the limping life

         Death doesn't serve as deterrence, a painful limping life would.

          I received an assorted mix of reactions- threats and compliments - from different parts of India after protesting that we stained our hands by hanging Kasab.. I wish to make one thing clear. I am no relative of Kasab nor did I study with him. Me empathizing with him was only to give you an insight with the ideology of those who schooled him. One lady typed me a deadly letter loaded with disgust and condemnation and asked me if I would have said the same if I had lost my family. My answer is yes! Because killing the murderer wouldn't bring them back to me. Killing him wouldn't allow me to embrace my dead dad or eat food cooked by my dead mom. The dead do not need justice; they only need us to be happy. So, if killing makes you happy, then so be it.

            I stand by my point of view that capital punishment is not an option for deterring a terrorist and for that reason even a rapist. Someone who commits such a gruesome crime doesn't worry about being arrested or rather doesn't plan on getting caught. Such a person is either brain washed or insanely spontaneous and erratic. Death doesn't scare emotionally unstable or morally insensitive personalities.   Death is not deterrence, it is a subjective concept. When we read about people who die of road accidents, does that stop us from riding fast? May be it plays on our mind for a few hours or days, but then unconsciously we are back to our wild side. How many people use a head-gear for safety? Most use it to prevent the fine. 

            A better deterrence would be a painful life that serves as a witness to anti-social characters. A dead man can't tell you to stop sinning but someone limping in limbo can. Castrate the rapist in public and sentence him to life imprisonment where he would have to earn his every meal. I feel the testimony of a person alive and suffering is a much scarier than a momentary sight of a person hanging from the gallows. Some say that would stooping as low as the criminal himself, but then again does he have the right to possess that energy if he cannot channel it constructively.

        

         America witnessed an unfortunate massacre a few weeks back, but there were no reports of any violent riots or protests. The difference lay in the prompt and emotionally loaded speech by President Obama, on the very same day of the event; where he consoled the mourning and instilled courage in the survivors to move on. The only people to blame for the protests turning violent are the national leaders who cowardly sat silent for weeks. It would have been a different story if our Prime Minister had empathized immediately with the victim and been the strength for an insecure nation. 

            With all due respect to the economist and humanitarian in him; as a leader and a role model, Manmohan Singh cuts a sorry image of a constipated hen-pecked victim himself. If it took him 7 days to write that unconvincing speech, the justice he promises will never see the day. Then again, it was better some leaders never opened their mouths, like the son of the president, who accused the protesters of lighting candles for two-minutes of 'pink' fame. He is a shame to every man and a threat to every woman, and therefore doesn't deserve to be in Parliament anymore for his sick, pathetic state of mind. In fact, the first family of India should consider sending him for therapy because his statements are those of a potential rapist. More than anything else our politicians today should be educated on how to zip it up and not express their insensitive, sadistic remarks to the world.

            Shushma Swaraj demanded a special parliamentary session to revise the stance on death penalty but the congress say it is not necessary. Surely it is not necessary, will a Government herding rape-accused parliamentarians amend a law where they will be sent to the gallows? The first issue we need to address is our dignity as human beings - the value we give to our vote. There are dozens of politicians sitting in the parliament with criminal cases of rape, molestation and continue to pass obnoxious sexist remarks on women. One look at them and their glossy eyes and evil smirk reminds of the man-eater crocodiles on the National Geographic; it would be better we voted for an animal than for a cannibal.

        

Secondly we need to deal with the suppressed sexual surge that is erupting in different parts of the country. It is not only Delhi or Bangalore or Pune, this is happening in the homes of young girls in Kerala. Is legalizing prostitution even a solution to reduce rape? I happen to propose this option in my criminology class and was condemned with disgust. ‘It is not our culture’ they say, the same people who will salivate at the sight for heroines exposing their belly buttons. So basically, they can stoop as low as they want for their entertainments, but once the pipe is dry they get all moralistic and patriotic, talking about dress codes and curfews. One MP wearing a waist-coat and trousers says women dressing up in European clothes causes rape.

            Some narcissistic politicians are of the opinion that women shouldn't use mobiles or drink in public. How many of these idiots have ever thought of banning an 'item- number' in bollywood? Producers project the girl next door character as a sex object and the actresses who do engage in this public seduction are the ones condemning rape. The audience- that these 'sheelas' and 'munnis' cater to – consist of impressionable uneducated people who interpret everything at face value. The censor board should get tough on concepts in cinema and draw the line between fun and filth. It is not about branding the movie 'A' anymore; chop the scene completely and if that spoils the plot, then ban the movie!

            The public outrage on the streets of Delhi and elsewhere was different because it wasn't fabricated or designed by money. It was as spontaneous and brash as the crime itself. The youngsters were angry, frustrated and disgusted with the way the Government has treated the scenario. The roadside whisper claims that many of those infuriated protesters who shouted for justice, at some time in their past or future, have and will fantasize about a stranger woman. Why the farce then? Could it be an unconscious psychological uprising against the evil within oneself – a confession that there is a dark side to everyone, but there is also a sincere effort to fight this evil?

            The hypocrisy of our chauvinist politicians has instigated a revolution. The protests might have been unprecedented but it wasn't surprising; we Indians have suddenly growing blood thirsty after the recent execution. This is a very sensitive time not only because the Government has to react rationally to the crowds demands but also make sure that our civilization doesn't turn barbarous.

Please note : – next time you plan to launch a meaningful protest, make sure that fool Ramdev isn't around. He has lived up to his reputation of being a rowdy gate-crashing maniac, ruining the seriousness and honesty of a protest.

-JONATHAN RODRIGUES

(Student of criminology & forensics, KUD. Email: jonahdreams25@gmail.com / blog: w.w.w.theroadsiderogue.blogspot.in

Nightmare on ‘Link Express’

Nightmare on ‘Link Express’

Travelling second class by the mid-night train on eve of Diwali is one of the myriad blunders I survived to write. It was a mad rush to enter the general class compartment, as the ‘link-express’ halted for only a couple of minutes. I was soon to find out why was it called the ‘link-express’. All through the night compartments were attached and detached at different junctions. Overheard conversations and misguiding hooligans led me to switch trains; and I could have easily ended up in any part of the country. Luckily, after jumping out of moving trains and sprinting across tracks, I eventually made it to the right train. Ironically, it was the same one I was initially advised to get off.

Not being the type who likes to make friends while traveling alone, I learnt that some friendships are made by compulsion. There were all kinds of people out there – dirty, half dressed, breast feeding mothers, frivolous drunkards, annoying and fidgety children and then there was me - a ‘second-class-rookie’- wondering why I was doing this to myself.

We might have played this game at parties- where you begin dancing on a piece of newspaper and at every round you fold it. While the space gets smaller, you keep dancing till you are just clinging to your partner who is standing on his toes. It was literally the same drill except for that there was no prize and it was no dance. The space kept decreasing and human bodies ultimately carpeted the compartment flooring.

That night I confirmed three long-established truths of travel in India.. However filthy, unhygienic or scanty the situation is, there are those who can’t live without a visit to the toilet. Second they need to munch on tobacco and finally when the drug hits them they just fall flat anywhere and conk off to sleep like a tired canine. I watched with awe and consternation, as they swung across the cabin like circus monkeys. Men, women and children, they climbed and hopped and you wouldn’t believe the leaps they could achieve, to satisfy an unrelenting bladder.  

They slept on each other like homeless puppies, not bothered who they were or where they were from. Some sat by the doorway, swaying and howling with the wind, as they munched the leaves. One slither and they would never wake up again. Soon the drug kicked in and the hoodlums were snoring away to glory. 

There was nothing masochistic about my choice to stay on board.  It’s like the famous psychological clinical case where you are faced between the deep blue ocean and Satan on the shore. I had to choose between jumping into the dark night from a speeding train and surviving a potentially plagued compartment, reeking of spilled DNA. 

The basin next to the toilet was clogged with tobacco and the maroon colored liquid mixed with the latrine stench was making me nauseate. Why is Indian railway such a disgusting place? So what! If it’s a general compartment, why can’t we have cleaner and better equipped trains? Can’t we have better drainage systems and more spacious travel in our railways? Again, can’t we get rid of our addiction to munch and learn toilet manners? For those who travel often in these situations, it is just another day of cheap and speedy travel. Life goes on- no complains, no regrets- with the pushing and shoving and the in-enviable feeling of moving on.

This is one of those moments when your brain decides to hibernate and your heart’s the only thing pumping you on. I tried distracting myself with dreams of how I would have a very long bath, followed by a king style breakfast and then hop onto my cushioned bed. My psychology classes on sleep-deprivation popped up in my mind; and suddenly, one year down the line, all those lectures on micro-sleeps and REM began to make sense. But, how can you dream if you are not asleep? This was a nightmare!

My apologies! for the abrupt ending of the story. That I eventually slipped into a coma must suffice to justify this incomplete and delayed narration.

The temple of Indian Cricket needs a new priest.

The temple of Indian Cricket needs a new priest.

I remember those childhood days, as a little boy, when I would make my brother bowl at me the whole morning, with the promise that he would get a chance to bat; that never came. Then one morning, when he walked up to the stumps with the bat in his hand. No toss, no discussions, he threw the ball at me and said sternly “Today, it is my turn to bat”. Thus, began the revolution. 

Aamir khan in a recent interview admitted that his worst fear is about his films not being accepted by the viewers - that the audience doesn’t see art the same way he visioned it. He would be cheating himself if he thinks his entertaining his fans when in reality it is not the case. The superstar's modest confession is more than an artist's ordinary paranoia – whether the viewer or listener will capture the exact same affect carved in the frame. Khan's biggest concern is that he would be the last one to know of his failure, due to his intimidating nature. His peers agree that they respect him too much to tell him that he might be wrong. Aamir's revelation can teach Sachin a lesson in life.

One cannot picture Sachin hitting the gym, building a physique and some day try his hand at boxing (Flintoff) or Rugby (Symonds). Unlike Wasim Akram or Navjot Sidhu, he doesn't possess the voice and wit of a commentator. He isn't as artistic as Kumble or musically gifted like Lee. Even on the field, he wasn't as crafty as the predator in Ponting; the Aussies are today branded for their chin music, but not many speak about the orchestra that Ricky led from the slip cordon.  He didn't enjoy the privilege to play four innings per test match, like Kallis, who could swing you with the bat and ball. The truth is that Sachin Tendulkar is master of one trade  - striking the cricket ball with the bat. Those 22 yards are his revered space and no one dares to trespass his sacrosanct territory.

Tendulkar’s love for the game is as infatuated as India’s obsession with him. So whether you like it or not, you continue to tolerate his tantrums, only because he was an idol and you grew up watching him entertain. However, behind every hysterical fan who brags about his positive stats, there is a player whose longing for him to leave; simply because he desires to play for the nation. There are many who slog it out day after day, at the domestic level, hoping they will get a call. But, how will they get in if 'the master is not ready to leave his shrine? It is like vandalizing a statue from an ancestral temple that people have revered for years. Anyone who suggests that this God must leave is condemned as blasphemous, unholy and satanic. Timid devotees have been singing in faint verses of praise, secretly hoping the temple gets a new priest.

23 tiring summers have gone by and the celebrated champion has won many a  dual with the world's ferocious bowlers; now, however, he is fighting time. The signs were clear when he recently began growing his hair. This desperate battle is suicidal for someone who has slammed all the records that any man with a willow possibly could. Deep inside his heart he knows he has got to go and recently admitted that it is going to be an emotional moment for him to quit. He taking an oath as a Parliamentarian and securing his post-retirement life was another obvious sign which went un-noticed. What is it then that's thwarting his move to ride into the sunset?

Some argue he is playing for records, others say his talent lies only on the pitch and some opine that its the media that dragging him on. It is important that the media and the public remain open and encouraging to his real sentiments. The same personalities who claimed Sachin should have quit – after the 2011 world cup victory lap- are now saying, that the man knows when to leave. These experts should stop their hypocritical statements about 'India needing Sachin', when the truth confirms the opposite. What do you mean by 'we can't tell Sachin when to go?' Of course we can! We are the ones who watch the game, what would the game be without its viewers? Stop politicizing sports! Let there be transparency and equality, its only then that we will grow as a sporting nation. Look at Australia, they actually have an entire pack of reserve, yet experienced pace bowlers, to replace the injured. Experience comes from trial and error; not by warming the benches.

The Indian Cricket team has evolved to bank on every player to deliver results: the formula that won us the world cup. India will survive without Sachin, someone else will come around and fill the void. Pujara working his way into Dravid's shoes is an encouraging illustration of what opportunity does to a talent. Ricky Ponting is a recent testimony to the team player act of 'giving way' to youngsters. With a lifetime of achievements, he could have easily bulldozed his way to go past Steve Waugh's record for most number of tests for Australia, but he chose to share the legendary honour with  his predecessor. 

The time is ripe for Sachin to demonstrate this noble gesture. A hundred and ninety six tests it will be after the English series, four short of 200. This is a fabulous opportunity for him to prove to non-believers like me, that he played for the team and not for the records. 

Controversially yours!

A Pilgrim's Diary

A Pilgrim’s Diary.

We stood there numb and beleaguered, throwing occasional glances at each other, trying to comprehend how messed up we were. The rugged looks attracted a lot of attention all along the way. Our dresses were soiled; our hair spike into brown coloured Mohawks and the beards we sported could tackle a poky pine. The security forces must have noted down in their diary – “eight suspects in long dirty nomadic gowns”. 

We knew what we would be up against before we set out on this journey, but you never know the road until you walk a mile. This pilgrimage specialty was the begging experience. We set out with absolutely nothing – no food, no money. Divine Providence was what we hoped for. The first night was relatively comfortable as the villagers recognized us as ‘holy pilgrims’ and provided us food and shelter. 

Next morning, little children came screaming on the roads and the elders ran from their fields to greet us. Eggs, flour, milk and sugar were traded to deliver the ‘royal nashta’. Totally aware that this could be our only meal of the day, we devoured the sumptuous brunch, as the kind folks watched with pity. They shared with us stories of how Francis Xavier had touched their lives and how made it a point to visit him every year. That night we walked the unlit roads, relying on trucks and the moon to show us the way. We halted at an old school, which apparently was a refuge for the drunks. It was cold, so we lit up a fire and roasted some potatoes; as the drunkard kept singing in his sleep. 

As we woke up, we realized people had turned suspicious and even alerted the police. Begging for meals here was the toughest and most humiliating experience. We had to face rejections and threats for a long time, until a protestant missionary welcomed a couple of us with the promise of providing tea. To our worst fears, we had to endure the ordeal of an hour-long talk on religion, before he actually broke our overnight fast. The next phase was torturous as we had to navigate slopes and climbs of the Western Ghats. More than once did we contemplate giving up; when one was down and out, the other would come around and pick him up. Hope and determination dragged us on. Beside reciting prayers; we drank water from springs, plucked fruits from wild trees, bathed in the streams and wrote our names on rocks.

The goal of reaching Ponda by dusk was slowly turning into an impossible dream. After much deliberation, I decided that we break a rule, hitch-hike and get to Ponda. A truck driver granted us our wish after an initial hesitation to let us onboard. Later on, the bearded man opened up and shared a lot about his family and his faith in Saint Francis Xavier. It was amazing to witness such testimonies of inspiration from people of different faiths. We had nothing to lend him so we offered him a cap as a gift for his son.  He refused but we persuaded him to receive it as a blessing from the pilgrims. 

 

It was Diwali night and undoubtedly the best time to beg. Amusingly, Christian families were the ones who snubbed us and put us through inquisitions of sorts; even after we revealed our true identity. However, the Hindu brethren of Ponda were kind and charitable; showering us with boxes of sweets and tiffins of food. Once again we sat down together and shared the bounty we collected. We camped in an old school verandah. None of us could sleep that night. The thrill and anxiety of standing at the threshold of the Basilica had possessed our minds. Soon, it was rise and shine.

By noon, on the fourth day of the voyage, we caught a glimpse of the monument from a distance. Battering the cold weather, chilly breeze, the aches and bruises; we were now within a few meters from our destination. We stood there with our eyes greased and lips parched, our knees swollen and soles peeled. Nature had taken its toll on us. We began to walk those final hundred yards, when the real feeling began to sink in. The feeling of belongingness replaced the emotion of achievement. It dawned on us that we had come to meet a fellow pilgrim and a gutsy adventurer. We dusted off that vain feeling and breathed a different kind of pride. We stood there overwhelmed, just staring at the monument and boy! It felt awesome! Deep within our hearts was a tiny voice that said here is what you want to be. A promise was made to emulate the miracle of Francis Xavier and strive to make the world a better place.

Four years down the line, I know they still strive to live up to that promise. Many are called, few are chosen and only some are meant to be. Dedicated to all the Jesuits, who hang on to hope in times of trials and tribulations; and in the same passion and spirit of their elder brother, Francis Xavier, continue to work for the greater glory of God.  In memory of those who chose to let go, but endeavor to lead and inspire a change in all they do. The mission may be defined differently; nevertheless, the pilgrimage goes on!