On Being Fine

There's a particular manner in which inconspicuous and enigmatic old men smoke cigarettes. Dry lips and wet palates, it's nostalgic to a point where you feel like they aren't smoking in the present, but smoking by association, in an older glory. They should ban long standing gentlemen from smoking, it's far more enticing than any screen moron doing it.

Being an intern, is an exercise in taming the pride of youth; the independence that undiminished, leads to either death or glory. So, I wandered aimlessly in a premier Indian journalistic organization, with no recognition, and mild sympathy from my colleagues. Besides learning that I do not want to be a journalist (special thanks to a cover journalist with a sub-human IQ and a lovely young copywriter who took an interest in deconstructing a non existent work environment for me), I learnt of inconspicuous, weathered old men.

In the hope of finding something mildly inspiring, I, the intern, decided to take a walk near the staircase (synonymous with smoking room for all print media establishments), where I saw a 5 feet 8', 60 something years old man relishing a cigarette. He smiled at me in full recognition of my presence on that staircase and almost as a conditioned reaction searched his kurta-pocket for his cigarette pack. He drew the pack out and presented it to me as a man his age would, a blessing. 'Would you like one?' he said, brisk and well-enunciated and just like that started up a conversation as genteel as the one we have about the weather, only nicer.

He had studied in a premier boarding school pre-independence and had gone to England to study. He had worked a while in different organizations, found some success and had returned eventually to fight a losing battle for the sanctity of the print media. He had returned to find deft touches replaced by loud colors. To find that wordplay and references had been replaced by jarring alliteration and disturbing use of font. He seemed harrowed and happy. A soldier who knew the battle was lost. He was just happy he fought, and happy that he was going to be gone before the New Order had time to establish itself. Kurta, glasses, titan-watch, loose jeans, receding hairline and perfect English intact, he was an Aragorn-of-sorts.

I was walking lazily up the staircase next morning, when I saw him and said, 'Good morning' his body jolted into an absolute response, the kind you get from people who really are looking for conversation. He said,'to you too, young sir. And how are you today?' and I said, 'I'm good' and halted just a while to finish off the cursory conversation. He lit his cigarette looked at me nonchalantly said, 'I wonder when fine became good'. And mumbled to himself in several tones, 'I'm fine'.

In one response he embodied the in-exactitude of everyday conversation. The unnecessary positive overtone of fast food marketing. The assumption that if you weren't miserable, the other condition, the compromised condition the world gave to you, was good. I have embraced the compromises I've made with that which surrounds me and I'm fine. Getting better.

Justice

That Justice is a blind goddess
Is a thing to which we black are wise
Her bandage hides two festering sores
That once perhaps were eyes


Langston Hughes

For Saundra

I wanted to write a poem
that rhymes
but revolution doesn't lend itself
to be-bopping

then my neighbor
who thinks i hate
asked-do you ever
write tree poems- i like trees
so i thought i'll write
a beautiful green tree poem
peeked from the window
to check the image
noticed the schoolyard
was covered with asphalt-
no trees grown in Manhattan

then, well, I thought the sky
ill do a big blue sky poem
but all the clouds have winged low
since no-Dick was elected

so I thought again and it occurred to me
that maybe I shouldn't write at all
but clean my gun
and check my kerosene supply

perhaps these are not
poetic times at all

Nikki Giovanni

How the fuck does it make a difference if I change my blackberry status to 'Japan <3' or 'Pray for Japan'. How do you react to a mass funeral of people you do not know? Japan, Egypt and China just make for good conversation. And ofcourse the sense of empowerment and informedness that the information age gives us.

It's the
end of the world
as we know it
It's the
end of the world
as we know it
And I feel fine

R.E.M

An Open Letter To Mr. Bhagat

www.chetanbhagat.com/2011/02/open-letter-to-sonia-gandhi/

Kind Patron,
After your frivolous attempt of trying to emote 'the youth of India' by writing an open letter to Mrs. Gandhi in the Sunday Times, I have realised how easy it is the write an 'open letter'. And thus I write to you with the juices of my veneral patriotism flowing.
It is heartening to know that a bollywood sellout with little or no sense of ground realities and a below average middle class take on India cares about us, i.e, the youth of India. No really, that a man with neither literary nor intellectual standing would bother to hijack the position of our representative is inspiring. That you took a thousand words to expound on how corruption is a big problem in India and how the Indian youth look up to the leadership of a Nehru descendant to make things better was ground-breaking. To emphasize on it enough I decided to take a bath in a tub, and eventually run out shouting Eureka. To my astonishment people thought I was mad. Of course I musn't be unfair. It is easy to criticize. It's nothing personal (besides of course that your novels were the three biggest mistakes of my academic life) it's just that I am sick of middle aged ex-corporate honchos dabbling in literature and attempting to take the position meant for the likes of MJ Akbar, Vinod Mehta and Tarun Tejpal. You see your monolithic idea of the youth of India, your colorless potrayal of their aspirations and your insipid choice of our saviour was so pathetically archaic that I was fascinated at the lightbulb that I saw after reading your article.
The youth of India sir, don't give a damn. About your column, the times of India, my letter or Mrs. Gandhi. They have realized that our romanticized ideas of Gandhism, Nehruvianism and Socialism have led them nowhere. They are basking in a self perpetuating apathy of survival further fed by substandard literature that on a scale of 10, I would not rate even five point something. It is this system of keeping the proletariat of India at subsistence level that leaves vast spaces in India's leading dailies open for non-sensical rhetoric like yours. It is this oatmeal media that has bred zombies for half a generation, and is now producing degenerates. The youth of India needs a reason to read editorials sir, and you are just not it. We need the flogging of a Mubarak, a Tianamen square, a Vietnam, a Watergate, a Prague Spring, a French Revolution topped off with no holds barred civil war for the youth of India to even realize where the faultlines they step on everyday lie. It is great to absolve the heiress' crimes for a greater good, or talk about an austerity drive, but of all things what the youth of India do not need is emasculated symbolism. For the sake of the blood sugar levels of the few who read editorials, the fewer who assimilate them and finally in the name of god, put down that pen soldier.

Sincerely Patronized,
Rishi Razdan.

Ps. Don't worry, the movies were worse than the books.