Appy Noo Ear

I am currently in the process of writing another, much longer post about my trip to Udaipur, but since it is the end of the year, I felt I had to write down something quick about what kind of year it has been.

Frankly, I am almost always filled with melancholy at the end of things: movies, years, ages. Surprisingly, I am not sad to see this year go. I don't feel like I have just sat in one place with little movement this year. Which is not to say that it has been the stuff of legend. From afar, it has still been a remarkably quiet and lonely year. For everyone who knows me, I have been more active than many years past.

My passion for both reading and writing has returned in strong form this year. As has my ambition for work. I still loathe the company of human beings, but friends will attest to the fact that I have tried my best to be more social this year.

Change is meant to arrive in increments. Very few things in life change radically. Given that, I think this year has mostly been a step towards something. At least, I hope that it has. Beyond that, I am still unsure. Which is maybe not such a terrible thing for someone like me.

One Year Older, One Year Closer

The 'closer' in the title I am referring to is not 'closer to who I really want to be' or 'closer to who I really should be', but 'closer to death'. I know, I realize, I'm being glass-half-empty girl. I'm only almost 26, I'm somewhat healthy, I have a job. These are things that the majority of the world's population does not have. I know this.

And yet, I can not help but be depressed once more. A part of it is the natural trajectory that this day takes for me. I can never ever be joyful on this day. My birthday is not a happy day, this will never change. The other part of it is the annual reminder of just how old I am, and just how little of what I wanted I have achieved. And a grim admonition of how much closer I am to being a has-been.

No one seems to get it, of course. I just come off like an ungrateful curmudgeon, which I probably am. There is nothing to celebrate though. And I wish everyone would leave me alone to crawl into my bed and pretend just for a day that I do not exist.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, Happy Birthday, Me. Try not to fuck this one up.

Godless

Christopher Hitchens has cancer. He says he will be extremely lucky if he lives another 5 years. Christopher Hitchens, if you did not already know, is a world famous atheist. What about this is newsworthy? Well, for starters, he remains a committed atheist even after his diagnosis, and has resisted all pressure to 'convert', or to begin to 'believe'.

I am an atheist. I have been for more than a decade. In my opinion, there are two ways to argue the idea of a 'god', or for that matter, any other belief in the world. You can argue it logically, or emotionally. When a logical argument meets an emotional one, I don't believe that there is any scope for discussion or discovery. One is based on a dispassionate, rational premise, and the other based in the inexplicable realm of feeling. Really, that's like comparing an apple to an orangutan.

When it comes to logic, the atheists have the victory. Neither religion nor faith can really convince us that their side has any basis in logic, whatsoever. It is when people describe their faith emotionally, that we falter. In what possible way can we counter when someone explains to us, often eloquently, what they feel. How can we argue against a person who describes the joy they feel in prayer, or in the firm knowledge they possess that there is someone or something that is permanently on their side?

In this same way, when I find that people attempt to convince me of the existence of their 'god', I have both the logical and emotional explanation. Emotionally speaking, there is no god. When I am happy, or sad, or unspeakably alone, there is no one in the dark, holding my hand. I feel no presence, or light or joy that others describe. And I am completely and utterly happy with that status quo. My mistakes are my own, my conclusions are my own, my vision is my own and my success is my own. No one handed me anything, and no one guided me. No one, and nothing.

Which brings me back to the beginning of this little piece. Why would Hitchens suddenly start to believe once he has been told that he will die? It infuriates me that religious people consider our atheism merely a stance or a phase, one that will fade when truly terrible news, like impending death, is delivered to us. It's as if they do not believe that our belief system offers us a way to cope with the end of life. I believe, when I die, I will be dead. My mother will cry, my best friend will be lost and my brother will claim all my things for his own. And I will be dead. That will be that. That particular conclusion does not fill me with dread, it does not terrify me, and it will not, in the distant (or perhaps near) future, send me running to the church or the temple in search of 'meaning' when I am faced with my own mortality.

So, here's the thing, I am happy to be a passionate disbeliever, to call people out on the utter nonsense that is the idea of a god. And I really do wish you would let me be.

A Letter To The Editor

This morning, the cover of last month's Spectator magazine was pointed out to me. I found it so offensive that I immediately typed out a strongly worded email to the Editor of the publication. The following is the letter, and the image that provoked it.

Dear Editor,

I must admit, until 15 minutes ago, I had not heard very much about your publication. From my cursory research, which basically involved me checking out your website, you seem to be a respectable publication, with a wide area of coverage.

This is the reason I was appalled at the cover of last month's issue of Spectator. For an article written by Jo Johnson, your cover story, you had the picture of David Cameron as a snake charmer. It's not that we as Indians don't enjoy racist stereotyping by our former colonizers, it's that we think you could do so much better. Why go back to the old snake charmer bit when you can use the 'all Indians work in call centres' bit, or perhaps the 'all Indians are cowherds' bit or maybe even the 'all Indians are computer technicians' bit. Wouldn't your article have been much more attractive to the average buyer of your magazine if Cameron was playing cowherd to the stubborn brown native cow??

I haven't read your article. For all I know, Jo Johnson has cast all Indians as saints who have cracked the meaning to life in the article. What I do know is that hook that you have used to get a consumer to buy your publication is an offensive, racist and colonial stereotype. And you should really be ashamed of yourself for propagating the same views that the British believed entitled your country to enslave and exploit mine for several centuries.

Regards

Turn It Off

Some time back, I read a piece that really resonated with me. Oddly enough, it was on the Huffington Post, written by Josh Radnor. Now, you may know Radnor better as Ted Mosby on How I Met Your Mother, and may therefore be wondering about the odd source of inspiration. It wasn't how he wrote, as much as what he wrote about. He took on a challenge to rid himself of most modern gadgets for a week, and thus ended up cutting 24-7 internet news out of his life. He talks about a lot of other things, but the whole 'no news' aspect of it intrigued me.

I have a challenging and unusual job. As a political analyst, I am required to be constantly aware of the world around me. As a news junkie since age 13, I can not seem to help myself. To give you some perspective on the extent of the problem, I here present some statistics. On an average, I read the following sources of news 'cover-to-cover', every single day. The Hindu, The Washington Post, The New York Times, Time, The Times of India, The Hindustan Times, The NewYorker, The Huffington Post, NDTV 24-7, CNN, BBC and CNN-IBN. Apart from this, I have to check the headlines every half hour or so, lest I start to feel disconnected. I don't even feel that way when I haven't spoken to my mother or best friend in a couple of weeks, but I feel it when I go an hour without the news. I also have 2 separate news rolls that run on my personal computer 24 hours a day that collect news from literally every source in the world, from People magazine to Al-Jazeera.

This feeling of disconnectedness escalates to panic when there's a major news event occurring that I can not update myself on as it happens. Now, for an average person, a major news event is the World Cup Final, or the assassination of a major head of government. For a political analyst, every election, major or minor is a news event, every crisis is a news event, every joint press conference by Ministers of Foreign Affairs is a news event. If I don't know what is happening as it happens, then I feel like the world is rushing past me.

The final factor that contributes to my news addiction is the fact that I am a raging insomniac. This means that I spend many a sleepless night restlessly scouring the internet for editorials and opinion pieces. All in all, my addiction to political news coverage has reached a zenith.

This in itself, constitutes a problem. However, I have a larger worry. There's no such thing as good news or positive coverage. Hardly anybody writes about all the puppies and rainbows in the world. Almost everybody writes about death, destruction, climate change, drugs, prostitution, terrorism, hypocrisy, pettiness, malcontention, addiction, famewhoring, recession, child pornography, fanaticism, anger, misogyny, and other things that fit on that list, which seems to go on forever. In essence, I have surrounded myself with all the bad things in the world. I have seeped my brain in every single thing that can or has or will go wrong. 20 out of 24 hours in a day, I feel like the world is going to hell in a hand basket. Which, I think, leads back to the insomnia and panic.

So, here's the thing. Turn it off. It maybe too late for me, but for the love of your own sanity and ability to fall asleep, turn it off.

One Whole Decade

I have a longer piece planned, that is in a different vein from all that I have thus far written about him, but today, I had to write it down. Today has been terrible, because today, he has been gone ten years, two-fifths of my life, all of my adulthood, one whole decade.

James Taylor wrote:
Just yesterday morning they let me know you were gone
Susanne the plans they made put an end to you
I walked out this morning and I wrote down this song
I just can't remember who to send it to

I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again.

He would sing this to me, he had a fantastic voice, good enough to go pro. And I know he genuinely believed it, he called me Susanna, he always thought he would see me again. He never did. I wish I had more of him than pictures and genetics. Most of all, I wish I knew how to stop feeling like this. For the first time in a long time, I desperately wish he was here. I still can't believe it's been ten years, two-fifths of my life, one whole decade.

Anger

Most of the time these days, I firmly believe that I have a handle on my temper. For those of my readers that don't know me personally, I have a famous temper, quick to ignite, and violently explosive in its fury. In my dotage, I believe that I have gotten better at controlling it. In fact, it has been quite a while since I threw a chair at somebody in anger, or slammed a door repeatedly to rid myself of violent energy.

Today is different. I find myself to be so angry, that I'm actually sitting at my desk in quiet, seething, murderous rage. I'm not acting my anger out, and thus expunging it from my system. That can not be good news for anyone, least of all me.

Too many things seem to be slipping out of my control, and I so desperately need a break from my own life. So, here's the thing, I'm hoping I go the entire day without killing anyone, or myself. I really, fervently hope that. That would be a good end to this terrible, terrible, terrible day.

The Parting Glass

Of all the money e'er I had,
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm I've ever done,
Alas! it was to none but me.
And all I've done for want of wit
To mem'ry now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all


But since it falls unto my lot,
That I should go and you should not,
I gently rise and softly call,
Good night and joy be with you all.

Victim's Rights

I watched a piece of news today (on the interwebs, I no longer own a television) about a young girl, 11, who was raped on a train in India. While reporting the news the channel, owned by a prominent Indian newspaper, repeatedly showed the young girl, her face covered with a piece of cloth, being led away by some adults while news cameras chased after her. Let me mention again that this girl was only 11 years old.

This isn't the first time I have witnessed this particular phenomenon. News channels in India, desperate for news to fill their wall-to-wall coverage of every single thing that goes on in India, have no qualms about hounding victims and showing their pictures on TV, or even giving out their name and personal details. Unfortunately, very often in this country, those victims happen to be minors.

How come there is no regulation on who gets to disclose the names of victims, or for that matter criminals, who are under the age of 18? In countries in the west, the US, the UK, France, etc. press services and legitimate news organizations do not, DO NOT, give out the names of any members of a story, if they are under the age of 18. This is done to protect the privacy of the minor child. What is more, in most places in the world, they are legally prohibited from revealing sensitive information about the minor, such as their name and location to prevent any further trouble from befalling them.

Does this not seem like a useful measure for the Indian government to implement to keep rabid journalists with little regard for the future of the child, at bay? It is not the duty of the media to protect the privacy of the child, it is the job of the government and the police. You can not expect the media to be judicious and take into account what is best for a child that has just been raped or assaulted, it is the job of the government to do so.

So, here's the thing, I am not very fond of children, I think that has been repeated ad nauseam on this blog, and as such, can now be counted as fact. However, I am unflinchingly right-wing on the matter of protection for minors. And this seems to me a big and glaring shortcoming on the part of news organizations and the Government of India, which no one seems in any particular hurry to fix.

Dancing Baby Visions

I wonder how you overcome neuroses. Not the kind of neuroses that you see in Ally McBeal or Grey's Anatomy, rich, entitled young people acting up because they believe themselves to be 'outsiders' or 'different'. No, when I say neuroses I'm not thinking about Calista Flockhart's dancing baby visions. When I say neuroses, I am thinking of the deeply entrenched quality of 'fucked-upness' that comes with never ever really having been a whole, happy human being.

Is it merely a condition that you overcome? A disease that you fight? Or is a simply an affect that you put on to make yourself feel more special than your neighbour, to make your pain have greater meaning, to make your sorrow out to have a reason above the sorrows of all others? Is it a mere luxury the wealthy and privileged have, a sense of melancholy that permeates your being, because you do not have to wake up every morning and worry about 'roti, kapda, aur makaan'?

How do you explain to all the people who call you weird and laugh at your "quaint little eccentricities", that you aren't putting on a show for their benefit or for their attention? How do you paint a picture of the world you live in, the people and places that inhabit your memories? And finally, most importantly, is it such a terrible thing to be so completely different from your peers? Not the kind of different that people celebrate, but the kind of different that invites confusion and bemusement from all others, is that kind of different such a terrible thing?

I find that I am so entrenched in my differentness, in my neuroses, that I can not even reach for the things that I seem to want despite myself. My motto has always been:life sucks, then you die. It is a motto that is born from deep consideration and 25 years of experience. It is my truth, life sucks, then you die. So how do I overcome all that baggage, to live comfortably in a world where people can not understand why I am still single, or why I don't drink, or why I can't sleep. Perhaps that is the crux of the matter, inhabiting this world, with its rules and norms on other people's terms. Why is that necessary to a secure life?

Mostly, it seems to me that conformity to other people's version of happiness is the key to 'fitting in', to being 'one with the world', to being 'a whole human being', to being all that malarkey that books and magazines and movies convince you is vital. You must want the husband and the 2.67 children and the house with the dogs and the servants and the cars. You must want all of those things. If it turns out that you don't want all of that, then you are merely adopting a pose to get attention, you are pretending to rebel for the benefit of theatrics. It can NOT possibly be that there is an entire person out there that does not believe these many items to be the key to the universe.

So, here's the thing, my neuroses has gotten in my way, and apparently the way of all the people who interact with me, only to walk away shaking their heads wondering, "Huh?" Maybe I am not the expert on what will make me happy, but maybe, just maybe, the world isn't either.

It's been a while

It has indeed been a while since I have written coherently about my life on this space. Instead, I have taken to posting lyrics as a way of expressing myself. While the lyrics themselves are beautiful, at least according to me, I can't help but feel that I have cheated by using someone else's words as opposed to my own.

The last week has found me bursting with nervous energy, for some wholly unfathomable reason. Music seems to have the power to calm me down, and extract the nervousness from my body.

That is all. I don't know what else. Also, this is post 100. Yay me, right?

Sonnet 116 - William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds.
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be an error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

You Belong To Me - The 88

I treat it like a high school dance,
Waiting in the wings for my big chance.
But I would only stare at my shoes
You belong to me, I belong to you.

I could tell an antique lie,
Full of all the things I want to hide.
But that would only lead to the truth,
You belong to me, I belong to you

But I'm lazy and I'll pull you down
Where you won't want to be
And I'm tasting what's pouring out of you
What am I supposed to do?

I could play a trick so strange
Cover up my ears and pray for rain.
But that would only give you the blues
You belong to me, I belong to you