniquely-designed obstacle race involving signatures on character certificates and salary slips from bosses, Form 16 duplicates from the time you were born, letters from the building you wish to purchase a house in, and many other entertaining channels of paperwork, you have to borrow money from friends to tide over the amount that the bank will not loan you, the fucking fucker.
And once you start repaying all the money, you realise that you are tied up for the next twenty years at least, apart from paying off testy friends and relations you borrowed money from. At the end of the first week since you get your salary, you are left with about a fraction of your husband's salary. We are going to stop eating lunch and we shall cadge invitations to dinner from the people we did not borrow money from. My mother can supply the groceries.
And all of this, for a house that is as big as a broom closet or, if you get a roomier accomodation, as big as a fair-sized bathroom with separate shower space. Into this you squeeze your two selves, furniture, bed, cupboard, pots and pans and several other items characterising domesticity.
So you decide to go for a rented place, and though that works out better because it is sort of affordable, you get grey hairs thinking of all the money you're paying via rent and which you will never see again unless you loot a bank. Since I don't know the first thing about looting a bank, I will never see the rent money we've paid this year.
What is all this in aid of? All we wanted was to live decently on a decent income in a house we were prepared to slave for and cherish and leave behind for our kids. Instead, we're running around shouting "Fuck! FUCK!" because the lease on our current house expires in two months and we have no other option but to throw away more money on another rented apartment, in the hope that two years later we will have our own home to leave behind for our kids (which we can have only after we have a house, humph).
Money flows like water in this city. It's not fair, it's not reasonable for a person who only has a legitimate job as his source of income.
I mean, come on. At a decent income, all you can hope for if you're looking to buy a house, is to save like magpies for about three years and then take a home loan. The money you save will help cut down on some of the amount you will have to raise through private sources (which your bank needs to know about, to appease their gossipy selves). Once your home loan is cleared, through a uniquely-designed obstacle race involving signatures on character certificates and salary slips from bosses, Form 16 duplicates from the time you were born, letters from the building you wish to purchase a house in, and many other entertaining channels of paperwork, you have to borrow money from friends to tide over the amount that the bank will not loan you, the fucking fucker.
And once you start repaying all the money, you realise that you are tied up for the next twenty years at least, apart from paying off testy friends and relations you borrowed money from. At the end of the first week since you get your salary, you are left with about a fraction of your husband's salary. We are going to stop eating lunch and we shall cadge invitations to dinner from the people we did not borrow money from. My mother can supply the groceries.
And all of this, for a house that is as big as a broom closet or, if you get a roomier accomodation, as big as a fair-sized bathroom with separate shower space. Into this you squeeze your two selves, furniture, bed, cupboard, pots and pans and several other items characterising domesticity.
So you decide to go for a rented place, and though that works out better because it is sort of affordable, you get grey hairs thinking of all the money you're paying via rent and which you will never see again unless you loot a bank. Since I don't know the first thing about looting a bank, I will never see the rent money we've paid this year.
What is all this in aid of? All we wanted was to live decently on a decent income in a house we were prepared to slave for and cherish and leave behind for our kids. Instead, we're running around shouting "Fuck! FUCK!" because the lease on our current house expires in two months and we have no other option but to throw away more money on another rented apartment, in the hope that two years later we will have our own home to leave behind for our kids (which we can have only after we have a house, humph).
Money flows like water in this city. It's not fair, it's not reasonable for a person who only has a legitimate job as his source of income.
Housewife from Hell - Part II
She continues with the chronicle after a gap of two days. Even the story of her own life bores her.
Today her husband has his weekly off from work. So the two of them will laze about and order lunch. They'll go for walks in the evening, or possibly a movie. He's fun when he's relaxed.
She needs his help with some research she's doing. So maybe they could do that after lunch, instead of busting their eyeballs watching silly movies.
If she wants, she can tell him to make her chai, and he'll do it gladly. He makes good tea. Besides, she generally goes for a second cup an hour after the first.
Today she woke up at 11.30 a.m. As always, he didn't wake her up, quietly answering doors and reading the papers till she stumbled out of bed on her own.
There are too many newspapers to read this morning, all of them quite bleeaarrgghh.
Also, she has finished reading 'Rebecca' for the fifth time.
Now, if only she could rewrite some parts of her own story. Too much rest and not much to do are making her weak.
Today her husband has his weekly off from work. So the two of them will laze about and order lunch. They'll go for walks in the evening, or possibly a movie. He's fun when he's relaxed.
She needs his help with some research she's doing. So maybe they could do that after lunch, instead of busting their eyeballs watching silly movies.
If she wants, she can tell him to make her chai, and he'll do it gladly. He makes good tea. Besides, she generally goes for a second cup an hour after the first.
Today she woke up at 11.30 a.m. As always, he didn't wake her up, quietly answering doors and reading the papers till she stumbled out of bed on her own.
There are too many newspapers to read this morning, all of them quite bleeaarrgghh.
Also, she has finished reading 'Rebecca' for the fifth time.
Now, if only she could rewrite some parts of her own story. Too much rest and not much to do are making her weak.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Housewife from Hell - Part I
She wakes up after her husband, makes him his tea and breakfast, waves goodbye when he leaves for work, and makes instant noodles for her lunch.
The moment her tummy's even half full, her eyes begin to close. So it's time for a short nap spanning two hours.
After which she wakes up, makes her second cup of chai for the day, starts writing. There is, as yet, no method to the madness she is writing down, but she persists.
Evening is time for household chores, post seven thirty p.m. Sabzi to be made, rotis to be rolled, sometimes a glass of buttermilk to set aside for him. Then she oils her hair and washes it an hour later.
He never comes home before 11 pm, so she has a lot of time to think and set the house in order. Sometimes she cleans up, other times she thinks.
At times a friend may call, informing her of a job opportunity somewhere. She promises to send her CV and forgets the conversation five seconds later. When she remembers it again, she doesn't send the CV.
All day, she plugs music in her ears to keep out the thoughts. The thoughts don't always go away.
What happens when you have no job, no motivation to look for another one and a bagful of fear of what will be? You get me.
The moment her tummy's even half full, her eyes begin to close. So it's time for a short nap spanning two hours.
After which she wakes up, makes her second cup of chai for the day, starts writing. There is, as yet, no method to the madness she is writing down, but she persists.
Evening is time for household chores, post seven thirty p.m. Sabzi to be made, rotis to be rolled, sometimes a glass of buttermilk to set aside for him. Then she oils her hair and washes it an hour later.
He never comes home before 11 pm, so she has a lot of time to think and set the house in order. Sometimes she cleans up, other times she thinks.
At times a friend may call, informing her of a job opportunity somewhere. She promises to send her CV and forgets the conversation five seconds later. When she remembers it again, she doesn't send the CV.
All day, she plugs music in her ears to keep out the thoughts. The thoughts don't always go away.
What happens when you have no job, no motivation to look for another one and a bagful of fear of what will be? You get me.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
World of deceit
The introvert can go through an entire day hiding what she's feeling and nobody will ever know.
The woman who miscarried will cry softly into her pillow for two months, and her husband will think she has puffy eyes because of her medication.
The man with the expensive car and the big house in your part of town is facing bankruptcy and has sold everything except the car and the house.
The girl who smiles at everything goes home and cries alone every night.
The bored housewife bores herself further by watching mindless TV programmes and gossiping with the neighbours.
The top scorer in class pulls his shirt carefully over his pants to hide the welts his father gave him in last night's whipping.
The unfriendly grocer who has never smiled in the ten years you've shopped at his store goes home and plays energetically with his mentally-challenged son.
The business tycoon colours his hair to hide the cascade of grey over black.
The old madwoman on the street corner who shakes her fist at every urchin smiles beautifully if you offer her money.
The writer of this blog will promise to start working in the next two minutes and head straight to bed.
The woman who miscarried will cry softly into her pillow for two months, and her husband will think she has puffy eyes because of her medication.
The man with the expensive car and the big house in your part of town is facing bankruptcy and has sold everything except the car and the house.
The girl who smiles at everything goes home and cries alone every night.
The bored housewife bores herself further by watching mindless TV programmes and gossiping with the neighbours.
The top scorer in class pulls his shirt carefully over his pants to hide the welts his father gave him in last night's whipping.
The unfriendly grocer who has never smiled in the ten years you've shopped at his store goes home and plays energetically with his mentally-challenged son.
The business tycoon colours his hair to hide the cascade of grey over black.
The old madwoman on the street corner who shakes her fist at every urchin smiles beautifully if you offer her money.
The writer of this blog will promise to start working in the next two minutes and head straight to bed.
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