Rumia

I only wish my child were foolish and dull

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Tue, 17 Feb 2026 16:50:00 +0000

人皆养子望聪明，

我被聪明误一生。

惟愿孩儿愚且鲁，

无灾无难到公卿。

Everyone raises children hoping they will be clever,

I've been misled by cleverness all my life.

I only wish my child were foolish and dull,

So that he might reach high office without hardship or difficulty.

~ Su Shi (1037 – 1101)

Song Dynasty poet, essayist, calligrapher, painter, scholar-official, literatus, artist, pharmacologist, and gastronome.

Pitch for a 500-episode K-serial for Balaji Telefilms

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Mon, 01 Dec 2025 06:03:00 +0000

After playing about with ChatGPT, I decided that the prompt itself was an act of literature, and decided to ignore all its "creative" output, with all that planet-killing electricity spent. So here is the prompt. Maybe there needs to be a literature prize for just writing good prompts and ignoring what AI churns out.

Please draw up a pitch for a 500-episode K-serial for Balaji Telefilms. It will include plots and intrigues between the following characters in a Gujarati joint family living in Jamnagar:

Kokilaben, the mother-in-law who is actually an alien. The real human mother in law has been transported to another planet, while the alien impersonates her to hunt for a valuable radioactive jewel which will power a perpetual motion machine. The human had stolen and hidden it.
Hetal, the elder daughter in law, who is actually an ichchhadhari nagin, married to the elder son.
Hemal, the elder son, who is a scientist researching the immunity-conferring properties of cobra venom. He has actually captured the nagin's brother. The son will only have a small role in the series.
Jinal, the second daughter in law, who is a chudail who actually fell in love with her second son. She is the lead of the serial, who can detect that the mother in law is an alien and the first daughter in law is a nagin. Subplots of the serial will include various schemes that she thwarts with her magic powers.
Vimal, the second son, who is a nuclear scientist with a second life as a vegetarian chef and wedding ccaterer. He will only have a minor role, but the weddings he caters will give excuses to the actors to dress up.
Bhanuben, the real mother in law's husband's sister, who hates her and is always trying to divide the family. She wants him to divorce his wife and marry her friend, even though he's been married for 30 years. She is a tantrik who knows the secret of the chudail.
Bijubhai, the real mother in law's husband, who was her accomplice in the theft of the jewel, but was shot by police and is now comatose. He has brief episodes of waking, where he tries to reveal where it is hidden, but his time is monopolized by his sister, who is also his caregiver.
Dhaval, the third son, unmarried, who is an arrogant but charming police officer.
Minal, his girlfriend, who is an alien hunter, using secret powers she learned from the Hindu shastras. She keeps trying to impress everyone to approve her marriage to the third son, but is opposed because she is only after his money. The chudail is her ally but the nagin opposes her.

After 200 episodes, the serial will undergo a generational leap, and also be transported to Mars, where the children of the nagin and chudail are locked in a fight over property.

Bridges of Stardom - Chapter 2: Back to Bollywood

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Tue, 30 Sep 2025 17:27:00 +0000

Four years later, Raj had a degree in civil engineering, having cried on stage realising that he had fulfilled his late mother’s dream. Melodramatic as it was, it was real. But it also led Raj to know his heart was still in greasepaint, not in axle grease.

He returned to Bollywood. Producers lined up with scripts, hearing the box office explode with ticket purchases. Raj chose his favourite director, Karan Mehra¹, who had a script for a big-budget historical. These things had been minting money recenly, especially when they were rewriting history to the government's taste.

On the first day of shooting, Raj walked onto the set of a grand medieval fortress and frowned. “Karan, this arch is all wrong,” he said, inspecting the set.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It won’t distribute weight properly. You’re looking at a collapse during the climax scene."

“Raj, it’s a set. It’s not real.”

“The fans deserve authenticity! Let me redesign it.”

What followed was chaos. Raj demanded stronger materials, real stone columns, and an actual moat. The budget didn't explode, it turned into a 1000 kiloton mushroom cloud. The set designer's team muttered, “He’s turning this into a UNESCO World Heritage Site.”²

¹There is only one Karan, whatever surname one chooses to hide it.

²Though to be honest, some Bollywood film sets should have been UNESCO World Heritage Sites. They are better kept than the real ones.

Bridges of Stardom - Chapter 1: The Superstar’s Detour

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sat, 27 Sep 2025 18:23:00 +0000

I'll be honest. I've used AI (very purana ChatGPT version) to help me brainstorm the plot details, and then I let it fester, and then recently used Gemini's Nano Banana to do the comic panels. The sarcasm and snide references are 100% mine.

All this started because the original 'Urban Neanderthal' decided to complete (and actually did) his engineering degree, I dunno why. And so I imagined someone who went the whole nine yards.

So here goes:

Raj Malhotra¹, Bollywood’s reigning superstar, was your quintessential hero. With a Brad Pitt-esque face that made teenie boppers and aunties swoon alike, a Vinod Khanna-esque masculine swagger that made youn men want to imitate him, and pre-Sooryavanshi Amitabh Bachchaan-esque box-office numbers that made producers gleam, can one be anything else? Like the Shehenshah and then the Badshah², he was unstoppable.

Until one fateful awards night. Clutching yet another Best Actor trophy, Raj made an announcement that left the nation gasping:

“I dedicate this award to my late mother, who always wanted me to be an engineer. I’m taking a break to fulfill her dream.”

The audience froze mid-clap. The host dropped her cue cards, and would cause a La La Land situation, but that's another story. Somewhere in the crowd, a producer went into a coma that is said to be still continuing.

The tabloids exploded the next day: “Superstar Raj Chooses Calculus Over Camera!”

(I know, I know. Very AI-esque language khichdi)

Raj, however, was unmoved. He traded his designer suits for engineering textbooks and enrolled in college. This wasn't difficult because which wouldn't want star power to get more people to pay more for the paid seats?

He was a superhit (academically). It turned out that he had a brain matched only by Isambard Kingdom Brunel³. While his classmates struggled with assignments, Raj tackled them with the intensity of a method actor preparing for a role.

“Raj, how do you solve this equation?” a classmate asked.
Raj smirked. “Just like a Bollywood climax—eliminate the villains and isolate the hero.”

¹It had to be that, because you know, Shah Rukh's stage name and all that.

²For those who don't know, and I hope you are a vanishing tribe, that's Amitabh Bachchan and Shah Rukh Khan respectively.

³My personal hero, Google him.

The Great Navratri Showdown

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sun, 14 Sep 2025 18:31:00 +0000

Shikha Tandon was a woman on a mission. Every year during Navratri, the housing society in suburban Mumbai where she lived echoed with the sound of dhols, clapping, and cheerful shouts as the Gujaratis and Marathis celebrated the festival with their beloved garba and dandiya. But to Shikha, it always felt hollow, like something essential was missing.

ਇੱਕ ਵਾਰ ਜਦੋਂ ਉਹ ਇੱਕ ਸਹੀ ਮਾਤਾ ਕੀ ਚੌਂਕੀ ਵੇਖ ਲੈਣ, ਤਾਂ ਉਹ ਨਵਰਾਤਰੀ ਦੀ ਭਾਵਨਾ ਨੂੰ ਸਮਝਣਗੇ...ਨਾ ਲਾਲ ਚੁਨਾਰੀ, ਨਾ ਸਿਰ ਢੱਕਣਾ, ਰੰਗ ਬਿਰੰਗੇ ਕਪੜੇ... she’d mutter to herself, watching the merriment from her balcony, arms crossed in disdain. ਅਤੇ ਉਹ ਡੰਡੇ ਮਾਰਨ ਅਤੇ ਅਤਰੰਗੀ ਕੱਪੜੇ ਪਾਉਣ ਦੀ ਇਸ ਬਕਵਾਸ ਨੂੰ ਬੰਦ ਕਰਨਗੇ। ਸਿਰਫ਼ ਪੰਜਾਬੀ ਹੀ ਜਾਣਦੇ ਹਨ ਕਿ ਮਾਤਾ ਦੀ ਭਗਤੀ ਕਿਵੇਂ ਕਰਨੀ ਹੈ।

For years, she had tried to convince the housing society to let her organize a Mata ki Chowki, complete with microphones, loudspeakers, and a playlist filled with stirring Punjabi and Hindi devotional songs dedicated to Vaishno Devi. She could already picture the entire complex resounding with the powerful bhajans and kirtans she remembered from her childhood in Punjab. It would be glorious, a true tribute to the goddess that these Gujaratis and Marathis could never understand.

Finally, after much persuading and wheedling with the society’s committee, Shikha got her wish. The event was sanctioned. She prepared everything meticulously. The pandal was set up in the society’s courtyard, with a small shrine decorated with flowers and lights. A list of traditional bhajans, all in honor of Vaishno Devi, was carefully curated by Shikha. She even invited all the ladies from the society, asking them to dress appropriately in red and white.

The evening of the Chowki arrived, and Shikha beamed as she welcomed everyone. She took the microphone and, in her best authoritative voice, announced the start of the celebration. The first Punjabi bhajan filled the air, and Shikha felt a deep sense of satisfaction.

But as the evening wore on, things started to unravel. One of the ladies, a cheerful Gujarati woman named Priti, requested a song. અરે શિખાબેન, શું આપણે અંબે માતા માટે ગુજરાતી ભજન ગાઈ શકીએ? she asked innocently. Shikha hesitated but nodded stiffly, her smile faltering. Before she knew it, the microphone was passed to Priti, and a Gujarati song praising Ambe Mata echoed through the courtyard.

It didn’t stop there. More requests came flooding in, and soon, the Marathi ladies chimed in with their own favorite songs. अहो! आम्हाला अंबाबाईसाठी काही मराठी भजनेही गायची इच्छा आहे! One by one, Shikha’s carefully curated playlist was pushed aside, and her vision of a pure Punjabi Mata ki Chowki was being washed away in a wave of Gujarati and Marathi devotion.

When the garba music started blaring, it was the final straw. Shikha stood on the sidelines, her arms crossed tightly, eyes narrowing as she watched the ladies twirl and clap. Even the few Punjabi women she had invited had abandoned her carefully planned event to join in the garba.

ਬੰਦ ਕਰੋ ਇਹ ਗੰਦਗੀ... ਸ਼ੋਰ ਸ਼ਰਾਬਾ ਕਰ ਦੀਆ Shikha muttered angrily, her face flushing with frustration. ਤੁਸੀਂ ਨੀਚ ਲੋਕ ਨਹੀਂ ਜਾਣਦੇ ਕਿ ਮਾਤਾ ਦੀ ਪੂਜਾ ਕਿਵੇਂ ਕਰਨੀ ਹੈ। ਤੁਹਾਨੂੰ ਸਭ ਨੂੰ ਮਾਤਾ ਦਾ ਸਰਾਪ ਮਿਲੇਗਾ। ਇਹ ਸਭ ਤੁਹਾਡੇ ਲਈ ਮਜ਼ਾਕ ਹੈ!

With a loud huff, Shikha stormed out of the courtyard, her head held high but her fists clenched tightly. As she stomped up the stairs to her flat, the sounds of laughter and clapping only seemed to mock her more. She slammed her door shut, her chest heaving with anger. The night, which she had hoped would be a glorious tribute to Vaishno Devi, had turned into a nightmare.

She was still fuming the next day when a knock on her door interrupted her thoughts. Opening it, she was greeted by a committee member, who handed her a folded piece of paper. Confused, she took it, and as her eyes scanned the contents, her heart sank.

It was a bill.

मायक्रोफोन आणि स्पीकर भाड्याचे बिल, the man said politely, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. आपण कार्यक्रम आयोजित केल्यापासून.

Shikha’s mouth fell open. A hefty sum was circled in red at the bottom of the paper, more than she had imagined.

ਹਾਂ ਹਾਂ she repeated through gritted teeth, crumpling the bill in her hand. Muttering under her breath, she slammed the door once more, cursing the entire society under her breath.

ਦੁਬਾਰਾ ਕਦੇ ਨਹੀਂ! she spat. ਇਹ ਲੋਕ ਕਦੇ ਨਹੀਂ ਸਮਝਣਗੇ!

Vikram Joshi: A Biography

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sun, 14 Sep 2025 15:40:00 +0000

Vikram Joshi was born in the quiet, leafy suburb of Pashan, Pune, in 1948. His early years were filled with the simple pleasures of village life—chasing butterflies in the fields, swimming in the pristine waters of Pashan Lake, and listening to the elders' stories under the banyan tree. His family had lived in Pashan for generations, and their roots run deep in its red soil.

"तुला ते झाड दिसतंय का, विक्रम?" his grandfather would say, pointing to the sprawling banyan near the village temple. “तुमच्या पण‌जोबांनी ते लावले होते. हे आपल्यापैकी कोणापेक्षाही जास्त काळ येथे आहे. ते झाड आमच्या कुटुंबासारखे आहे. मजबूत, खोल मुळे, लांब पसरलेल्या फांद्या, पण मुळे... ती आपल्याला जमिनीवर ठेवतात.” Little Vikram would nod solemnly, not quite understanding the full weight of the words, but feeling a deep connection to the earth beneath him, the soil that carried the stories of his ancestors.

As Pune grew, so did Pashan. Roads that were once dirt paths turned into asphalt, and homes made of stone and mud slowly gave way to brick and concrete structures. Vikram watched as the once-rural area transformed into a bustling suburb, but his love for the place never waned. He finished his BA from Fergusson College and married his college love Neelima, and they had two children, Anuja and Sameer. The old ancestral house, with its creaky wooden doors and cool stone floors, became their home. Even as the world around him changed, Vikram remained rooted in the traditions of his family.

"मी आता ओळखत नाही," Vikram would often say to his wife, Neelima, as they sat on the porch, sipping evening tea. “पण हा अजून पाषाणच‌ आहे. तलाव अजूनही आहे आणि टेकड्याही आहेत. मला वाटते तेच महत्त्वाचे आहे.”

Neelima would smile, knowing that while her husband struggled with the changes, he would never leave. "बदल अपरिहार्य आहे, विक्रम," she'd say softly. "पण काही गोष्टी तशाच राहतात, जसे की तलावावर सूर्य मावळतो. तुम्ही ते रोज बघता, नाही का? हे अगदी लहान असतानाच्यासारखेच आहे."

Vikram worked as a schoolteacher, nurturing young minds and instilling in them the values of honesty and hard work. He was beloved by his students, who affectionately called him "Masterji." He had a way of making lessons come alive, often drawing on his childhood experiences in Pashan to explain concepts.

" मुलांनो, कल्पना करा" he’d say, standing in front of the chalkboard, "तुम्ही पहाटे तलावाजवळ चालत आहात. धुके वाढत आहे, आणि तुम्हाला समोर दिसत नाही. पुरातत्वशास्त्रज्ञांना सिंधू संस्कृती असेच वाटले असावे - जोपर्यंत ते खोदण्यास सुरुवात करत नाही तोपर्यंत ते रहस्याने झाकलेले होते. हे जुन्यामध्ये काहीतरी नवीन शोधण्यासारखे आहे.”

The children would sit spellbound, transported to a time long past, even as they sat in a classroom surrounded by the noise of construction outside, the modern world pressing in on their quiet corner of Pune.

For years, he took his children on walks around the village, showing them the same fields and hills he had explored as a boy. "तुझे आजोबा मला इथेच‌ घेऊन यायचे", he’d say, gesturing to a small grove of trees near the lake. "आम्ही इथे तासनतास बसून पक्ष्यांना ऐकत असू."

As they grew older, Anuja and Sameer would roll their eyes, though they still came along out of a sense of duty. "बाबा, आम्हाला ही माहित आहे," Sameer would say, smiling. "शंभर वेळा सांगितले आहे."

"पण तुम्हाला आठवन असू अशीच‌ माझी इच्छा," Vikram would reply gently. “एक दिवशी, तुम्ही तुमच्या मुलांना इथे आणाल आणि ते या जागेबद्दल विचारतील. आणि तुम्हाला काय म्हणायचे आहे ते कळेल.”

In his early fifties, Vikram faced a dilemma when a prominent Pune-based real estate company approached him to redevelop his house. The city was expanding rapidly, and developers saw potential in turning old family homes into sleek apartment complexes. Vikram was torn. On one hand, the house was aging and in need of repairs. On the other, it held the memories of generations.

"तुला काय वाटतं, नीलिमा?" he asked one evening, the letter from the developer sitting on the table between them. Neelima looked at him thoughtfully. “आम्ही बदल थांबवू शकत नाही, विक्रम. घर नेहमीच आपल्या हृदयात असेल, परंतु कदाचित काहीतरी नवीन करण्याची वेळ आली आहे. मुलांनाही त्यांच्या भविष्यासाठी घराची गरज आहे.”

Reluctantly, Vikram agreed, knowing the family needed a modern home. For three years, he moved to Bavdhan, another suburb of Pune, while construction took place. Though Bavdhan was nice, with its clean roads and new buildings, his heart longed for Pashan. He missed the familiar streets, the sound of birds in the morning, and the sight of the banyan tree that still stood tall near the temple.

"बावधन छान आहे बाबा," Anuja said one day, noticing his melancholy. “पण पाषाण नेहमी घरी असेल. आपण‌ लवकरच तिथे परत जाणार‌.”

When the redevelopment was completed, Vikram returned to Pashan with a sense of relief and joy. The new house was modern and comfortable, yet it retained the essence of the old home—preserving the memories of his ancestors.

The first thing Vikram did after moving back was to plant a new sapling in the front yard. "पुढच्या पिढीसाठी," he told Neelima" त्यांना कळेल की त्यांची मुळे कुठे आहेत." He spent his remaining years tending to the garden, teaching his grandchildren about the flora and fauna of Pashan, and visiting the lake that had been his childhood playground.

One afternoon, he took his granddaughter Maya to the lake, the same way he had taken Anuja and Sameer so many years before. Maya, all of five years old, ran ahead, chasing after dragonflies.

"हळू माया, हळू" Vikram called, smiling as he watched her. "तू त्यांना घाबरवशील."

"पण अजोबा, मला एक पकडायचे आहे!" Maya laughed, her tiny feet kicking up dust as she darted through the reeds.

Vikram chuckled and sat down on a rock near the shore, watching her play. The lake was as beautiful as ever, though the surroundings had changed. Tall buildings loomed in the distance, and the once quiet waters were now dotted with paddleboats. Still, the sight of the sun setting over the hills, casting a golden glow over the water, brought Vikram a sense of peace.

As Maya finally returned to his side, panting and empty-handed, she flopped down beside him, resting her head on his lap. "मला एक गोष्ट सांगा आजोबा," she said, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes.

Vikram smiled and stroked her hair. “ठीक आहे, मी तुझ्या वयाच्या असताना मी इथे ड्रॅगनफ्लाय पकडला त्या वेळेबद्दल सांगू...”

The story flowed easily from his lips, as though the years had never passed. And as Maya listened, her eyes fluttering shut in the fading light, Vikram realized that no matter how much the world around him had changed, the essence of Pashan remained the same. It was in the stories, the memories, and the connections between generations.

Vikram Joshi passed away peacefully in 2023, in the very house where he had been born. His family gathered around him, and as the funeral rites were performed, the banyan tree near the temple stood tall, its roots entwined with the land that had nurtured generations of Joshis.

Anuja and Sameer stood side by side, looking out over the hills. "बाबांना हे आवडले असते,"Sameer said softly. "तो घरी पोहोचले."

Anuja nodded, wiping away a tear. “तो नेहमी म्हणत होता की पाषाण बदलेल, पण मुळे कायम राहतील. आता आपणच त्यांना मजबूत ठेवायचे आहे.”

Moral of the Story: ज़रा सी बावधानी, ज़िन्दगी भर पाषाणी

Testimony

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Wed, 10 Sep 2025 09:28:00 +0000

The adalat was packed. The air was thick with tension, sweat, humidity, and the uncomfortable black clothes of Indian lawyers and judges in summer. The defence team sat around fidgeting. As did the prosecution.

Jitendra Mehra, sat immaculately groomed in the katghara, the picture of Lokhandwala refinement. His crisp designer suit was pressed perfectly, though sweat stains in the AC-less room were making their debut. His hair was slicked back with expensive pomade, though that was beginning to unravel as the case turned heated. His face was the picture of calmness: the ability to buy as good a defence team as money can does that for you.

Today, though, it had failed to get him a better courtroom. Or witness. Or judge.

Jitendra's team had told him, several times over, that he had a rock-solid defence. Yes, he had been at the Andani's lavish terrace dinner party on the night of the crime, where Mahi's body had been found at the basement. His team had lined up dozens of the city's VIPs to testify that they saw him at different times in the party, no one remembered him leaving it.

They had shown that the time stamps of the CCTVs in the lifts had not added up. So many went down the lift for a quick sutta or to take a call. As many came up... there were so many gaps, anyone could have done her in. Their client liked a bit of a smoke and went down once or twice, what did that prove? The police was just putting bebuniyad ilzaam to close a shoddy investigation. The evidence was all circumstantial, speculative, and more fancy words that the defence team had found on Thesaurus.com, for which he had signed off on several fat cheques.

Nevertheless, the prosecutor some young, still-too-idealistic-to-be-bribed lady by name of Ranjeeta Kewalramani, had suddenly produced this one witness at the end of the last session, prolonging the mukadma. Another four-week adjournment, another four weeks of surrendered passport. Cayman Islands holiday bye-bye. Damn, she was good.

So the entire case now rested on this one chasmdeed gawah: Ramlal. A soft-spoken carpenter with calloused hands and that 3-mile body odour that only honest men seem to have. Had this man, whom he had never met, not been there at the mauka-e-vardat, there would have been no case.

Prosecution claimed that Ramlal’s testimony would destroy Jitendra's case. The defence monkeys did assure him that the Nasher Miles bag full of cash that landed at Ramlal's house yesterday would do all the talking.

“Gita par haath rakhke...”

“Gita par naa, judge saab”, Ramlal's voice steady, his stare unnerving the judge. “Ee dharam granth sab jhooth baa.”

The courtroom buzzed. Some tittered, some started in shock. The judge raised an eyebrow, then lowered it. “If you are an atheist, then just raise your hand and say that you solemnly affirm, Mr. Ramlal.”

The court clerk translated. Ramlal cleared his throat. “Naa malik. 18 mm plywood ke dugo patti mangwai debe, auro u ke saath Araldite.”

The audience guffawed, in the hopes of some courtroom comedy. Ms. Kewalramani's face visibly fell, to Jitendra's delight.

It had been easy to plan. Mahi Vij had motioned to him mid-party to follow her into the basement parking. Fed up of her constant blackmail, Jitendra felt he could turn the tables. He avoided going down with her in the same lift trip: people were coming and going and no one would ask him questions. What she thought was her strength—the desertion of the place and lack of CCTVs—would be her fatal weakness.

She lay in predatory wait for him in an under-construction security room. He walked out of the lift, slapped on latex gloves he had stolen from the bar, strangled her without conversation, stuffed the gloves into his pocket, and walked back to the party. Her body slumped, with the room's plywood walls collapsing around her. He was back in the party in under 3 minutes, depositing the latex gloves he had stolen from the waiters in the barside dustbin. There had been no witnesses to anything.

By the time the body would be discovered, his tracks would be muddied enough. By the time the detectives put together a picture, no CCTV footage would provide a coherent chain of appearances. And this being the Andanis' multi-story personal home, there really weren't that many CCTVs. He hadn't succeeded in life by being a slow thinker.

They prosecution had shown a series of UPI payments from an obscure bank account to Mahi's account. But they all came from the Gpay on Jitendra's phone. The defence monkeys had looked at him like that viral disappointed Pakistani fan. But they had managed to argue that a motive for a crime is not the same as proving a crime. Damn, they were good.

But they had one trump card, sort of. They had rummaged through the latex gloves in the bin (damn the guys who don't dispose of kachra on time). A pair was found with his fingerprints on the inside. They were so smudged, that the police couldn't claim that they were his with more than 95% certainty. His defence monkeys got it knocked down from evidence. Damn, they were good.

And now, all these months later after the public uproar of the murder, and the media circus and the bumbling police investigation that led to his arrest on weak, weak grounds, Ramlal was being just the perfect asshole he hadn't asked for. No jhoothi gawahi – just betuki, atrangi bakbak that would get his testimony dismissed. Damn, the defence monkeys were good. As if on cue, the judge roared, “What nonsense is this? Plywood? Araldite?”

Ramlal nodded solemnly, his gaze still unnervingly focussed on the judge. “Malik, eh duniya mein sab kuch jhooth ba. Dharam jhooth, bhai log ke pyaar jhooth, laikan ke pyaar jhooth. Saanch ba, to khali Araldite ba. Kaahe ki ek ber chipak gayil, malik, ta okara ke kachuo na tod sake.”

The judge called up the prosecutor and told her to discipline her witness. But Ramlal was adamant. He wouldn’t speak a word without his Araldite.

“Ramlal, apni maa ki kasam khaakar bolo ki tumne defence se paise nahi liye.”

The defence howled. The judge roared, “Madam Prosecutor!”

“I apologise, Your Honour,” the prosecutor stood up, but Ramlal interrupted.

“Malik, aara hathauda ke kasam, eko paisa naikhi lele. Haath kat jaaye ose pahile.”

“Your Honour, we request an adjournment to... procure the necessary materials.”

The defence objected, “Your Honour, this witness is clearly insane, and if his testimony is the linchpin of my learned opponement's entire case, I plead that it be dismissed entirely.”

The judge looked at Ms Kewalramani. She bowed, saying, “The state will appeal, Milord. My witness may be idiosyncratic, but any pyschologist can cerify that he is sane. He must get a chance.”

There being no other combination of letters that terrifies a judge than the word appeal, milord sighed and instructed the clerk to procure some pieces of plywood.

“Na, ee naa hoi. Ee matra 9 mm motai ba. Avuri ee toh 10 mm tak naikhe. Aap naikhi samjhat, naa. Sirf 18 mm plywood jeevan bhar chalela. Baaki kachuo jhooth avuri beimaan ba.”

The judge was furious. “You have one hour, Ms. Kewalramani, to secure whatever he wants. After that, the case will be dismissed if Mr. Ramlal does not testify.”

The court erupted into chaos, till the marshals had to baton everyone out. The prosecutor darted out of the court, grabbed Ramlal, and dashed into her car.

Jitendra looked at the clock. Forty-five minutes had already passed. For some bizarre reason, he had to sit in court in that blasted katghara, instead of his air-conditioned car. By now, he was sweating bullets. It isn't nervousness, he told himself. It's just hot.

With five minutes to go, Ms. Kewalramani burst into the adalat, placing two 18 mm planks on the clerk's table. But the clerk was out to lunch, as was the judge.

Crowds were filling up the benches. The adjournment had given the media enough time to send reporters to hear what would be the testimony of a lifetime.

Neither turned up for the next fifteen minutes, letting the humid heat sap the energy out of everyone. Jitendra glared at Ramlal, who just returned the same frog-like stare that had unnerved the judge.

“Yes, Ms. Kewalramani, why are you late?”

Even Jitendra felt that this was unfair of the judge.

“Your Honour, one shop had plywood, but it wasn’t thick enough. Another had the right size, but it was warped. The glue was another disaster—every shop had run out of Araldite, and one shop even suggested Fevicol as a substitute, almost sending my witness into a meltdown. We had a hard tme finiding all he wanted....”

“Yes, yes, alright.” The judge, visibly bored, waved her away. “Now swear the witness in.”

Ramlal opened the box of Araldite with reverence, revealing two tubes. “Dekha malik...” he began, as though giving a lecture, “Araldite doo bhaag mein aavela. Ek tube hardener se bharal, doosra epoxy se bharal. Dunu ke sahi matra mein ek sange milave ke padela.” He carefully squeezed out equal amounts of both onto a piece of cardboard. “Dunu ke mila ke bahute majboot jod ban jala... tab kehu okara ke naa tod sakela. kauno solvent okara ke ghula na sake—ubalat pani tak naa.”

The courtroom watched in fascinated silence as Ramlal mixed the two components with the precision of a surgeon. The resin and hardener blended into a thick, clear paste, which he then spread delicately between the two plywood planks. With calm focus, he pressed the planks together, holding them firmly for a minute, allowing the Araldite to set. “Ab hum shapath leve khatir taiyaar bani.”

The entire court leaned forward as he put his hand on the Araldited planks and swore to tell the truth and nothing else but the truth. The room fell silent as Ramlal gave his testimony. His words were clear, unwavering.

He had finished his work in the back of the building, and had come to the basement to change out of his work clothes. He was half-dressed in a dark corner behind a car, when he heard the security box come apart. “Hum pahile man hi man sochani ki ee apna kamjori se dhah gayil ba, U thekedar ko ham chetavni dele rahle ki 15 mm ke plywood ke istemaal Araldite ke sange kayil jaye, lekin hamaar baat ke sunat ba? Thekedar 6 mm ke kamjor plywood avuri sasta, pheeka gond chunle, Fevicol tak na!”. When he looked up, he saw Jitendra as clear as daylight, and the body of Mahi slumping down. The sight was burned into his memory. There was no doubt.

The judge listened carefully, his brow furrowed. Thrice he asked Ramlal whether he had identified the defendant correctly. Thrice Ramlal swore upon his Araldited 12 mm planks. As he was dismissed, the entire adalat watched him as he gently pressed the plywood planks to his chest and walked out.

The judge's face turned judgier and judgier. The defense vakils' faces turned paler with each swear. They knew—and Jitendra knew—that this wasn't because the testimony shattered Jitendra’s case. They could still win this on appeal to High Court and Supreme Court. But this weirdo carpenter had just given the judge to pass a guilty verdict and keep the extra-large American Tourister full of cash.

Which he did.

This AI-assisted story is a tribute to my carpenter Ramlal Vishwakarma who swears his life on Araldite. In a world of lies and deceit, he also swears by 18a mm plywood.

Here I recreate Passepartout and Phileas Fogg's epic journey

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Tue, 09 Sep 2025 13:58:00 +0000

Once upon a time, long, long ago, in the oldest of days and ages and times, beyond seven mountain ranges, beyond seven rivers, if I was there that time I would not be here now... I recreated the entire adventure of Jules Verne's Around the World in 80 Days as it were live tweeted, becuase in 2013, the exact dates matched the dates of 1872.

Jean Passepatout's X.com account

Picture credit: By Alphonse de Neuville (1835-1885) and/or Léon Benett (1838-1917) - Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=11154441

Quis sum

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Thu, 12 Sep 2024 07:24:00 +0000

By Zeina Maasri - File:Bashir_Gemayel.png, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=117550569

I'm someone, anyone;

I might be Bachir Gemayel:

among guns and shells a Maronite;

between powers a puppet -

a pawn in a Great Game;

weak, then powerful;

alive, then dead;

somebody, anybody, nobody.

I might be someone else,

I might be you,

I might be a third person;

I might as well be Bachir Gemayel.

AI and the real ‘Mother’ of Democracy

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Thu, 11 Jul 2024 17:04:00 +0000

The Magna Carta (originally known as the Charter of Liberties) of 1215, written in iron gall ink on parchment in medieval Latin, using standard abbreviations of the period, authenticated with the Great Seal of King John. This file has been provided by the British Library from its digital collections. It is also made available on a British Library website.Catalogue entry: Cotton MS Augustus II 106, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=78606

A review of “The Past, Present, and Possible Future of UK Democracy in the Age of AI” by Md Shabaz and Zeenat Firdaus

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D3KQX38T

From the Magna Carta to the Long Parliament

Beginning with the Magna Carta forced upon King John in 1215by his rebellious barons, the United Kingdom has been at the forefront of modern democratic innovation. Enduring as a symbol of liberty and the rule of law, the Magna Carta establishes the principle of Constitutionalism: the idea that kings, just like all other people, are subjects of the laws. The next significant development was the Long Parliament (1640-1660) and the ensuing English Civil War, which established rule of parliamentary sovereignty and the consent of the governed, especially in matters of taxation.

The 19th century saw an expansion of democratic rights to the general population through the Reform Acts, especially the abolition of "rotten boroughs" – which made parliamentary seats better represent the male population. These reforms led to the Suffragette Movement, led by figures like Emmeline Pankhurst, till by 1928, the UK had become one of the first few countries to have universal suffrage, allowing all adults to have a say in the governance of the country. Correspondingly, the powers of the monarchy and aristocracy were also trimmed away in the UK’s characteristic “evolutionary not revolutionary” style, deepening democracy.

In recent decades, the evolution of UK democracy has been shaped by the rise of the internet. Social media has emerged as a double-edged sword: while it is a powerful tool for political engagement and mobilization, it also blurs the boundaries between information and disinformation. "Fake news" and conspiracy theories have proliferated without the editorial control once exercised by responsible media, undermining public trust in public institutions. The advent of artificial intelligence and technologies such as deepfakes has made the problem more urgent. These technologies, especially when wielded by authoritarian actors (state and non-state), are playing an increasing role in manipulating public opinion, disrupting elections, and eroding the integrity of democratic processes.

Threats to Democracy: Social Media, Disinformation, and AI

In this light, the book “The Past, Present, and Possible Future of UK Democracy in the Age of AI” by Md Shabaz and Zeenat Firdaus is a timely read. It doubles as a detailed primer for those looking for a quick history of British democracy (for those who need reminding), and as a go-to manual for those fighting disinformation and preserving the sanctity of elections. In this review, I will focus myself on the technological issues raised by the book in its second part.

Despite the benefits, digital technologies also pose significant challenges, particularly through misinformation (misrepresenting facts) and disinformation (spreading lies). The rapid spread of false information on social media platforms threatens the integrity of democratic processes. Misinformation can sway public opinion, influence elections, and undermine trust in democratic institutions, as was evident from multiple messages spread on social media to mislead and confuse voters during the Scottish Independence and Brexit referenda.

The issue of misinformation has only magnified in the recent elections post-referendum. The book beautifully explains the root cause of this: social media algorithms, being designed to maximize engagement, unintentionally prioritize sensational and misleading content, because that excites people. Social media has exacerbated “digital tribalism”, where individuals are exposed only to information that reinforces their existing beliefs (echo chambers), become more radicalized in the process. The authors lay out a multi-faceted approach towards combating misinformation, including digital literacy education, robust fact-checking mechanisms, and greater transparency from social media companies regarding their algorithms and data practices.

Data Collection Practices and Privacy in UK Elections

The extensive use of data analytics in political campaigns is raising critical questions about privacy and individual rights. All major political parties in the UK, from Labour to the Tories to the Lib-Dems and SNP, routinely deploy data-driven strategies to target voters with micro-tailored messages. Although this enhances the relevance of political communication, it also involves the collection and analysis of vast amounts of personal data.

These concerns magnify in the context of elections, since voting behaviour can be inferred by integrating multiple sources, including social media profiles and online activity. This data leaves them vulnerable to targeted, gaslighting messages to swing their vote. While ostensibly improving campaign efficiency, such practices raise significant ethical and legal issues – as laid out by the authors, especially when the law is grey.

Government Accountability and Transparency

Not all is negative in the book. It highlights the contributions of digital technology to democracy: the enhancement of civic engagement through social media, online forums, and digital petitions. By lowering barriers and expanding access, more citizens can voice their opinions, mobilize support for causes, and interact directly with their representatives. In the UK, initiatives like online voter registration and digital government services have made it easier for people to participate in elections and access public information. In the recent elections, multiple websites offered information on candidates and manifestos constituency-wise and party-wise, enhancing informed choice. A few were also focused on tactical voting to enhance the power of one’s vote.

By analyzing large datasets, AI can uncover patterns of corruption, inefficiency, or misuse of public funds: some of which were major themes in the recently concluded British election. This capability is instrumental in ensuring that governments remain accountable to their citizens. AI-driven platforms now offer personalized political content, helping voters engage better issues that matter to them. Data science is playing an increasing role in identifying trends in public opinion (especially through MRP opinion polls), providing valuable feedback to policymakers, and fostering a more responsive and inclusive political environment. AI tools can also analyze public data to promote transparency in public spending, healthcare, and education. The power of predictive analytics can be used to anticipate the outcomes of policies.

Conclusion

The evolution of democracy in the UK is a bellwether for the democratic world at large – and hence everyone is a stakeholder. In the digital age, the roles of AI, data science, and social media will not diminish. Navigating these complexities, therefore, requires a balanced approach that leverages the benefits of digital technologies while safeguarding democratic values. Much as Md Shabaz and Zeenat Firdaus have grappled with the issue, one is left feeling that they have only revealed the tip of the iceberg. I strongly recommend this book, and I look forward to more oeuvre from this pair.

The Power of Phonotactics

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Thu, 08 Jun 2023 08:14:00 +0000

This is a lightly edited transcript of an interesting WhatsApp conversation on 3rd June, 2023 on phonetics, prestige registers and sound conservation in linguistics, that I should bring to this moribund blog.

Conversant in italics.

Hello sir. A question I’m asking out of laziness since I found it convenient to ask you directly 😁
[This is something I regularly face. The skipping of Google, not the emoji.] Do any of the Marathi grammatical texts/ works explicitly talk about when n where to pronounce the two forms of च ‘s , ज’s & झ’s ? In my personal experience, I’ve never seen any of my school Marathi teachers explain these aspects w.r.t pronunciation. I guess, native Marathi speakers are already familiar with this phonology since they are taught from childhood & this phonology might be an unwritten rule I reckon which may not need any explicit explanation. In my case, Marathi isn’t my mother tongue & I’ve had a hard time in figuring out when & where to pronounce the correct form of च, ज & झ ….

[I responded with three Instagram reels by a comic Marathi influencer:]

https://www.instagram.com/reel/CsQVfeHoOWR/?igshid=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==

https://www.instagram.com/reel/Crck84SI3id/?igshid=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==

https://www.instagram.com/reel/CpEt9bCoHkJ/?igshid=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==

Nice one 😁... but nevertheless, some of my queries still remain unanswered esp when the usage of the sounds is somewhat ambiguous. Take for instance, in Marathi a conjunct of ‘च’ with another च is usually enunciated as ‘cca’ as in, उच्चार ... but I’ve heard of words like ‘ कच्चं ‘ wherein the च्च is pronounced as ‘tstsa’ ... This is one example I can think of atm ... [at the moment]

There r similar such ambiguities that I’ve found in the language… both in the spoken & written form 😁

The ch/chch effect you see in tatsam Sanskrit words, where there is prestige associated with Sanskrit pronunciation. The ts/tsts effect is seen in tadbhav/deshi words that lack the prestige baggage. Pronouncing utstsaar is not inconsistent with Marathi phonetics, but it is perceived as illiterate. On the other hand, uchchaar is inconsistent with Marathi phonetics, since it retains its original Sanskrit phonetics.

Yes on a larger level, tatsama words retain the Sanskrit pronunciation….

Prestige effect. Creating an upper-caste/lowered-caste shibboleth.

& another peculiar feature I’ve noticed… Some of the words directly borrowed from Farsi/ Urdu having ‘za’ sound switch over to ‘ja’ sound when pronounced in Marathi…

Couple of examples I can think at the moment is - ‘ज़िंदगी ‘ & ‘ज़िद्द ‘. The Farsi-Urdu ज़िंदगी becomes ‘जिंदगी ‘ by substituting za with ja & same in the case of ज़िद्द > जिद्दी in Marathi ...

Once the prestige factor goes, the phonetic rules come back with a vengeance. Persian parvāh (worry) becomes adopted into Kannada as paravagilla with the 'g' inserted as per Kannada phonotactics.

Haan.. anothe common word - ‘roz’ (Persian/ Urdu) > ‘roji’ (Marathi)

In Hindi also, people will naturally say jidd, but be corrected by Urdu snobs as zidd. Unless of overcorrected by Urduphobes to हट्ठ. Phonotactics (what sounds are allowed when and where) is learned within a language organically and unconsciously, which outside learners don't have access to. That's where your problem stems from — and why you sound like an outsider.

Sarkari Kannada has quite a few Farsi words…& even in spoken register too… On Twitter, one would come across an amusing fight b/w Kannada purists vouching for the Samskrita-nishta Kannada while on the other side you’ve got ppl purging Sanskrta words off Kannada … Two extremes… the latter ones are often mocked by the term ‘olatagaras’ ( ‘bobda’ version of the word ‘ಹೋರಾಟಗಾರ’ )

[After this the conversation trailed off, but I've kept this much in, as a reflection of the power of phonotactics.]

To know more about phonotactics, check out this video:

Image credit: Jackie Chan image by Segolene Liger (Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0), with the traditional Chinese character for duāng (BabelStone - Own work, CC0) overlaid. Duang is not phonotactically acceptably in Mandarin, even though the initial d- and the final -uang both exist in Mandarin. As this new 'sound' emerged (from an ad starring Jackie Chan), a new character for it had to be created, which fans did by stacking the two characters used for Jackie Chan's Chinese stage name, Cheng Long (成龍; pinyin: Chéng Lóng, meaning "become a dragon") on top of each other.

A Tale of Two Cities

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Mon, 27 Mar 2023 12:40:00 +0000

26.1.2023

All good stories begin — with a good story. A story of a city founded on a lake dug overnight by Chimaji Appa's army on their return from Vasai. A story that starts with the narrator, Dr. Smita Dalvi, under a pipal tree, hesitantly mentioning in a shy voice that this is her first heritage walk, albeit based on 20 years of pacing the city's lanes and bylanes, noting the crumbling and disappearing testaments of a once brilliant past.

I've done heritage walks in Thane myself, of its multiconfessional heritage and multilayered past, so this walk of Panvel resonated deeply. They were two ports of the Nizamshahis, exporting coveted good across the western Indian Ocean — cotton cloth and Salsette teak for Thane; salt, rice and timber goods for Panvel. The stories mirror each other as the two saw a secular decline under the Portuguese, whose deep devotion to their Vatican overlords overrode their commercial common sense. The stories twine once again under the Maratha reconquista*, as under Subedars Bivalkar (Thane) and Bapat (Panvel), they see the revival that sits at the foundation of their modern identities.

At Thane is the small but muscular Kopineshwar fronting the Masunda talao, with thick masonry walls topped by the gem-in-the-lotus dome, a style perfected by the Bahamanis and Adilshahis. At Panvel, a little more impressive is its twin, Ballaleshwar, fronting the Vadale talao — the one built by the army. Kopineshwar opens to an open plan mandapa built in, erm, RCC in the late 19th c, in Rajasthani style. Ballaleshwar, in spite of multiple modifications, retains some of the original Konkanesque timber architecture in the mandapa. Ballaleshwar also displays a mature Maratha _shikhara_, oil-painted in monochrome, surrounded by little domelets in the gem-in-the-lotus pattern. It's an understudied, underappreciated style of architecture, with its 8-sided spire in lieu of the classical pyramid, with niches reminiscent of the 64 lokas of the bhumijas (8 niches each, on 8 sides each, hmmm...). A lotus base, hosting the amalaka, topped off by a pointed kalasha, completes the apex of both the dome and the _shikhara_.

From Ballaleshwar we plunged into the market streets of the old town, named Sadashivpeth and Bazarpeth. Like Thane's own Bazarpeth, these streets were once lined with timber-beamed and Mangalore tile-roofed wadas — palatial homes that once housed the town elite and their tenants. Built once with the indigenous genius of teak carpentry, most of them have disappeared in both Panvel and Thane, victims to the inability to maintain them, and the desire for a modern house with modern conveniences.

Sadashivpeth is highlighted by the temples of Rama (privately owned by the Pardeshi family) and of Virupaksha. The former is perhaps the last remnant of the Konkan's humble, endogenous style. It is square in plan, with wooden jalis separating the garbhagriha from the mandapa, and roofed like homes, with timber beams and Mangalore tiles; a compromise with aluminium patra, with some sighs, has to be accepted in these times. The temple to Virupaksha was once like this, before its trustees succumbed to the half-need, half-desire for jirnoddhar, creating a structure somewhat in imitation of Pune's Parvati temple. Which in turn might have taken a few tips from the Moharram _taziyas_ of the Shias. The Konkan and the Deccan lend and borrow.

Thane could offer its Thakurdwar (now called Siddhivinayak) as a parallel: a formerly timber-roofed, two-tiered building with multiple deities and a modern shikhara.

The lanes are more similar, with names like Kapad Galli and Mirchi Galli in Panvel and Lohar Ali and Bhandar Ali in Thane proclaiming to each's former trades before all-enveloping industrialization imposed its 21st century monotony. The old cloth shops run by Marwadis and Kachchhis in Kapad Galli once sold broadcloths and brocades to Kunbis and Agris who had just sold their rice and salt to the shippers — today they all sell readymade Punjabi churidars. La plus ça change, la plus c'est la même chose. The chilli sellers in Mirchi Galli (a trade and crop brought to Panvel by the Portuguese!) will still sell you chillies in loose — Byadgi, Kashmiri, Pandi, Sannam, too many to name. As a joke, I think of asking about bhut jolokia, restrained only by the possibility that he might call my bluff, and make me cough up, figuratively, and literally. We moved to the riverside, the map the ancient wharfs from where Panvel's produce was taken in dhows and galbats across the Arabian Sea. In its last avatar, Panvel's bunder was the point where the Company and Raj bigwigs landed from Bombay by ferry, to make the long cart ride to Pune. Wellesley, fresh from triumphs over Mysore and the Marathas finally left the Indian mainland from Panvel, boarding a boat to take him to Bombay island, and thence to the career that made him Wellington.

And that is where the stories diverge. The railways from the hinterland run down from the Bhorghat in the 1860s, but then skirt Panvel for Kalyan and Thane before terminating near Bombay's bunders. Panvel dies as a port once again, and is left to long years of neglect as the Gadhi river silts up slowly. Thane and Kalyan too die as ports — but have the solace of becoming factory towns feeding the hungry railway wagons with chemicals and machine-spun cotton.

Panvel's Beth El synagogue doesn't carry the opulence or the throngs of Thane's Sha'ar HaShamaim, but it doesn't have to. As the sole synagogue where prayers are answered, it attracts believer from as far afield as Thane, Tel Aviv and Toronto. Retaining much of its timber-scaffolded charm, Beth El is a warm, welcoming place, unlike the looming magnificence of its Thane counterpart guarded by a machine gun nest. We walk on the Israel talao, a multipurpose tank built by a Gujarati donor whose name I have forgotten. By it is a little schoolhouse in the Konkani style, that sits untouched by time or the vagaries of the real estate business. Though we were greeted by cold samosas and defeated jalebis, the warmth and enthusiasm of the host more than made up for it. Thane has nothing to offer here: Panvel, take a bow. We ended at the tiny Bene Israel cemetery, the eternal resting place of Benjamin Chincholkar and the words of his wife Ruby's poem, that require him to be to her as Rama was to Sita, birth after birth.

Urban sprawl is bringing new blood to Panvel and Thane literally — as young families move here from Mumbai in search of cheaper housing. It brings its risks, as these new populations unaware of the heritage of these places hanker after the glamour promised by the builders' brochures of shiny residential estates, malls and multiplexes, accessed by highways and flyovers that promise them a direct connect to SoBo and BKC and the flashy new airport. There are opportunities too, since there is also in them a desire to know more, to explore and to experience, which can only be fulfilled by the kind of experiences Dr. Smita Dalvi exposed to us today.

*Sometimes words come back for a delicious denouement.

SOLVE @ PANDEMIC 2020

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Thu, 04 Jun 2020 17:16:00 +0000

2020 will go down as perhaps the strangest year in all of human history. We are faced with a pandemic of proportions that have never been seen before. It is not only among the most infectious that we have known, but has killed people indiscriminately. Accompanied by a lack of correct information, governments are unprepared to take on its challenges, whether the matter of livelihoods, or the spreading of fake news on a gigantic scale, or the continuing lack of a cure or vaccine has led to an element of fear and paralysis. In such a time, we at Ioncure believe in the power of technology to keep us safe, and empower us to stay safe and go about our daily business.

Solve at Pandemic, is the 1st Device Based Engineering Solutions Project, by IonCure, to fight the COVID-19 Pandemic.

This Project Includes, a series of Tech-Devices for the Global Mass, designed by IonCure, with the aim of "Making the Population Equipped to Fight the Virus Battle".

Experiencing the new Chennai Metro

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Thu, 22 Mar 2018 01:58:00 +0000

First things, first: it hurts. As a Mumbaikar on the crowded (that's an understatement) Versova-Ghatkopar metro line, used to near asphyxiating crushes, the emptiness of the swanky new trains in the Chennai metro hurt the eyes. Also hurting was the idea that the metro connects the main two stations (Central and Egmore) and the Airport in one straight line, not like ours, which connects hell-on-earth (Andheri East) with the capital of emotionless, motionless suburban life (Ghatkopar), and is still asphyxiatingly crowded. Also hurting was the fact it connects to the suburban lines (which also hurt because they too, are uncrowded) seamlessly. Anyone who's tried to dash from Andheri Metro station to Andheri Suburban station will know what it takes to avoid the crowds of millers around who occupy the bridges with the passion of the #OccupyOakland movement.

Then look at the map. Two interconnecting lines laid out neatly. In Tamil and English. Tamil ,machan, Tamil!

And then look at the underground stations. All swank and no kachra (alright, alright, I know Mumbai's underground is still being built. But dammit, it was sanctioned first.)

And not too many people either. Aiyo, vayir eriyudhe!

But Chennai, make me a promise. Tell me you'll keep it clean.

A Lovely Evening and A Book Launch (and the Solemn Launch of a Box of Cookies)

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Wed, 21 Mar 2018 14:08:00 +0000

All this began when I told Glory I'll be coming to Chennai for a conference on 13th & 14th March, 2018. She said OK, and dropped the bombshell a couple of days later, when she said she'd organised a little gathering of the GloMag/Glorioustimes group on Sunday (the day I arrived). It was slightly disconcerting for I realised I wouldn't have time to shave and put on a clean shirt. But on the other hand the bedraggled appearance would convince people that I am an impecunious writer...

12th was a day full of tension as my train (11041 Dn Chennai Express which has nothing to do with Shah Rukh Khan or Deepika Padukone or Sathyaraj even and which emphatically does not go via Dudhsagar Waterfalls in Goa) which had started over 2 hours late was by now over 3 hours late. At 7 PM, when the GloMag group was assembling at The Lounge, Adyar, I was still at Tirupati. Govinda, Govinda!

But the train pulled in at Chennai Central at around 8 PM, I had summoned an Ola Cab, and raced to Glory. By 8:40 PM (I think) I was there, panting and being introduced by Glory to Nimi Kurian (Deputy Editor in The Hindu), her husband Shridhar, the legendary Kerala Varma (whose posts on atheism and happiness I follow), Jagadish (the well-known TV actor), the author Sumita Dutta Shoam, Geeta Varma, Arora Ashok and Ali Babington. But as you can see in the picture, whoever may be present, once Glory is in the picture, she outshines them all.

LtoR: Sumita Dutta Shoam, Geeta Varma holding Ms. Shoam's just-launched book, Glory Sasikala Franklin, Kerala Varma and Mr. Jagdish

I was privileged to witness the launch of Sumita Dutta Shoam's novel 'The Heart of Donna Rai', followed by a reading of a chapter. Set in Bengal in Naxal times, it covers the clash of reality and idealism, childhood and emergent adulthood. You can read an extract here. The reading was followed by the even more exciting launch of a box of Cafe Coffee Day cookies by Shri Kerala Varma, to mirth and a complete unwinding of my tensed nerves.

Mr. Kerala Varma and Mr. Babington solemnly launch a box of cookies.

We followed this by an exercise in locating an Ola Cab who coudln't quite find us, meandering through Chennai traffic (which, despite the best efforts of its drivers, still flows, which cannot be said of Mumbai's traffic) to Chetpet, where we dropped off Keralaji. After which Glory treated me to a nice masala dosa dinner at Anna Nagar Hot Chips (next to the Anna Nagar Tower Metro station). And finally despatched me to her daughter-in-law Hanna and son Tennyson's house, where sleep finally found its victim.

Pilgrimages and Social Capital: Experiences in 'Bonding' or 'Bridging' - Part II

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Wed, 21 Mar 2018 12:04:00 +0000

14 March—Day 2

Second Parallel Session

Mr. Gunalan B.Pharm.,
AMET University

Mr. Gunalan B.Pharm. on Bodhidharma and Xuanzang. He also spent much of his time railing against the West, and I think he never really made his point. Also, I don't think the two can be compared, for while Xuanzang's was cleary a pilgrimage, Bodhidharma went to China as a missionary, and never returned. The two are very distinct in tenor, and have different implications for social capital.

Augustine Naveratnam,
Eastern University Sri Lanka

Augustine Naveratnam of Eastern University Sri Lanka spoke about Marian shrines and the attempt of the Catholic Church in reconciling the Tamils and the Sinhalas.

Dr Cynthia Jude talked about the feast of Lazarus at Pattinapakkam. Lazarus Church was established in 1582 and since been rebuilt many times, and is a rare Catholic double shrine, for it is now officially dedicated to Mary. There is a car procession during the Church's two festivals on which various saints are taken around the 'gaothan'. The cars are lent to them by the Kapaleeswarar Temple at Mylapore. And they have a Mother Arathi too, replete with camphor lamps and bells!

Dr. Cinthia Jude, Stella Maris College, Chennai

The procession of Lazarus Festival

Third Plenary Session

Dr. William De Silva,
Alva's School of Advanced Studies,
Mudbidri, Mangaluru

Dr. William De Silva spoke on the evolutionary perspective of pilgrimage. He argues that the pre-agricultural search for food is the basis of pilgrimage. As pilgrimage is a temporary journey with the right to return, as opposed to asceticism, it is rooted in the symbolism of death (emerging and returning to the soil), womanhood (marriage and right to return to the birth home) and the cycle of seasons (spring vanishes and returns).

'Pilgrimages' according to him, begin in such practices as visits to Niyamgarh in Odisha or Uluru in Australia, places imbibed with a sense of origin and source of life, without ascription of Divinity. 'Enshrinement' of such places into codified religious practices is a later post-urbanisation development, such as Mount Kailash or the Temple Mount. And after the Moon missions and the rise of the Environmental Movement, the Earth itself (Sagan's 'Small Blue Dot') is, for some, a 'pilgrim focus' and a convergence of Mythopoesis/Mythophany.

Pilgrimage gets rooted in the transition from pastoralism to urbanisation, as a temporary relief from sedentariness to the vagabondage of an imagined past. It remains in a sort of conflict with organised religion which seeks to control the direction of faith. And so sancta are created that may be denied to non-believers, but the periphery may not be denied, so Mary is open to worship by all but Mass is only available to Catholics; Ekadashi pilgrimage to Pandharpur does not require the pilgrim to seek actual darshan. I found this interesting, though I have my reservations.

Dr. Geetesh Nirban,
Delhi University

Dr. Geetesh Nirban of Delhi University spoke on the ethics of pilgrimage as discussed in the Mahabharata. Pilgrimage is rooted in bhaktimārga, as anubhava and anubhūti, but stands alongside karmamārga and dnānamārga. Yudhisthira meets some 107 rishis in the pilgrimages mentioned in the Anushasana Parva, and by observation of the topography of the tīrthas, absorbs principles of dharma. The rigours required of the pilgrimage are the disciplines that the Pāndavas must learn. I can't say I absorbed everything; she spoke a great deal in Sanskrit (citing chapter and verse). The Mahabharata then goes on to argue that manasa (a clear mind) is the highest tīrtha, for which rational thought and meditation are the paths.

Lunch

No prizes for guessing. Channa masala again. But after lunch, I had some time 'bridging' with Dr. Jeremy Saul and we toured the departments. UoM's departments are really well-endowed when it comes to their libraries.

Third Parallel Session

Dr. Vincent Shekhar,
Loyola College, Chennai

I went to the Saiva Siddhanta department again. Dr Vincent Shekhar talked about the Maasi festival at Karumathur, which is used for matchmaking. There are 7 temples patronised by the Thevar community, and each temple had its clans (not to be confused with gothra). Marriage outside the clan can be lethal. Pilgrimage to each of these temples acts as a bond in the clan, but unfortunately there are no social 'bridges' between the 7 temples. Non-conformism is controlled by Kodangis and Samiyaadis, members of the clan (usually elderly men and women) who get possessed by the deity. The poojari is not a Brahmin, but a male community elder who gets his rights by turn. For a few years, the job had to done by a govt appointed priest because the elders squabbled among themselves, but now it is back in community control.

Fr. Ulagam Raja,
Dept. of Christian Studies, UoM

V Ulagaraja (left) presented three years of fieldwork comparing pilgrimages to Velankanni, and old, established site, and Melmaruvathur Parasakthi, which is an emergent site of pilgrimage. Women pilgrims to Melmaruvathur wear red for it is the colour of blood and masks any bleeding; they also take leading roles in decorating the icon and in leading the prayers ('bonding'). Thus it is an inclusive shrine for all kinds of women, though it tends to be patronised mostly by Hindu women, who mingle irrespective of caste ('bridging'). While there was some criticism (one fellow was a persistent heckler), I felt his study was designed well and executed with rigour.

[These notes are a lot more critical than the speakers themselves, several of them being being very reverent of their subject, and not objective enough.]

Valedictory 'function'

Valedictory Function. From left to right: Dr. Chellaperumal, Dr. S. Pannerselvam, Dr. Priyadarshana Jain

Dr. S. Pannerselvam,
Dept. of Philosophy, UoM

S. Panneerselvam (not O.), giving the Valedictory address (as the third-last speech) spoke about the models used to study pilgrimage as social capital. For some reason, I have no recollection of what he spoke about (I'm basically an honest person. I'm also prey to the cliche of basically.) I think the lunch acted on me and left me a bit drowsy.

Students of Dept. of Jainology
present their skit

Dr. Priyadarshana Jain,
Dept. of Jainology, UoM

The Jainology Department decided to present their talk in two parts. The first was a skit about the conflict between the soul, which is egged on by its conscience to take the inner journey towards kevalajnana, and the body which is trapped in material cares by students, followed by a lecture Dr Priyadarshana Jain on Social capital in Jain pilgrimage. I grade this #EpicWin for the department to include M.A. students.

Dr. Chellaperumal,
HoD, Anthropology
Pondicherry University

The last lecture of the conference was given by Dr. Chellaperumal of Pondicherry University on the anthropology of pilgrimage. He says that studies of pilgrimage must go beyond examing and documenting the religious aspects, and involve social and anthropological methodology. Aspects of social identity that dissolve during a pilgrimage help create bridges beyond social classes, but do these bridges persist after the pilgrimage?

He also spoke of how interesting new pilgrimages are being created by tour operators, like Navagraha Yatra in Tamil Nadu; and new pilgrimages are being promoted through religious magazines and social media. Fear of missing out (FOMO) is a specific marketing tactic, using a social not a religious/spiritual reason. On the other hand, many other sites emerge as pilgrimage centres in uncontrolled, autochthonous ways, and anthropologists have a chance of observing emergent myths and rituals live. In an answer to my question about there being a southern equivalent of the song 'Shirdi Wale Sai Baba' (Amar Akbar Anthony), he said that the movie Annai Velankanni played a role in suddenly boosting pilgrimage to the shrine, especially among non-Catholics.

At last we got to the certificate-giving ritual, which Dr. Chellaperumal went through with the patience of an experienced certificate hander-over.

That expression is priceless.

Fr. Ulagara reads out
the Vote of Thanks.

It's when you come to the real 'Vote of Thanks', that you realise the conference is really built up, and the social capital you built up must now be banked, for immediate expenditure opportunities have come to an end (see, I'm already talking like a sociologist). But thanks though given by Fr. Ulagaraja, was really due to him, for he more or less single-handedly ran the conference for the two days, and in the run-up to it. I should say he will be an asset to the State and the Church, whichever can make better uses of his talents.

My 18:14 time stamp says that the conference is now well and truly over!

Pilgrimages and Social Capital: Experiences in 'Bonding' or 'Bridging' - Part I

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Wed, 21 Mar 2018 10:31:00 +0000

TL/DR: I live-blogged my first conference as an independent speaker to a non-familiar audience via WhatsApp. This is a more composite blog in complete sentences.

Long read:

Who? What? When? Where?

This is perhaps the strangest blog I've written, but bear with me. After a long hiatus of being (more or less) thrown out of TIFR, my journey to academia begain again in 2014 with the Certificate Course in Archaeology (2014-15) at the Centre for Extra-Mural Studies, University of Mumbai. It led to me taking more courses, going on archaeological explorations, writing papers on the Bene Israel and then other subjects (Indo-Roman trade, bullock-carts, numismatics), getting interested in the anthropology and religion of the Bene Israel and so on...

My first International Conference was the Locomotive Heritage Conference, where I presented my paper on bullock-carts co-authored with Dr. Kurush Dalal. But that was to an audience that included the genial Dr. Anura Manatunga. There I met Dr. James Ponniah of the Department of Christian Studies, University of Madras (They haven't changed their name to Chennai. Bully for them!), who invited me to "Madras University Post-Centenary Diamond Jubilee International Seminar on Pilgrimages and Social Capital: Experiences in ‘Bonding’ or ‘Bridging’?", one of the many seminars the University is holding because it finished 160 years in existence. Now I've never attended, leave alone spoken at, a conference on sociology and religion, but I had some material from my explorations of Bene Israel cemeteries and synagogues, and so I thought to myself, why not? And so comes to be this report.

13 March- Day 1: Inauguration

So here I am, on 13th March, 2018, 9:36 AM (What a boon time stamps are for the obsessive-compulsive!) waiting for the inauguration, which because the V-C came 25 minutes late, though his office is right across the floor, wouldn't start before 10:34 AM.

Finally came the Inaugural 'function' (why are events called functions in India?), which included speechifying by a number of people, including the heads of all the religious studies departments, and sundry other dignitaries including the V-C. Also, they played nadaswaram and thavil music (recorded of course) for the lamp-lighting, something I've never seen before, and which made me feel like I was in a wedding. Maybe it's customary in the South. Unlike ceremonies 'up north', they do not sing the National Anthem at the start, but instead the state anthem, officially called 'Invocation to Goddes Tamil'. I can only sing 'Neerarung Kadaloduthu' and then I must mumble my way through, till the last three 'Vazhthuthumay! Vazhthuthumay! Vazhthuthumay!', when I make up in loudness what I lack in knowledge.

Dr. K Dayanidhi, i/c HoD, Vaishnavism welcoming the participants

Prof. M. A. Venkatakrishnan,
ex HoD, Vaishnavism, UoM

The keynote was given by Prof. M. A. Venkatakrishnan, ex HoD, Vaishnavism (UoM is the only university in the world with a department like that), on Ramanuja, his establishment at Melkote and his struggles to liberate Vaishnava theology from the trappings of caste, which he based on Vishishtadvaita philosophy. I didn't quite catch the whole speech because I was a bit drowsy, and his gigantic namam was very fascinating.

Dr S Sumathi, HoD, Anthropology, UoM

This was followed by Dr S Sumathi, HoD, Anthropology on the theory of social capital. Which, in essence, goes as "Who you know sometimes matters more than what you know... You earn capital by doing people favours and spend it by asking for favours... You have more social capital if you have a broader network of people you've done favours to, or are seen as someone whose favour is to be sought...". Gives me a new framework to think of archaeology.

Mr Chordia, sponsor of
the Jainology department

Dr Amanullah,
Islamic Studies, UoM

Among those who spoke was Mr Chordia, who is the sponsor of the Jainology department (he actually represents a body of the Jaina community in Chennai who pooled in money for enodowing the department). Curiously (that is, I found it curious), he spoke on the need to respect other people's food habits. Whether that was targetted at Jainas, or at others, I can't say.

Dr Amanullah, of the Islamic Studies department then spoke on the nature of the Hajj pilgrimage before Mohammed's time, and how it came to be the among the central pillars of Islam, drawing upon Quranic and historical references.

Prof. Fr. G. Patrick,
HoD, Christian Studies

Dr. James Ponniah,
Asst. Prof, Christian Studies.

Prof. Fr. G. Patrick then explained the dynamics of the conference, and why the sessions were so structured. I have selfish reasons to remember him well, for he said my paper was one of the few he appreciated.

*grins inwardly*

Dr James Ponniah finally gave the Vote of Thanks (for the Inauguration). He was the one who invited me when I met him at Kelaniya.

Dr. Jeremy Saul,
Mahidol University, Bangkok

13 March- Day 1

First Plenary Session

Because the morning session droned on despite starting late, they trimmed the talk time for the plenary sessions. The section started nearly an hour late. This was a pity, for the first speaker, Dr. Jeremy Saul of Mahidol University, Bangkok gave an interesting talk (lots of pictures!) on the pilgrimage to Balaji (which is a name for Hanuman, not Venkateshwara) in Rajasthan, and the caste conflict between the Jats and Marwaris who patronise the shrines in the region straddling Marwar (where the Marwaris have their origin-shrines (kula-devata) and Shekhawati region, which is dominated by Jats. The Jats think that the richer Marwaris are stealing their deities using money to bribe the trust and forcing modes of worship that alienate the Jats. At the Salasar Balaji temple, the Jats believe that the Marwaris literally stole the original icon and installed a duplicate one, and that access to the original can be had only for exorbitant fee. On the other hand, the Marwaris believe that Salasar Balaji is their original deity and the Jats are outsiders.

He went on to speak of how urban shrines are more open to mixed caste congregations, but rural shrines are more caste-specific, and like to keep 'other' castes away, especially if 'higher' castes start worshipping at 'lower' caste shrines, a trend that's happening in Rajasthan as rich Marwaris look for shrines to patronise.

Dr Midori Horiuchi,
Tenri University, Japan

Speaking next, Dr Midori Horiuchi compared the circular pilgrimages of Varanasi and Shikoku. Varanasi has a particular fascination among the Japanese, who visit it and other places nearby associated with the Buddha. Akin to the Panchkroshi Parikrama of Kashi, the pilgrimage to Shikoku involves some 88 shrines in a circuit. There are other such pilgrimages in Japan, such as the Hyaku-kannon pilgrimage which involves some 100 temples across Japan of Kannon, the Bodhisattva of compassion (Avalokiteshwara or Guanyin), but it is the Shikoku one that was considered special historically. These shrines were away from the Japanese mainland, and it involved the pedestrian pilgrim of bygone times undertaking many hardships. The people of Shikoku were nice to these pilgrims, but now with a bride connecting Shikoku to the main island of Japan, pilgrims come on motorcycles and in buses and cars, and there is some loss of the sacredness of the pilgrimage. A special feature is the Shuin-cho, a passport-like book that you get stamped at all the shrines you visit in your pilgrimage. Today, proving that the Japanese are just as human as the rest of us (notwithstanding manga and shinkansen), the interest seems to be in getting the Shuin-cho stamped as quickly as possible, so you can rush back to your material existence and show it off to friends...

Lunch

Madras does lunches differently, too. (This only proves, in my eyes, The Economist's assertion that Tamil Nadu was an independent country in a currency union with India). Instead of a buffet, we were served wedding-pandhi style in the library of the Department of Christin Studies (which is, in fact, very large). The first course was Veg. biryani plus channa masala (it's always spelt with a double 'n' and Chennai is ifinitely fascinated with it), followed by an incomprehensible second course of Sambar Rice and Aviyal, followed by the mandatory third course of Curd Rice and pickle. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. Too bad I took no photos of it.

Second Plenary Session

The dais with my name on it, for now the only proof I spoke at the Conference:-)

That was my session, and my time stamps tell me I was done with it at 3:41 PM. I couldn't take any photos except this one, because I was on the stage, and the only one who I might have asked (had I overcome shyness) was Dr. Ponniah, who was the chair of my session. But it was over and done with soon. Deciding to discard my prepared draft, I spoke extempore, exhibting my slides and showing the audience lots of pictures of Bene Israel pilgrimage sites, including Eliyahu Hannabi cha Tappa and Panvel Synagogue. Oh yes, the title of my paper was "Pilgrim Practices of the Bene Israel: A bridge between Dharmic and Semitic Spiritual Experiences". I'm happy to say that the paper was well-appreciated.

Preceding me was Dr. Edward Ulrich, who spoke of a very curious set of pilgrimages by Swami Abhishiktananda to Thiruvannamalai, where he met Ramana Maharishi to learn about Advaita. The Swami was in fact a Catholic Priest who remained Christian throughout, but who has done his share introducing Advaita to the West. More of this when the Proceedings come out. Too bad I couldn't take a picture as I was on the dais (which is pronounced 'dace', and not dias, as most Indians do), and I thought it would be embarassing to whip out your mobile phone when all were on you. But Dr. Ulrich is the one on the right in the Inauguration photo.

First Parallel Session

Parallel sessions in academic conferences are invariably hair-pulling. Each mixes boring and interesting papers, and you either sit through a session and take the bores in your stride, or you keep running between halls like a kutti-potta poonai. I decided to choose Parallel Session 1B, out of the simple idea that the talks were about specific pilgrimages, and offered a chance to get out of the air-conditioning (yes, even in Madras, hot, hot, hot Madras, you can get tired of the A/C). Plus, one got to check out the Saiva Siddhanta department (that's another one-of-a-kind department too).

K Varadharajan spoke first on the idea of Nama-sankirtana (chanting of names) as a means of building social capital: pilgrims 'bond' better as they walk together chanting names. In passing he mentioned Chaitanya Mahaprabhu and his patronage/tolerance by Muslim rulers, who saw in his ritual chanting the mirror of their own zikr.

K. Varadharajan, Vivekananda College, Chennai

Next, Sr. Lily Grace spoke of pathayathirai (pilgrimage by foot) by Hindu and Christian women to Our Lady of Health, Velankanni, and how it acts as a 'bridge' between the women who come from the same neighbourhoods in Chennai. Some of these women have been doing it for a quarter-century, and I guess it is the act of pilgrimage rather than its ends that has meaning in their lives.

Sr. Lily Grace, JDV, Pune

Below, you see Mr Fazlur Rahman presenting his first ever academic paper. He's asst. registrar of IGNOU Regional Centre, Chennai and is due to retire next year. He spoke like a shayar, repeating his points forcefully, and gave a delightful account of how people were selected for the Hajj subsidy and subsequently trained for the Hajj pilgrimage, he being a trainer himself. He also spoke of an interesting Hajj practice - that you can undertake the pilgrimage for a deceased relative of yours, which will count as them having done it in their lifetime, and apparently adds to their merit in Heaven (or might mitigate their passions in Hell if they are there). However, the Haji then has to do the Hajj for himself separately. Also learnt to differentiate a Haji (one wo has done Hajj once) and Alhaj or Alhaji (one who did the Hajj many times). But most of all, he had an infectious cheer!

Mr Fazlur Rahman, Asst. Registrar, IGNOU Regional Centre, Chennai presenting his first ever academic paper.

The one below I picked an argument with. He spoke of the law relating to pilgrimages, and how different states have over time, enacted under powers in the Concurrent List of the Indian Constitution, for various perceived political benefits, laws and subsidies enabling pilgrimages to various places such as Jersualem, Kailash-Manasarovar, Nankana Saheb etc. He then went to demonstrate that the scrapping of the Hajj subsidy creates a Constituional imbalance under Articles 25-28 that pertain to the Right to Freedom of Religion. By scrapping the subsidy, Muslims are left with nothing, while states have granted rights to other denominations. Although his legal arguments may be sound (he is a law professor and I have no standing to question him), I did take issue with him that if he claims vote-bank politics, he needs to adduce evidence.

Dr. D. Kannan, Tamil Nadu Dr. Ambedkar Law Universty

After that it was back to Guduvanchery, eat and sleep, till Day 2 came along!

My military campaigns

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Thu, 31 Aug 2017 05:03:00 +0000

Montezuma's revenge is the name Yankee soldiers gave to the stomach troubles they met with in Mexico City. Since then, I too have had the following military campaigns:

Bahadur Shah Zafar's revenge

Nawab Walajah's revenge

Shilahara Aparaditya's revenge

Hambirrao's revenge

Wajid Ali Shah's revenge

Maharana Pratap's revenge

Kempegowda's revenge

Asaf Jah's revenge

NO ONE STALKED VARNIKA

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Thu, 17 Aug 2017 02:59:00 +0000

A film by my friend Arvinder Kaur.

More on the #BekhaufAzaadi march:

http://www.hindustantimes.com/punjab/patriarchy-down-azaadi-women-men-children-come-out-in-chandigarh-to-reclaim-public-spaces/story-FTcGdKCUrjPiV5iPU9mA3I.html

http://indianexpress.com/article/cities/chandigarh/bekhauf-azaadi-march-we-women-need-to-show-the-way-and-stand-walk-sing-and-speak-together-varnika-kundu-chandigarh-stalking-4791501/

Weeds - A tapestry poem with Shernaz Wadia

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Mon, 14 Aug 2017 08:00:00 +0000

Weeds in Waterloo, Ontario.

Shernaz's poem

we bloom invisible, undesirable
among your well-laid out ornamentals
you wage war on us wanting our annihilation

rejected root, stem and flower by you
we areat times privileged to be
someone else’s invaluable blossoms;

if replanted tenderly, we flourish in
the warmth of nurturing hearts and homes
our healing powers redeeming their emptiness

My poem

"Clear off” they said, "no space for beggars,

VIP movement is on, move on, move on”

So we moved on, and that wasn’t such a problem

for we’re the flotsam, the jetsam, the unwanted

c/o footpath; we’re the ones with the tangled

hair and the red-eyed looks outside Gucci stores

hoping for a tenner that’ll get us a tin of shoe-polish

that’ll keep the hunger away until you throw away

that stale wadapao. No problem, we’ll clear off.

Tattoos – Tapestry

"Clear off” you said, "no space for beggars,

VIP movement is on, move on, move on”

So rejected root, stem and flower by you

we moved on, and that wasn’t such a problem

You wage war on us wanting our annihilation

for we’re the flotsam, the jetsam, the unwanted

we bloom invisible, undesirable

among your well-laid out ornamentals -

c/o footpath. We’re the ones with the tangled

hair and the red-eyed looks outside Gucci stores

We could be someone else’s invaluable blossoms

worth the warmth of nurturing hearts and homes

if replanted tenderly; but we are at times privileged to hope

for a tenner that’ll get us a tin of shoe-polish

and that stale wadapao you throw away;

those will BE the healing powers we flourish in

that keep the hunger away while redeeming our emptiness.

No problem, we’ll clear off.

(First published at Rate My Literature, 1 September 2016)

What is tapestry poetry?

Tattoos - A tapestry poem with Shernaz Wadia

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Mon, 14 Aug 2017 07:50:00 +0000

Shernaz's poem

she survives your spitefulness
inked indelibly on her tattooed psyche
past years mute alibi to the sting

with your spiky jibes hematoma
has discoloured the dermis of her mind
it’s scarification is grossly brutal

but the poison of your reprisals
has not crushed her courage; her doughty
spirit has in fact devastated you

My poem

All they need is a young mind, raw from within and

hurt by the deep scars of history. Some come as

india ink on paper - called Koran, or Bible or Geeta -

indoctrinated into the brain by incessant repetition.

Some as the chants of priests and monks, in strange

intonations often accompanied by incense. Or blasted

from loudspeakers, a call to arms against imagined foes.

They all leave scars, fresh for a new generation to be

inked. Not everything requires a sterilised steel needle.

Tattoos – Tapestry

They survive your spitefulness - young minds,

raw from within, hurt by the deep scars of history

inked indelibly on their tattooed psyche;

and past years mute alibi to the sting. Not

everything requires a sterilised steel needle: all

you need is india ink on paper, called

Koran or Bible or Geeta. Hematoma has

discoloured the dermis of their minds,

indoctrinated by incessant repetition of

your spiky jibes. They all leave scars, fresh for a

new generation to be inked. The scarification,

in strange intonations often accompanied

by incense, is grossly brutal. But the poison of your

reprisals – some come as the chants of priests

and monks, or some as a call to arms

against imagined foes blasted from loudspeakers

into the brain – has not crushed their courage. Their

doughty spirit has in fact devastated you.

(First published at Rate My Literature, 26 June 2016)

What is tapestry poetry?

The Zamindar's Footprint

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Mon, 14 Aug 2017 05:00:00 +0000

Portrait of Mehtab Chand (1820-79), Zamindar of Burdwan in Bengal. Portrait was painted c.1840-45 and is an example of the "Company Style" of painting.

A short story originally written in 2005. Now published in Indian Periodical, August 13, 2017.

When Bade Zamindar Babu died, it was a major celebration in the village of Kamahi. The Zamindar was not an evil man who tormented the poor villagers, but when a rich Hindu dies, the number of funeral rites performed makes it no less than a festival for poorer folk. The distribution of rice and clothes to Brahmins and other needy folk for the salvation of the dead man’s soul can usually sustain a village for days. And the politics of the class system made it impossible for such a prosperous land-owning family as Bade Zamindar Babu’s to shy away from ostentation, even for a solemn occasion as a funeral. Pundit Paramsukh was the presiding Bhatt for the funeral.

He had suffered at the hands of the late Zamindar, having been usuried on a loan taken for his daughter’s marriage from the latter twenty years ago, which he was still paying. After the corpse was finally consigned to the funeral pyre and the incantations said, the ashes of the dead old man were collected in an urn, to be transported as per Indian traditions to the Ganges where they would be immersed. This mighty river would supposedly wash off the sins of the deceased and save his soul. In some parts of India, Kamahi included, it is believed that if this urn is left overnight behind the kitchen door in the backyard, the form of the next birth of the person would be revealed in the form of a footprint in the ashes. Of course, this footprint is visible only to the Bhattji after the murmuring of some sacred chants.

Pundit Paramsukh grimaced at the end of the above-mentioned ceremony. Tears welled in his eyes. The Zamindar’s widow, sons, daughters-in-law and multitudinous grandchildren crowded around him. They were getting worried about the drain on the family’s resources, and were quite unhappy that they would end up far poorer than hoped for when the estate was divided among themselves. Much of the available liquidity had been squandered away in daan-dakshina, and if further money was to be required, they would have to catch hold of some debtor and make him cough up the remainder of his loan (which they knew he could never do), or seize his lands and commit some further atrocity. They looked for relief from Bhattji. It was not to come.

Read the rest of the story at Indian Periodical.

Remembering Partition

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Sat, 12 Aug 2017 07:48:00 +0000

चादर-ए-फ़लक पहने, पुराने क़िले के दीवारों में गूँजते रह गए
खानाबरदोश आँखें जश्न-ए-आज़ादी में वतन-ए-अज़्ल ढूँढते रह गए

#RememberingPartition #Refugees#PuranaQila #Delhi #1947

Narrow Road Submission Guidelines

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Wed, 21 Jun 2017 06:54:00 +0000

Narrow Road Literary Magazine is a triannual journal published in April, August and December. It focusses on flash fiction, poetry and haibun. The first edition of the journal, was invite only. However, from the second edition we are open to unsolicited submissions and will read your works during the following periods:

June 1 - July 15 for the August Issue
Oct 1 - Nov 15 for the December Issue
Feb 1 - Mar 15 for the April Issue

All flash fiction pieces, poems and haibun (works) submitted for publication will undergo a review by editors of the individual genres. It will take approximately a month for them to notify you whether your submission has been accepted, accepted subject to revisions, or not accepted. Please be aware that at times, our editors may be unavailable for short periods, so there could be delays in getting back to you. Time constraints and the voluntary nature of editors' roles restrict editors from corresponding in any depth with writers whose work has not been accepted.

We like to keep the communication lines clear and simple. But please do follow the following guidelines. Please remember all submissions are subject to these guidelines.

You may submit up to three pieces in a single submission during any one submission period.
You may only submit work that is not under consideration by other publications. Works posted on closed Internet discussion forums or on personal web sites that are not publication sites will be considered, and so will previously published works, provided you inform us of the publication venue and date. If accepted, the said work will be noted as previously published.
Once a work is accepted, we reserve the right to publish the work in the next issue of Narrow Road, and in any associated annual print or online journals or anthologies.
Narrow Road retains first rights for all works that appear in this journal for the first time. This means that if your work is subsequently published elsewhere, that publication must cite Narrow Road as the place of original publication.
Please do include your Name and your place of residence in the mail that you send us.

The Submission Procedure is as follows.

Submissions are to be sent to individual editors on narrowroad.mag@gmail.com . The editor for each genre are listed below:

Flash Fiction – Rohini Gupta
Poetry –Raamesh Gowri Raghavan
Haibun – Paresh Tiwari

Your subject line should contain your name, the title(s) of your works, the genre you are submitting for and the date.

We request you to paste your work directly into the body of the email, unless the concrete structure of your work requires you to put it in a word doc or pdf. In this case please do mention in your mail that you want your work to appear in the form you have sent.

Copy Editing

All work accepted will be copy (not content) edited. As for changes in content, once a piece has been accepted and formatted for the journal, we will not accept content changes except under unusual circumstances.

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What are we looking for?

Rohini's criteria for Flash Fiction: Flash fiction is very short fiction which can range anywhere from 6 words to 1000 words. It's called flash because it can be read easily in a few minutes. It is also called quick fiction, short-short, micro fiction, sudden fiction, smoke long fiction or postcard fiction.
The only difference between short stories and flash fiction is the length. In this magazine, we are looking for stories of no more than 1000 words. There is no minimum length. If you can tell a story in very few words, go for it. The shorter your story (if it fulfils the criteria of a story), the better your chance of getting it accepted.

However, the maximum length is fixed. Which means 1000 and below is okay but 1001 and above is not. Edit carefully and check word length before sending it in.

Within the 1000 words we are looking for a complete story with a beginning, a middle and an end, at least one character, some action or movement and preferably, some dialogue.

A story can be defined as - a character facing a problem, acting to resolve it and reaching some kind of completion at the end. There must be movement and progress in the story.

The ending can be of any kind – a happy or unhappy ending. A twist or a surprise or even an ambiguous ending provided it seems natural and not contrived.

Raamesh's criteria for Poetry: There are as many definitions of poetry as there are poets. Wordsworth defined poetry as "the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings"; Emily Dickinson said, "If I read a book and it makes my body so cold no fire ever can warm me, I know that is poetry"; and Dylan Thomas defined poetry this way: "Poetry is what makes me laugh or cry or yawn, what makes my toenails twinkle, what makes me want to do this or that or nothing."

Poetry is a lot of things to a lot of people. And we at Narrow Road will not attempt to tell you what that is, since we are not that sure either. But yes, we do not look at unnecessarily rhyming words very kindly.

Paresh's criteria for Haibun: Haibun is a prose poem that uses embedded haiku to enhance the composition’s overall resonance and effect. And that’s all that we will leave you with. English language haibun is an evolving and highly complex form of writing and if we start delving into the various definitions, do’s and don’ts, is and isn’t, we may never be able to enjoy what the form may stand for.

The fourteen haibun contained in the first issue would give you a fair idea of what we are looking for. Surprise us, move us, shock us, just do not maintain the status quo. As for the haiku in the haibun, we believe it to be an integral part of the composition. It should move the story forward, or take the narrative in another direction It may add insight or another dimension to the prose, resolves the conflict in an unpredictable way, or may question the resolution of the prose.

It’s perfectly fine with us if the haiku does not work as a standalone piece of poetry, if it makes sense in the overall narrative and follows the other aesthetics of a haiku, we are open to it. But, yes 5-7-5 is usually not a haiku.

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Happy Writing!

Archaeogiri — a Review

noreply@blogger.com (Ozymandias) — Mon, 29 May 2017 03:37:00 +0000

Archaeogiri is a much-needed book in the space of Indian history and archaeology. Taking potshots at the practices of archaeology, the interpretations of various 'schools' of history and historiography, the casuistry and bogus sophistry that passes for intellectualism (such as this review) and the outright lies peddled by half-baked 'historians' with full-baked agendas — Shubha Khandekar spares nothing and nobody. Deftly combining the scholarship of Sarum and the satirical genius of Draynefleete a Revisited, Archaeogiri, though a slim volume, raises a new standard. Her cartoons about digging for gold based on a godman's dreams are particularly poignant.

Archaeogiri is a must read for those who believe an irreverent take on our all too serious pursuit of history is a vital counterpoint. It is even more mandatory reading for those who do take themselves deadly seriously, for not only does it include masterful cartoons, but also scholarly commentary stemming from her experiences as both a field archaeologist and a journalist.

ArchaeoGiri: The Bridge Between the Archaeologist and the Common Man https://www.amazon.in/dp/8174792023/ref=cm_sw_r_cp_apa_i_XC5kzb2E1TGAJ