Bhamragarh Diary

Park a vehicle from dawn to dusk and it would be covered with elaborate web designs as if it were left untouched for months; leave cashews in anything other than air tight containers, it would be fine powder within days--ants won’t spare any eatable not even chilli powder; even oil needs to be refrigerated because a slight drop here and there is enough for their army to invade; human body is beehive to mosquitoes--their bites leaving large mounds as if they buried their dead. This of course is the everyday scene of the main city of Gadchiroli busy with all kinds of human activity, though I believe its essence is wilderness--it have a zeitgeist of forest. Obviously we were little anxious when we planned for Bhamragarh--a southern taluk of Gadchiroli district bordering Chattisgarh, known for dense Dandakaranya forest and Naxal dalams; a journey from little tamed to the untamed better knowns as jungle( aranya- Sanskrit) of punishment( dandakas).

Though first planned for 15th of August we abandoned it fearing getting caught in crossfire on such days. We left early only to be back before dark, taking along some snacks, few metres of rope to drag if our bike failed us in the midst of dense greenery and identity card--proof that we did not belong to police or CRPF. The first stop on our 180 km long journey to Bhamragarh was Chamorshi. A major tourist spot--Markanda temples along the banks of Wainganga--is few kilometres from here. We chose to skip it as we have been there before. Allapalli can be reached both via Ghot or Ashti, some 85 km from Chamorshi. Allapalli is the main connecting dot to reach all five taluks located in the south including Bhamragarh. We went for Ashti route as it is frequented by ST buses besides being familiar. A long stretch is dense forest, presenting before us the serene beauty and a prelude to denser forest that lies on the Permili- Bhamragarh road. If you could spot huge piles of logs, you have reached Allapalli. It is famous for teak wood. Around 16-17 km from Allapalli on the Permili- Bhamragarh road lies the “Glory of Allapalli”--covering 6 hectares it is the surviving patch of original forests before they were brought under scientific management more than a hundred years ago. Few trees are as old as 100-150 years comprising some of the tallest and widest trees of teak wood--widest among them was 5.61 metres and tallest measured 38 metres. There were some school children from Chandrapur visiting the site. In fact they only made us a little confident to go inside the forest in search of those trees as there was no clear marking about their location. Moreover, these children along with their constantly instructing teachers and supervisors were a kind of lid to defuse the tension that we felt when we saw an armoured vehicle pass by us towards Bhamragarh. On seeing that olive green tank moving on truck tires, we were immediately struck with phantasmagoria of a confrontation and fight.

There is an anecdote about a meeting in the 17th century between French finance minister Jean Baptiste Colbert and group of French businessmen led by M. Le Gendre. When the French finance minister asked--obviously in his eagerness to help--”How the French State could be of service to the merchants and their commerce?”, Le Gendre replied “Laissez faire( leave it to us)”. Observing the beauty of undisturbed forest, I am tempted to imagine such a meeting again in the 21st century, only a little closer to fantasy. After centuries of Laissez faire, decades of rigorous eco-friendly policies and monotonous saplings plantation, the merchants gather and ask Nature--”How can we help you?” Ironically, Nature gives them the taste of their own medicine and replies--”Laissez faire”. In the same contemporary vein when a French mayor ask law-abiding French Muslim women--”How can we give you more freedom in your otherwise controlled and slavish life?” Not surprisingly we can guess the answer.

Permili onwards there are lot of small ‘nallahs’. It was decided even before we set out that even if it rains we won’t stop because those ‘nallahs’ often overflow within few hours of heavy rain, totally cutting off the other side. Luckily it didn't rain until we were returning and that too were light showers. In any case stopping under a tree is quite dangerous in Vidarbha region. Lot of people die by lightning that is frightening enough to even shake the bravest. Hemalkasa is 47 km from “Glory of Allapalli”--only a few kilometres short of Bhamragarh. The signs of confrontation and tension are evident in Bhamragarh. The first testimony to this is the police station itself. Fenced with barbed wires both on the ground and over the compound walls gave a scary picture altogether. A guard with a gun, aiming at anything least suspecting, was standing within a cubical box of concrete. Bhamragarh ‘Triveni Sangam’ is further 1 km along the left bank of one of the three rivers--Indravati, tributary of Godavari, Pearl Kota and Pamul Gautami. Here we met again the same group of school children we met at Glory of Allapalli site, once again relaxing the tension.

Bhamragarh is mainly inhabited by Madia Gonds,declared primitive tribe by the Government of India, and only by the efforts of the NGO Lok Biradari Prakalp situated in Hemalkasa that these people are now getting education and hospital services in those dense forests. Lok Biradari Prakalp( brotherhood of people project) was started on 23rd December 1973 by Baba Amte--a social worker who worked against the stigma of leprosy and was honoured with Padma Shri, Padma Vibhushan, Ramon Magsaysay and other such awards. Lok Biradari Prakalp have a hospital, a school and an animal orphanage. It is currently looked after by Dr. Prakash Amte( Baba Amte’s son) and his wife Dr. Mandakine Amte. They were also awarded Ramon Magsaysay for community leadership. A film on their life, Dr. Prakash Baba Amte-The real hero, starring Nana Patekar and Sonali Kulkarni is hugely popular and one of the big hits of Marathi cinema. Photography is not allowed inside Amte’s Animal Ark where orphaned or injured animals are taken care of. Crocodiles, leopards, owls, eagles, bears, snakes, deer and Neel gai were some that we spotted. The guard who took us for a tour would offer his hand to leopard and the beast would just lick it--Noah’s ark it seemed for the animals.

40 kms further from Bhamragarh is Binagunda--a historical village. It is difficult to reach throughout the year and remains cutoff for about 8 months in a year. We abandoned the plan to travel further to Laheri and then to Binagunda because it would be dark if we wasted another 3-4 hours. The terrain is difficult and if your transport fails you, there is no other option but to walk and often the route remains deserted for days. We heard stories of policemen camping for Naxal operations in those jungles and succumbing fatally to Brain Malaria. It is said that primitive tribes live in Binagunda undisturbed by modernity, depending mostly on forest produce, getting wages from selling bamboo and “tendu patta”( tobacco is rolled in tendu for making bidi).

The light showers on the return did not drench us but made us worry about the small streams that flood during rainy season. So we stuck to our plan--not to stop even if rains cat and dogs. We met a certain Tyler Durden on our way back to Allapalli when following Tyler’s advice in the movie ‘Fight Club’--”Stop trying to control everything and just let go”--and replicating that scene in reality he did let loose the steering and jumped out of his lane into our’s. Despite horns and dippers he would not budge. We drifted leftwards away from the metallic track onto the muddy layer sidewards, somehow escaping a collision. Fatefully I spotted in time that the side stretch of unmetalled road ended abruptly over a small dry nallah. We were back on road escaping a fall, breaking only the spring of the side stand, stopping only to start our swearing and screaming back at that “space monkey” of Tyler. This event did not seem a planned thing until we stopped at Allapalli for a cup of tea. I kept my helmet, that has some peculiar army graphics over it, on the bench and went for tea in one of the side stalls. When I returned, a man was sitting with his hand over the helmet. I tried to slide it beneath his grip but it became firm. And then he exclaimed-”This is my helmet”. I asked--”Since when?” I didn’t sell it to him though I was always sceptical of such graphics in a sensitive area. Then he let loose the grip with a grin over his face. “Are you coming from Bhamragarh?”--he asked. I answered yes wondering how did he know. A shiver went along my spine thinking what if we were being watched all the time and what if that Tyler Durden was somehow related to this man. In my curiosity I asked that man-”How did you know?” I was relieved with quite a simple answer. He was standing underneath a tree on the Bhamragarh road when it was raining while we, with our fancy helmets, were on the move beneath the grey sky, over the grey stretch sandwiched on the sides with green.

Gadchiroli to Pachmarhi

Vacillations of our own feeble souls and even feebler faith of our colleagues, my parents marked its start. At times I felt that the only one eager for the journey was our own 'La Poderosa'--journey to cover a 1000 Kms within a span of 3 days, to leave a part of red corridor, Gadchiroli, and to welcome Queen of Satpura, Pachmarhi. The impetus to accomplish a wildely publicised journey--not surprisingly it made us look a bit crazy--was more of a reason than our own willingness. Suddenly I felt that this must be done for some greater good, for something which we weren't sure about, though you may say it was a decision of young impulse that inflict most of us at one time or the other.

"La Poderosa"

Amid scorching sun, resounding city noises and even louder voices in my head we left only to get accustomed to the intense heat, fleeting noises and subduing internal conflicts. Soon we were away from those daily sight of a hundred humans, boring and barren stationery, pandemonic printers and lethargic office life. I hate the grunt of printers and they remind me of screaming swines. We were on our way to our first stop Nagpur, some 175 Kms away. Colourful houses on road sides gave way to continuous belt of farms dominated by yellow patches, pedestrians were replaced by caracasses mostly of dogs and ocassionally cows, chaotic inextricable horn patterns to rhythmic ones specially aimed at you, big shops to small children selling fallen fruits which they collected by road side, intermittent gaze of sun with an indefinite stare, those characteristic shops of Vidharba region selling finely beaten and rolled tobacco almost disappeared and indifferent folks of the city transformed to small attentive bunches appearing regularly, waiting under sheds and swaying their heads with each passing vehicle.

Being a co-pilot can afford you to be luxuriously lost in your own thoughts. What if the bike goes off track and we bump into one of those guarding trees? What if there is some technical glitch and we have to stop in this merciless sun? What if I get one more phone call from home pleading not to go? And then a screeching sound made my head bump against the back of the helmet. Commotions settled like mud in a still water. I can now see clearly through it. We were fortunate not to hit one of those cows that keep popping from nowhere, one behind the other, swaying their heads, sweeping the barren metallic roads to realize there is nothing to graze and then without any eagerness to cross they would do everything to annoy, to test your patience. These "corporate cows" will trim every grass--every single wild blade of grass developed now. We continued to graze passing through Armori, Brahamapuri, Bhivapur, Nagbhid and Umrer. It seemed as if we finally trimmed those small wild grasses to a developed Nagpur--just like those innocent cows.

All those left leaning talks is okay but once I reached Nagpur I could not stop my consumerist self from entering a luxurious food store. I had the meal coupons and felt as if we were there to eat for free. Unless I count currency notes, I feel I haven't spent money. We were in total contrast to the place--everything shining, polished as if for sale, even humans and we as some ancient rock to be displayed in some glass box, dark, tanned from sun, dulled with dust but who cares; consumerism has rendered us with such equality and choice that nobody bothers. The word 'choice' echoed and I suddenly remembered 'My Choice' video that created uproar recently. At the risk of being labelled a misogynist I feel that these videos and talks are far from revolutionary and in turn exhibit resemblance to an anecdote.


Consider a 12-13 year child and his discovery of his father's smoking habits; unable to make his father quit although he never tries to do it, which is very obvious that he won't be able to do it, he feels fascination for trying it himself; the child finds sanctity in the reason that his father smokes, the father finds sanctity in the reason that he now permits his son to smoke; a kind of mutual permission and sanction governs the situation; the child seeks permission, is granted, now feels equal; the father grants permission, accepts his inferiority but in the end decides for himself the coordinates of his own inferiority.


This is the exact position I find with many feminist movements, not exactly movements but outbursts. They resort to permission seeking realising that they won't be able change anything--a kind of 'if you do why shouldn't I'. This is evident in a paradoxical argument regarding the violence content of both men and women and advocacy of equal rights for women in defense forces. Men are usually violent, cause of most wars and blood shed. Women are considerd peaceful and there is certain argument floating, had there been women rule there would be minimum wars, much more peace like those in the times of Minoan Utopia. But they surrender their earlier position when it comes to advocating equality in defense forces. These two contradictory feelings coexist. Are we not experiencing the same mutual sanctity of father and child? Do we not see the father bothered little about it if he is writing the very basis of his inferiority?

We left Nagpur for Chindwara, still 135 Km on NH26B before we can finally rest on the soft beds of our employer's guest house. Alternate blow of hot and cold air on our face felt like we entered and exited an air conditioned room. The best part were the Ghats. It felt as if sliding on the periphery along side a large serpent making its way silently through pitch dark mountainous forests, those bends even threatening to break the vertebral column of the snake, cracking vertebra resonating with increased beatings of the engine at every steep turn. The ghostly look of the forest materialized only during the day. We observed when we retraced it during dusk on our return journey. Trees shed their leaves with pointed, tapered stem appearing as if prepared to impale, barely any movement save our own, occasional screams of horn at sharp turns and greyish forests seemed to spill their colour on metallic serpent which we traced 2 days back--an ambush it seemed to capture and impale the travelling foreigner.

We had another 140 Km on MP SH19 to reach Pachmarhi from Chindwara. Partially fresh from 6 hours sleep we left early in the morning crossing Parasiya, Papariya, Tamia and Matkuli alternating between plain roads and Ghats--Parasiya was adorned with saffron flags atop almost all its buildings, sometimes ravines making us extra cautious at those blind turns, invoking horns and evoking nervous silent shrills. The thought of slipping and falling in the ravines stopped bothering me only when we reached the gate with a welcome board--"Muskuraiye aap pachmarhi me hai". We were quick to reach Pandav caves passing through roads that housed buildings from British times, sometimes finding people who admired and envied our blue vehicle. At times finding the machine alone they would perch it to get themselves clicked, may be for their narcissist urge to be recognised not with their own self but with the help of some supplement. 

We crowned the depths of B-fall by lighting a Phillies blunt. The soothing sound of water striking against the glistening rocks and small fishes making you giggle with their play against your foot was enough to end the tiredness. Apsara fall and Rajat fall were much more deserted compared to B-fall partly due to the long trekking. That added to their beauty because you don't have to share the whispers of the fall. Every murmur meant only for you making you sit down to listen to it eternally, its not that there is no other voice but the physiological knob has turned to filter all other sounds, to make this murmur as a bridge between screams and silence. Dhoopgarh was another moment of adrenaline rush when we could not judge the steepness and felt as if we will go back falling into those green abyss. But quick judgement to change gear saved us to reach the highest point in Madhya Pradesh and witness the sun set one more time against the hazy backdrop of greenish Satpura ranges.

Indifference to sensitivity

Like most young ones these days—who have a general inclination of ‘caring least about the world’ and in order to explicitly show it they would thrust ear phones instead of cotton buds—I was listening to songs while walking so that I may avoid the chaotic world and attain some sort of “rhythmic nirvana”: a kind of distance, a detachment, a variant of solitude as if it is actually possible to be alone in the midst of the crowd; all this achieved just by some simple, stupid, mechanical, repetitive music. While on way, there was this faint voice coupled with some gestures that I thought were meant for me—I was back into chaos breaking the bubble of “nirvanic indifference”. She was enquiring about the nearest police station. She was small, making up barely to my shoulders, lean with deep sunken eyes, wearing traditional salvaar-kurta whose colour I don’t remember as I was drawn more towards her countenance which had a sort of urgency and anger coupled with melancholy. I tried to be an ideal man of our times—abstract, least bothered by her plight, avoiding and the sort of man worried about his evening tea even if the whole world is on fire—and answered that she needed to ask somebody else as I was new to Mumbai. She seemed as if she ignored my answer. I was puzzled that she asked the same question again only to get a similar reply. She reiterated the question a third time. I was embarrassed so I decided that I would ask someone and let her know. I did and then she briskly headed in that direction where I pointed. I was walking behind her with measured steps so as not to cross her, wondering what could be the emergency; my “rhythmic nirvana” vanished by now. At the next signal I saw her walking towards me with those deep enquiring eyes and small but fast steps. She enquired from distance, “How much far is the police station?” I thought, how would I know and I had already told her. I was later informed by that lady herself that whatever I told was as good as a thing untold. I mean she did not say that exactly. She, in our conversation which was pretty much one sided because whatever little I had spoken I knew was not heard by her, told me that she was deaf—partially—because her husband would beat her, make her ear bleed, damaging her ear drum. She would talk, without break, of the atrocities; I would listen rarely looking into her eyes. One of those rare glances into her eyes and I could spot the ebb and flow of the transparent liquid; somehow she was able to restrain the flow beyond the brim of her eyes either because she became unconsciously aware of the fact that she was talking to a stranger or she did not have enough to overflow: it must not be her first day with those tears and may be not enough left for an apt occasion. She also told in the flow of our conversation how her husband would drink, beat, throw food and the most recent one which made her seek for a police station: he tried to set her afire. In this small encounter she told a lot.

Deaf people usually tend to talk a lot. They are never sure whether whatever they tell is heard by the opposite party. So they would repeat the same thing again and again to make sure it is heard. It seems as if they mistake their own inability to be a part of the one who is listening. May be that’s because their reflex do not corroborate the response of the listener.

After two or three more enquiries to ascertain the location we reached the police station. I was a little nervous because I was not used to observing police in their own den. I have seen them preying on reckless truck drivers, pouncing on those participating in an agitation and ambush folks who don’t wear helmets but never had an encounter with them in their own place: I was in the police station for the first time. Naturally, I felt guilty; about what I cannot say but by merely observing a part of the judging machinery in function I felt inclined to some sort of lingering subliminal guilt; a deed is wrong when it is judged and not when it is done, I thought to myself: redolent of Nietzsche and his Genealogy of Morality—killing a man is horrendous because it is judged and we have an elaborate judicial system, killing a beast is not because we lack a judging structure. Here, I have no intention to build an edifice of judgement for bestiality as well. I felt being judged without a deed. May be I am averse to eyes full of scrutiny. I told her plight two or three times to different constables. Each time they would point to another one. They would ask for her place of stay and she was unable to recall. Luckily, she had her address written down on a properly folded but little crumpled paper; most probably it was her master’s wife—she was a maid there—who out of sympathy and taking cognizance of her inability, wrote it for her. Usually, poor folks keep these things with much care; just as a treasured belonging kept for years and years. They could make a fresh copy if they want but they choose not to. Instead they would double their efforts to preserve the original copy.

Finally one of the constables was asked to accompany the lady to her house. As we were about to leave one of them asked the lady, “Do you want him arrested?” Of course she was unable to respond owing to her permanent stupefaction. Sensing that, he made some gestures and she knew immediately that the constable was asking for her permission. She nodded with vigorous movement of her whole insignificant existence. I was asked whether I would like to accompany her and the constable; they thought that I might have been some well wisher, some responsible neighbour or even son of her mistress. I was none of them and I let them know it before they could formally ask me, giving action to their thoughts. I was just one regular pedestrian who luckily passed by that route that day—I never follow the same route—and was able to transform, just when it was needed, my “rhythmic nirvanic Buddhist indifference” and abstractness to sensitivity and concreteness.

Remembrance of fading dreams

‘Remembrance’ holds the same relationship to ‘Recalcitrance’ as the two words would in a dictionary sequence: remembrance comes after recalcitrance. In simple and comprehensible words, ‘Remembrance’ is a sequel to ‘Recalcitrance’. A work of Mr. Anurag Kumar—who was generous enough to offer me a copy of ‘Remembrance’ that I obviously rejected since I wished to buy it myself—seeks to build over his previous work. You can read my review of ‘Recalcitrance’ here.

Remembrance of fading dreams

Starting with the physical appeal, it is certainly not like those “very bulky in appearance” books. The cover of the book carries a photograph—old, black and white with a rusty feel—of “Chattar Manzil” which one discovers to be a single picture if one holds the book wide open and not to read it but just to see its cover. ‘Remembrance of fading dreams’ carries a signature of the author on its first page then a tribute to “all those who gave up their lives in 1857” and then on the third page we are into action with no content page briefing us about its chapters. We are projected in a time three years after the “Great Uprising of 1857” had ended. The writer starts with a brief overview of the political situation, market scene, the lack of “fun and frolic” and the degradation of poetry.  We soon see appearance of familiar characters of ‘Recalcitrance’. The story starts to take shape around its protagonist, Chote Bhaiya. We also know that “the spark of recalcitrance in Chote Bhaiya could become a raging fire again”.

Along with the usual flow of story in the form of chapters, we are constantly upgraded with the political environment of the post-war period. Sometimes through the mark of respect by the use of the term ‘gora sahabs’ instead of ‘firangees’,at other times by reminding that “real nawabs are now in the South”. The writer also mentions some craziness involved in the Revolution through the visit of Chote Bhaiya to ‘Satichaura Ghat’ and ‘Bibighar’ while at the same time contrasting it with the benevolence of ‘ Acche Nawab’ who sheltered the pregnant Rosemary. I think the introduction of Rosemary and Stanley and their story achieves two purposes here. On the one hand it retrospectively describes the siege of Residency in Lucknow that was mainly covered in ‘Recalcitrance’ while on the other it introduces the humanly behavior of both ‘Acche Nawab’ and Stanley.

Although I am not sure whether the main revolutionary plot in which Chote Baiya, Ahsanul Mulk: to whom gun powder was like perfume, Mohtasim: a pseudo-eunuch or a beautiful Englishwoman or a master of disguise, Walter Sahab’s cousin and other revolutionaries took part is a true historical event, I can certainly say it was definitely intriguing and most thrilling part of the novel. We are also influenced by the Ulfat Jahan’s character whose sensuality did not spare even Chote Bhaiya who is normally “largely immune to feminine charms”. Even the fact of being married to a religious girl and thoughtfully dedicated to another girl named Farheen, could not stop him from ascending the steps of Ulfat Jahan’s house. Substantial coverage has been given to all the main characters this time, including Narenderlal, which was a little bit absent in ‘Recalcitrance’.

The novel has been beautifully spread over thirty-one chapters with a glossary of Hindustani words at the end. This being helpful in case you are not aware of some of the Indian language terms. However, I found that some of the Hindustani words were not described either in the end or at the point where they were used. One other thing I found pretty much to my displeasure was the absence of chapter names, difficulty being compounded while writing review because you couldn’t feature at an instant what the chapter was about. A few spelling mistakes, which I definitely know were introduced on the publishing end, made some romantic moments a little comical: Ulfat Jahan resting her head on Chote Bhaiya’s “soldier” and not his “shoulder” was one such light moment; though holding the writer responsible for such errors is little too harsh.

In the end I would say that ‘Remembrance of fading dreams’ is a wonderful read especially if you have read ‘Recalcitrance’; and even if you have not, ‘Remembrance’ can stand alone and turn out to be an amazing piece combining the revolutionary zeal of a major event with how that fervour transcended the commoners.             

In the guise of freedom lurks imitation

When Radio 5 Live presenter John Inverdale said his –now famous—lines about Wimbeldon winner Marion Bartoli, it was not just another case of Sexism as the media dubbed it so. It in fact reflects the new norms of fundamentalism in transition from the old ones. You really have to read the contents of social media in order to make it that it was not just a slip of tongue by the presenter. These are the new hardcore norms of our weird times.

There is probably no God and we are urged to stop worrying about it; we are even solicited to enjoy our life. However, in their effort to tackle religious fundamentalism, a certain section of atheists are laying down new rules of fundamentalism or they are in guise imitations of old fundamentalism. Let us start with a very basic thing: apparel. Very often Abrahamic religions especially Islam is criticized for its stand on feminine dressing in the public. It is now commonly acknowledged that Islam is ruthless and men force women to wear veil. But is it not the same stand which Islam or for the sake of universality any other religion took against the permissiveness of clothing? The idea being: to judge a person on his/her dress needs a very strange phenomenon to occur in our head; to rip apart a human being from his/her social context and place him in your own culture. That is to say—a situation of pure abstraction of human subtlety; the individual now is not an inextricable part of his/her social context but an object detachable, whenever needed. It is this same phenomenon that most religions used, that is, detach an individual from his roots and place in your own soil to judge him, project your bias on him. And is it not the same reasoning used by atheist today? The same fundamentalist ripping of Muslim women from their social context and placing them in their own environment! Such powerful is the tearing apart that even a defence by her seems to be a ventriloquist reply by a man behind. It is this development that makes it easy for both sides to predict who is free and who is not, who is forced and who is not. Can we not conclude the same for Marion Bartoli ? John Inverlade along with many on social media platforms used the same phenomenon to rip her from some other social dimensions, space and place her in their own “Cartesian system” as if she was an object detachable—a standard battery that would fit in any device. David Graeber in ‘Debt’ use the same phenomenon to describe what actually slavery warrants. Slavery is nothing but tearing apart of an individual from all that makes what he is and then expecting him to behave according to your norms. This was sometimes civilization for the primitive.

Tracing the same fundamental lines, one can almost see that certain contemporary atheists are no different from their theological adversaries. Just like a theist would apply ridiculous simplification and find every solution in religion, it seems that these atheists find every problem as a result of religion, its institutions and mandate. I think it is a clear hint of fanatic simplification. One such example is the inference that religion is a direct cause of economic conditions of different nations. They even have prepared elaborate maps marking nations, their advancement and linking them with religious beliefs. It’s not that there are just few fanatic individuals; even influential intellectuals advocate this. The debate of religion and atheism acquire center stage while history, debts, conquests are treated as if they are trivial or as if those who ruled for centuries all over the world have no advantage in governing over those  who were their slaves. What is important is trivial; what is trivial is important. Politics for them as such is non-existent. It was all a simple game of religion from the start which we must end to set all things that have gone awry. And it is under this pretext demand of separating religion from state is raised, vindicating State and blaming Religion; the same male chauvinist idea that the defaulter in this marriage of religion and state is religion, as if, if state used religious violence as a tool then it is not the state which is at fault . Most of the time it is state or the aspiring state that instigate and manipulate religious violence. The problem is—as these atheists point out—with the religion that makes theist so much infuriated. However, the perpetrator should be absolved of all wrongs. There is neither a single word against state nor towards its abolition but religion must be annihilated. On the same pattern, Chetan Bhagat, though he never professes of being an atheist, suggest on the matter of Gujarat riots that we should introspect: introspection about what is in us that makes us such killers of each other. I agree that we should not be so short tempered but that does not mean that the other partner should stand vindicated as if the whole problem can be summarized in terms of fundamentalism. And this is what Richard Dawkins is propagating, vindicating the role of his nation, or precisely any state. State and religion should not mix; religion should vanish; state is absolved. We actually have a word for what state did when we were a colony—“divide and rule”. This is not for pointing specifics but when you blame one, you cannot absolve other. This is not observed by our “evolving nerd rebellious atheist”. Dawkins and Hitchens have done a lot for their supporters to get rid of “sky daddy” but at the same time both fail, in fact make them accept more jubilantly their “earthly daddy”. It is claimed by these naïve atheists that religion caused a great harm; it poisons everything. But I claim that markets, money and debts have done even greater destruction, of colossal magnitude even. Do we see the same hue and cry when they blame religion for poverty of a nation while at the same time enjoying the fruits of markets, debts and slave trade across the Atlantic? Do we see the poisoning of human morals when a father has to sell his own daughter to pay his debt? Do we see that “Money is not great” or “The Market delusion” when we passively accept the suicide of a farmer just because he could not obey the laws of debt and markets? I think such harms have become norms and fundamentals of “new fundamentalism”. They reject the concepts of afterlife and eternity. But do we not find the same concepts of eternity buried deeply when an atheist say—“I want to do something for humanity. I want my name to be remembered for generations.” Is it not the same concept of eternity when he prospectively imagine the retrospective admiration of posterity as if he will be present somewhere to even notice the gratitude?

They are the front runners of science and even speculate a “gay gene” to cater to the needs of their followers. However, they fail to guess a “faith gene” that might have afflicted so many people. I would be glad to know what evolutionary purpose has been reserved by Mr. Dawkins for a homosexual couple. But before you call me homophobic, you definitely need to answer scientifically your own prejudices. Is it not that sometimes one scientific field place us directly stand against another? Is it not that when we are mad to comfort our body through scientific inventions, we are actually getting weak—decreasing our evolutionary strength? Though we know what both sciences mean, we are guilty of new fundamentalism by simply propagating the persona of nerdy atheist. You already know that you have unintentionally reached the peak of fundamentalism when you start believing everything with the subtext—“a new study by scientists shows”.

Narendra Modi: Closest representation of State’s Inception

If I were to describe Narendra Modi and his fan following, perhaps I should say Lord and his men because that’s what Narendra means (nar-man, Indra- God or lord), I put it this way—Debauch aspiring Ascetic to lead them, fantasizing excess in near future, fascinated by Asceticism but aspiring Debauchery. In short: Asceticism as a means to Debauchery. Here lies the paradox—a practitioner of self-denial, asceticism, Mr. Modi is working day and night so that our aspiring young ones, whom he praises so much that they may also reciprocate naively, can fulfill their dream of excess. His fans are everywhere, on social networking sites, newspapers, among Bollywood actors and corporates apart from usual fundamental ideological base that he is part of and represents. There are chants of growth wherever you go. The saint must work ceaselessly for our surplus, so that we can “dream big”. And this is it! Nationalism, superpower, growth and this is it. Well, I never feel associated with such injected terms: Terms which I think come into common discourse through state or aspiring state. Vocabulary must be taught to us before we can even think of analyzing. You see, with these terms, whether or not they are true on ground level, an atmosphere for discussion prevails. In this arena all arguments must be either for or against the proposed vocabulary and its sophisticated structure. For example, every discussion, and subsequently an argument concerning growth of Gujarat, demands it to be either in support or against. This vocabulary of growth and superpower infused into the mainstream ensures that opinion, if any exists, must either be praising the proposed idea or denying it. So a BJP fan must always support the “growth” and a Congress fan must deny it. What is lost then? The loss is we do not know what it means to grow. What it means to be a superpower! It is out of question—the need to debate what is actually growth. Cancer also grows! Now we must imitate some blur image assigned to these terms and that too, obsessively. The time for theory has ended. We must immediately stop debating and act as if we have taken all our time to define, everything is concrete and clear; the point remains of implementing it. This is most dangerous belief. Recently I watched a movie—“Django Unchained”. There is a scene in the movie where Leonardo DiCaprio( Calvin Candy) mocks one of his black slaves for not knowing the meaning of “reimburse”. Actually, Candy paid five hundred dollars for that slave and expected him to fight at least five “mandingo” fights failing which the slave must reimburse the master. I liked that scene not because I found it amusing but because it contains much deeper meaning. The idea being—the slave must know the meaning of reimburse and subsequently that he is morally expected to reimburse no matter how much violent and degrading act, that is slavery, brought him in a position to reimburse. The master must teach the vocabulary.

Elite Squad: The Enemy Within, a Brazilian film directed, produced by Jose Padilha, starring Wagner Moura, is a semi-fictional account of BOPE. I am not concerned with the overall story or theme. I am interested mainly in the character of Sandro Rocha who is a lead corrupt boss of Rio militia. Since he is powerful and corrupt, he is seen as someone getting his share from drug dealer—a sort of tax you can say. He and his gang later kill the dealers, the middle-men, and start operating directly. He now acquires a bigger role providing internet, cable TV, banks, cafes, restaurants, every business and acts as a protector to the slums. How will a guy living in that slum treat Rocha? I think we deal here with a central and important problem. Although Rocha does not form an official state here, through him we can see how state actually operates. A guy living in that slum sees his relationship with Rocha and his gang as of mutual benefit, protector. He sees the relationship as that of specific roles defined in society. You know what I mean to say.

‘Rocha looks after our basic necessities. He takes care of our wants. Rocha provides security. We must pay our taxes and all that.’

Rocha and his gang is state here.  If we somehow disappear from our own times and place ourselves when our civilization is just beginning to take shape, Rocha represents the dynamics of state. Let us give our Rocha some bigger hurdles to tackle, say employment generation. Rocha owns all lands and resources by default and he generates employment. Now give Rocha a little bit of global touch of growth. He now is a Messiah who intends to achieve a fantasy of surplus for everyone—‘there shall be no poor, we will be a superpower.’ It does not matter why there is a poor. What matters is we must act hastily. Poverty should vanish from earth as soon as possible. Again the mantra: theory is wasting time, acting is everything. As the time passes by,—sufficient generations after Rocha—we have a totally new set of ideological points governing Rocha’s posterity.

‘All problems are there because we do not follow the fundamentals set by state. Or each problem exists because State doesn't have sufficient funds. We should tax the rich and all that.’ State’s emphasis is to present and formulate every bit of problem as a function of funds, which will be solvable if we have enough funds—obviously that day of sufficiency never arrives. Nevertheless, subjects of the State have become habitual of encountering the problem as properly defined; the point is of for or against as I previously pointed. Rocha is not the only one. You can see a reflection of state wherever a sub-state or to be politically correct, a sub-governance begins to germinate. Some street side vendor or one with a barrow often pays a part of his money as extortion for selling in a particular area. In India, where the official State is not vigilant enough, this is often the case. Now that is not the official state tax but they pay it. Why? Because of sheer threat of violence or violence itself! This is governance or state in its crude form which after sufficient time acquires the status of what we call—social contract.

I told this long story—out of context it may seem but it is not. I think Narendra Modi is closest representation of State’s inception that we can get in our own times. You must know, it is a necessity for Rocha to evolve.      

Lovely Commercials

My God! These commercials! I love them especially those tobacco commercials. If you have ever noticed, they start with something ethereal about tobacco, something that transcends, something that elevates, that make you feel like a king; I don’t know but in a naïve manner I put—to make you feel fearless. To chew tobacco is to be fearless; at the same time it is a source of divine pleasure. This is how the commercial start and this is what they convey until a short warning –indecipherable, incoherent with the overall advertisement, usually spoken too fast to be heard so as not to tamper with the pleasant environment which the actual advertisement creates –appears.  In fact, warnings of all sorts share this feature.

“Chewing tobacco causes cancer.”

“Smoking is injurious to health.”

This is what they say, making their honest and good intentions clear in a clumsy way. While majority of advertisement deals with fearlessness, it ends making us fear for our lives. Two totally different emotions fused in one.  Good for none but a laugh. Optimism and pessimism mixed in one. If not for anything else, it is good to tell ourselves how pathetic our condition is. I mean we tell a lie and then a truth and this is not the important thing. What is important is we are forced to do it. Forced not to tell lie only; forced not to tell truth only; if it had been any one of lie or truth, the condition is much better. But we are forced to tell both at the same time. I think this is horrendous. I feel this whole thing like Obscene is sold, at the same time the seller urges you not to buy the Obscene because it’s obscene. What a humanly gesture!

There is another commercial which fascinates me. When I say fascinates me, it genuinely means fascinates me. Please allow me to present to you—‘killer jeans’. Let us be murderously correct –not just ‘killer jeans’ but ‘killer water saver jeans’. That’s what their product is about. At least they say it so. Killer and saver, both at the same time! Killer jeans that saves water! To be politically and environmentally correct, they even put a protesting audience—some sort of young bare chest students caring for our environment and all that—against police with water cannons. You see, these advertisements are fabulous. They do not disappoint anyone. There is something for everyone to feel associated with the product in some sort of transcendental way. Now we have an easy solution for water shortage. Wear killer-saver jeans and be environmentally correct, in other words be environmentally guilt free, be on the right side of the history. Even an atheist, who considers himself free from guilt, can’t resist it. He too wants to be on the right side—redeemed environmentally. Christianity, Islam and whatever religion you take, I think the principles of guilt are best implemented by the advertising world, even better than those religions themselves. Water shortage started because we didn't wear the ‘killer-saver jeans’ at the right time in our long history. To correct our mistake we must instantly indulge in this endeavour obsessively. Who knows, maybe we could measure the precise amount of water we save by buying killer jeans. ‘Oh! You have only three jeans, I have ten of those. I save ten litres of water.’ Now, simple mathematics can even predict how much water people around the world save. Those poor devils who could not afford these jeans are even wasting water, undoubtedly even causing the water shortage in the first place. Imagine an extreme situation—there is shortage in arid regions of Africa and we have our benevolent Western nations sending over hundred thousand ‘killer water saver jeans’ as an aid. Killer jeans dropped from airplanes not to kill as the name suggests, but to save.

The last commercial which has not escaped my memory and still deserves a laugh whenever I watch it is the one about the milk supplements.  Alexander, Akbar and Jhansi ki Rani didn't like the taste of milk; we need milk supplements in various flavours to make our kid drink it. But that is not the point of laughter. One advertisement in the same line of milk supplements, of Bournvita if I remember correctly, claims that to absorb the calcium in milk by human body we need its supplement to be mixed along with milk. Mother who gives Bournvita to her child is knowledgeable while who don’t is ignorant of the obvious, self-evident fact. Nevertheless the point such advertisements make is that man has been drinking plain milk from thousands of years only in vain, technically as good as water, deficient of any extra benefits. I don’t take it as an insult to our ancestors but actually a groundbreaking research of our technologically advanced and intelligent folks, who obviously have strongest of bones than most of our bravest fighters of history.