Ambiguity In Our Lives

By Abhyudaya Shrivastava

As a nation, I sometimes feel that we are obsessed with ambiguity. Our procedures, demeanors, concepts, even thoughts are clouded. Inheriting from such rich history and mythology; both subjects having a lot of scope for speculations and ambiguity, I think we have it in our psyche to mystify and overanalyse situations. We are a nation of haunted Dak Bunglows, mysterious witches of Bengal and "Raambaan" medicines with unknown mechanism of action.

Faith is one thing but, I think our romance with ambiguity roots from the strong spiritual roots that we have. Spirituality seeks the deep mysterious meaning of life and leaves many things unsaid. Growing up with these influences, we imbibe the values and turn out to be deeply spiritual beings even if we choose otherwise.

In government offices, at hospitals, in college admissions, everywhere we leave things unsaid and create mazes that the layman needs to figure out himself. No one seems to know the exact right way, it is as if we are left to find our own path to salvation. Religion has done much more damage to us than we know.

Shops that are closed on Wednesday may not open on Thursdays too, or they may open on Wednesdays sometimes. Everywhere in India, the answer is not clear, and you need to "ask someone". That someone may not give you the right answer but he may guide you to the next step toward finding the answer. You see, it's a procedure and you can't escape that!

Colleges have an intake of only a fixed number of students from a specific quota but, you may be admitted if you make the right calls, ask the right person and pay the right amount. Talent is one of the many things that need to be in the checklist if you want to make inroads in the field of your choice. What else do you need? Go figure!

So to conclude, I would say that I might be kidding all this while or maybe there is some truth in what I just said. If you really want to know, you need to "seek the truth". Good luck with the journey!

Why I Hate Sneha Khanwalkar! (With an Oops!)

by Abhyudaya Shrivastava

Sneha Khanwalkar: The pretty dame who's taken the Indian music industry by storm

Yes, that pretty dame who goes around with her thing that she calls music; I hate her with a vengeance. I mean how could she just walk in and declare that she has arrived?! Get this straight, lady, girls don't make music! Men write the lyrics on women, music that is about the beauty of women, about the way she walks, she smiles etc., men write the music as well as the rules of the society! It irks me that you do not understand that!

Moreover, how could you take inspiration from local artists and music genres? Are we idiots to ape the west and revel to the beats of jazz, trance and rock? What bizarre instruments do I hear playing in your songs? What are those? You make music from the thump of a fist on a table, the vocal cords of a street artist vibrating at full throttle, buses honking horns, people chatting, phone ringing? Jesus Christ! You call that creativity?

Coming to the theme of your songs. Weren't you instructed, re-instructed and repeatedly reinforced with the belief that "love" is the primal theme for any type of music? What baloney is this? You make songs about leather shoe, Womaniya, tung tung ektaara and what not! You go to Bihar, Karnataka, Punjab and try hard to bring local sounds and flavors in your pieces? Why can't you understand that music doesn't need to flow so much? Why would you even try something that no one is sure whether the audience will like? What utter disregard for the popular taste?
 

To over-emphasize my point, I'd like to repeat that you're a female! We do not take young, pretty girls seriously! We put them in item songs and expect nothing more than giggly gossip about make-up kits and strawberry ice-creams from them. Aap kahan se aaye ho madam? Where are you from? Why should I take you seriously? Just because you're talented, should I acknowledge you?

All of the above and a million other things are the reason I LOVE Sneha Khanwalkar. Oops!

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Games That Ruined My Life

By Abhyudaya Shrivastava

Ever since I got my new Android phone, I have discovered one thing about myself that I am not a very normal human being. I was living a happy, peaceful life with my Nokia handset which had the harmless little game called “Snakes” which I played for only a few minutes that too, only during national holidays. But now, I have Android Gingerbread 2.3.6 and access to the ginormous Google Play Store.

Now, thanks to all the games available out there, my mind has been reprogrammed. I can’t go to sleep before “finishing the level”. Thanks to Angry Birds, I know imagine hitting a building in such a way that it falls to injure maximum pigs, I hear them chuckle when they snort. I two see pigs together and I know in my heart that they are talking about where they’ve hidden the eggs. I think all problems of the world can be solved by summoning the mighty eagle.

Now, I see fruits and I try to slice them by running my fingers across them. I even touch the screens of non-touchscreens, trying to zoom in or out by pinching the screen.

Thanks to Ninjump, now I see squirrels crossing the road and feel the urge to kill them with a sword before they reach to the other side. I see blue birds and I imagine killing three of them at one go and getting the power to fly myself. I see a high score on someone else’s phone and take it as a challenge. It has become a matter of pride! Ninja pride!!

Worst is the case with Chess. I never was much into chess for two reasons- first- the hassle of arranging all the pieces on the board and making sure that no piece falls out from the board or gets displaced, secondly- the embarrassment of losing. Losing in a game of chess to someone is a big blow to one’s ego. It means acknowledging that they are smarter than you, that they have more brains. Now with chess right on my mobile screen, I can lose all the time and to restart a new game, I just need to tap on the “Restart game” icon. Now I make strategies in my sleep too. I shuffle my knights, rooks and pawns trying to check the opponent’s king. The whole world has become a giant chessboard and all thoughts centre toward moving the pieces in an orchestrated, confident manner.

Not to forget the bike and car racing games- I am a nervous wreck while playing them and every time I smash into a vehicle, my whole life from childhood plays before my eyes. I’ll soon be needing blood pressure medicines if this madness doesn’t stop.

Agle Janam Mohe TV Naa Deejo

By Abhyudaya Shrivastava

It is said that “time and tide wait for none” but in the world of Hindi TV soap operas, time not only waits for commercial breaks, it often repeats itself over and over again so that the leading ladies can get the slap right, that too in slow motion through multiple angles. These serials have been the butt of jokes since time immemorial, yet their clan continues to enjoy vast popularity mostly among bored housewives. I have never been unfortunate and *cough* imbecile *cough* enough to follow a TV soap religiously but that doesn’t mean I was spared the torture. Flipping through channels, during days of extreme emotional distress, I’d try to commit suicide by lingering on a channel airing “Agle Janam Lado Na Aana Iss Paraye Ghar Pardes” type opera. Somehow I survived to tell you the horrifying tales:

The Repetition
These serials treat us like morons. Take this scenario - an overdressed bride narrates an incident to a vamp wearing garish make-up. Now, an elderly lady comes, and asks what’s going on. To that, the vamp again goes about explaining the same lines bit by bit. Enter the tired paternal figure who happens to be curious too. Now it’s the elderly lady (Baa/ Dadi/ Kaki)’s turn to repeat the same dialogues line by line! It’s an intellectual onslaught on the audience’s sensibilities but somehow, the housewives not only watch it, they watch it with their pupils dilated. It’s as though they learn just that little bit more about the incident with each repetition. This to them is what “Inception” is to people who know better.

Recording Response
Every time something momentous happens on the show, the camera zooms to take everyone’s reactions. You can count the pimples on the face of the protagonist, watch the nose hair of the fatherly figure wiggle as he flares his nostrils, watch the botox enhanced vamp quiver with fear and basically the micro-expressions of every member of the annoyingly large family. Even the disinterested servant and the neighbour who has nothing to do with the scene get a 5 second zoom each. It’s like the director wants every actor to earn every paisa. One dialogue and then 5 minutes of recording everyone’s reaction; that’s how the serial moves to complete 500 episodes. They’re just warming up at this point. Try and get Google to tell you how many episodes Swabhimaan lasted.

Dialogues
The lines written may catch you off guard and make you puke if you’ve got even a semblance of intellect. With plots like those, I guess, you need dramatic dialogue but that is no excuse to resurrect the ghost of 1980s’ Bollywood. “Mujhe toh pehle se hi shaq tha...” “Karamjali, kulta...” “Kahan mu kaala kara ke aayi hai”, “Main tumhare bachche ki ma ban ne wali hoon”, “Kuchh aisa karo ki saanp bhi mar jaye aur lathi bhi na toote.”, “Ab nahi sahaa jaata”, “Bitiya toh paraya dhan hoti hai...” “Aaj tumne mujhe bata hi diya ki meri aukat kya hai..” “Tang aa gayi hoon roz roz ki khichkhich se” etc etc... Talk about cliché.  [Nb: For someone who doesn’t watch Hindi TV shows because they make him puke the writer sure does know a lot of lines!]

Cheap Tactics

The episode mostly ends with an appalled or stunned face upon seeing someone who just entered the room. The viewer is at the edge of his seat waiting for this moment because the whole week, the channel has been building up for this moment! But no, you have to wait another day. Not so easy – unravelling  these mysteries. Next episode of course is going to re-run the 5 minute sequence building up the mystery again and then end with the surprise character being some random actor with no relevance to the story line. A 3-4 minutes long exchange would ensue with no fruitful result and then the air starts building for next such “moment”.

Imagine this-

*Build-up*
*Enter surprise character*
(Our character is all wide-eyed and stunned)
*One long commercial break later*

Our character - Arey dadaji aap?
Dadaji (surprise character) - Haan bahu, tum kuch pareshan nazar aa rahi ho?
Our character - Ji kuchh nahi... aap yahan kaise?
Dadaji - Main bas yunhi, nikal raha tha toh socha milta chalun... mujhe aise kyun lag raha hai ki tum kuchh pareshan ho..
Our character - Ji woh baat ye hai ke....

*Script goes into a coma*

There have also been entire half-hour episodes where all we get to see is one female walk out of the kitchen towards the couch in the living room.

Even the serials other than family dramas are cliched and repetitive. Don’t believe me? Watch CID, Aahat or any other serial that has run for more than 3 years tonight. If you survive, we shall talk tomorrow.

Adios!

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The Day We Really Met!

By Abhyudaya Shrivastava

It was never going to be an ordinary day,
I forgot whether the month was June or May.

Photo credit - Tuhin

The day I realized the world is wooden,
and dreams are made of clay.


I see you smiling, dancing across the hall,
with your prince charming, giggling all the way.


My love for you was lost, I was happy for you,
but my greed for your love didn't sway.


Was it love? Perhaps I never loved you,
My mind was dirtier than an ash tray.


We had met before, with me on all fours,
behind you, pleading, wanting you to say-


Say that you love me too, with all your heart.
I wasn't sure that it was the right thing to say.


I wasn't sure whether I loved you or not,
but I wanted you to say it anyway.


That was earlier, me wooing you,
you unsure, and this is today.


I can handle seeing you with someone else,
I have feelings but, I can keep them at bay.


I no longer struggle, to tell you something,
in my battle with my heart, I can have my way.


I've grown stronger? No, that's not the case,
you've not been listening carefully,
I fought my heart, it had a metal sword,
but, my sword was made of fickle, frail, clay!

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Believe Only What You See & Hear

By Abhyudaya Shrivastava

Here is a story-

"Believe only what you see and hear" was what he was taught by his science teacher at school. Dismissed by his colleagues, the science teacher was considered to be an atheist lunatic; but Ram's young impressionable mind was captivated by it. He did find it logical that if there is a higher authority, would He be sadist enough to punish us if we don't bow down in front of Him? Would he appreciate the way we shun small-case letters while addressing or referring to "Him" during writing? Does God really exist?

That science teacher who taught 10 year olds to question the authority of God was shown the door soon after many parents complained. It was more of the constant urge to question things invoked by him among the children than the "God issue". The children would question every ritual, every religious doctrine which bugged the parents. It all led to the ouster of the blasphemous teacher. The Principal fired him immediately since he was an ad-hoc recruitment anyway. But the seeds were sown in Ram's mind, and they went deep and far.

He grew up to become a man, went through many discussions, countless differences of opinions which sometimes were an inch close to being converted to fistfights. All this had changed him. He became opinionated and argumentative. He thought people who believed in God were morons; taunted his own parents for being ignorant. He was not liked in group meetings. Everyone knew that he could snap any minute and judge people for their religious faith.

This is the story of that one fateful day when he was on his way to work; he saw a car run over a guy! He knew that guy, he had seen him somewhere! Oh yes! He was their local vegetable vendor! His name was Hariya. He ran to his help, called the ambulance, got him admitted in a hospital! Apparently the guy who ran him over was Hariya’s own brother! It was a property-related issue.

Hariya's face was annoyingly calm. He had forgiven his brother for the act; Ram went in, stayed there a while and came back. The words that kept ringing in his head were- "I have nothing against my brother, God is great, I hope He makes things better!" "So the task has been left to God?" thought Ram smiling to himself.

Suddenly he saw Hariya's estranged brother entering the ward; he followed him quickly, sensing something foul. As he entered he saw the brother crying at Hariya's feet asking for forgiveness! "God will never forgive me! Can you forgive me please? I have sinned and I should be punished! You are great! I went mad, I was mad for money..." and he went on apologizing and weeping.

Ram was watching this family drama only to be sucked into it in the next few minutes! Hariya and his brother's eyes met Ram's and they were filled with immense gratitude. "Thank you, sir ji. Thank you for bringing my brother to the hospital. I can never repay your debt!" the brother said. "Oh, it's fine" Ram said! "I saved Hariya- the vegetable vendor; but for saving Hariya- your brother- I think you should thank God!"

Ram's neighbour who had also helped in bringing the patient to the ward and taking care of him was also listening to all this. When Hariya's brother turned around and marched toward the temple, the neighbour asked- "Hey Ram! Did I just hear you praise God?"

Ram smiled and replied - "I thanked Him but didn't acknowledge his presence."

"What's the difference?" the neighbour asked.

Ram smirked and went away leaving the neighbour pondering all by himself. The neighbour's face had the same look as the look on the face of Ram's primary school teacher, after just being fired, 20 years ago.

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A Crushed Rebellion

By Abhyudaya Shrivastava

We as a group, as Indians are a very anti- speaking up kind of nation. We do not raise our voice on anything be it- corruption, animal cruelty, lack of amenities. We are taught as kids to shut up and listen to our elders. Elders are the wise ones, they know better. As we grow up, the elders are replaced by the powerful ones. From the school principal, college principal, boss, local MLA, all the way up to the Prime Sinister. Oops! I mean Prime Minister, form a hierarchy of power. You’re not supposed to speak up against power. And if you do, you are a bad boy and you deserve a spanking!

As a kid, a child develops doubts in his quest to attain knowledge. He turns to his mentor only to be turned down. Asking questions is not really encouraged here. Questioning something means developing a doubt over its authority. You do not ask the “why”! You ask only “what” and you’re supposed to memorize the answer.

A rule is created to keep the herd in line, keep the unruly crowd in check; time passes and the rule attains redundancy but it needn’t be scrapped! Because to scrap the rule, you have to question it and questioning is, remember, forbidden!

In schools, a routine is created, a protocol is given. It’s termed “discipline” and it frequently includes abhorring one’s mother-tongue, cramming lines from a poem that you wouldn’t understand even till your death. Here is where the fear of being wrong is instilled in young minds. There is a minority of teachers who believe in the far-fetched idea of individuality but, they are few and far apart.

As we enter real-life, we find unanswered questions, customs based on sheer lunacy, rules made by the powerful all around us. You enter a railway platform, see a board outside cafeteria which says “Please do not pay more than printed price for the bottled water” but when the owner charges you Rs 12/- for a Rs 10/- bottle, you do not pick up the phone and complain to the authorities, you pick up your wallet and pay up! We are the country where a long waiting queue keeps getting longer even if the nearby counter has a smaller queue. We like to stay with the herd.

 
It’s not like nobody ever speaks up against things here. Oh! We are an enthusiastic lot. It is just that we are too preoccupied ourselves to carry on with the task of “speaking up”. That’s why we invite tenders and sell the right to the ones who are the most jobless. It’s only that these speakers do not necessarily represent us when they speak, they represent lunacy in a different form, they represent power in a different form. They are the untamed, lunatic monsters that we had created to hunt down the tamed powerful monsters. Sadly, they have sided with each other and are now conspiring against us.

The monsters we had created, the wild ones of the society, are involving in eve-teasing, smashing things, boycotting Valentine’s day, looting ballet boxes, murdering honest police officers. They are the rebels we have created. They work against the system, only to empower it. The right kind of rebellion is a mockery of itself. Take Anna Hazare movement for instance, he has rebels, his cause is good but, when it came to the litmus test, it couldn’t hold its own. The fabric that builds today’s rebel in India is tainted.

 
If we really wish to create a rebel with a soul for today’s India, we need to water its plants with the water of yesteryear. A Bhagat Singh, a Chandrashekhar Azad are easy to find, but people who would believe in them? Not so easy. I think we’ve been betrayed enough in the last 50 years to trust again in a rebellion. That is why, as a custom, we don’t speak up, neither do we let anyone.

 
Jai Hind!

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Girls Decoded

By Abhyudaya Shrivastava

Photo credit - Vijay Narayan

One of the most written about topics is "fashion". It's about being comfortable in your own skin, being yourself, presenting the best that is within you, being stylish, not following the herd and so on. What I think of fashion is largely insignificant because I am not a style icon admittedly. I am one of those guys you cross off when you start making a list of guys who dress well. I am eliminated in the first round; and to substantiate that, I'd like to admit that I don't have a pair of nice jeans at the moment, I don't wear a belt with my trousers, I wear flip-flops to weekend parties, my socks sometimes smell and my shirt sleeves are not longer than my coat sleeves. So, please read this article at your own risk.

"Fashion is always about who you are !" If I hear that cliche one more time, I swear I'll puke. We are all born insecure, crying, seeking attention. We remain the same whole of our lives, except the crying part is replaced by more refined rituals. Rituals such as dressing up. I like to classify girls into the following categories based on the way they carry forward these rituals -

Type 1 -  I hate all things pink

These are tomboys with a confused sense of identity. Growing up with three - four brothers and no sister makes these girls' view toward "all things pink" a bit derogatory. Can be seen sporting large tractor tyres for ear-rings. Use a pair of tweezers carefully to explore the scalp under the dry strands of hair, you might break the eggs sparrows laid there. A nose ring can sometimes be seen, which is the only way to shout out "I am a girl, Goddamnit!" to her secret crush. Ask her to differentiate between mascara, eye-liner, eye-shadow, kohl and kajal and watch as her brain short-circuits.

Type 2 - I am cute and I know it

She has annoying "Hello Kitty" stickers on everything she owns. Carries a pink phone, a pink laptop, uses phrases like "OhmyGod!", "like I care" etc. Crosses her legs even before her bum touches the bench. You click a photo of her yawning, making a face or accidentally blinking and she'll pounce on you like a kitten screaming "delete it, delete it, delete it... or our friendship is over!" May annoy with their continuous self-indulgence. They follow up your serious talk with "Do you like my new nail-paint? Should I go with maroon or red? Forget it! I'll go with maroon!" One tip- Never go shopping with type 2. You'll die.

Type 3 - I am not cute but I don't know it

Type 3 is actually pseudo-type 2. Can be seen wearing sleeveless tops with their hairy armpits on display. She smells like a perfume shop exploded. You praise her because you respect all the effort she puts in to look good. Her facebook profile is full of mug shots, pouts and weird socially unacceptable expressions and gestures. Scratch the surface and you might find that she has wisdom, sense of humour and all things nice. Wish she wasn't trying so hard.

Type 4 - The Princesses

You can also call them the "I am not cute and I know it" girls. Now these are my favourite ones. These are what I call the real fashionistas. They hide their oversize waists with intelligently placed hemlines. They mix and block colours like a pro. They know how the way they wrap a scarf can change the way they look. You can call them fat and not expect a shriek that blows away ships at the dock.

Type 5 - The real tomboys

They are the ones with serious masculine traits. They are not afraid to burp and fart in public. They sport a disturbing amount of facial hair. Sooner or later they transform to either type 4 or type 3.

Type 6 - The world isn't so fair

Here we have the dual personalities. These are the ones with really cute profiles as kids but as they grew up, they disappointed everyone. Pimples, skin allergies, bone growth pattern- whatever it was, it made them cranky. Now their feelings and plunging necklines are on display. They have good and bad fashion days. Make almost intelligible remarks that sometimes you almost believe them until they wear an outrageous and disgusting dress and say mean things about a poor little girl sitting in the corner.

Type 7 - The average ones

You never notice them until they drape a saree in someone's wedding. Behind those nerdy glasses and loose T-shirts is a princess who suffers with low self esteem. They make great listeners and friends. They are invisible most of the time. Hiding behind hooded sweatshirts, boring pony-tails and two-tone colour combinations with the two colours being gray and navy blue.

So here's how I know girls. Let me know if you know any more types......

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