Sanjay Dutt sentenced...

...but Judge Kode should be made accountable.

Sanjay Dutt has been given six years’ rigorous imprisonment. What will the Shiv Sena MLAs be rewarded with?

Do you think I am saying this because Sanjay is a celebrity? No. I have been harping on justice for the riot victims and for cases against those criminals to be tried for years. The Sena’s Madhukar Sarpotdar did not possess one AK-47, but several arms. And if any of you had visited those areas you would know what devastation was caused by the way he incited not only the public and his henchmen but also the police.

Sanjay Dutt has already spent 15 months in prison in solitary confinement for a crime he did not commit. Who is culpable for this? The State? The Judiciary? They say that these months will be counted as part of the six-year jail term. I want to know how being put in an ‘anda cell’ is the same as this? He was exonerated from terrorism charges, then how does the state compensate for that? Let us use this example to show the complete arrogance with which the government and justice system operates. Let us raise these questions about the thousands of under-trials in our prisons, about those who are arrested for ‘terrorism’, about encounter deaths. Let us make someone accountable.

And that someone is the Government of India. The Judiciary. The Police. Don’t tell me I am “sympathising” with criminals, because a criminal is not answerable to me or you. The government, the judiciary, the police are. They are our servants. They call themselves public servants.

As usual the language of this verdict by the special TADA court Judge, P D Kode, needs to be examined. Here are a few gems and my reaction:

* Kode also observed it was an "eminently dangerous act" as the weapon possessed by Dutt was capable of mass destruction though the accused had not used the weapons.

This is like saying that because men possess a penis rape is possible.

* Dutt acquired the weapons to "protect" his family in the aftermath of sectarian violence that erupted in Mumbai following the demolition of the Babri mosque in late 1992.

Yes. A lot of people did. The poor in the bastis could not get guns so they learned to make petrol bombs or wanted to. Ask me. I know. And I am saying it. They were bloody scared. You would be if everytime you stepped out you were asked to drop your pants and show that you had a foreskin cut, what the great Shiv Sena chief called “katuas”.

And for that, 15 years later, a Muslim still has difficulty getting an apartment in this metropolis. This too is mass destruction of a community’s identity, self-esteem and the basic right to accommodation. Read Ghettoes reserved for Muslims.

* Kode said the character of the accused is very important while considering if they deserved relief under the POA (Probation of Offenders) Act. He pointed out that apart from possessing the weapons, Dutt was a close acquaintance of Anees Ibrahim and attended a party hosted by Dawood Ibrahim in Dubai.

Just one party? Go through the archives of newspapers and TV news in good old national Doordarshan. Does the judge want a list of film stars who attended parties, danced at his parties, enjoyed his hospitality?

* Regarding the nature of the crime, Kode said generally, crime happens at the hands of any one man but Dutt drew another person to commit a crime which showed "high element of criminality."

He asked somebody to keep arms. Was the person forced into it? What was the motivation for the other person to follow Dutt’s diktat?

* Kode, however, said the crimes committed by Dutt and his friends Adajania and Nulwalla were not "anti-social, ghastly, inhuman, immoral or pre-planned" and did not cause any harm to the general public.

Great. Thank you. Terms like “mass destruction”, “high level of criminality”, “dangerous act”, bad character…where did they all disappear, Your Honour?

When you keep weapons as protection it is pre-planned.

If, according to law, you possess weapons, it is anti-social.

How do you define “ghastly”? When the barrel of the gun looks ominously into a face? The judge is watching too may Hindi films and those “Shhh…Koi hai” type TV series.

Not inhuman? Good heavens. It cannot be…humans are the worst animals every way you look at it.

Not immoral? But did you not say, My Lord, that the character is very important?

This whole judgment has been a soap opera. I am not going to plead Dutt’s case. But, following the words of the judgment, I would like the same ones applied to the Bombay riots cases, as and when they are brought before the courts.

They will be, won’t they? I would love to see the verdict passed along the lines of anti-social, ghastly, inhuman, immoral, pre-planned.
- - -

Update on a couple of ‘serious’ points on a TV panel discussion:

“This will send out a message that all are equal before the law.”

How many politicians and their family members are given such sentences, if they are arrested at all? How many bureaucrats? How many industrialists?

“He acted in films playing the role of the don or criminal. Then suddenly he changed into this Munnabhai.”

This is such a weak accusation. Amitabh Bachchan, Shahrukh Khan, Hritik Roshan have all enacted such roles at different points in time. And our nice guy Govinda was one of the stars photographed with Dawood Ibrahim. He became a Member of Parliament.

A very short conversation - 14

“Someone has wondered why you did not post for more than 24 hours,” said a friend.

“Are there more than 24 hours in the day? Like 25 or 26? Then the day would be longer and I would have more time.”

“He thought you might be ill…”

“Can an illness be ill?”

The last embrace

The Last Embrace

Irises shine like sunbeams
I poke into them
Till they fall into the sockets
Now look into my eyes
And speak out your fears
Hear the echo
Of those unshed tears

Come here
Let me touch you with icicle fingers
Sharp, cold
You wince
No one has ever done this

Your heat turns the tips
To steam
I have nothing left to hold
No one has ever done this

I chop off my arms
Leave them at the door
You run into their embrace
The limbs fall to the floor

You look for me in the air
A sharp wind blows
The scent of jasmine breathes
A petal falls
Like a kiss upon your cheek
You crush it in your hands
It is too delicate to withstand
Passion that is meant to perish

You go back
The door closes
I pick up the arms in my mouth
Like a dog carrying bones
And dig the soil with my feet
To bury them deep

If someday I return to find a tree
Spread over it like a canopy
I shall know that my last embrace
Was not in vain

~FV

My armour is fragile

Dignity. I have begun to have doubts about this term and all that it stands for. What the heck have I got after saying, “At least I am conducting myself with grace and poise”, except for the occasional pat on the back which could at anytime turn into a stab, and I won’t even know because the road ahead and the one near my feet look the same? Aren’t they? How does one then tell the difference about distances, grown longer or fonder?

After months of agonising internally and pretending all is well, if the facade of dignity cracks even a bit, that becomes the greater betrayal. So, in effect, we are cheating ourselves.

Who has asked us to give unconditionally, to believe every word uttered, to give others time, to give them space…when we have lost all concept of time, have filled our space with other people’s concerns? Did anyone ask us to? Why must we assume that all human interactions are equal transactions? And when we realise they are unequal, we put on this great act of being able to handle it, for we are dignified creatures who never falter.

Most of the time I have to keep up the pretense. I too need time to heal, to be normal. I cannot say that everyone expects me to be perfect (my imperfections are too delectable to be thrown away!), but yes, I am considered some sort of superwoman who gives as good as she gets, can handle all situations, stands like a rock in times of crises, even when the crises are created by her.

I am not always like that. I know it. But it is tough to sell your weaknesses to others, especially if you do not want them to sympathise with you. You only want them to know that you cannot climb mountains, that perhaps mountains do not even appeal to you; so I wait as verdict upon verdict is passed. I felt good when a cousin had hugged me close a while ago and said, “Oh, I did not know you were such a phuss…we admired you because you were so calm and clear about things.” Had I asked for that admiration in the first place? Then why did I start worrying about whether their admiration had lessened?

Sometimes when I speak to people, I go into this trance-like state where I am having an internal monologue and it includes moments of sheer poignancy for me. And there is silence at the other end. It is as though they have had to avert their gaze from the mountain peak to the valley!

How do I tell them they will not find me even there? I am a sea person; I find my grittiness in sand, and I like to lose myself in the froth of the waves, only to emerge again, saline streaming down my face. Water makes me feel light. I wish people knew that sometimes I am afraid of heights.

Imprisoned sky: Quaid aasmaan

Quaid aasmaan

Uss shaam meri khidki se
Baadalon ko aag ki aaghosh mein dekha
Door imaaraton par raakh gir rahi thi
Hawaa garam saansein lekar
Raat mein apni sharmindagi chhupane ke liye be-bas
Khatkhatane lagi meri khidki par
Uske jalte hue jism ko thi meri zaroorat
Paani ki chheentein to pohunch nahin sakte itni oonchaee tak
Tau aasman ko hi quaid kar diya
Yeh aur baat hai ki salaakhon ke peechhe tau main hoon

~FV

- - -

Obviously, the poem is not ‘true’. I recall being in the kitchen and running to get the camera to capture the scene. This was on July 23, 5.49 pm. I completely forgot that the grilles were in the way and beyond my reach. So I went into my room and took another picture. This time through the glass. I have put up these perfectly imperfect photographs to show how we need to throw open our doors and windows to revel in the immensity of nature or free minds. And neither can ever be imprisoned.

Remembering two-year-old rains

Bright sunshine. Two years ago on this day there was death and devastation due to the monsoons. Homes were destroyed, people suffocated in cars and died, boats were used to reach to safety. Last year I was out on the day and I had penned this somewhere…

I did not know I would ever have to fear the rains. This morning as I set out, it was pouring. The sky was a blur from my window. It often is the only thing that is not a blur...

I carried a bottle of water and a packet of Glucose biscuits. There were lots of loose sheets of paper that I could write on. What did I imagine – that were we drenched the papers would be safe and dry? Was the ink indelible, the words indestructible?

The traffic was moving slowly. Rain-soaked beggars, flower-sellers continuing to ply their trade. One vendor pressed a bunch of large yellow roses against the glass, and in that one act of trying to get me to buy something that was a minute ago bringing sunshine to the grey sky he had flattened them into death-like faces staring at me. I turned away.

The wiper made an incessant sound that was drowned with the swoosh of water falling. Why do we still love that which is capable of destroying?

Should I laugh....

or must I crack up with laughter?

“Indian Muslims and Pakistanis need to apply their god-given intelligence to whether they really want Indian Hindus to believe in the two nation theory or not - keeping in mind that if an Indian Hindu believes in two-nation theory that means that Indian Hindu believes Muslims have no place in India.” (From a comment posted below)

Oh my, my. A person who says Pakistan has no business to interfere in Indian affairs – and that is true – is giving them the opportunity to use their god-given intelligence to see whether Indian Hindus (IHs) want a two-nation theory. Leave Pakistan out of this. Indian Muslims have an identity of their own and are the ones who will use their intelligence, god-given or acquired from simians like the rest of the world or through questioning, analysing or while poking out their lard-filled butts five times a day.

Here is what I want to say:

1. IHs cannot believe in any such two-nation theory. It isn’t their job to decide in a secular republic.
2. The IH cannot decide that Muslims have no place in India because we form a substantial part of the population.
3. Should the Indian Constitution be changed, then IHs will have to leave out several areas within states that have a large Muslim population, and that includes some great places in Mumbai, half of the Hindi film industry, all of the slaughter-houses, tanneries, the sea-front where the Haji Ali dargah is and the Taj Mahal too…now that you have made it into one of the Wonders of the World, it will be a tough call to take.
4. On what basis will the two-nation theory be floated? Since the idea is a Hindu’s, however hypothetical it may be, then they will have to find a state, right? Just as Jinnah did. So, if you want to fantasise, then start working really hard on how to realise that fantasy. Because the only time I move my ass is when I rock-and-roll (wherever) and travel to lands carrying little Indian knick-knacks. And then I return home. Geddit?

PS: Will someone wipe the smile off my face? I feel like a cat that has licked all the cream. Yes, I belong to the creamy layer, honey. And if you have a problem with an Indian Muslim who isn’t curdled milk that you can throw away, then just too bad.

Those who really want to froth some more at the mouth, and missed it, might try to see what I had to say about Black Friday.

The Hindu-Muslim reaction

I did expect some reaction to the piece below, but not like this. In all fairness and to give a sample of how India thinks, I reproduce 3 letters. (I have left out names, locations and specific organisations; the rest remains.)

Two very differing Hindu perspectives, and a real incident about what an educated Muslim faces.

Letter 1

So you are saying Dawood is like any of our next door neighbors and we
should be missing him. This article is them most eloquently written
peiece of garbage supporting the killers.

You want the Jihadis to be free so they can blow more people untill
there is some kind of stone age muslim rule in india. Why dont you
say it out loud..may be you are saving it for another day.

How long is it before you advise us to make some Imam as supreme
leader of the country. You are nothing but a disgrace for muslims if
not for humanity. Try to find something positive and advocate it not
killing innocents.

I wish you and all your family gets blown up in oneof those trains so
I dont have to burn you in the same train. Thats the only language you
people understand. Dont worry thats the only thing you will get from
now on. Godhra is the begining, 60 year vacation is over.

Letter 2

Dear Ms. Farzana Versey:

I am X from Y, and I think your ‘The noose around our neck’ justifies your self-description as a 'maverick'.

While your dissection of Kade’s judgment portrays your brilliant analytical ability, I find the reasoning in matters of religious reform and terrorism is stymied as is the case with most of the intellectuals who happen to earn space in our media. Well, it is nobody’s case that one should deride his, or her, religion but an articulation or two about the incongruities of one’s religion by even a few would insensibly set the trend in any given community to think differently.

About your question - When was the last Hindu reform movement? The Brahmo Samaj? One must see the Brahmo Samaj as but a catalyst in the Hindu reformation process which is sustained by the ever weakening grip of Brahmanism on the communal ethos. This is brought about by the modernity of the Brahmin community that is slowly but surely making a difference to the Hindu society bedeviled by many an ill. Likewise, unless and until the Mullah-Moulvi sway is weakened on their community, there can never be any meaningful change in the way Muslims are conditioned to think about themselves and those around them.

I had applied my mind to the role religions play in fomenting as well as cementing communal strife, and the result of the exercise is (name of research paper) that I first self-published in 2003. I am attaching the revised e-edition and I hope you would find it interesting to peruse the same in your spare time.

Hope you would take my remarks in the right spirit.

Letter 3:

Hello, Farzana Versey,

I just read your piece God Acquitted. It came as a breath of fresh air.

I am a retired professor of philosophy but even in my academic days I
was active as an investor in the stock market, as a sort of hobby which
incidentally made a lot of money. With some of my earnings there I had
financed a technology company. When we needed to raise some more capital along the way we applied for funding from an arm of the Science and Technology Ministry. One of the experts the Ministry called was a
Professor X. It was not a good choice as he happened to be the founder and owner of a company that was our potential competitor. He turned up at three in the afternoon, long after the substantial part of the meeting, with the rest of the experts, had concluded, and as we were wrapping things up after a leisurely lunch. He asked for a few minutes in private with the other experts. I learned later that his sole comment was, How do we know Dr Y (the writer of this note) didn't get his funds from Dawood? That was his only intervention, but it served his purpose. By the time, months later, I finished establishing my bona fides with the Ministry, the whole thing had gone cold.

i wonder if government funding for Hindu businessmen will ever get held
up while they prove they have not been trafficking in the body parts of
Muslims killed in fake encounters.

Anyway, thanks for the article.

God acquitted!

Maverick: God acquitted!
by Farzana Versey
The Asian Age, Op-ed, July 24, 2007

Haji Mastan looked at my fingernails that were at the time rather long, neatly filed and painted with toffee-coloured varnish. He asked me, his gaze still fixed on my talons, “Mussalman?”

Since my nails professed no religion, I assumed the query was directed at me. I nodded. What followed was a short lecture on Islamic nails. 9/11 was years away and America had not discovered the Muslim version of Dirty Harry. If that were so, then I would have been accused of sitting with a terrorist (though he called himself a social worker), just as Dawood Ibrahim has been branded one by the United States.

You may wonder why I am bringing up his name now. The 1993 bomb blasts’ judgement is out. Nowhere has Dawood been held responsible for it; he was not even a mastermind.

To come to the verdict, Judge P. D. Kode said: “A criminal has no religion, criminality is the only religion. It was a heinous terrorist act to kill totally innocent Mumbaikars who had no role to play in the Babri Masjid demolition and who had not hurt the accused in the riots that followed. They have unnecessarily brought disgrace to the Muslim community which has, among other communities, played a pioneer role in nation building.”

This is like saying Paris Hilton has brought disgrace upon Chihuahuas. I don’t feel disgraced at all and can we stop being pressurised into becoming pioneers? Why can we not just be zardozi embroiderers, butchers, smugglers, doctors, SIM card owners? Okay, skip the last two. As for nation-building, that is the job of those who are our elected representatives. Everytime there is one of those ‘Muslim moments’, we are asked to list out reform movements in Islam. When was the last Hindu reform movement? The Brahmo Samaj? We have to listen to nice examples, like how Azim Premji makes computers and Shahrukh Khan makes faces before the camera. These people do us proud, we are told to say. Have you heard a Hindu say he is proud of Narayana Murthy who, incidentally, has nothing to do with Hindu terrorism?

However, it is wrong to state that criminals have no religion. How many have claimed to be atheists?

Criminals do what they do by taking the cover of religion. And governments play to that. Remember how a ceasefire was declared during the month of Ramzan? Did the state imagine that militants in Kashmir would have no energy left to hold a gun only because they were not swallowing saliva?

If religion gets debased by criminals then why are holy books popular reading material in prisons? Why are priests called in before the person is to hang? And if the judge is saying that the blasts killed those who had no part to play in the demolition of the Babri Masjid, then is one to venture the dangerous theory that had the victims been those responsible for the demolition it would have been kosher?

Dawood Ibrahim was at that time busy giving interviews from Dubai about patriotism. “How do you think one feels about the country of his birth, where his family and mother still live?”

Why are criminals expected to mouth clichés? Realising that he had to take a stand he spoke lovingly about the Muslim League, as though he were a modern-day Jinnah. He was seeking a certain purity for his deeds.

Seen in a broader perspective even the devil is pure, untainted as he is by any virtue. A single-mindedness may limit a person but it also keeps him away from other diversions. The Dawood who courted the rich and famous is no more. At that time his agenda was large enough to encompass a lot of others and even have some of their fame rub off on him.

Today, he is a hunted and haunted man, hiding in a mansion with walls that have ears. His very power has made him powerless. He cannot even call himself a don, so he calls himself a businessman. He is not the first big criminal and certainly not the last. He lacks the suave intelligence of a Charles Sobhraj, the rustic charisma of a Haji Mastan or the obvious religiosity of a Varadarjan. Yet, in the Indian psyche he has surpassed them all because we have created this behemoth and never paused to think what he might have been.

A small-time actor who would one day turn producer? A pani-puri stall owner who would expand his business and open a flashy resto-bar? A mechanic who would ultimately own a garage?

The tragedy of Dawood is that he is inexorably bound to a ‘motherland’ by ties of delusion. As he had stated, “Not only was I born in India but also innumerable people in that country know that I am their ‘Bhai’.”

Had we left him to do his job he would not have become a hero. He lacks the commitment of a militant and let us accept one thing: Terrorism is a form of dissent; people do get killed, but if you like reading up trivia then it shows that the number is way fewer than those killed by donkeys. These are the only people who oppose fully, unlike civil society that continues to enjoy the handouts dished out by the System.

You can hang as many people as you wish, but all of us have a noose around our necks. We suffocate on the stereotypes we form.

The entrance

This is the door that leads to my room from the living area. If doors had voices I wonder what mine would say. That wooden carving on it is from Nepal; you cannot see the peacock in the centre. It had been lying with me for months and one day when the carpenter had come to fix up things, I asked him if he could hang this on the door. “It will fall,” he said.

And so he nailed it. I winced each time I heard the hammer. It was like someone causing hurt to the very things that would lead them to your life. I like the result, though. It looks nice when I sit on the sofa or my rocker to read or watch TV and cast a glance at the door.

Sometimes it is to make sure that my world is safe, even if there is no one around. Maybe because no one is around I fear that world.

I wonder, though, whether adding that carving has taken away from the pristine purity of the white. I don’t think so. Purity usually has a strong sense of itself; it cannot get affected so easily. When someone throws mud, it is their hands that have to pick it up and fling it. It is their need. You don’t become mud.

My door in fact looks whiter because of the contrast and it has a heart large enough to accept another, even if it did cause a bit of pain for those few moments of trying to belong. Had the door resisted and there would be wooden flakes or even a crack, the carving would have remained in some corner or perhaps on a wall. It would most certainly find a home. Eventually, all things do. But this was its destiny, for me to watch it from where I sit most times.

You might wonder what happens when I am inside the room and the door is closed. What do I see then?

One does not have to see to feel the presence of something. I know it is there and the back of the door is as much a part of my world. And when I leave it ajar I see the carving from the side and it looks different, like an ancient haveli.

It feels like a door within a door. A home within a home. A life within a life.

I watch...

From where I sleep, I can see myself. Opposite are the wardrobes with smoked mirrors.

I watch the soles of my feet and think about where they have walked; I think of hot coals that they may have stepped on. In the orange-ish light they have that glow.

I watch the protrusions as they seem less protruding in the position of repose; I nudge my elbows close to me and push them against those to see their rise again like slow waves.

I watch my arms, my palms, my fingers…I let them dance and beckon and ensnare.

I watch my neck as it cranes to see itself; I swallow hard and that movement is a quiver along its length.

I watch the chin, a sharp, some say arrogant, chin as it poses a silent challenge to the nose as it turns away to reveal cheeks that glisten with sweat; not beads but like a dab of gel all over it.

I watch the eyes burn and then turn still as the lashes caress the lower lids.

I watch the mouth as it opens up like a bud begging for dew.

I watch as the tongue leaves it with momentary wetness.

I watch the hair splaying all over the pillow like tentacles touching shoulders, afraid to grab.

I watch as the lights are switched off and I can see nothing.

I watch as I am erased from my own image, a mirror that refuses to acknowledge me.

I watch my sleep whip up a dream.

I watch the dream as it throttles me.

I watch as I wake up to the ridges on my throat, the blue marks all over. The dream had no choice. It had to kill me or itself. It chose to die.

Can dreams be reincarnated?

Madam President!

Finally, Pratibha Patil made it. I watched as the brigade went on and on about how unfit she is. I have written enough if you scroll down...right now I can only say that it is great to have a woman and I hope she concentrates on many issues and not just those of women. It is anyway the men that need to be enlightened in my country.

I reproduce below my letter the The Asian Age on this offensive cartoon that had appeared around a month ago...

July 22, 07 Pallu vs Jeans

Sir:

Sudhir Tailang’s cartoon (Here and Now, June 20) taking a swipe at Pratibha Patil, presidential nominee, was offensive. It showed her with her head covered and the pallu reaching down her forehead while a TV anchor in trendy westernised clothes shoves a mike at her. She is shown saying, “After 60 years of independence, we must end the purdah system.” If the idea was to highlight the irony of the situation, then it does not work. Ms. Patil covers her head as do many women in several parts of the country. Her so-called remarks about the veil notwithstanding, the cartoon polarises women like her against the jeans-clad rookie reporters who seem to sit in judgment these days on important national issues. Are we to completely ignore the contribution of the ‘saathins’ in Rajasthan who cover their heads but fight against sati? What about the milk co-operative movement in Gujarat that has many women and they do cover their heads? The problem with us urbanites is that we look at things in such a narrow fashion. Dr. Zakir Hussein always wore his fez cap, so did Fakhruddin Ali Ahmed. Many male politicians use the Gandhi cap. Covering the head is a part of cultural attuning in some parts of the country and world and does not necessarily reveal a lack of enlightenment. Scrape the clinging garments of some of these lycra ladies and you will find a conservative as deep as their cleavage.

<--Another one from around the same time.

If I were...wanna make friendship....

Like many people in ‘visible’ professions, I get letters from strangers. Here is one received a couple of days ago in response to my column on the environment. How the contents prompted the following beats me. Of course, it could be someone trying to pull one on me…

I do not wish to demean the person in any manner. I just found it inspiring enough for me to figure out how different people might respond…

The letter

Hi Farzana,

ASAK,

I had read ur article in the Deccan Chronicle. I liked ur language and off course ur pic which was there. So got interested in u. I too am an intellectual person and would be interested in making friendship with a sweet lady like you.

So kindly let me know ur interest. By the way i am X years Muslim Male, fromY, India

Waiting for your reply.

Thanks and Allah Hafiz

Z

The possible replies

If I were a government official

Dear Z:

I am in receipt of the blueprint of your proposal for extending hand of friendship. I will need to call a meeting, form a committee and present a feasibility report regarding co-ordination of intellectual level. After perusal of the same, similar interests, if any, will be communicated to you to which you shall revert back within a period of 7 days. Thank you for taking an interest and for liking the language and the pic thereof.

Yours sincerely,

Sd…This is a computerised note; no signature required.

If I were a committed Muslim

Wassalam

Bohat shukria, badee meherbani…only a Muslim can understand a Muslim’s pain. All Muslim languages are the same, all Muslims look the same, all Muslims are intellectual in a hadith way and all Muslims are sweet. We must be like brothers and sisters. I am glad you are interested in my jihad for friendship.

Allah aapko khush rakhe,

F bibi

If I were a rightwing Hindutva type

Mossie rat:

Keep your Allah to yourself. Typical behaviour getting excited about language. You even know how to read with all that madrassa training? You call yourself intellectual only because your buddies know how to make bombs? Don’t talk sweet-sweet. All you Mossies only know one sweet, which is some sevaiyan crap. Go stuff it in your bearded mouth.

Jai Sri Ram!

If I were young and very with-it in cyber terms

Hey Zuzu:

Dats like awesome. Sure sure wud luv friendship. I find intellectuals soooo exciting, maan. They can talk about nuttin. Rite now im wid dis bloke and like he is real kewl. But u sound like a dude. I will add you to my hi-fi friends list, k? den we can chat like for hrs. Wanna know sumting? U sound so damn fun & ur sweet also. Btw, am eatin choc chip cookies rite now. Mmmm…

C ya sooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnnn.

Ur fifi

If I were a feminist on a hot tin roof

Z:

This is an insult to the sistahood. First talk about your pic, then comment on mine. You want to make it seem like this is all I am. And you mention the language as an afterthought that you put first only to express a fake interest in my mind. We wimmin are not going to take it lying down and don’t you sweet-talk me. You cussed piece of stupidity.

F hyphen X

(Signed by 20 other sistahs)

If I were…ahem-ahem….me…

Hello Z:

While I do appreciate feedback, I prefer it remains within the realm of the subject. Besides, I do not see myself as an intellectual or sweet. What is an intellectual? How does your intellectualism and another’s mean the same? And sweet – are there not degrees of sweetness? What does it really mean? Is bitter the opposite or is it just an extension of a taste?

Thanks for writing in but I am afraid friendship is an indefinable term.

Best,

FV

Damn, I cussed!

I avoid using foul language in personal communication. (Voice in background: Such a nutcase. Does it mean she uses it in official communication? Other voice: No, no, she sometimes writes stuff like that, you know…) Except for damn, shit, hell, bitch (usually for myself) which I am afraid have become a part of punctuating.

Yes, it makes me feel good that I don’t use abusive words. I do it for myself, for my self-esteem. Perhaps in very close intimate company I might utter an expletive.

When I say fuck, I mean it…as in ‘fetch’. Okay?

So, I surprised myself the other day when I used a fairly horrendous word in Urdu/Hindi. “You are such a chootiya,” I told him. It wasn’t meant to be literal, but even then it was not something I would condone. I don’t even know what it really means, although I have a fair idea.

This was the second time I used the word. The first time was with an Egyptian friend. He was dropping me off somewhere at Jumeirah in Dubai; the traffic was bad and he was edgy. A SUV did what SUVs do…overtake. He lost his cool. “Indians, Indians, everywhere!”

“Hello,” I said. “I am Indian.”

“You are different.”

Well, I am…at least I was nowhere like that bloke who moved his vehicle like a bulldozer.

“Come on, come on, tell me some baad wordh thu give him…”

“Chootiya…” my tongue whipped it out like a magic wand.

“Wallah! What it means?”

“Very bad,” I said.

I thought I was inculcating subcontinental values in the Arab mind.

Next thing I know is he had rolled down the glass and was yelling out, “Ay, ay, shoot-ya.”

“Wait,” I restrained him. “If you have to, then at least say it right.”

Oh, the driver of that offending vehicle mattered no more. My friend was on a roll.

Till we reached Jumeirah I had to listen to his rendition of the different ways of saying ‘shoot-ya’… It was slightly better than his version of Bob Marley, though.

Yup, there he was humming and asked me, “You know Boob Marlee?”

“Yes…I like him a lot…”

“Gooth…listen…Woy, yoy, yoy…” he began tapping the steering wheel…

“Boofellow soljur, dhreadhlock raster
There was a boofellow soljur in the harth of Amerikha,
Stholan from Aafrica, broughth to Amerikha,
Farthing on arrawal, farthing for surwawul…”

Oh, it was soon my destination. He opened the door for me and as I waved out, he called back, “Habibi, shoot-ya!”

PS: For those who want the real words of Bob Marley:

“Buffalo Soldier, Dreadlock Rasta:
There was a Buffalo Soldier in the heart of America,
Stolen from Africa, brought to America,
Fighting on arrival, fighting for survival.”

News meeows - 6

A building collapsed in Mumbai. A most touching and helpless moment was when some rescue workers mentioned how they got calls from those trapped beneath the debris. They could do nothing, they said, until the huge blocks of concrete are removed. I dread to think what those people must be thinking, feeling…what a thin line there really is between life and death.

- - -

Having already written my wry views on the ‘green’ issue, it came as no surprise to discover that 15 Whole Foods stores in the New York area were selling $15 cotton bags by Anya Hindmarch, a London designer. She said, “To create awareness you have to create scarcity by producing a limited edition. I hate the idea of making the environment trendy, but you need to make it cool and then it becomes a habit.”

Yeah, so you carry a bag that says “I’m not a plastic bag.”

Go on, wear shoes that say, “I am not leather”, or lipstick marked, “I have not been tested on your favourite pet”, or flaunt a cleavage with a tattoo saying, “I am not silicon.”

If you are not something, then you don’t have to announce it. But who is to tell them?

- - -

In India, more specially the metros and Page 3 circuit, there is this character called Bobby Darling who gets invited to all the hip parties. The reason? He wants to be a she and has been cross-dressing and collecting money for a sex-change operation. She is in the news now for molesting a male model by asking him to strip. Bobby says the guy, Surjit Jagdish Singh, an unknown aspirant wants to use her to get ahead.

Whatever. The entertainment world is murky, especially the high society. What surprises me is that this guy goes around wearing bizarre clothes and behaving like a silly girl and everyone is indulgent towards the sensitive issue of transsexuals. These same people will turn up their noses at the very mention of hijras (eunuchs). Why? Aren’t some of them also trapped in men’s bodies?

I am sure Bobby has had to face social ostracism, but where are those wonderful ladies when it comes to the less fortunate? Or is this one more of their little playthings – call a different person and amuse yourselves?

- - -

Now, this really got my goat. Why? It was the caption. “Foreign students who have come to the country to study Indian culture interact with streetchildren in Bangalore on Wednesday”. Imagine if Indian students, and there are many in the US, went around looking for hoboes and punks and the dregs of American society to study their culture?

A notch below?

A friend objected to the cartoon I reproduced below. "This is just not you,” he said.

“It isn’t mine," I remonstrated.

“But what you put up reveals your values.”

I would have removed it, for I know he means well and I owe him one anyway. But I shall let it stay. I want to see how many people reduce me to that level so that I can gauge how limited their reductionism is.

Also, this is most certainly not a feminist statement, as the title suggests, “Things for a useless man to do.” If feminism is about using a man’s organ in novel ways, then I pity that feminism.

But I did smile when I first got this in the mail. I do occasionally like bawdy jokes and silly humour. I like Mr. Bean. I really can’t help it.

Must I? Those who can read between and beyond the words will probably see another dimension. This will add to me, not reduce me.

- - -

PS: “Is that yours?” After all the trouble I took to make my picture artistic, there are still those who think the photograph with the profile is something taken from somewhere. If I had to do that, wouldn’t I have chosen something far more enticing or even a known person? Why this?

Of course, only the face is mine…the rest is symbolic of freedom.

Stumped

Taken as part of series of pictures in Ibaadat India, today I see this as a symbol of me. What I wrote then was: This is in the middle of the Periyar Bird Sanctuary, but could be anywhere. To see the bare remains of a tree in the middle of the sea when there is foliage in the background is a rather humbling experience. Shorn of its identity, its faith in where it belongs remains intact. It also symbolises the common citizen who stands out despite having nothing.

Leafless trees: Ten poems

I chopped firewood
In a forest
Of bare trees

~~

How many fallen leaves
Would it take
For my autumn to come?

~~

The scent of paper flowers
Spreads the fragrance
Of an unwritten life

~~

Give me memories
To take back
I need something to forget

~~

Virginal stillness
Walks
With legs crossed

~~

We held hands
Nails
Left lines of destiny

~~

Past midnight
I mistake the yellow lamp
For sunlight

~~

I melt in the
Afternoon heat
You only get wax to eat

~~

I cried in the wee hours of morn
To give the pillow
A reason to start the day with

~~

Come to me
Forever
Before even forever decides to leave

~FV

Akeli: Alone

akeli
jaise jawaab bina
paheli
palkon par eik boond
akela
jaise samundar mein
sehra
dhoop mein miltee apni
parchhaeen
jaise jhooth mein thodisi
sachaai
akeli
bilkul akeli
zindagi ki bheed se
bachne
eik akele pal ki
talaash mein
akeli

~FV