Broken Republic

In the book "Broken Republic", which is a collection of three essays, author Arundhati Roy does a good job of depicting the plight of the Maoists, the cause they consider worth fighting for, and in general the Government's apathetic and ruthless attitude towards all of this. These essays qualify to be the revelations of the highest magnitude simply because the main-stream media is unwilling to embrace the verisimilitude attitude in dealing with the topic of Maoists.

Background:

The first essay titled "Mr. Chidambaram's war", is a tell-tale of the vested interests of the Government (both Central and State) in fighting the Maoists, the details of which are well laid-out throughout the book.

The secret MoUs signed between the big corporations and the Government to permit the former to mine the mineral rich hills and mountains for bauxite, among other equally important minerals, and build plants to process it into aluminium for export, forms the impetus for Operation Green Hunt (OGH), the war that is being waged on the Maoists. This deal has been signed for a measly share of the profits the Government would receive from the corporations. The other important aspect of the OGH is that if it is successful, the supposed 'growth story' of the nation can be proudly show-cased to the entire world.

At the receiving end of this ordeal are the tribals and adivasis, who would be displaced from their homelands and be stripped of a dignified living. The displaced lot are not guaranteed of sufficient compensation - in terms of a decent livelihood, homes to stay, treating them on par with other citizens of our Nation - and may even be turned into slaves. The fear of their almost certain, but ghastly, future is driving these people to oppose the take-over of lands, and they are stopping at nothing to champion their cause, even if it means colluding with the Maoists and/or taking up the arms themselves.

Walking with the Comrades:

The second essay titled "Walking with the Comrades" is a heart-rendering account of the Maoists' habitat, the perpetual danger they live in, their festivities and celebrations, the positive developments that the revolution is creating, and the atrocities the men in Government uniforms commit on the Maoists and on the villagers 'suspected' of colluding with the Maoists.

The author "Walks with the Comrades" on the tour she's given, and is thus able to portray the details of their habitat, their life-style, their sorrows and miseries, their intent behind the war, among other things. The atrocities the policemen and the forest officials commit on the villagers with impunity is appalling; burning down entire villages, raping women at their whim, and fake encouters of 'suspected' Maoists for a handsome bounty is commonplace. Most notable account is the colloboration between the villagers and the Maoists in forming local governments with various functioning departments in it. The farm lands which have been prevented from take-overs have successfully been turned into irrigation fields which is supporting a self-serving and sustainable model of growth among the habitats. The consumption habits of the Maoists in the forests, which is more Gandhian than any Gandhian and the extent of carbon foot-print left behind so as to give even the climate change evangelist a complex, are some lessons for us all to learn. The Maoists, on their part, have earned a reputation for their violent measures while resisting any attempts of Government take-over of their lands. Their target is mostly the Government forces that are ambushed and killed. They are known to do this even when they have fallen short of ammo.

Last words:

The third and final essay titled "The Trickledown Effect" talks about the lack on the Government's part to actively pursue the path of peace talks, the apathy of the Government towards the objective study published about the positive developments seen in the Maoist-infected districts and the environmental hazards of mining and building factories along the mountains.

The supposed peace talks between the Government and the Maoists broke down even before it began when the Maoist representative for it and a journalist, who was to cover it, were shot down. Why was the journalist shot down? Perhaps to eliminate the eye-witness.

There are numerous accounts of published reports for the 'Government's eyes only' about the environmental hazards of allowing the corporations to mine the mountains and build profit-churning factories along the periphery, and apparently these have gone unheeded. The OGH continues to be bolstered to root out the opposition.

The differences between the Communist parties - of which Maoism is a derivative - in India have been highlighted to help the reader understand nature of the outfits. Differences in idealogoues, compromising on idealogoues to better suit their requirement, and the nature of their habitats motivate one to defend his cause and to insult the others'.

The author shares some final thoughts on the importance of the adivasis to our community and our future. These are the people who have mastered the art of sustained living. With their pulverisation, their secrets and the guiding forces will be lost with them.

The coming-of-age pub

I wanted to take a break from my sober lifestyle and decided to go 'partying' one evening. It was not difficult to get my friends enthused about the idea, who are of the opinion that I'm a party animal. They are convinced that I have a secret, wild lifestyle that should help counter my sober, reserved and objective facet that they grudgingly put up with.

We reach a well-known club, not without it's share of pretty welcome sights, a gimmick aimed at planting an idea in our heads that culminates in making us the most enviable pack of guys for the night, if not forever. Spotting a bunch of single guys, the organizers gave us an offer that we could not...accept. I thought the price I had to pay to enjoy the remote possibility of well-mannered damsels shedding their inhibition and encircling me on the dance floor was a bit too high. It was comforting that my friends concurred with my judgement lest I justify my call with objective analysis of the situation.

In the next half hour, we found ourselves in a watering hole that I'd like to term the 'coming-of-age' pub. I'm not sure if I'm ossified about the kind of ambience that's attached to a pub, but nothing seemed right about this place. For one, it was brightly lit. Maybe to ensure that people don't commit any 'mistakes' or to help them navigate their way around the place. Secondly, the crowd consisted mostly of middle-aged men who were in no hurry to go back to their families. Just when all of this got depressing, I took note of the third and the most ghastly aspect of the place - the music. We were greeted by the music of the most hummed item number of our times: "Sheila ki jawani". I shuddered at the thought of having to spend the next hour or so in this place, but decided to put my friends' interest ahead of mine, whose only interest was to get 'high'.

With the exception of the taste of the beer and for the time when our request was honoured - when some Classic rock music was played - the whole experience was uninspiring. A bunch of college students strode into the place in style, downed a few cocktails, shook a leg or two to desi music, and walked out in a hurry. It was as if they needed the impetus to go and indulge in activities that seemed important to them. They returned in a short time, this time with companions (read:ladies) and seemed to enjoy the drinks and the music.

Here I am thinking about never returning to this place, and there are these guys who come back within an hour's time. Hey, with the right combination of drinks, music and girls, who wouldn't come back. And no points for guessing what they needed the impetus for.

You are beautiful

We're very well aware of the gripe of married men on how their spouses take for-ever to comprehend what looks good on them, and are constantly bothering them to give their verdict on it when they're deeply engrossed in the nail-biting thought of what to say, because verdicts in such matters is veritable to a double-edged praise. I say that even bachelor men, like me, are subjected to similar, but partial, harrassment.

More often than not, I've been blessed with a window seat during my air travels, and as an added bonus, a female co-passenger as my neighbor. As much as you would like to brand me a "lucky pig", I'd like to tell you that, at these times, I really wouldn't mind if Queen Latifah, Oprah Winfrey or Farah Khan were my girl-friend(s). I deter the food served in the air-plane, and no matter how long the journey is, I'd decline their food and survive only on liquids instead. Now with more intake of liquids, you know what happens. Oh no, that's not what I meant. They'd have enough liquid supplies for other passengers as well. Everytime I'm reminded it's time to clear my body of the excess liquid, I'd see my neighbor deeply engrossed in what one would term: trying to look better than Oprah Winfrey. With a tray full of paraphernalia resting on her lap, and a tiny mirror in her hand, probably used for completion, it would be a herculian task for her to make way for me. Only a fool wouldn't discern the situation and not postpone his activity. "I'd like to go to the rest-room, but please finish the task you've set out on," I tell her, thereby making my situation clear. You feel oppressed and regret not being a fool when thy neighbor is really liking the outcome of the exercise, and continues to be engrossed in it. Plus, when nature's punishing you for being a recalcitrant child, you know it's time to act. "Ma'am, I really have to go now," I requested her. She duly complied and set me free. To keep a long episode short, suffice it to mention that I've been part of many such episodes. So, these days, the amount of liquids I consume on board an aircraft is governed by the following basic factors: the sex of the neighbour, unless I have the aisle seat; if it's a she, how she compares to Oprah Winfrey aesthetically, and lastly, the size of her hand-bag.

More recently, I was out on my bike, wandering around one of the most busiest parts of the city looking for a parking space. I noticed a lady heading towards a parking lot I was close to, so I followed her slowly to build a queue of applicants for that spot. The lady didn't prove me wrong, and seemed to be readying to put an end to my parking woes. But it appeared it wasn't going to happen anytime soon. The lady uncorks a bottle, pours the contents of it into her palms and spreads them evenly on her face, and two minutes later, on both her hands. I started to grow impatient, as one would while waiting for a cosmetic ad to complete so he can get back to watching the rape scene in the movie that was interrupted. She could've atleast talked to me while she was busy emptying the bottle. A damsel happened to recognize this lady, came over to her and said hello. The amicable way in which they were chit-chatting and sharing the contents of the bottle, it seemed that they had a lot of catching up to do and decided that the time was right for it. As much as I would've loved to deprive myself of this pleasant sight and leave the place in search of a different spot, the harsh reality that this was my best chance to give my bike a rest, hits me, so I decided to hang in there. Finally, after concurring that I was one of most cutest guys they'd seen all day long, they consoled each other and parted. I moved closer, eager to park my bike, when the lady says: "It's alright to ask. Is SPF 15 ok with you?" and hands me the bottle.

A few days into recovering from the shock, I'd gone shopping with my mom and I see a couple park their bike by the side of the road. The guy alights, takes off his protective gear, and starts to kempt his already kempt hair and proceeds towards across the street, only to undo his pants and...you know what. Meanwhile, Mona darling's hiding her face from embarassment at Robert's act of indecency. Job done, and now check again for the hair-style. What, was the guy making sure that he atleast looked decent before, during and after his act of indecency?!

Well, it's not difficult to see that bachelor men too aren't spared from the atrocities surrounding the notion of aesthetics. Btw, was Robert's is-my-hair-alright attitude aimed at hitting back at such atrocities? The point's a moot one, I'd say.

Aiming perfection? Dream on!

Recently, I read an article in a well known news paper (alright, it's Times Of India) on a new study done which showed that practice does not always make a man perfect. The best part was that they used a bunch of monkeys to prove the theory. Now tell me, who wouldn't wanna buy this theory.

Just when the entire nation was fuming and frowning at the dismal performance of our cricketers, and was secretly hoping the players spent more time in the nets and hone their skills, they come up with such studies, and what's worse, they publish it to the public.

Most of us have seen and realized how great the on-screen chemistry is between the two lovers, I mean cricket lovers - they are cricket lovers merely because there is lot of money in it - Mandira Bedi and Navjot Sidhu. Now let me tell you a little known secret about a stupid contest between them. The contest is to get our cricketers to respond to their e-mails, and so far, according to some inside information, Mandira has an edge. Now Sidhu, in a desperate attempt to send across the article on the aforementioned study to the team, and with the good intention to prevent them from sweating out trying to become perfect, comes up with an ingenious idea and titles the subject of the mail: "Mandira's HOT pics."

The scene is in a local cyber-cafe somewhere in South Africa (SA), where Sreesanth and V.R.V Singh are hanging out trying to get SA women to chat with them. So far they haven't been successful, for the SA women don't remember seeing them in any AD. Normally our players don't fall for the trap and seldom open such mails, but Sreesanth being a rookie falls for it, thanks to the subject. Sreesanth, disappointed at first, but after reading the mail, starts to do his trade-mark dance and riles up the owner of the cafe and eventually both are thrown out. I'm guessing the dance, in one of the tribes in SA, to which the cafe owner once belonged to, means: "I'm gonna pee here no matter what!"

They carry the news to the rest of the team, and everybody's excited at the findings of the study. Here's what a few cricketers thought:

Kumble: No wonder why I've been unsuccessful in trying to spin the ball like Shane Warne and ALWAYS end up bowling straight. The theory suggests no matter what I do, I can't get better. Maybe I'll try to surpass Warne in becoming more controversial by my off the field antics. Let me go check if there's a night club around by name "Spinn".

Tendulkar: Alright, I've been relegated from a classy player to a barely-average performer, but the study says there's no scope for improvement. I think I'll go check when my contract with "Boost" expires, maybe it's time for renewal. Hey, what with King Khan endorsing "Lux" and more men taking to endorsing cosmetics - Fair and Handsome is good! - maybe I should try some such thing. I'll google around for someone to talk to at WHISPER and express my interest in endorsing it. My wimpish voice is ideal for it. Maybe I'll become queen...err, King Sachin some day.

Sehwag: Yay! I no longer have to worry about getting back my lost-forever form. I can put on my locally made suit and have women all over the world chase me. Then I can get on National television and create AIDS awareness and while I'm at it, I deliberately DON'T talk about being faithful to one's partner. I cannot preach what I don't practice!

Dravid: Well, what difference would such studies make to the "WALL". But yeah, now I don't have to spend as much time at the nets. Let me go check with the "Anchor" folks to see if any house back home or here needs switch replacement. I can take rest of the players with me to help out.

And don't even get me started on the Indian Hockey and Football teams! I say that because I know nothing about them, and any attempt to continue to write about them may result in mere exaggeration and/or false allegations.

P.S: I don't care who wins the "eliciting most e-mail responses" contest, but if Mandira's HOT pics are indeed floating around, I'd like to have them.

A ball with the chicks!

"Defense! Defense! Defense!". Wait a minute! The ball is in my hand, and my team-mates are all over the place waving their hands, asking for the ball. Why's my mind screaming DEFENSE when I'm supposed to go on the offensive? Am I just plain confused at having picked up the wrong signal, or is my mind, at a sub-conscious level, aware of what's going to happen next? Would I lose the ball to my opponent and have to get back on the defensive? I tried to shake it off me by wriggling my body, but to no avail. Only my defense got intimidated mistaking it for an unprecedented basketball move and went on the alert. Anyway, with all the melee in my mind lowering my self confidence, and with some co-ordination from my team-mates, and finally, after banging each other...err, banging into each other, we scored a basket.

As the game progressed, my mind rid itself of the chivying thought and treaded on greener pastures, for I noticed the audience to our game building up, which also included two girls. Concentrating on my defense was becoming an up-hill task, for my offense would always position himself in such a way that the chicks would get a clear view of me. It's time to impress them! Unleashing all the tricks and moves - which hitherto had been hid so well that even bin-laden would've gotten envious - I managed to master over a long period of time, breaking the defense and scoring a few baskets wasn't that difficult. The audience lauded my skills. I wasn't sure if the chicks dug me. There was a time when I managed to get close to the hoop, only to find two of my opponents appear from nowhere and stand in front of me, ready to spoil my party. Not seeing my team-mates around, and as a desperate measure, I threw the ball in the air. Surprisingly, the ball cleared the long arms of everyone in the defense, mistook the rim for a trampoline, bounced on it half a dozen times, and finally gave in to the temptation of wanting to get a feel for what it would be like to rub against the fish-net stockings, which is how the "net" suspended from the rim would appear. As a true admirer of the game and it's nuances, I was fuming at my team-mates for not ceasing to drool over the chicks and come to my assistance in times of despair, described above. I even had a little chat with them about this, and at this juncture, to my surprise, the chicks started applauding. This confused me beyond comprehension! What the heck were they delighted at? Was it the way I scored the basket, or was it the little exercise the ball did after it went of my hand, or was it my confrontation with my own team-mates? Or, all of it? How I wish I knew what it was? I mean, it would be so tough to do all of it to impress them again. Confronting my team-mates would be the easiest, for I'd have fewer folks to bribe. The audience crowd continued gathering, with more chicks showing up, and I thought this was a result of the news of me enthralling the audience spreading like forest-fire in the Ramaiah campus. Just when I got the ultimate inspiration to perform better, I heard a whistle blow. It was the Basketball coach of Ramaiah college signalling us to clear off the court. But he was polite enough to tell us how he appreciated our game, and that we'd have to sit out just for half hour so the college students could play.

The two teams slated to play, entered the court. The teams consisted of people of all sizes ranging from lilliput inhabitants to Giant Kali. The game began, and right from the word go, we started enjoying the wrestling bout. Clearly, these guys didn't know enough about BasketBall, and they were either hugging people holding the ball thereby ensuring the ball doesn't go anywhere, or enacting an Indian movie scene where the hero/heroine is in control of the ball and the others encircle him/her so he/she doesn't run away without completing the shoot, or two giants grunting and tearing each others' clothes in a display of manliness. One team had a lot of co-ordination within them, and the other team was blessed with this guy Sandeep, who'd decided he'd single-handedly help his team lose. He indulged in the solo-game, you know where the guy just wouldn't let go off the ball(s) until he finds the hole, and feels it's the right time to put it in the hole. God, no! You perverts! I'm talking about BasketBall, here! Anyway, the dude's team-mates didn't seem to get tired of enduring his foolhardiness. But there was a gal from the crowd who kept shouting, "Pass the ball and play!". Just when it appeared even her words would go unheeded, the moment which changed the entire nature of the game for good, came. "Pass the ball, or I'll break up with you!", grunted the girl. Sandeep froze for a moment, and the opponent team seizing the opportunity, snatched the ball from his hand and scored a basket. The words had such impact on Sandeep, that for the rest of the game, he hardly held the ball in his hand, even when he was to be holding it. The girl, who I thought was cheering for me when I was playing, was Sandeep's girl friend. Hurt at having lost an opportunity with her, I was trying to focus my attention on someone else, when this thought struck me. How did she know that passing the ball and playing was the way to go? Did she know BasketBall well, or was it just common-sense? I was hoping it was the former, and that Sandeep did something stupid so she'll break up with him. I mean clearly we'd hit it off, as we have at least one thing in common - Basketball. But at half-time, I realized this wasn't going to happen, for they seemed to be caring for, and cuddling each other like bunnies. What's worse, everytime the teams engaged in usage of those four-letter words during swearing and sledging, the chicks cheered for them, and they maintained pin-drop silence when someone dribbled well, or when any other BasketBall trick performed well. Dejected at all this, I decided to head home and rode on my bike. On my way, while passing the Ramaiah's girl hostel, I saw two pretty girls and they smiled at me. I, basking in the dejection imposed on me by similar chicks, looked away and whirred past them.

The morals (yes, plural) of the story:

1. To get a chick, just being good at basketball would not suffice.
2. When chicks smile at you, you look at them from top to bottom, and say: "How you doin'?"