A glass of steaming milky syrupy tea is best served cut. One by two or two by three, it embodies the spirit of sharing and camaraderie (and more significantly a resource crunch). Come, have a sip.
The bad men of Bollywood had all the fun until the hero realised that he too can get a little naughty. Always on the losing side at the climax, but their meanness won the hearts of the audiences. Hindi film villains usually came in only one size - larger than life. Some of them even overshadowed the otherwise lead characters. Most of you Hindi-filmi keedas would recognise all the villainous voices on the following audio track.
Who killed the Mahatma? History tells us that three bullets from a Beretta M1934 semi-automatic pistol silenced Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi. Nathuram Vinayak Godse had pulled the trigger and killed the person. But the thought, principles, ideas have all passed away – peacefully and unnoticed. In private conversations Gandhi bashing is a favourite pastime, in public functions Gandhi provides the preferred quotable quote. In the institutions founded or inspired by him, he exists - in the hanging portraits on the wall and the statues amidst the grass.
The ideological death was not caused by hot lead or senile decay - it was apathy. A well-maintained Rajghat and a national holiday on every October 2 - our duty is done. 56 years later Jhanu Barua's Prof. Uttam Chaudhary pleads "Maine Gandhi ko nahin mara (I didn't kill Gandhi)." Nor did I? How could I? Gandhi to me (and so many others) was only a synonym of two words - truth and non-violence. I didn't kill any word. Words whose meanings I cannot comprehend. Words that exist in the dictionary, but not in a vocabulary. Did Gandhi imply anything else? I as a schoolboy never knew, until Richard Attenborough told me. But that was Ben Kinsley not Gandhi. I didn't kill Ben Kinsley. Nobody took me along to meet the real Father of the Nation. I never knew he existed somewhere beyond the inscriptions of Hey Ram, images on currency notes and photos on the wall in courtroom dramas. How could I kill someone about whose being I was unsure of?
I stand acquitted of any conspiracy to kill Gandhi. Everything about him was long dead long before I was even born. Gandhi died on January 30, 1948. So did his legacy. Long live the Mahatma.
The once-a-river-now-a-drain which divides east Delhi from the rest of it, mythologically has a brother. The sister now maybe an embodiment of death and decay, but Hindus regard the brother - Yama - as the harbinger of the final farewell. Astride a buffalo, a mace in one hand and a rope in the other - he rules over the afterworld and strikes terror in the hearts of mortals. A vision not meant to entertain. But it does.
Of the 330 million gods and goddesses, it is he - the death god - who features in more non-mythological films and television serials. In his CRT, LCD or silver screen avatar Yama's arrival doesn't signify the end - it lightens the mood. Death is the comedian here.
Death is not funny, but black comedy makes us laugh. We know not what lies beyond, we only assume according to our beliefs. Some glorify death - the glorification is a necessity. Governments do it, militant groups do it. But while we are still breathing, why should we let something with a certain conclusion but uncertain timing come in the way?
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
On my thank you list there are two names. First, the Delhi Police. Their security measures ensured that I got an early reprive from work on the eve of Republic Day as they wanted to seal off our floor for security reasons. You really get to see (and also aim) far from there. That also meant that I got to spend Republic Day in the comfort of my two-room pad.
Second, my digicam. I had typed down a post on my home PC (I don't have internet at home). But this morning before leaving for work, when I attempted to boot that thing up, I felt like giving it the boot. 'Corrupt or missing files' it said. No time to fix it up. To compensate for the post I clicked a few photographs on the way. Here's one.
