First Poem I Have Ever Written

Three Uncles

I have an uncle

In the south of France

He drinks and he gets high too

He doesn’t eat for days

Then he eats a lot

And smilingly pukes the night away

I have another uncle who lives in Colombo

He’s rich and he’s not a nice guy

He drinks like a fish

He drives like a dick

I think he is out to kill you

One last uncle

He doesn’t drink a drop

But he’s as bad as the rest

He walks around town

With a constipated frown

Smiling at a bitch’s behest.

- Aakash Joshi

Drunken Ramblings - 3 AM.

Have you ever looked at perfect beauty and wondered at its source? I was, and still am, an anthropologist. Not one of those new fangled ass holes studying the effect of video games on teenage brats, a real anthropologist. Magic and medicine men - basket weaving hotties and snot nosed children – that’s what interests me. Sadly, no tribe containing the nascent features I desire seemed to exist in the world. I spent the first 25 years of my life looking, and white men of some ilk or the other had visited everywhere before. Where could I find my source? The origin of something essential to my life as a man? The thing came to me in the most mundane of locations, the dullest of places.  Perhaps I should embellish the circumstances of the origins of my quest to provide an academic narrative the drama of the discovery deserves. Alas, I am not a writer of blockbusters, but a scientist, a mere social scientist at that. And as such must remain true to the facts despite the lack of drama that may ensue. I saw her first in the most obvious of places. Yes, it’s a her, I shall be shoving obviousness down your throats like the bitter cough medicine of pre liberalisation childhoods. The courtyard of a sociology department – a garden filled with exotics in sub-continental proportions – and a girl. She is beauty like I have never seen. At first the remnants of the artist in me is reluctant to talk to her. Why ruin a good thing? Sleeping with subjects has always led to a lack of methodological clarity. But we are not engaged in acts of creation, of fantasy. An engagement with the facts is essential. I talk to her and she smiles. It is no ordinary parting of lips, the teeth that come through are not mere incisors and molars, the eyes shine with an honesty that none of you will ever find anywhere, in anyone. The scientific temper is gone; I am reduced from participant observer to audience. She gives me a name, a mere signifier to this collection of perfection. I vow to find her true name. To know what is already certain, we spend the next few hour together, her listening and me rambling about what I think she might like.  Destiny is not amenable to analysis, but it guides our lives all the same. Perhaps it irks us more than love because unlike the latter it is not reducible to biology. I know now with Cartesian certainty that it was destiny that made her put up with me. There is no other explanation for her continued tolerance of my company.

I know what you’re thinking. A man in love intellectualises the heady drug of his passion for a younger woman. Hold back your cynicism. I attempted methodological neutrality with all my ability as I courted her. I looked at every part of her up close and surveyed her from a distance. I attempted find fault in every word she said and tried to complete every thought she had. And it was not just I. Every man who knew her thought her perfect. As the unreality of her existence dawned on me I realised that the ordinary name she went by was in fact a lie. I began to read, like Gandalf in the libraries of Gondor, I searched for the truth of her origins.  I went through the available texts, by known authors. I began frequenting back alley chatrooms where expelled grad students spouted their drug-addled filth. After months of searching, I found nothing. She was happy in the pretence of an ordinary romance with an older man, to keep up her comfort I had to hide my obsession.

It was in the magic chatroom - part alcoholic anthropologists, part users of psychedelic drugs – where I finally heard the name of the woman I loved. At first it was untranslatable. A series of clicks and whistles from the language before babel, the forgotten sounds of the first men, a language learnt from the birds in the trees and the insects between the blades of grass. Twke%h£!a, my Maswara friend from Botswana translated it as best she could. It was an old legend, never written, but always passed down with a religiosity that would put the best evangelical to shame. It spoke of the origin of Beauty, the first of her kind. Before her, the hunters of the Great Rift Valley knew nothing except the vastness of the sky and the harshness of the swamp. There was no question of her being reborn, she permeated the tribe of the first people like the ubiquitous nose of Rushdie’s Sinais. She was the heritage of all of us. As a scientist, I must share my data and open it to the criticism of my peers. But I cannot bring myself to subject her to your gaze, to make her aware of her own deep significance to our sentience. What I have found in her arms may well alter our notions of who we are. I could tell you how she proves that heredity has as little to with genetics as love has to with sex. Alas, my selfish desire for individual happiness keeps me giving you her false name, a name by which you could recognise her. I give you the translation Twke%h£!a  gave to me, and if you so desire, you may try to find her in the multitudes that you consider beautiful. She is Boo, of the Balu clan, reborn and ever present, immortal in her aspect, both diffused as beauty in mundane objects and particularised in the name I shall not utter. And fellow beings of scientific temper, approach her with caution if you find her, for her splendour belongs to a time before our method and you must be a stalwart of our inhuman neutrality if you wish to escape her spell.

A Prologue

There were five other people on the grid. The monitor was a bit grainy, it made us look like busts of freedom fighters, birdshit streaming down our faces. Each of us had convenient labels, for those who missed the earlier segments or didn’t have the attention span to be bothered with names. Mine said ‘friend.’ The feminist had ‘Academic and Social Activist.’ There was a journalist and lawyer as well, but they were just the backup dancers. It was between her and me. They cut to a close of her face. The stammering anchor asks his question off camera. “Mandankini V-vaisan, you have gone on record to say that Sunita Bisht does not deserve the death penalty. In fact, you have been said, and I quote, “her action cannot be c-classified as murder.” Her lips parted exposing her yellowing teeth in a smile so supercilious she may as well have spit in our faces. That smile was one of her in studio techniques. So was addressing anchors and co-panelists with a formality that dripped with condescension. ‘Mr. Barua, I would appreciate not having my words distorted in front of my face. Can I have two minutes to speak? Without interruptions? Thank you. I have made no claims to Saraswati’s guilt or innocence. Only that the charge of murder is inapplicable. I think it amounts to a case of manslaughter if not culpable homicide, both of which differ from murder in one crucial respect – intent. And that’s the point here. Shantanu Ray took advantage of her. And while making false promises for sexual favours is a time honoured tradition, it is her action against the action against her that is her crime.’ She sighed, satisfied at her own cleverness. I began my perplexed frown. And her final punch, ‘In a country that practically patted Nanavati on the back, the least we can do is offer Saraswati our sympathy. Our legal system will certainly give her jail time.’ I get ready for my turn. Adding what I hope is righteous outrage to my frown. ‘An i-interesting point Mandakani. Some would say you’re blaming the victim. Aakash Joshi, Shantanu Ray was a close friend. Perhaps you would like to respond?’ No fucking shit I would. ‘Thank you, sir.’ See, I could be respectful too. ‘I think you put it perfectly. That someone as erudite as Dr. Vaisan searches for the cause of the crime in the rumoured character of the victim, rumours I know to be false, while glorifying the murderer (I say it with emphasis) as some kind of kali-bhairavi archetype is deeply disturbing…’ She interrupts, still smirking. Probably at my awesome archetype line. ‘I did not say that at all. The inability to…’ ‘Ma’am, please let me finish, I recall offering you the same courtesy. The fact is that Shantanu Ray had consensual sex, without lying about himself or what he did. They spent one night together, and on the second he was dead. To blame the victim, or the murderer for that matter, based on their class is the sort of bigotry I wouldn’t expect from so distinguished an academic as Dr. Vaisan.’ I wish my role allowed a self satisfied smirk. I settled morally offended. The lawyer and the journalist were talking, but really, I stopped listening after I stopped speaking. I fiddled with my earpiece, just so people know how uncomfortable I am with this sort of thing.

Binno and Goshto and Reimagining Vedanta

It opens with hills and a river. It could be anywhere, but the impenetrable green that covers the mountains suggests a locale somewhere in the Eastern Ghats. A narrator whose voice drips with the wisdom of Malgudi Days introduces us to Binno. She is somewhere between two and five years old, her face has the smile that only spunky little girls can. Her poverty is evident from her clothes and her colouring, as is her tribal identity. The joy of childhood, her very existence in fact is a miracle. We meet her parents, who have lost siblings to poor infant and maternal healthcare, have never seen a school and apparently were too poor to dream. All the dreams they dare to have are for their children. Binno and her brothers – Goshto and Nandu. Goshto, a teenager has a ‘chotta sa khilona jo bijli se chalta,’ while his parents had never known the spectacle of an electric bulb. Binno can smile and she can dream. There are figures at the bottom indicating exactly how many people ‘happiness’ has been created for. The ad is beautifully shot, the music and voice over hit the right note. There is a story told in one and a half minutes and it is told well. At first I thought that this was a public service announcement by the government, and for that it was impressive. The most annoying thing about promotional spots by the government is, for a want of a better word, their analogue-ness. That grainy quality that reeks of black and white televisions in mofussil towns of the 80’s. There is a pedantic depersonalised quality to them that makes one switch off or change the channel immediately. This ad talks down to people as well. There is a paternalism that was gratifyingly personalised. Towards the end of the piece one discovers that it is not in fact a government announcement. Or even one from and NGO or an aid organisation. This was an ad for Vedanta’s corporate social responsibility spree. Actually, it’s not quite an ad. It is the most aggressive attempt at classical conditioning from a company whose brand recognition has been closely connected to its questionable practices in precisely the kind of tribal areas where this ad claims it is ‘creating happiness.’ Vedanta is attempting to fashion its brand not as the mining concern that it is, but rather as a benevolent missionary organisation with a social conscience that puts Mother Teresa to shame. The paternalism that seemed acceptable and the artistry that was impressive when I thought this was a government announcement became irksome. Perhaps this indicates an incipient prejudice against the philanthropy of big business. It is however worth asking why a multi-million dollar mining and energy company would go on a publicity spree about its work in modernising and providing facilities for what appear to be tribal poor. If the answer to the question is obvious, then so is the danger of this campaign.

Diary of a Smoker

He was giving an exam after four years. It was early and he hadn’t slept. D school was sparsely populated, and the tea appeared with astonishing briskness. An acquaintance chanced by and they lit their moral degeneration. The boys or men or boys to men came out stood up (cigarettes still in hand) to get a refill. A gyp appeared out of nowhere dripping with authority, “kya kar rahe ho?” The cigarettes are palmed and chucked. And like a couple of teenagers caught snogging in lodhi garden, they are oozing with guilt. The director, it seems, has spotted them. They must report to him to recoup their cards. An exam delays their visit. Two more cups of chai, a more discreet smoke and they are off, to pay the arbitrarily imposed fine of two hundred rupees. The corridors of the economics department are huge. All that money they have. The Director, a kind looking man with a round face and a comb-over looks very much the administrator he is, rather than the academic he might possibly be. He is helping out a couple of girls from the economics department with something to do with their internals. His office is being painted. We stand respectfully, we don’t look the part though, and we are of course reeking of stale tobacco, tea and a sleepless pre-exam night. Maybe in JNU we’d be sexy. His manner seems kindly but that changes as soon as he turns to the defendants. “You are from sociology?” He enunciates the word with contempt, accenting the ‘sho’ to an unwarranted degree. “Yes sir.”
“You were the one who came to protest my circular?” He was.
“Among others sir.”
Director sahib is beaming with righteous indignation. He doesn’t appreciate the cheek. “You all talk big. But rules are not meant for you are they? You think all of us are fools?” He did, but he was trying his best to look contrite. “All those talk about the “atmosphere” of a campus - freedom of interaction! Have you seen today’s Times of India? D school is listed as one of the hot spots of smoking. I am empowered by law to take necessary action.” Still trying their best to look sheepish. “Please pay the 200 rupees fine at the office.” They assumed that was that and began to shuffle towards the office at the other end of the corridor. Director-man whips around at with style – it’s time for the punchline. “Leave your home number.”
At first the manboy thinks it’s an innocuous request. Still, it is a suspicious one. “I am sorry sir, but why?” The arrogance of the question angers the Fuhrer. It is difficult to understand why, the weight of his pronouncement was implied in his tone. “Because I want to talk to your parents.” “Why, sir?”
“It’s my choice.” That’s right, he said that. Like a petulant thirteen year old girl he said it. The manboy does his best to control his temper. His companion seems pretty unaffected by the whole thing. Time to put on one’s best well brought up-articulate-intelligent boy voice. “Sir, you are free to talk to our parents, of course. But they have absolutely nothing to do with this.” Director sahib is visibly pissed off. Perhaps he expects them grovel in fear of their parents, like havildars in cal. “What do you mean? Your parents have sent you here with great expectations. You are no longer children. You are doing Masters in Sociology. Yet you intentionally break the law.” How hard is it to say sociology? Pronounce it right bitch, or at least with a little less condescension. He has paused his diatribe, perhaps for effect but more likely because his limited brain function is incapable of forming sentences at a reasonable speed. “What does your father do? I need to talk to him.” “He passed away a few years ago sir, he was an etymologist.” He wasn’t. “You must have a mother? Give me her number.” Now the boy is pissed in that most fundamental north Indian way. Pehle baap pe gaya, phir ma pe. These were, in essence, fighting words. A few years ago and he would have probably thrown a punch, or at the very least, uske ma behen pe toh chale he jaate. But the fact is he really would be in deep shit with his mother if she got a complaint. She still doesn’t know he smokes, he is back living at home, not earning, basically a leech. And fuck, she did send him here. Still, he cannot grovel. Bowing to the ego of such pettiness irks him. Uska ego Ego, mera ego phaluda? “Sir, I have a mother, everyone does. Feel free to talk to her, I’ll leave my home number. But please don’t think anyone has sent me anywhere. I am twenty four years old. I pay my own fee and my own fines. I pay for my own books. We knowingly broke the rules, and for that we are sorry. I’ll try to make sure it doesn’t happen again. There is a fine, which I am more than willing to pay. But you cannot treat us as autonomous individuals capable of making mistakes, hold us responsible for those mistakes, and then threaten to call our parents, sir.” The idea is to confuse him. No aggression, an out an out apology and cowardice masked as a firm ethical stance. “Obviously the threat of a fine doesn’t work with you people. Even now you stand in front of me, smelling of smoke. Next time I am going to hand you over to the police.” Director sahib is practically frothing at the mouth. His combover askew from the forceful gesticulating - partial baldness shining through – he cuts a oddly funny picture. The manboy is tempted to do Sharon Stone – whatcha gonna do, arrest me for smoking? “We understand that, sir. You have a responsibility to the law and to the university.” They are eyed suspiciously, he is not sure whether the statement is genuine. “Fine, I will contact your head of department. That toh I know I am well within my rights to do.”
“Of course sir.”
“I will ask her to take appropriate action.”
“Yes sir.”
“And next time, I will call the police. That is the only way people like you will learn.”
Let it go. Just let it go. They walk of and pay their fine. Next day there are copies of their id’s placed like mugshots on notice boards. Bad elements, smokers, treated like peddlers.