The Huge Gargantuan "Hypocritical Bubble"

Here’s a mail we found in our inbox. It says the biggest stock market crash in history is still coming. Now, that’s really, really news to us. The whole financial-industrial-software-retailing matrix created an immense bubble over the earth, something, um, er, like a giant balloon, in which many became millionaires or paupers based on who were crafty enough to benefit from this gargantuan bubble. It isn’t a small thing, it’s huge. So huge and involves some of the biggest financial, what shall I call it, sub-bubbles – Lehman Brothers, AIG, Fannie Mae, Freddie Mac, etc.

We call this a huge “hypocritical bubble” made of filthy lucre accumulated by unscrupulous means. The sensex plunged and around four lakh crores of their hard earned money to the big bubble. It was as if their money, the sweat of their brows just evaporated into the thin air.

Think of it thus:

You plant a seed and water it every day thinking it will grow big and give you fruit. But it doesn’t. Instead it twines itself around you and tries to choke you. The songs of people’s deprivation will not be sung in air-conditioned financial centres, but they will be sung in the poor villages where terrorism, extremism, neo-maoism are taking root because of the deprivations that they are feeling. We think there are quick solutions like adjusting interest rates and devaluing currencies. But prices are galloping as if on a charger bound for apocalypse.

Quote from the email that landed up in our inbox:

“Robert Kiyosaki, the New York Times Best Selling author of the book "Rich Dad, Poor Dad" and "Rich Dad's Prophecy: Why The Biggest Stock Market Crash In History Is STILL Coming and How You Can Prepare Yourself and Profit From It!", has always had an uncanny ability to predict future financial events!”

Unquote

Horn baja re...

At last a bollywood song that reflects the attitide of indian drivers
towards the horn:

horn baja re,
.horn baja re
baap ka razsta hai
baja, baja

--
For a mobile blogging experience: http://johnpmathew.blogspot.com, for
all else: http://johnwriter.com

IK Shukla Is No More, May IK Shukla's Soul Rest in Peace!

IK Shukla author of Hindutva and Hindutva, Treason and Terrorism and a fearless voice against communalism and religious atrocities passed away in the US, he was eighty. Here's an article he had written about the veiled fascism that goes on for democracy in India.

We didn't know IK Shukla, we only know that he and us were members of a literary message board called SASIALIT (The full form beats us). The board is quite lively discussion on everything related to South Asian literature and we participate in the pow-wows more often than not.

Seeing as to how communalism is progressing in India, here's a rehash of something we had read long ago:

When they came for the Muslims, we said nothing because we weren't Muslim;
When they came for the Christians, we said nothing because we weren't Christian;
When they came for the Sikhs, we said nothing because we weren't Sikh;
When they came for the Jains, we said nothing because we weren't Jain;
When they came for the Buddhists, we said nothing because we weren't Buddhist;
When they came for the Zorastrians, we said nothing because we weren't Zorastrian;
When they came for the Bahai's, we said nothing because we weren't Bahai;
When they came for the Confucians, we said nothing because we weren't Confucian;
Finally, when they came for us, there were nobody left to say anything for us!

May the soul of IK Shukla rest in peace!

Ganga's Trysts With Wild Animals, in His Own Words!

Here's friend Gangadharan Menon's account of his tryst with wild animals specially the one above which, to be frank, almost killed him. Ganga, hope you don't mind. I am reproducing it here because there's a message to the whole thing, which is so vital to our forests and wildlife.

The wild side of wildlife

By Gangadharan Menon

In the last 36 years, I have encountered wildlife at extremely close quarters just four times.

When I say close quarters I mean face-to-face encounters outside the safe confines of a forest jeep.

The very first time was during my very first trip into the forests. We were filming a documentary called Silent Valley. During the 3-week shoot we had run out of provisions, and I was trekking to a village 24 kms away, along with my tribal guide.

As we were trekking, we heard sounds that could send a chill down your spine, especially when you are on foot. A lone tusker in 'mast' about 150 feet away, breaking every single branch within his reach and smashing it on the forest floor. The whole forest was trembling with fear. We had to lie low in the forest for almost an hour, and it seemed like a year, to allow the rampaging elephant to pass.

In this situation, we were pre-warned and thus we escaped.

The second instance was also in the Western Ghats, north of Olavakkod, near Palakkad. I was trekking with my brother, Manu. At one point, we had to cross a river that was in spate. My brother stepped into the gushing river first, and I followed.

Just before I stepped in, I was holding on to the last rock on the ledge. My brother casually turned to look at my progress, and to his horror he saw a viper inches away from my hand. Without letting me know of the gravity of the situation, he calmly told me, "Chetta, don't look back. Just take away your hand very, very slowly, and come towards me!" I did exactly that, as slowly as I could, and then turned to look back. There was a viper on the rock, and I had escaped death by the moulted skin of my teeth!

Here, I had a narrow escape as I had not threatened the viper, and it allowed me to retreat gracefully.

The third instance was in Tadoba, near Nagpur. My son Akash, who was barely ten years old then, and I, had gone into the jungles with a guide. It was 6 in the morning, and the forest was coming alive with the chirping of birds. As the mission was to look for tigers, we headed straight to a waterhole about a kilometre from the forest bungalow.

At the waterhole that was nestling among the rocks, there were no tigers. But the wet pugmarks on the rocks were tell-tale signs that a tiger was there a few minutes ago. We looked around but couldn't see it; maybe at that very moment it was watching us from the dense jungle around! Disappointed, we started trekking back. Suddenly a full grown tiger emerged from the foliage and stood there majestically, staring at us from about 100 feet away!

The guide asked us to 'freeze' and we did just that. So much so that I didn't even attempt to click a photograph, though my camera was limply hanging around my neck.

After staring at us for a full minute, the tiger disappeared into the mystery of the forest.

Dazed out of our wits, we started our journey back, marvelling at how small and insignificant you feel in front of the raw, unbridled power of a wild animal!

Here, we escaped because we were absolutely still – the tiger was neither threatened, nor provoked.

The last of the encounters of the wild kind happened on the 15th of June, this year. It was at Masinagudi, the last village before Mudumalai Sanctuary, on the Ooty-Mysore road.

There were three of us: The guide Ombalan, my brother Manu and me. Ombalan had been a guide in Mudumalai for over 15 years and he knew the forest like the palm of his hand.

But little did he know that very soon the lifeline on his palm would cross the path of a wild tusker.

Spurred on by the sound of an elephant, we set out into the dense jungle. Within minutes we saw a tusker moving into the distant foliage. Ombalan asked us to double up as the elephant was downwind and could easily sense our presence.

Then we saw two trunks towering above the bamboo grove, pulling down bamboo shoots, at a distance of some 150 feet.

As we moved ahead, we came across a strange forestscape which had a mix of ancient trees, bamboo groves and gigantic bushes of lantana. It was the first time that I saw such massive bushes of lantana in a forest, that too in circular shapes, as if pruned by Mother Nature.

The first uncanny sight we saw was a freshly killed wild hare lying on the forest floor. We looked around for the predator, which could have been a tiger or a leopard or a jackal. There was an eerie silence and we cocked our ears for the gentlest rustle; there was none.

A little ahead we saw the skeleton of a prey hanging from a tree, about 30 feet above the ground. Ombalan told us that a leopard had carried his kill up that tree about a month ago, and left the carcass behind. It was the last photograph I took, and little did I know then that it could well have been my very last!

Shaken and stirred, we moved on.

As we were trekking along a forest path created by elephants, Ombalan heard a sound which none of us had picked up. He asked my brother and me to wait, right in our tracks. And as he went around the dense bamboo bush, he walked straight into the waiting tusker.

Inadvertently he had entered the elephant's discomfort zone, which it construed as an act of blatant aggression.

I have been close to elephants, may be about 5 or 6 times, but was always in a jeep. And every time they would warn by taking a few steps towards me, and then making a short, mock charge.

But in this instance there was no time and not enough distance for such wild niceties.

It made a charge at Ombalan, and he took to his heels shouting, 'Sir, odungo!' Which in plain English meant run! Without knowing whether it was a tiger, an elephant, or a leopard lying in ambush, we ran straight ahead, trying to catch up with the guide who was in full steam.

By the time we caught up with him, I was the last in the group.

As I turned back to look at what we were running away from, I saw a wild tusker aged about 16, barely 20 feet away from me, in full charge. I ran for my life, as fast as my trembling feet could carry me. Five steps later when I turned again, it was just about eight feet behind me, now in full flow.

My survival instinct told me that I have to get out of his way before it knocks me down and tramples me, or impales me on its tusks. So I dived to the left and landed on my shoulder like a good goalkeeper, which I was in my school days.

I could hear four legs coming to a screeching halt behind me, as it was surprised by this unexpected move. Then the tusker went down on its front legs and attacked me with its right tusk, right on my lower back.

Just as it was preparing to attack me the second time, Ombalan let out a wild, nomadic scream which unsettled the tusker.

It lost its concentration and the tusk went through my shirt near my shoulder, and I fell on the ground again. If the shirt hadn't torn, I would have been impaled on its tusk. Once you are impaled, the natural instinct of the elephant is to take you in its trunk and smash you to the ground.

Ombalan's scream continued to reverberate in the forest, and the tusker left me bleeding, and disappeared among the lantana bushes.

Ombalan later told me that the attack was so vicious that he didn't expect me to get up.

Digging into the reserves of my will power, I slowly tried to get up. And surprise, surprise, I could! Then I made an attempt to take the first few tentative steps after my rebirth, and I could!

Slowly, in deathly silence, we all started walking back.

Suddenly, a group of spotted deer ran across our path, and for the first time in my life, the sight didn't stir my soul! I just wanted to get back. And the jungle we had to walk through had four elephants at the last count, including the one that attacked me.

Those 30 minutes were like a lifetime.

When I reached the resort, my wife Anita was startled by the news of the attack and the sight of the 8-inch gash that was bleeding profusely.

We got into the jeep and drove to a primary health centre in Masinagudi village. The doctor there bandaged the wound; but he said the bleeding will not stop till the wound was sutured.

The attack happened at 2.30 in the afternoon, and we reached Coonoor at 5. All along, for 2½ hours, I was bleeding. By the time I reached the hospital, I was drained and exhausted. I held on till I met the surgeon and explained to him all that happened, and then blanked out.

I came to at 9 pm. By then the suturing was over and I was on the hospital bed.

I discovered there was a TV in my room; and over the next 7 days in the hospital, the channel of choice continued to be Animal Planet! I realized that my love affair with wildlife would continue, even in my second life, and that even a vicious attack by a tusker could not dent my faith in them.

This was, truly, an accident. And it could happen to anyone. A jungle trek is not a walk in the park, and every time you walk into the jungle, you are entering the territory of wild animals whose sole purpose of existence is survival. Any threat to that, even a perceived one as in this case, and you risk your life.

All that remains today of that attack is an 8-inch scar, and 3 hairline fractures in my lower vertebrae, which are now healing.

Two weeks after this incident, a young elephant was poached and killed in the same jungles. His young tusks were brutally chopped off and he was left to die there. As I heard the news from my brother Manu, the first thing I did was pray that it is not 'my tusker'. And I called up Ombalan, and discovered to my relief that it wasn't.

'My tusker' is still roaming the forests, and Ombalan tells me that they have named him 'Gangadharan' after me!


P.S.
On the 13th of August, I read an article on the front page of DNA. It was titled 'Are animals getting mad at human beings?'

The article noted that across Asia, Africa, Australia and America, there has been a spike in unprovoked attacks by elephants, leopards, bears, and many other species.

According to Dr. Gay Bradshaw, a world renowned Animal Psychologist, traditional explanations like encroachment and loss of habitat isn't sufficient to explain the manifold increase in the attacks. She and her colleagues believe that entire generations of traumatized wild animals are seething with revenge. They have grown up witnessing the systematic slaughter of their families by humans, and are getting back.

These observations should be taken seriously by wildlife enthusiasts who venture into the forests. But rather than allow this new reality to dampen our exploratory spirit, it should strengthen our resolve to be extremely cautious.

Every time we enter the hallowed precincts of these beautiful people, let's pause for a moment. And then tread on those forest paths with a primordial awe and a primeval respect that we have been secretly carrying for millions of years. Until yesterday.

Feverish, as I type this....

Feeling feverish, so called in sick today. Whole body aches, eyes
watery, mouth furry, no, not that again, I mean malaria. This monsoon
was bad, had tazken care so far to not fall sick, but here I am with
the sniffles once again. Can't help it.

Yesterday, on way back from work at VT station, as I was ascending the
steps leading to the platforms from the subway, a man, a sick man,
passing diagonally, sneezed full on my face. I felt violated, unclean,
could feel his spit on my face, the violating wetness....

Still retch thinking of it, the poverty of it all, perhaps he didn't
have a hanky to cover his mouth when he sneezed, he could have used
his hands, but he didn't have the sensitivity to appreciate another
man's space, not to violate it thusly. The twerp!

Now look what you have given me you uncouth, uneducated twit, but is
he only to blame, I see people sneezing on other peoples' faces and
not even apologising in that bastion of middle class morality called,
'First Class Local ompartment.' No wonder we are a nation of
communicable diseases....

Sniff, sniff....

--
For a mobile blogging experience: http://johnpmathew.blogspot.com, for
all else: http://johnwriter.com

Pliers Anyone?

We are too ashamed to write this. It’s absolutely the nadir of our belief of India as a people of some, at least, a bit of, ethical and moral values, of which there’s a lot of talk, and no substance, absolute pfaff, as usual.

It happened today. We go to the loo (which isn’t very clean, so we hold our breath and try and finish it as soon as possible and breeze out), do the needful, as a gormint babu would say, and when we come to the wash basin to clean our hands, that’s when shock and awe strikes us. We aren’t used to such shocking things. See for yourself what we saw in the picture below shot with our Nokia E61i! Guess we would need pliers to open the tap and wash our hands.

One Boo and a Boom!

At the last Caferati meet on last Saturday the 20th of September 2008 at Oxford Book Store, we were booed. Yes, booed and snubbed. Good and proper, and we deserved it. Well, we went prepared but not prepared enough. We tried singing a poem we had written, and being the choral singer that we were, till not long ago, we were confident that we could perform it. And, we rehearsed it at home and it went all right, the pitch was right, the beginning which were a bit queasy about, was also right. But when we rose and walked to perform it, all music left us, stage fright possessed us and we started shaking. Oh, misery!

The women in the audience immediately started bitching, as they are wont to. “You were supposed to sing it,” “we are disappointed,” “this word and this word don’t rhyme,” etc.

The next day we had two events to attend. One was the traditional “Onasadya” at the nearby Kairali cultural association, and after that was the confirmation of the children of our church in Sanpada. The Onasadya had the usual Malayalis of CBD Belapur congregating to eat Avial, Sambhar, Thoran, Upperi, Pappadam, Sharkarapuratti, Erisseri, Pulisseri, Payasam in the traditional Kerala cuisine at the Kairali building in our locality. There were rangolis prepared from flower petals, for which we were the judge. Ah, being a judge gives us such pleasure.

At the confirmation function we were given the responsibility of saying the intercessionary prayers, quite a big responsibility. Around 200 people had turned up with our Bishop doing the honors; and the galleries were full of parishioners and their relatives. It was after a long time that we were facing such a large audience and with a large audience a lot of things can go wrong, a lot.

We were a bit apprehensive, what with the memory of the booing fresh in our minds. Anxious moments were spent fidgeting as worshipping service progressed. But all went well; we were able to throw our voice, pace ourselves, and “boom” it clicked with the audience.

So it was “boo” on Saturday and “boom” on Sunday, in quick succession, in quick juxtaposition-ing of events, and confidence was restored in us, and our ability to perform before an audience, well, sort of, hmm.

Stunning Nun in the Rain

We (Note the “we”. We like Jahanpanah Akbar in Rushdie’s “Enchantress of Florence” shall speak in the first person plural from here on. We meaning I and some alter ego, I fancy as a more talented clone of mine.) don’t know what happens to cab drivers when it rains. We were going home the day before yesterday, and was dripping wet in the rain that fell without mercy or respite. We asked about 25 cab drivers if they would take us to VT station. Don’t know what happens to them when it rains, they consider their property something like some sacred Arc of the Covenant, or holy of holies where nobody should tread and do not want us poor besmirched, befuddled selves to be inside their sanctum. So they all, nose in the air, say no with the utmost ease that comes with some juvenile retribution for some wrong we may have done them in some itinerant other life.

So we plodded on, shoes full of water, squelching, trousers all wet, shirt too, umbrella being too flimsy a thing for a tropical downpour of such intensity. The rain was coming down like water from a freshly opened sluice gate, so full of unrestrained energy and enthusiasm, as if its sole aim was to wet us, give us a cold before it goes away finally, and like Ganpati come again the next year. There are floods in various parts of the country, and on our way we see the roadside dwellers crouching under plastic sheets which are their homes for the night.

Finally, we make it to VT and just before we reach it, we see something riveting, something that keeps amazing us still. We saw a vision: We saw a stunning nun. Yes, we saw a stunning nun through the pouring rain, she was standing with another nun before a roadside food stall, similarly cassocked (or, habit, or whatever they call it), face a reflection of some iridescent inner beauty, a bearing that would put any Miss India to shame, and features just so chiseled, they seemed like God’s own creation. Why would such a beautiful being eschew the world when she would definitely have hundreds of handsome and accomplished men swooning at her every command, we don’t know?

Well, as we said before surprises of life never cease.

Colleague Prateek's Pointy Shoes!

Who Pushed Whom?

This is how I commute to work every day. The train is crowded, there is no space to breathe, there are hands and bodies pinning me from every side, I hold on to the dangling straps for life, if I lean too much to the right side I will get dirty stares from the man on the right, if I lean left, ditto. There are fights about who pushed whom, which is like a chicken and egg conundrum.

You pushed.

You pushed.

You pushed.

You pushed.

And so on it goes back and forth, back and forth, till it’s time to get down, which means another round of fights, which I think should properly be settled with boxing gloves, not with words.