Skip to main content

The 'Fast' and the 'Furious'

It’s almost as if Navratras have arrived early. Coupled with a fresh new season of Roadies.
Because look around, and all you see are men fasting, or men cursing (oh and short fat women dancing at Rajghat, but then that’s probably just the Navratra fever) There are frail white-dhoti clad men, and hairy half-naked saffron-clad men, and sly, crafty looking IAS officers on fasts—we’re really running for variety here. When these men aren’t fasting, they’re busy calling the high-ups cheats or liars and gathering public applause and adoration for their impeccable use of cuss words.
We’re fasting, we’re swearing, we’re lathi charging, we’re holding press conferences every second hour and we’re hurling chappals in every second press conference. Oh and we’re a country of really, really mature people. No, seriously!

Whatever has unfurled over the past few weeks since April 5th is frankly no golden medal on our ‘2020 mein Superpower banenge ji’ perception of ourselves.
We’re currently at our immature, gullible best, as we run around Jantar Mantar, Ramlila Maidan, and Rajghat, cheering for a fraud, treacherous Baba with fakeness writ large across his face, who probably knows NOTHING about politics, puts forth stupid, unrealistic demands and winks more than he blinks. And who also by the way jumped off a stage, dressed up as a woman and ran off in the middle of the night, leaving his ‘supporters’ to enjoy the police’s lashings. (On an unrelated note though, he must’ve made one hideous woman!).
At the same time, we also don’t forget to hurl a couple of abuses here and there at the nikammi Congress sarkar, go a little haaye haaye on them, and generally have a nice time booing and jeering.
And all the while, the woman at Rajghat dances on.

On a more serious not though, not once, not ONCE have we tried to figure who these knights in shining armour (and saffron dhotis) are. Who are these crusaders from the other side of the universe? God sent men? Are we to believe these noble fighters are so doodh ka dhula that they can suddenly wake up one morning and begin to sweep a dirty nation clean of all its filth? Like saakshaat Bhagwan Ram out to rid the world of the overpowering evil rakhshasas?
We’re to believe that just because Anna Hazare looks like Gandhi, he’s assumed to be miles away from the very corruption he talks of eradicating? And that Kiran Bedi has never as an IPS officer ordered an unwarranted lathi charge? Or that Ramdev set up a Rs 1100 crore empire through pure mehnat, yog and samaaj sewa?
Sorry, but that’s slightly hard to believe.
But apparently, I stand with the rarer of the crowd, because the public opinion is surprisingly sweeping toward the winking saffron Baba like no less than a Tsunami wave, even as the rest of us cynics shake our heads and watch the drama unfold in the 9 PM News.

And in the middle of all that, the short stout woman at Rajghat dances on, vowing to keep dancing to deshbhakti songs till she breathes her last.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Picture Perfect

When you begin work on a painting, you set out on a long difficult journey to the end. Begin by thinking, sketching out on the canvas a rough figure of what you want. It’s an easy task, you've barely begun—you can always erase, redraw, alter, or even start over. Then comes the time for colours. And while there are hundreds and thousands of them to choose from, there are just a few, at times just one, that will be a perfect fit. Choices are tough to make—some may be right, others may go horribly wrong. Yet there’s no choice but to choose. After long toil and much sweat, you come up with the final piece. Some paintings will inspire. They’ll be so beautiful that they’ll leave a mark in your heart and mind for ages to come. Some will be soothing, others will make you smile. And then there will be those that will make you feel simply wasted. Pictures that will only speak to you of your incompetence and inability to make the right choices. Surprisingly, sometimes these may be the p...

My Best Friend

“How did she..?” “She had cancer.” “Oh...I’m so sorry!” I smiled. Sorry. Sometimes I felt envious of people merely for having this great comfort. They could be sorry about Suhana’s death. Just how sorry could I be? About having seen my best friend of fourteen years die? * It was seven months ago when Suhana’s first reports came in. Diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, terminal stage. By the end of two months, she stopped attending school—the constant chemotherapy having taken its toll on her general health. Her sleek, long, brown hair had begun to fall off in large clumps. Many nights, she would call me and cry and obsess about how her hair was going, “It's coming out in fistfuls and I don’t know what to do!” She would cry incessantly, and I would console her for hours on end. Every time I met her, she looked a little worse—the dark circles, the fatigue, the recurring nausea. I know she knew that she wouldn’t live much longer—but I also realized that she lived on my persistent...

Loving Vir

Have you ever felt real reverence, true-mad-deep reverence that it almost reached a point of worship? Where the other person could never be wrong, simply because it was HIM? I, for one, have known this sheer devotion. And it happened to be for the man I’ve idolised since I don’t even remember when. I fell in love with Vir Sanghvi. For those of you who don’t know, Vir Sanghvi is an advisor with Hindustan Times, and used to write a weekend column in the paper by the name of Counterpoint. I don’t remember who made me read my first Counterpoint in Sunday’s Hindustan Times, but my Sundays were never the same again. At first glance, Sanghvi impressed. At a second look, he left me in awe. The man was a genius. I hadn’t known anyone like him before—I’d never read a newspaper so unfailingly before. Then came the Sunday Brunch, and Sanghvi shocked me yet again. What in the world did he NOT know about?! All this time I’d spent thinking of him as a purely political writer, and Rude Food gave me a...