Con-man's Wealth Games 2010 and the Common Man

Commonwealth games, everyone has come to know this word by now, for good or bad, doesn’t matter. Corruption and unethical transactions have become synonymous. But is it really so surprising? Don’t we know that wherever so much money at stake; thousands of crores of rupees; money suckers will gather around like honey bees around the flowers with nectar. Everyone wants a finger in the pie, before it melts away. ‘How’ doesn’t matter. Hook or crook anything will do… greasing palms, pockets, companies whatever. Substandard work, bribes, money laundering, which of these is a word we haven’t heard before? We know them as a regular part and parcel of our system and our lives. We are also well aware of this amazing magic trick performed by most politicians ‘the shrinking money trick’… no matter how huge a fund, by the time it reaches the people it shrinks to an unimaginable amount, in terms of its deliverables. I really do not find it offensive at all these days. We all indulge in similar activities in some form or the other, when it comes to our personal work, only the scale maybe smaller. However, a completely different problem with the commonwealth games, offends my sensibilities. The word ‘commonwealth’ itself is the problem. Whose commonwealth? Is it not a ghost of our colonial past… referring to the countries that the British once ruled as their colonies. And what were the colonies all about but for looting their wealth and making their people, second rate citizens within their very own land? Is it difficult to imagine then that the games were then a political device of British empire to bring the colonies together and foster some sort of a relationship among them as well as with them, perhaps subtly suggesting to each to feel good about being under one master. The initial term anyway was ‘the British Commonwealth’. ‘British’ was dropped in 1949. One may want to believe that today the Commonwealth nations have come a long way from its colonial legacy. They appear more like a political collective of nations with their own agenda and way of working. But, a mere search on wikipedia yields a multitude of pointers to its deep rooted past. The games for example, must start from the Buckingham Palace with the Queen handing over the baton with a message for all the Athletes. Even though it’s a symbolic gesture, it still means that the queen is supreme. As citizens of a free democratic country, should we accept that? The Commonwealth nations are supposedly a coming together of those who share a common cultural legacy of the ‘British empire’ – English as a common language, literature tainted with the rule and games that came from the empire. For example, Netball, Lawnball and Rugby sevens are some of CORE sports to be held during these games, beside many others from the international (or should I say European) fold mostly. Commonwealth nations today boast of equality as one of the key principles of coming together, had they ever thought of including atleast one local game from each of the Asian or African countries - Kho-kho for example from India? What astounds me is the way our politicians are pushing these games as a matter of Indian pride. We treat our own sportspersons with such disdain that they are hardly left with any soul to fight an opponent. Scandals or not, the games will surely happen and a lot more money will vanish into thin air. We will end up paying more taxes. And Athletes from other countries will happily smile at the loot of all the gold medals they would collect amid the dust and din of one billion hapless people… unless a politician (rather a true leader) decides to wake up his / her sleeping soul tonight. 

Parvez

Nightmare, the New Year

New year messages in the inbox. I open them slowly, one by one. A friend asks “…so how did u ring in your new year?”

I think. Was their a ring at all? Well yes… why not… actually it was bigger than a ring… much bigger… so big that I couldn’t fit it on my ring finger… not even on my wrist or ankle… not even my waist. It was soooo big that it became a complete waste.

My new year rang in on quite a depressing note. Thanks to the news of Israel's air strikes on Gaza (Palestine). About 200 people (people…not all soldiers) dead and more than 700 injured and the air raids went on… And they are doing a ‘surgical strike’ against the militants… doesn’t matter if some children or women or men get killed along the way… they are weeding out ‘only the militants. And of course they can't differentiate a pharmacy warehouse in Gaza, from an arsenal, so that also got wiped out… accidentally! Very very accidentally!

Actually Israel uses very primitive weapons… no funds, you see. So sometimes the bombs go way off the target… just like that. Their fighter planes are ancient too… worst than those used in the 1^st world war… they have a funny name F-16. Even the atomic bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima had a funny name… Fat Boy.

The world seems to be in some sort of a crazy nightmare. Or am I dreaming. Damn! Must be me. Have to be me! That’s why the glitter of the malls, the shiny cars, designer dresses and fancy food seem so surreal in contrast to these people who keep dying of hunger in Africa and Asia and Arab and South America and god knows where all. Really, I mean…how stupid can they get… why the hell do they have to keep dying of hunger? Can’t they do something more productive? Hooligans, I say… they just keep on spoiling the new year celebrations… year after year. Actually such people should be confined to jails. Or… even better, hanged or shot dead before they die themselves.

And then, there are these buggers who spill onto the streets shouting slogans against the US and the Israel and the others like them at the drop of every bomb. Come on now, give us a break. What’s in a bomb? Or what's in a couple of bombs? Or even a shower of bombs on Gaza? You know they are terrorists… US says that, Israel says that… so THEY HAVE TO BE terrorists. So… why does everyone jump on to the streets abusing Bush and Olmert and Rice and Chicken and Egg and Ham. Just eat and be merry. And if you don’t like Non-veg, go vegan… that’s anyways in fashion. And don’t ask questions or jump out on streets shouting against 'injustice' and 'inequality' and 'no to war'. After all we abolished slavery… though after hundreds or years of abuse and torture and killings. We did many other great things too and we’ll do many more. And you know why…? Because we care for the society… we are ‘social animals’ after all. ‘Social’ in the beginning and then, just ‘animals’.

Oops… so glad animals don’t understand English, else they would have taken to streets shouting ‘injustice’ at this statement.

Anyway... what was I talking about??? Yeah the nightmare… that Israel is killing helpless people in their own land, systematically, while the world seems to be watching and US seems to be abetting. And I also heard voices about a holocaust somewhere amongst all this. Now where did that happen?? Some place that spels with a 'G'. I think Germany... or is it Gaza? What is a holocaust, by the way...? Come on... some people being killed is no big deal, isn't that an art that we've mastered as humans for centuries now? And what’s so ‘new’ about it… I mean the year... every 365 days and we still think its new. Damn stupid dream!.. need a coffee.

Parvez

January 9, 2009

PS: The latest death / injury toll at the time of publishing this is: 770 Palestinians killed more than 3000 injured. 14 Israelis killed.

The night I was stranded in a forest...

So here's what happened... i found myself stranded in the middle of a forest at midnight.

We were returning to delhi after setting up the campsite of Route Purple (check www.routepurple.com if u don't know what that is). We have booked a cab from Binsar, the sanctuary near the campsite to Kathgodam (a rail at the foothills of himalayas in Uttaranchal). The car came an hour and a half late (around 7 pm) to pick us up... which meant we won't be bale to catch the 8:30 pm train, since the journey would easily take about 3 hrs on those hilly roads. Anyways me being me, was still smiling. We'll still be in time to catch the last bus to Delhi that leaves around 11:30pm.

The car was old and rickety. By the time we reach Almora, about an hour's drive, the driver announces that he needs to fill some gas. But the petrol pumps (read 'gas stations' if u r American) at Almora close at 8 pm and the time by our watch is 8:10 pm. But our man, the driver is confident he'll manage it. 15 minutes here and there don't matter.

The next moment I hear a strange, rhytmic sound coming from the front wheel. Using all my automobile knowlegde and diagnosing capabilities, I declare that we have a flat tyre. But our man, the driver, wouldn't believe me. He continues driving a wobbly car a few more meters before finally stopping and getting down to inspect the flat tyre. Next he grins and tells me that the spare tyre too got punctured that afternoon.

Soon, our man, the driver and his colleague dissapear with the two tyres to find a repair shop. An hour and a half later we are back on the road with the assurance that we'll get petrol (read 'gas' if u r still American) at the next village, about 35 km away. Our man, the driver was confident as ever.

We reach the next village and find a locked petrol pump. Someone in the petrol-pump-attendant's family died that evening. So they closed the pump and went for the funeral.

Our man, the driver again assures us with all his confidence. He's sure he'll manage to get to Bhowali, the next town, where there's a 24hour petrol pump. And I am stupid enough to believe him yet again.

We are still at about 5000ft in the hills amidst a forest when the car starts stuttering and sputtering and finaly stops!!!! He tries the ignition again. The car breathes its last few breaths and finally dies the death of a patient with tuberculosis... silent suddenly after a long bout of coughing and wheezing and what not.

That's it. A pitch dark night in a forest. A water fall, created by the recent rains, flows down onto the road from the hill on our left. An eerie silence. The valley below on our right. the stars above. A dead car. Trees with their ghostly dark shadows. And us.

The driver and his colleague still give us hope. They pick up a 2 litre empty cola bottle and dissapear into the darkness to find the nearest petrol pump. An hour later they are back and happily announce that even the next petrol pump is closed for the day.

It is midnight anyways.

"so... what do we do"? I ask.

They adjust themselves in the car and our man, the driver speaks matter of factly, "sleep...'.

He sleeps off. We wait till the morning.

But for feeling a little stupid at believing our man all the time, the forest was awesome. You dont really get that kind of a chance willingly... do you?

That was an amazing night... never before and maybe never ever again. And I love it in hind sight!

The birth of a vampire

Fancy robes

Covering bodies

With deep wounds

Oozing thick, dark blood

And they use the color of their own blood

To create patterns

On the cloth

That covers them

…fashion!

Each one bleeding…

Gasping... in pain.

But a cry will be a weakness

So a laughter comes out instead

Walking, with a glass in one hand

A cigarette in another

A smile pasted on the lips

The city carries one day to another 

…An art! 

 Each one searching hard

Walking through piles of men and women 

gathered around the bar 

A glass in one hand 

A cigarette in another 

Smoke blurring out the pain 

As they walk through the doors 

Again and again 

Sifting through one another 

…A search! 

Then the bell rings 

The spider feels a tingle 

The web vibrates 

A prey… 

They drool in silence 

Waiting for it to get sucked by the city 

A fly now trapped 

In the web 

The spider moves swiftly 

Finishes off the meal 

And waits for the next 

… kill! 

But spiders are not vampires. 

 They wait for the city to trap the new prey 

Then they move in 

Gyrating, slithering, smoking... 

A glass in one hand 

A cigarette in another 

Touch, caress, feel, pull

And then the final bite… 

A wound that will bleed forever 

Another vampire is born 

Celebrations! 

Another glass 

Another cigarette 

...sifting through piles of bodies 

Every night 

Another endless search 

To find oneself.

Beautyfully Ugly.

Here's a mail that I got from a 12 year old girl. Thought i should share it. So, am expanding the mandate of this blog to publish writing of others who may be taking the same journey. Read on.
cheers!
Parvez
..........
BEAUTIFULY UGLY
(By Seher)

We could all see the bright blue sky above us. Not only that, but hundreds of birds flew over our Heads. Butterflies were fluttering near the large flower beds and the flowers themselves were looking fresh as the aftermath of a shower from heaven. The clouds were slowly moving away from this beautiful scene. It was an artist’s dream. The painters would mix colors to match the fresh new colors of nature. A bird-watcher would look at the birds and exclaim “Look at that beauty!”, a writer would describe the place as a fantasy land for both humans and animals. If we overlook the disgustingly slimy creatures writhing or crawling all over the place, we could say that the statement was true. But the painter would not overlook them, he would challenge them with his brush and make the creatures look beautiful and pure. A bird-watcher would be happy for the slug and worm feast nature had prepared for the birds. The writer would describe everything in its true nature and yet find the beauty in a slime trail. But its not just these intellectuals who can find something beautiful in these creatures made of pure ugly. If we look hard enough and with all our heart we might just find something beautiful on our way.
Seher.
17/1/2008

THE SUNSET

As I watched the sun set

above the sky

I wondered

If the birds will fly...

this high.

Will they?

Can they?

And…
Will they let them fly?
Can they?

They wont, I think.
They can’t, I think.

If they do,
they must feel again
their dead soul...
and they hadn’t even cried
When it died.
It’s too painful
for them
to let us fly.

They had their wings tied...
themselves.
Had their souls buried
Under the weight of coins,
gold, silver and diamonds...

The only way
they feel alive today
is by using their might
to stop those who fly.

Let me watch the sunset
till they cover my eyes...

Their's, do not see anymore.

Between the Lines!

A slum in Delhi.

And there are many...

Nothing unique about it
or the kids.

"We've seen these 10'000 times."

"Of course, I know that."

...So here's once more :-)

Underbelly?

No! This is not the underbelly!
I wish it was.
It's more like a head...
perhaps also the heart,
the lungs
the stomach
the arms
the legs
perhaps even a little more...
but surely

not just the underbelly.

Wow! Mumbai.

Madness 1

Having a mentally ill person in a family becomes a matter of shame and embarrassment in our ‘civil society’. Let me clarify here that I am talking primarily of our middle class with a heavy load of morals and values on its shoulder. The energy of the entire family gets focused on ‘covering it up’ as much as they can and till they can. The ill person is often smuggled out of the house to some faraway destination where acquaintances are far and few. Spiritual cures, exorcism and other methods are tried before finally contemplating to take the person to a mental hospital – the last resort for most.

By this time usually months (if not years) would have passed. The family itself had undergone extreme stress in coping with this person’s strange behavior besides working on the continuous cover up for the numerous inquisitive relatives and neighbors. More than physical, it takes a toll on their mental make up - the mind working all the time to hide the truth, creating stories matching the previous ones and feeling ashamed. Also add to this, the pain of ‘losing’ a family member, who may show no sign of getting back to normal and the economic burden of managing a non-functional family member.

So, when they reach with this person to a hospital with psychiatric facilities (which people still refer to as ‘asylum’) they have almost washed their hands off him or her… more so if it is ‘her’ being managed by her husband and in-laws. At this point the prime concern of the care takers is that the person should be kept in the ‘asylum’ for they cannot hide her / him from others any longer. Beside the issue of ‘managing’ such a person at home, the embarrassment that she / he causes to the family becomes a major factor in the giving up attitude. And this ‘embarrassment’ comes most likely from the stigma the society has attached to people with mental illnesses.

Where does this stigma come from? What or who created it in the first place? Like most other colleagues working in psychiatry, these questions have bothered me no ends. ‘Fighting the stigma’ remains a major challenge that most mental health professionals often discuss while people continue to face it… atleast in India

Recently I visited a Community Based Rehabilitation program for the mentally ill persons, being run by Ashagram Trust in a tribal area near Barwani (MP). The undulating landscape is spaced with small hillocks where people still live in hamlets. Most huts, mud walls with a thatched roof, are separated from another by atleast a distance 100 meters, if not more. The crop, mostly maize & chilly, though cotton is also creeping in as a major cash crop now, either surrounded the hut or starting from it, spread over a huge area in front or behind.

Most of these people work in their fields and when the crop time is over, often go to the near by cities in search of some odd jobs. Life remains simple except for the extreme poverty, drought (which hounded them for the last 3 or 4 years continuously) and the moneylenders who charge exorbitant interest for the money they lend out in ‘times of need’ and there seems to be no dearth of such times.

Anyways at one household, I noticed a woman feed her child while we were there. She was wearing a blouse, which she simply pulled up, exposing both her breasts and then put the child to one… the other remaining exposed. ‘Exposed’? It triggered a little thought process. What if a middle class woman does the same in her house say in Delhi or Kanpur or Bangalore or Trivandrum or Calcutta or any other ‘civilized’ city? Would it not set everyone thinking she’s mad? Would it not embarrass her family as well as the guests? But why should it… its just a breast… just another breast. And this woman was surely not unwell… just that in this society no one cares. Or should I ‘infer’ that they are uncivilized.

Anyway we moved on to other houses because we were looking for something else… the breast was just a distraction… but strong enough to send me looking for more – not the breasts but on the trail of acceptance and non-acceptance of things in different cultures.

So we landed up at Anjar Singh’s house, a man in his 40s who is still ‘mentally ill’ – perhaps suffering from chronic schizophrenia. He was thin. His bones showed from malnutrition. And we found him sitting on the mud floor engrossed within him. He is not a tribal. His father, an old man with grey hair, greeted us warmly and we sat on a cot laid out for us. Anjar Singh just looked at us - no communication - and then went back to his work – caressing the floor with his fingers which moved almost aimlessly as he kept talking to himself very softly. He has been suffering from his mental illness for some 20 years or so. His father showed us the cage they built in one part of the hut where Anjar was caged for almost 15 years so that he does not harm anyone. He used to be violent then. The Ashagram team searched him out and then treated him with medicines. His father is a happy man, for he can now leave his son in the open. “He is not violent or troublesome anymore”, he says happily.

For my eye, it was strange. The man is still psychotic. Surely he isn’t violent – but is not being violent a good enough reason to be happy and contended with? What about personal hygiene? Does he not dirty the house or pee and crap around?

“Of course he does. But so do the other children… Anjar Singh’s own children. His children’s children”, came the reply. Someone or the other cleans it off when one finds the time.

At other times, Anjar Singh goes out to his field and stays there for days. Either ways the concept of ‘dirtying’ the place just doesn’t seem to exist. The house has a mud floor. Most area is open unlike a city flat. No tiles or mosaic or lovely sofas or other furniture which may get spoiled, no cramped spaces, no over bearing stench accumulating in a closed room, not even the feeling of awe and overbearing emotions of vomiting at the sight of ‘shit’- for shit is a common sight and smell out here.

Anjar Singh’s wife still stays with him. His children help his father on the field. Everyone in the village knows that he was ‘pagal’ (mad) “but”, as a child put it for me, “he doesn’t throw stones or hit anyone now so he’s ok”. “…So he’s ok…”. This ‘so’ is perhaps grounded in the simplicity of a village that is yet to climb up the ladder of ‘development’ (not necessarily human development though). So should I term them ‘underdeveloped idiots’? Or wonder at the concepts we have built around ourselves to be able to live in the cities and hate and cringe at the sight of our own shit – an important byproduct of all the junk we eat and that has to be thrown out of the body… if we are to live.

In yet another village stays Narayan, a tailor who shut his shop about 15 years ago. His sewing machine lies in one corner of his house. He himself lies outside the house in a small thatched shelter built for him. If it rains, there is a room outside which is then unlocked for him. His wife has left him along with his children. Parents died some time ago. Of his two brothers, both younger to him, one works in a city and comes home once in a few weeks to meet his wife, an anganwadi worker, who stays here. The other brother teaches at the village school while his wife also does some work.

Narayan was called into the house to meet us. His dirty shirt, unmatched socks without a shoe, an unshaved beard and uncombed hair, immediately shone against the small but neat household. He exhibited signs of psychotic behavior, at times getting distracted by his hallucinations. But he was not violent at all. It was his thought process that was derailed and he was not aware of his own position in life. He talked to us in his own style, often almost like a mystic. I also sensed his younger brother’s discomfort. And he soon expressed it. He was concerned about narayan’s un-cleanliness and the impression on us.

Each time he returns from the city, he takes Narayan to the barber for a shave and gives him clean cloths. But Narayan doesn’t take much time to dirty them again. As the younger brother talked, his embarrassment over his elder brother’s uncouth appearance became more and more obvious. It was not a ‘disgust or hate’ but simply an overpowering feeling that Narayan should be cleaner. And where was it coming from? The city? The cleanliness that the house exhibited?

Perhaps that is where the seeds of stigma arise. This family surely is moving towards ‘development’ – not mental though – but economic and perhaps also social. The brahminical (or should I call it elitist) concept of cleanliness is catching up with them. Hence the concern is shifting from the ‘functionality’ of the mentally ill person to cleanliness… and it is not necessarily the same as hygiene.

The spaces in this village will perhaps shrink soon. If this is an indicator of ‘development’ then soon there will be more concrete buildings and maybe even a school that will teach… yes ‘teach’...maybe English and the importance of cleanliness, hygiene and development. And then someone, somewhere will one day chase out a Narayan for the ‘nuisance’ that he / she would have become by then.

Mental health professionals in the cities will continue to debate and discuss their ‘fight against stigma’ over coffees and snacks.
For Narayan, unfortunately this village is too close to the highway that took us back to the city.