If you’re scared, clap louder!
The subject of charity remains a mysterious one. Those who give feel better about themselves. Those who take it feel better too. Those who…
The subject of charity remains a mysterious one. Those who give feel better about themselves. Those who take it feel better too. Those who want to give but don’t feel better about themselves. Those who don’t give feel better about themselves too. So many categories with the end result: everybody gets to feel better. Those who give feel better that they are making a tiny difference. Those who take feel better about receiving something they require. Those who want to give but don’t feel better thinking how good their thoughts are even though their actions don’t complement. Those who never give feel better because they think they are being smart in this cut-throat world. In my book, giving away is the first rule of taking care. Unless you were to sacrifice your bare essentials, you aren’t being charitable. Which begs the question: if I gave my food away to those who are hungrier before dying of starvation myself, do I die of hunger or compassion?
In the past, to fight a catastrophe, people were drafted into war — holy, unholy and everything else in between — and most of them never made home. Even those who returned weren’t the ones who left. The war changed them irreversibly. Today, we are fighting a pandemic of unforeseen proportions that has killed more than 10,000 people in less than 3 months, and the most heroic act expected of us is to stay the fuck home. And yet entitled prototypes of beings aren’t able to do so. Which perfectly suits a feeble generation that recently realized that it can’t live without touching its face and phone. All we are supposed to do is wash our hands properly. Imagine spending years in the world only to realize, thanks to a Chinese virus, that we weren’t even washing our hands properly. If and when the world recovers a bit, I’d love to note the dramatic changes in attitude vis-a-vis hygiene and etiquette.
I am not a fan of sharing a meal with celebrities. People often express their desire to sit down with their favourite famous folks for lunch or coffee to experience what they are all about. Not me. Thanks to my eye-opening stint as an entertainment journalist, I harbour no such desire. The reason is simple: comedians aren’t studied in our country. Whereas in the West, the most interesting bunch of entertainers happen to be the ones who make others laugh for a living. So, yes, I’d love to sit down with some of my dearest comedians to pick their brains. Top of the list would be Dave Chappelle — although I equally adore the likes of Jerry Seinfeld, Ricky Gervais, Tina Fey, Louis CK and Kevin Hart — as this man manifests the highs as well as the lows of a long career in Hollywood. Not many people know this but he converted to Islam about 20 years ago, as he hardly mentions it in his standup routines. If we were to chat, I’d ask him more about his faith and the role it plays, if any, in his sense of humour. He even went on record saying that his religion shouldn’t be judged by him because he is not a worthy practitioner. I found that thought equally alarming and insightful. The problem with us humans is we are never fully worthy of our ideals and that pours the blame on us instead of what we want to stand up for. Take any popular belief system — be it capitalism, socialism, communism or anything else — somehow we are more flawed. I wonder how.
Do you ever think of the way you will eventually end up dying? I am sure you don’t. But I do. I often imagine myself in strange situations which would lead to my death. So much so one of my recurring dreams features me stuck between two walls that are closing in and when I look up, I always see the blue sky with birds flying across. That admitted, I don’t think “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH” makes a good last words. It reeks of fear and shock. Perhaps last words should be more classy. Like Steve Jobs’s “Wow, wow…” before he uninstalled himself. Maybe the whole practice is a Western concept. Never seen too much importance laid on what a person says before he closes his eyes for good, in this part of the world. That said, the worst case of final words would be when somebody else steals your thunder and utters something that you hear just before dying. For example, when John Wilkes Booth shot Abraham Lincoln, he screamed “sic semper tyrannis” (meaning “thus always to tyrants” in Latin) and it’s probable that the president heard the phrase clearly. Thankfully, he didn’t die instantly; he passed away the following day. Otherwise, his last words would have been marked by his killer. And that would have sucked big time.
Our dog, Ranga, represents all the elements that we aren’t but desperately want to be. There is a reason why he features a lot in my Instagram stories. I often capture him in moments of deep thinking and resting. He looks at you with thoughtful eyes but doesn’t give a hint of judgement. His nonchalant ways, coupled with zero canine fuss, and unbridled curiosity, makes him rather unique. Most dogs that I meet seem restless. This old fellow doesn’t give a fuck. If he wants attention, he will get it and once he’s done, he will act as if he doesn’t know you anymore. When our friends gather in the drawing hall and are talking, he falls into deep sleep as he is relieved of his guard duties. Oh by the way, before living with him, I had no idea that dogs snored. I grew up with cats — lots and lots of them — and they never made a sound.
It’s the season of pain. Of late, my health has taken a beating and my migraine is back. The only nice thing about having a headache is ultimately reaching that stage when you feel it’s fading away. Apart from that, everything about it is a flop show. You can’t do much. As a part of my new year resolutions, I’ve stopped popping painkillers. I know people who drink cutting chai and their headache is cured miraculously. I am aware of colleagues who haven’t experienced a headache in their entire lives. To them, headache is something of a rumour that happens to those with bad karma. My wife’s best guess about my predicament is I should go back to wearing my prescription glasses. My best guess is I must avoid the sun as much as possible. My health goal is to never have that helpless throbbing feeling inside my skull ever again.
Pigeons are shitty, yes. No doubt. But they are also one of the well-wishers of our cities. In their shittiness lies their gratitude. They provide constant fertilizer supply to the greenery in urban landscapes. Without them, there will be fewer plants and trees. From time to time, it might appear like they shit on us and our vehicles with a secret grudge but they do that because in their culture, saying thank you is of great significance. You see, they are migrants like us and appreciate the concrete jungle for keeping them alive. The sparrows didn’t give a shit because they couldn’t stand the sprawling city. They left us. Should I say they abandoned us? But pigeons held on, hoping for a better future, abetted by their thankless job.
After months and months of dilly-dallying with bad results, I finally had a breakthrough in online chess. In fact, I had the longest winning streak ever: 32 wins in 35 games. This brought my classical chess score to 1314. My highest ever, beating my 2017 figure of 1259. However, as was my ascent so is my descent — unpredictable. After reaching this summit, I have seen nothing but decline. Have already lost six games back-to-back dropping down to 1275. The most heartbreaking feature being my lead in four of these games. I could have easily won but thanks to freakish moments, I somehow choked. I don’t think I’ll ever forget what Nikita Vitiugov said after losing a nail-biting tiebreak at Chess World Cup last year: “This tournament is like life — eventually, it has a sad end. Lucky guys leave it quickly; stubborn ones, who fight on their limits — sometimes painfully.”
Last night, our prime minister delivered a succinct speech wherein he called for unity amongst people. He admitted that we are quite helpless in the face of COVID19 and the onus rests on the general public to ensure that the virus doesn’t spread far and wide. Made sense because we are a nation of 1.37 billion people and comparing ourselves to wealthier countries with a much lower population is absolutely unfair. There is no way we can rise to their level of efficacy, particularly when we are seeing how badly some of them — namely, the UK and the USA — are doing themselves. His words reminded you why he remains popular amongst the majority of the citizens: he speaks in the language they understand. Unlike premiers of developed countries who proposed healthcare packages, NaMo took a poetic journey and aroused a sense of common cause. It subtly exposed two factors prevalent in India: our underpreparedness for disaster and our appetite for bonhomie. Even if we are suffering, we must find a reason to be proud of ourselves. It’s a cultural bowtie. And when the prime minister of the world’s largest functional democracy tells you that you must hail those working tirelessly at the frontier against this health crisis — medical officers, pharmacy professionals, delivery partners, etc. — by clapping in unison at 5pm on a Sunday, you will end up doing exactly that.
One more episode of my dad being my dad. Like I’ve suggested many times on this blog, with old age comes a strange power of humour and carelessness.
Me: “Modiji has asked elderlies not to go out and stay indoor as much as possible.”
Dad: “I can’t give up my morning walk because of this, no?”
Me: “But when the PM tells you something, you should listen.”
Dad: “I’ll go at 5am and be back before the PM wakes up.”