I take care of my body. It’s the only place I have to live. - Lao Tzu

The Kondh live in strong, beautiful bodies, a canvas on which the muscular form manifests in alluring high-definition.

The tallua Kondh (flatlanders) are the proverbial ‘chhota packet, bada dhamaka’, (good things come in small packs) with physiques of indefatigable marathoners; a natural consequence of the fact that their life is a hectic aerobic workout with elements of anaerobic endurance.

Men from villages closer to the dangar (hills) farmed the steep slopes and were built more like welter-weight fighters, their muscles meatier and form more together. Kondh men don’t know about 6-pack abs, they just have them. A ripped set for the young ones, a softer, arty outline for the middle-agers and even when that fades, their stomachs are flat. Skin settles into loose folds around the waist but the abdomen keeps its firmness as if the tissue was unaware of the possibility of the horizontal dimension.

If it were not for the non-Kondh trader-class Sundis in their midst, they wouldn’t recognize a paunch as an anatomical feature. A notable exception though was folks who had taken up a vocation that preempted their natural lifestyle. Like the guy driving the mini-bus to and from town or our very own Krushna, who sported a fine round and shiny belly.

*

Curiously, I didn’t see many young women. Only either school girls or middle-aged ones whose hips had locked in a ‘jutt-out’ owing, in some degree I suppose, to their farm-work posture. They spent excruciating lengths of time bent around the waist at an awkward 90˚, transplanting paddy saplings, weeding etc.

When they start paying attention to women’s bodies, boys often get taken in by clichés of long, never-ending legs wherein, a lot of attention is paid northwards of the knee; to the thighs, the rump, possibly due to their proximity to Mecca. It is not unnatural but in doing so, there is a tendency to overlook the simple elegance of the leg in the leg, the stump, just off-the-ankle and the soft flare into the calf; the rigid line of the tibia against the succulent flesh of the gastrocnemius.

The lean limbs of the Kondh women betrayed a delicate firmness or were a stringy marathoners’ variety. In girls as young as five, you could see the gutsy thighs of a superior muscle tone. It was so refreshing! You don’t see such bodies in the city anymore.

When I was about to fly to Australia a few years back, folks told me, ‘Oz is phenomenal! The girls there are all super-models and the guys all have six-packs!’

When I landed, I wondered if they meant a six-pack of beers. That’s what all the guys had. And the super-models did not come-by that easy. I would humbly submit that at 29, I had a more beautiful body than most of the 21-year olds I met, who had logs for legs and ham-hands from their penchant for red-meats and binge drinking.

Not so with the Kondh. Their bodies had retained the form of the original blueprint. Blessed with the simple, natural economy of a highly-functional musculature and untainted by the perverted size-worshiping of the sub-urban gym.

*

Following the 2014 football World Cup, many social commentators and bloggers prophesized that us Indians would never excel at the sport as we are naturally unathletic. Even in cricket we ace the ‘stand-up and deliver’ craft of batting, not the more physically demanding skill of bowling, fast-bowling specially, they bolstered their position.

What do we do with these ‘urban tucchas’ (shallow fakers, credit Sanjay Rajoura) and their pigeon-brained conception of India? This kismet meherbaan, gadha pehelwaan (an idiot having a run of good luck) clan. The ‘have mouth, will speak’ tribe, who think Chetan Bhagat not being nominated for a Pulitzer is racist. With a world-view shaped by Facebook memes, emboldened by e-publishing, they ‘speak their mind’, an act no different from ejaculating on sterile porcelain, a horrendous waste of possibility.

They forget that a reasonable man subjects his right to have an opinion to the duty of having done due diligence, which is a ceaseless process.

http://www.yuwa-india.org/2014/05/19/young-special-on-the-ball-and-ripping-apart-the-net-in-spain/

A reasonable man. Is it too much to ask for?

*

This is the third essay in the series of short writings based on my experiences during recent travel to the villages and forests of Niyaam Giri in Rayagarh district, south Orissa. The tour was kindly facilitated by Living Farms, an NGO doing stellar work with local Kondh aadivaasis on food-sovereignty and farming related issues. Food-sovereignty is not the same as food-security, which for the most part is a Govt-purported farce.

The Niyaam Giri are home to the Kondh deity, Niyaam Raja and to extremely rich bauxite reserves that, some commentators believe, have already been sold on the global commodity futures market through hundreds of MoUs signed by the Govt. with large mining conglomerates, Indian and foreign.

*

Time-travel

The train stops at Muniguda for two minutes. It is a small station, only 2 platforms. I got-off the train, walked out without an incident and met a dusty, untidy town. A yellow auto-rickshaw and an orange mini-bus waited on red ground, on either side of the broad, short flight of stairs.

Having grown-up in pre-liberalized, socialist India, venturing into deep-country has a quality of time-travel for me. There’s a healthy chaos, a sovereign indiscipline, neutral public spaces, unhijacked by commerce and life, yet unstandardized.

The auto-driver attempts to dupe me. I postpone my nostalgic indulgence, get a local opinion and trim his quote by 30%. He acquiesces without throwing a tantrum. It’s not too bad I guess. He made his move, I made mine. We played fair.

At the Living Farms Block Center, I met local Kondh aadivaasi boys, Prakash and Krushna, who graciously offered to host me for the next little over a week. By the time we started for the Sahada village, 34 km away, on the newly constructed roads of the Pradhan Mantri Gram Sadak Yojna, the sun was all set to call it a day.

The town receded into the village and the village gave in to the forest in incident-free transitions. Just like I got-off the train, on to the station and out into town, incident-free. When villages reasserted, the forest took a step back. The Kondh have a way with their woods. The woods have a way with their Kondh.

The road was not too broad, quite adequate for the volume of traffic it served. The sky was dark and cloudy, the breeze heavy with moisture but pleasant, big trees lined both sides of the street, buzzed with fire-flies. It made me beam down to the gut. A scorpion crossed the street at a merry pace.

Big beady drops came down on us, initially at a pace that one hoped to dodge. I reached for my rain-jacket to cover my laptop bag. Prakash held up the umbrella for Krushna, who was riding. Soon the assault intensified and we were really not Kevlar-bound. We sought shelter in the foyer of a home with an attached grocery-store.

The man of the house came out and fumbled around for a lost key. His wife followed. They chit-chatted in the native language, Kui. The man stank of mahuli, liquor made from the flower of the Mahua tree. In the Niyaam Giri forests, if a sound is uttered in any language but Kui, the hills would morph, they warned, and the trespasser would be lost in a warp.

It rained for an hour and then possibly it was time for the water-man to go to bed. So we were back on the road.

As we pulled-in home, a human form that had lain on the porch got up. It was a mad-woman. She had taken up residence in the porch that was barely broad enough to park a bike. She sat perched on the low side-wall during the day and rolled into a ball at the same venue at night. The boys let her be.

I don’t mind ‘mad’ folks too much; mostly because mad is a relative concept. You would be equally mad in the mad-man’s assessment. Only that he’s not so keen to impose his perspective on the world. In that, he seems saner to me.

In a world where an outfit steals and poisons communal water supplies to produce a sweetened toilet-cleaner and then has the gall to pitch it as an agent of happiness, camaraderie and even world-peace.

Where men who would regard themselves educated, sophisticated, even wise, acquiesce and become party to this arrangement, instead of taking-up arms against it.

Where to be ‘the most recognized brand’ is a haloed aspiration and attracts the ‘best’ talent. Strip-off the jargon and it is just euphemism for ‘mine is bigger/ better than yours’, a trait of a mind that has not progressed beyond early adolescence.

In such a world, who is to call another mad?

*

Dinner was cancelled as it was deemed too much of an effort with the kerosene stove and all. The boys had bought biscuits and I had a pack left from my journey. It was a hearty biscuit and sweet-bun meal and lights-out, a little after 10.

*

The new day began before 6, rather effortlessly. As I walked back from brushing my teeth, the mad-woman was sanitizing the insides of her mouth with a pikka, a beautiful roll of Saal leaf, stuffed with what’s locally called Dhooan Patta (smoke leaf). It was a rich shade of brown, due to its ‘farm-fresh’ pedigree, about 5 inches long, rolled to a mini-chillum form.

After this introduction, I saw the pikka everywhere I went. Cleaved between the ear and the temple or held nonchalantly between the first two fingers. The joint being fat made the index finger crook over it, giving the bearer a ‘bad-ass’ look, even if it were a 70-year old grandma.

Not so with the mad-woman though. She just looked empty. Or I didn’t bother to look hard enough. She blew shapeless puffs of smoke and intermittently spat copious volume of saliva, rather sonorously, ‘puchuk’. Her hair, a frizzy boy-cut and face studded with snazzy adivaasi jewelry. The more adventurous might describe her as a spent-out rock-n-rolla. I am a bit blasé for that.

*

The morning called for an early start so the plan to eat was shelved again. I tuned-in to my system to check for hunger-pangs, didn’t feel any. I wondered if I was trying to not be too imposing as a guest.

When I signed-up for a Vippashyana retreat many years ago, a meditation program that requires participants to practice silence, sexual abstinence and not use intoxicants for 10 days, I was a regular smoker, user of alcohol and a recreational marijuana-man. However, it was none of my vices but the fact that the last meal of the day was a light snack at 5PM that gnawed me endlessly.

I wondered if Rahul Gandhi was right when he said, ‘poverty is a state-of-mind.’ Maybe hunger too, like poverty, is a state-of-mind. Maybe the bloody junkie is worth more than I ever gave him credit for.

The mad-woman spits like clock-work, once every 4 minutes or so, a voluminous blob of ‘puchuk’. It is the only thing that breaks her emotive monologue. She’s both parties in the argument, the narrator and the audience. She delivers the punch-line and she’s the one laughing.

*

A father and a son walked past me as I was returning with Krushna from a not too great first outing to the woods. Daddy had a strong odor on him.

: Yahan log khoob Mahuli peete hain? (Do people consume a lot of alcohol?)

: Haan. (Yes.)

: Fir pee ke, ladaai-jhagda bhi karte hain? (Do they get into brawls when drunk?)

: Haan, karte hain. (Yeah, they do.)

: Aur auraton ko bhi maarte hain ghar mein? (Do they also beat their women?)

: Sob.. sob. Sob karte hain. (Yes, that too.)

That's a heart-breaker! Even paradise isn’t all that.

*

This is the second essay in the series of short writings based on my experiences during recent travel to the villages and forests of Niyaam Giri in Rayagarh district, south Orissa. The tour was kindly facilitated by Living Farms, an NGO doing stellar work with local Kondh aadivaasis on food-sovereignty and farming related issues. Food-sovereignty is not the same as food-security, which for the most part is a Govt-purported farce.

The Niyaam Giri are home to the Kondh deity, Niyaam Raja and to extremely rich bauxite reserves that, some commentators believe, have already been sold on the global commodity futures market through hundreds of MoUs signed by the Govt. with large mining conglomerates, Indian and foreign.

*

Nagpur ki Tapri

Nagpur is a central-Indian, tier-2 city tom-toming the inconsequential fact of being the geographical center of India. Besides, it is home to numerous, to put it mildly, inconsequential engineering colleges that have ruined many a glorious intellect.

A tapri, is a small roadside tea-stall, selling tea, poha (a rice snack) and packed in puritanical white, irony personified, little carcinogen-delivery systems.

Only the most naïve would dismiss the unpretentious tapri. Its appeal is psychedelic and brand recall infallible. There’s many a lesson in marketing to be learnt. Even psychiatrists at CIA’s mind-control facilities (code-named Project MKUltra) are going, ‘There’s something we haven’t figured out yet, Mr. President.’

It fulfills a deep anthropological need, the tapri, that of belonging to a whole, a community. Only ‘work’ and ‘home’ does not do it for man (reference unisexual). Cinema is vicarious, it engages the lazy and the dull. The Cabaret, though more exciting, is still vicarious and has an unmistakable 'been there, done that, let's move on' quality to it. Hence, the tapri. For the man who is in tune with his God-given right to be free and has retained his mojo, to strive to get there.

The pricing is egalitarian and the milieu, liberal; fostering sovereignty, not manufacturing consent. It affords a fresh arena for you to assume a fresh identity! You can be Robin Williams or Chris Hitchens, Arundhati Roy or Golwalkar. 'Who do you want to become?' it beckons, retarding mental illness, hopefully adequately, till you are dead.

*

The author has whiled-away many an evening at the Bajaj Nagar tapri outside an engineering college in Nagpur, practicing irony, dissent, playful banter, obscenity in generous measure and a host of activities as inconsequential to GDP growth, as the proverbial lawde ka baal.

‘Lawde ke baal' (in chaste Nagpur phonetics) is a local slang that can be heard hurled back-and-forth among friends at any Nagpur tapri, akin to a group of young cricketers engaged in catching practice. Its sting is not so much literal like other cuss-words but to be unwrapped like a conundrum. It heaps on its addressee the inconsequentiality of a strand of pubic hair.

*

Ducking for Cover

As I sat in the porch, a cockfight broke out a few feet from me. A black and a white cock contested for territory or mating rights or whatever else, I could not figure just then.

It proceeded at an even keel as they traded beak-jabs and then picked-up pace. Black went all guns blazing, lacking a fighter’s economy, betraying an aggression suggestive of inexperience while Whitey used his feet, shuffled around, even jumped over Black, manipulating the engagement-symmetry to his advantage.

Soon the fight was tipping in favor of Whitey, his foxiness quickly transforming to venomous vengeance, ala Ali, ‘I move like a butterfly and sting like a bee.’ From the ring-side vantage, I noticed that the beak-jab was not a mere poke but an attempted pluck of feathers from the victim’s head and neck. Certainly not the mark of a friendly spar!

Just then, the heavens opened up, making the whole affair quite dramatic. I wondered if a Karan Johar among poultry would appear from nowhere to shoot this climactic sequence for an Agneepath for poultry.

Rain made the feathers stick together, making them easier to latch on to as Whitey made a go for it. The pain ensuing from a pluck stunned Black long enough to be a sitting duck for the next assault. It was a slippery slope from there and the floor was soon littered with wet clumps of black feathers.

Black looked an adrenalin-suffused dazed, its bald patches conspicuous. Its strategic slips and weaves giving way to desperate ducks for cover under Whitey’s wings. The fear of pain, bodily-harm and abject humiliation fought a damning loss of pride in capitulating or retreating.

Only animals would heap such indignity upon another; animals or Americans. Not ordinary American men and women but the American imagination, its asininely myopic American dream, their cocaine-sniffing Presidents, CEOs and the hell’s-angels foreign secretaries, epitomized by Kissinger,
His take-away for committing horrendous genocide and ecocide in South-east Asia? 
The Nobel Peace Prize. That calls for a toast!

Like a voyeur, I watched, not allowing Black any privacy in this stripped to bare-bone moment of vulnerability. As fine motor skills deteriorated, the jabs did not land their mark and no new tufts came off. And as gross muscles neared endurance threshold, the cocks stumbled about, leaning into each other, Whitey still more in-control of proceedings and Black often seeking cover.

In this stupor they ran into the house-lady’s legs who kicked them away in a mild chastise. And rather unceremoniously, it was all over. No title belts, victory laps, national anthems or such.

*

The Black & Whitey contest reminded me of the Feb ‘89 heavyweight title bout that Bruno challenged Tyson to. Bruno stood at a prime 6’-4’’ & 234 lbs. Given his combined weight, height and an 11’’ reach advantage, one commentator felt he’d be a lion going against a zebra. To call a 35-0-31 boxer who fights with a ferocity that a Hellen Keller wouldn't miss, a zebra! I hope they never allowed the man ringside again.

Sure Bruno was a messy fighter. 31 of his 32 wins had come by way of KOs. With a musculature seemingly finished with a hammer and chisel, he looked akin a beefy gazelle. But gazelle don’t mess with the bison.

After a semblance of protest in the first round against Tyson charging like a rabid dog, Bruno reduced the bout to a grapple, clinching Tyson whole hog. It was unsportsmanlike, even shameful.

Tyson patiently bid time, nursing his vengeance and got a break in Round 5, setting-up the kill after a couple of flush body-shots. Left hooks and right upper-cuts rained, a few connected squarely. Punches that could have taken ones’ head off. It was a matter of seconds before the referee had to intervene, Bruno left slung on the ropes.

In the last shots of the bout, Tyson was seen surgically dismantling Bruno’s match-stick defense, brushing flailing arms aside, before launching powerful blows to the face and head. It was a corrupting, dehumanizing spectacle.

Like the Allied Forces’ assault on Iraq V.2003. After lying to the world about WMDs, after a decade of sanctions that killed 500,000 infants and children (described by Madeline Albright as ‘a price that was worth it’), after decimating all civilian infrastructure, water supplies, electricity substations and communication lines.

Woo hoo..!! God bless America!!

Can we unwatch a sight after having witnessed it? Can we etch away malignant neural pathways? Would evolution allow it? Can innocence ever be reinstated, never mind regime Saddam or regime Bush or are neurotic pretensions our only recourse?

*

This is the first essay in a series of short writings based on my experiences during recent travel to the villages and forests of Niyaam Giri in Rayagarh district, south Orissa. The tour was kindly facilitated by Living Farms, an NGO doing stellar work with local Kondh aadivaasis on food-sovereignty and farming related issues. Food-sovereignty is not the same as food-security, which for the most part is a Govt-purported farce.

The Niyaam Giri are home to the Kondh deity, Niyaam Raja and to extremely rich bauxite reserves that, some commentators believe, have already been sold on the global commodity futures market through hundreds of MoUs signed by the Govt. with large mining conglomerates, Indian and foreign.

*

Stories from Baghdad, Tibet and Siberia

Maalik kaun hai?

Sufi fakir Junnaid of Baghdad was walking across a village with his disciples. They came across a farmer leading his cow, possibly taking it to the market to be sold.

Not the one to miss out on a learning opportunity, Junnaid requested the farmer to stop. Graciously he agreed; eager to drop-in on a nugget or two of wisdom himself.

Junnaid turned to his disciples and asked.

fJoB: You see what you see here. Maalik kaun hai? (Who is the owner?)

One chirpy little fellow, Chatur, volunteered.

Chatur: That’s quite a no-brainer Sir. The man is the owner. The cow is his property. He is possibly taking it to be sold at the cattle-fair.

fJoB: A no-brainer hmm.?!? Fakir Junnaid has asked a no-brainer! From his bag, he pulled-out a pair of scissors and cut the cow lose. The cow made a run for it. The farmer dashed to recover it, swearing at Junnaid and his troop of loonies.

fJoB (thundering now): Maalik kaun hai, andhoN!! (Who is the owner? O ignorant ones!!)

Sotto voce he continued.

'The matter to ponder my dear ones is, whether you own ‘your’ Blackberry or the Blackberry owns you? Whether you have an account in Facebook or Facebook has created an account in you?'

Haah!! Laughing, cursing and dancing like a madman, Junnaid moved on.

*

Unse ab wapas khareedoon khud ko main,

Log jo maangein, woh apne daam doon.. – Javed Akhtar.

**

The Mosquito King

A Tibetan Buddhist story

In the tropical-monsoon jungles of Tibet, there lived a community of mosquitoes. Their leader was His Royal Highness (hereforth referred to as HRH) Mosqopold III, of the lineage of the Great Mosqxander VII.

We condescend but only because the story is told by men. Mosqopold III had no such misgivings. He was the Atlas of his reality. He knew it was not so much the size but the sting that mattered!

Mosquito colonies were located in shallow marshes by the lake and in nearby bushes. Soft piles of dung, that chequered the lake-side, were reserved for mosquito aristocracy and the biggest load of bison dropping was the palace of HRH King Mosqopold III himself.

One afternoon, HRH briefed his senior staff that he was bored with his current quarters and set them the task of looking for an accommodation of befitting grandeur and additional perks.

That very evening two battalions of the Royal Culex Army were mobilized, the Malarial Parasites and the DDT Resistors, each about 120-mosquito strong. The elite commando unit, Spirit Anopheles was put on ‘Full Prep and Arm Ready’ mode to neutralize any threats arising during reconnaissance operations.

Hollows of trees, backs of buffaloes and abandoned or inhabited bird-nests were scoped-out. None deemed exciting enough, mosquitoes were called in at 0400 hours and Day O signed off.

The next day at 1300 hours, a passing elephant piqued the interest of a Colonel of the Malarial Parasites. Post further exploration he zeroed-in on the aural cavity. 

It was roomy, airy and well lit on the outside while the insides, offered discreet private chambers for His Majesty. There was ample space to hold a full court on the back. The soft undulations were a pleasant novelty and the view, a delight!

Col. Zanzara dutifully reported this to his seniors. The incident stoked his long-nursed hope of a Medal-of-Honor for commendable service rendered in the line-of-duty during times of peace.

To tell you the truth, that night in the barracks, he shined his shoes, put on a full-uniform, wing-suit and all, and received the Medal from HRH himself. He bowed and kissed the tip of his wing, as HRH pinned the twinkling piece of insignia to his chest.

Later he drowned himself in the finest blended Scotch in the history of the world. A malady shared by the Libyan dictators, the leaders of the Palestinian People’s Revolution, the Saudi Royals and the deceased Iraqi Baath Socialists,

Johnny Walker Black

Breakfast of Champions! Mortar of Winners! Accept no substitutes!

And every once in a while, feel free to enjoy Irresponsibly!

Nevertheless, the superiors saw value in his suggestion. They codenamed it ‘HkK-326-13-16’ and after a thorough security appraisal by the CO, Spirit Anopheles, HRH Mosqopold III was briefed of the development and invited for a visit.

Prima facie, HRH was quite enthused about the prospect of living in an elephant’s ear. It brought a smile to his face.

*

Mosqopold III arrived at HkK-326-13-16 with his entourage; service chiefs, administrative heads and a motley crew of architects, designers etc. The site was okayed in about five minutes. HRH specially loved the soft undulations!

Mindful of trespassing private property and knowing ‘a kind word’ to be the best first move, HRH announced,

‘O elephant, I am Mosqopold III, the King of Mosquitoes, of the lineage of the Great Mosqxander VII. I have chosen to make your left ear my home and to hold court on your back. This is my great benefaction and must be a matter of immense pride for you.’

There was no response.

So, Mosqopold III, repeated himself, louder this time.

Still, no response.

‘Very well then, Maunam sammati lakshanam’, said Mosqopold III, ‘the elephant’s silence is the mark of polite acquiescence. Begin preparations. I will move-in by early next week.’

The elephant’s ear was a flurry of activity.

*

A week later, HRH Mosqopold III made HkK-326-13-16 his home. It was official christened, ‘The Grey Dome’.

A platoon of Spirit Anopheles commandos, specializing in personnel security, was stationed on the nape, camouflaged in the creases. And life moved on.

*

{Like the Godly gooey brownie that becomes nauseating by the fourth helping or the peppy dance number that refuses to excite on Day 3, the novelty of ‘The Grey Dome’ too wore off and HRH was looking for a change of scenery. He mentioned it to his staff and the State machinery was set in motion once over, greased with tax-payer dollars. A suitable venue was soon found.}

*

When vacating The Grey Dome, never one to shy-off chivalry, Mosqopold III called out,

‘O elephant, I am Mosqopold III, the King of Mosquitoes, of the lineage of the Great Mosqxander VII. I made your ear my home. It was my great benefaction and an immense privilege for you. I am moving out now and you have my best wishes.’

There was no response.

Raising his voice, Mosqopold III, repeated himself.

Still, no response.

This was mildly embarrassing for HRH. It could not be brushed aside as Maunam sammati lakshanam this time. How could the elephant not bother?

So Mosqopold III, repeated himself, shouting at the top of his voice.

The elephant thought he heard something, maybe a small animal in the grass? Or someone whisper? He strained to listen and noticed this tiny mosquito putting itself through enormous travail.

‘Can I help you Sir?’ the elephant wondered.

Finally Mosqopold III had its attention. At his cue, in unison, his staff introduced HRH and explained the current situation.

The elephant listened patiently and said,

‘My dear Sirs, accept my apologies but I don’t know about you. I don’t know when you came, when you made my ear your home or held court on my back. If I have been of some service to you, I am pleased to know. And, I did not realize you were leaving. I wish you the best and you are welcome if you’d ever like to come back again.’

‘What did he say?? Ahh.. whatever. All right, all right, you have my blessings!’ Glazed Mosqopold III and HRH, the King of Mosquitoes, of the lineage of the Great Mosqxander VII, buzzed away with his entourage.

**

'This is the story of man', the Buddhist say. 'Talking up a big game, putting-up facades all over the bloody place.'

Whether it’s,

Hunt protected for animals for kicks; get sloshed, mow-down a few pavement-dwellers and seek absolution in ‘Being Human’.

*

Or on an entirely different scale,

‘We’re moving in to establish democracy in Iraq and while we do that, we’ll engage more private contractors than the number of US Marines! (That's a fact.) And make Halliburton richer by 20 billion dollars, costs extra.’

Question: Excusez-moi Monsieur Rumsfeld! Would we be as interested in ‘demon-crazy’ in ‘I-rack’ if their national product was onions.. yaa fuck-head?

*

Or Friedman and his Chicago-boys tooting the free-market capitalism horn, 

MF: Okay, this is how we do it. Steal from the ‘School Mid-day Milk scheme’ and give tax-breaks to private enterprise.

novice Chicago-boy: Wow! Are we promoting young Chilean entrepreneurs Sir?

MF: No, you idiot. I meant our American billion-dollar multinational corporations.

‘Why, that sure sounds elegant Mr. Friedman!’ said the Nobel prize committee!

*

Or Marx, pandering the utopian goodness of Communism, urging to abolish all private property. Failing to take into consideration the little voice in everyone's head that says ‘You could have it all, if only..’

The result,

Stalin, a 5’-4’’ tall, abused son of an alcoholic Georgian cobbler, with a withered arm, a clubbed foot and a face scarred by small-pox.

And, by the most conservative estimate, 20 million peace-time deaths.





*
And there were the Freuds, the Jungs, the behaviorist, humanists, ethicists, the Hegels, Kants, Heidegers, Schopenhauers, not to mention the Potemkins, Goebbels, Barneys and Ms of the world.

‘Aur Astitv shaant hai,’ Buddhists say. That’s a tough one to translate.

‘If only you would shut up and listen. If only you’d pay some God-damned attention!!’

**

The Story of the Sparrow

The Story of the Sparrow is a deceptively simple Siberian tale. It has a legacy of being well-received and passed-on by remarkable dissidents, subverts and members of the espionage community of erstwhile Soviet Union and Eastern Europe.

I adapted it to an Indian-setting by a nuanced tweak of a character’s persona. The spirit however remains uncorrupted.

*

It was a crisp, sunny morning. A tweety sparrow went about  picking twigs for its nest.

The frantic activity attracted the attention of a foxy fox.

A perceptive cow, sensing the undertones, covered the tweety sparrow with a large dollop of soft dung, providing a veritable safe-house.

Settled in its blinkered perspective, it protested vehemently, compromising its location.

The foxy fox offered to help clean-up.

FF: There’s an India Mark II hand-pump just south of the big Banyan tree.

TS: Ohh.. sure. Thanks!

Getting every bit of dung off, its wings still soaking wet, the foxy fox finished-off the tweety sparrow in one bite.

* 

Moral von der Geschichte? Nicht nur eine, sondern drei.

• Not everyone who covers you in crap is an enemy!
• Not everyone who cleans you up is a friend!
• And most importantly, when you are deep in crap, quit tweeting to the whole wide world about it!

**