http://www.ndtv.com/article/india/mumbai-serial-blasts-centre-says-anti-terror-squad-has-the-wrong-men-169804

As if a series of bomb blasts wasn’t bad enough you blame inter-departmental rivalry for your fuck-ups? Of course the police has a tough task ensuring that authors don’t write, read or Skype, politicians don’t get assaulted by stray footwear or that errant two-wheeler stays the hell out of Bhausaheb’s convoy as it clogs up arterial roads in the city, ensuring thousands of people get to work late, thus losing out on twice as many hours of productivity resulting in lost taxes, leading to a lighter pocket for the politician. (Come ON! It’s harming YOU, my precious elected representative!) Protecting citizens not inhabiting political office isn’t a big priority.

It’s alright when two police teams have a difference of opinion but present a united front. It’s  humiliation when a police team publicly accuses the other of NOT HAVING CAUGHT THE RIGHT TERRORIST! Worse, they accuse each other of LETTING THE RIGHT ONES GO!

Tch, come on guys. Don’t fight. They’ll be back with a few more Activas loaded with their choicest Kablooey and we can all participate in this farce again.

Here’s a crazy idea.

ALL INDIAN CITIZENS SHOULD BEAR ARMS. THERE ARE SO FEW POLICEMEN AND SO MANY OF US! IT IS OUR MORAL OBLIGATION TO PROTECT THEM!

Here’s a crazier idea. Why don’t these “rival” police teams challenge each other to a dance-off instead of pretending to apprehend terrorists? They might as well leave these hapless extremists who have merely ensured that a few hundred people are missing innards and a physical existence, out of their personal beef and stand proudly in abandoned warehouses with boomboxes on their shoulders yelling COME AT ME, BRO!

I’ve also written lyrics to the dance-off song. These are to be sung to the the tune of Shaggy’s “It Wasn’t Me”

(Mumbai police begins)

These dilliwalas are claiming

I was fibbing on the press-room floor;

Could’ve sworn the fellow we caught

Sounded like a terrorist-whore

I’m sure they forgot that they were

Screwing up their own chase

How can they accuse us of

Not knowing our suspect’s face?

I’m sure we saw him in Darbhanga

(Delhi police responds) IT WASN’T HIM!

But we caught him on camera

IT WASN’T HIM!

We’re sure he scoped Zaveri Bazar

IT WASN’T HIM!

He sent emails to Yasin Bhatkal

IT WASN’T HIM!

Ai shapath he was at Dadar

IT WASN’T HIM!

He had a rusty scooter key too

IT WASN’T HIM!

You Dally boyz are mistaken

IT WASN’T HIM!

Tchyamaila tumcha doka phirlaye

IT WASN’T HIM!

Bah.

- loves racing
- tries hard
- gets the right breaks

(in that order), he has a chance, right?

His mother recoils in horror at the thought of her son hurtling around a tarmac at 200 miles per hour in a machine barely large enough to fit him. My standard response to such a reaction used to be “pshaw…let’s give this a shot and see where it goes!”

That was, until I watched “Senna“. Most racing enthusiasts know about the legendary Brazilian F1 driver, still regarded as the best racer in history, brutally snatched from the sport by a fatal accident at the 1994 San Marino Grand Prix. I’ve watched videos of the crash, I’ve read the technical analysis of how the steering column broke as he approached Tamburello at over 200mph. As his car left the track, completely out of his control, his lightning quick reflexes managed a braking time of 2 full seconds which brought down his speed to 135mph. But he hit a solid, concrete wall and died as the steering shaft punctured his helmet, causing skull fractures, blood loss and brain damage.

I know the gory details. I know how it shook the world of racing forever. I know of the safety measures instituted since that Grand Prix. There hasn’t been a F1 fatality at the wheel since.

I know.

But “Senna” changed the tone of how I processed that information. There are two instances in that documentary which affected me so profoundly, I’ve been unable to get them out of my head. At the 1991 Brazilian Grand Prix, Senna drove a car to victory with his gearbox stuck in sixth. The weather conditions were ridiculous, the car was uncooperative and he still won. So great was his exhaustion that he had to be carried back in the medical car. He’s shown emerging from the car looking exhausted, walking tentatively with a towel around his shoulders. As soon as he gets out, he calls to his father. Milton da Silva approaches and tentatively hugs and kisses him, but with real warmth and love. Soon after, Ayrton is seen keeping the crowds at bay by telling them to not touch him because his shoulders are sensitive and aching. But his father was the only one accorded the privilege of sharing in his son’s triumph, despite the obvious pain.

The documentary ends with on-board visuals of Senna’s horrific crash, the reactions of the drivers, his crew and the commentators. They show us Senna’s coffin lying in-state surrounded by his family, Senna’s distinctive helmet placed on top of the coffin. A poignant reminder of the man’s profession and passion. As each family member pays their respects, they show us the happier times shared. As Senna’s father approaches the coffin, dazed and confused, the visuals cut to Brazil 1991, with Milton embracing Ayrton tentatively, but with warmth and love. A special moment between a father and his son.

I had to pause the documentary at that moment to take a deep breath. Perhaps a short walk would’ve prevented it but the scene was far too touching to watch unaffected. So I allowed myself to cry a bit. Later, I pondered over what had set off such a visceral reaction in me.

Was it the tragedy of parents outliving their child? Or was it the betrayal of the faith a father had put in his son’s destiny? The connection between the father and son impacted me immediately, obviously due to my own circumstances, but it was the heartbreaking visuals of loss that made me emotional and a little bit afraid.

Ever since I watched that documentary, I’m afraid for my son. All parents are concerned for their children at some level. But I now feel this overwhelming sense of fear and the need to control my son’s actions. Ironically, this fear is what I feared for a long time. I want to be the dad who understands risks, makes his child aware of those risks but places an implicit trust in his child’s ability and judgment. Now, I find those beliefs shaken by an irrational need to cloister him against the world.

I know despite my apprehensions, I will not stand in the way of his legitimate pursuits but I don’t want to live the rest
of my life battling what-ifs. It’s a pathetic existence and many times, unfair on your child who will start to notice the signs as he/she grows older.

How can I beat this? How can I pit my protective parental instincts against an innate need to see my children succeed? For starters, I know from personal experience that a sheltered existence benefits no one, least of all the person being sheltered. I know he needs to try, fall, get hurt, try again and figure it out for himself. It will start with the time-tested tradition of teaching him how to ride a bicycle and using that visual as a cliched metaphor for every other challenge in his life. Hey, I’m not selling insurance. I tell myself that my faith and maturity are stronger than having to rely on such tropes for guidance. But that gnawing insecurity….

I think I’ll wing it as I go along.

Writing this down is the first step to being aware of the problem. I promise myself to be alert for signs of this weakness, this ridiculous urge to protect life by preventing it from being itself.

If all else fails, I’ll go watch my favorite part from the Family Guy episode, “Former Life of Brian“. Brian discovers he has a son and during the course of the episode develops a special bond with the child. This turns him into a doting, over-protective parent. Brian, Peter and the rest of his gang are relaxing at a bar when a news clip informs them of a tragic plane crash.

News anchor: We interrupt this program to bring you grim news out of LaGuardia airport, where a 767 has been forced to make a crash landing.

Brian: Oh, man, I tell you, now that I’m a parent, I can’t even watch stories like that. I just think, you know, I just think, “Oh, my God, what if Dylan were on that plane?” Oh, my God, oh, I just don’t know what I would do. I don’t know what I would do.

Quagmire: Yeah, yeah, I understand. That’d be tough.

Brian: Oh, oh, no. Oh, NO. NO, NO, NO, NO. Quagmire, no. You do NOT understand. Until you have a child… Until you have a child, you do not understand. Okay?

Quagmire: Damn it.

Peter: It’s been like this all week. Watch this: Hey, Brian, what would you do if Dylan fell out a window?

Brian: Oh, my God. Oh, my God I don’t even want to think about that. I don’t even want to think about that. OhGodOhmyGodOhno.

Quagmire: Brian, what would you do if Dylan was in a fire? Oh, my God. Oh, no. Oh, my God. Oh, that’s…
Oh, God. Oh, no, no,no. Knock on wood. Knock on wood, Knock on wood.
Oh, I can’t hear any more of this.

Joe: Peter, your dog is giving me diabetes.

Believe me, I’ll do anything to never be THAT guy :)

For now, I plan to celebrate his next birthday at a karting track. I want to drive the kart with him, see if he loves it….expect him not to but hope that he does. And I’ll tell myself that every what-if is a shiny new chain around my son’s feet.

In this post, she chronicles a recent incident with Tyke, which poses unique challenges for parents of very young children.

A lazy Tuesday evening found Tyke and me lounging together. I was working on my laptop while the kiddo sat at my feet making a bus with his Legos. Suddenly he spoke, “Mommy, do you know whites sit in the front of the bus and blacks sit at the back?”

MSWord doesn’t have a font size large enough to convey the WTFness I experienced. Just an hour ago he had innocuously narrated how he had learned about the number 7 at school. What the hell was this??!

Making a huge effort to look unaffected, I tried to get the whole story out without alarming him.

“What?” I asked casually.

“Whites sit in the front of the bus and blacks sit at the back”. OK. So I hadn’t imagined that.

“Which bus?” I soldiered on.

“Any bus”

“Who told you?”

“My teacher”

What?! Why would a teacher say something like that?!!  Then I remembered – Martin Luther King Day. Ah.

But wait, that’s not what the message should be.

“Who are white people and who are black people?” I prodded. His little face scrunched in concentration as he struggled to remember. It occurred to me then- He had no idea. I managed to say something about how that’s not the case anymore and anyone can sit where they wanted to etc. He seemed a bit confused, but let it go.

Next day, I went a little early to drop him to school and thought I’d ask his teacher about what really happened. I started by asking whether they had a MLK themed talk about segregation the previous day. She immediately seemed a little embarrassed and went on the defensive about how the school directed them to but how she personally felt they were too young to grasp it. Nervous titters abound.

I repeated what Tyke told me and was met by a  “oh, I didn’t think he would remember. Most kids weren’t paying attention anyway”. My aghast expression jolted her to seriousness. Long story short, it was decided that she would repeat the story again today and make sure that the kids took away the right message.

Here’s what I think happened. The teachers probably told the story in a cavalier manner with many anecdotes, without introducing the concept of race and ended the story without underlining the main theme of how discrimination is wrong. So the kids just remembered whatever was interesting to them, for example, in Tyke’s case he probably thought it was funny to have people referred to as colors.

This whole episode is upsetting because it has hastened me into having a conversation Tyke, or even I, aren’t ready for yet. I could ignore it and hope he will forget but what if he repeats it out of context? It may be easily presumed to be a direct reflection of our values and prejudices as a family. Oh, the horror!

Plus having such a talk involves too many complex issues-

1. To start with, I have to explain the premise of race- and the differences. So even if he wasn’t thinking about people’s skin color, he might start now
2. I might have to field questions about his own race and what that means to him
3. Convince him to not repeat in public his selective learnings, without making it seem like a bad thing.

Anybody who has a toddler would know how difficult all of this is.  I don’t have the privilege of using clever and tempered analogies as a crutch. I will have to explain it using a very limited vocabulary to a little mind that doesn’t understand grey areas yet.

I understand that sensitizing kids to the ills of racial discrimination is important. But there is a time and place for everything and if it is insisted that they start this early, I wish the process were given more attention. It takes a village to raise a child and I cannot help but worry about what else he might learn outside the sheltered life we offer and how his little brain might process it.

As for me, frankly, I’d gladly trade this situation for a birds-and-bees talk right now!

I’ve heard so many stories of “mom/dad didn’t love me enough”, “I wasn’t appreciated much”, “standards for fawning were pretty high at home” that I lost sight of the reciprocal action. Do parents crave approval from their children? Yeah, sure they do. A child’s slight hurts a parent. Some will sulk quietly at thoughtless insults (like my Dad), others will lapse into paroxyms of “HAI ITNA PAAL-POS KE BADA KIYA YEH DIN DEKHNE”. But what about praise? What does praise mean to them? I believed my praise was credible as an adult, when I fully understood the ramifications of my statements. Now, I’m not so sure. As adults our praise is measured, more prone to biases and offered after thorough scrutiny, even to our parents.  It’s my observation that even spontaneous praise as an adult for your parents can be brushed away lightly with an indulgent laugh or hug. The implication being that it’s expected and appreciated. I’m not saying that’s what my parents did, just what I think usually happens. True praise is sent and received in a ether of comfortable assumptions, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I’d rather assume my parents love and appreciate me (and vice-versa) than wait eagerly for signs that they do.

Spontaneity, however, comes easily to kids. The kind of spontaneity which allows tyke to hug his best friend when she gives him a Christmas gift or draws a picture with him. Between heartfelt and spontaneous praise, I’ll choose the latter, especially when it comes from little kids. It’s not till they’re a little older do they dole out praise quid pro quo for a bar of chocolate, sleepover, party, hanging out late at night with friends, purchasing their favorite DVD/Game/Music. I know, I’ve done it. Heartfelt implies a deeper understanding of consequences and the inclination to express that emotion regardless of its benefits. I don’t think little kids have such motives. They blurt out stuff and that’s very endearing. Bill Cosby’s even used it to make money.

Some of the anecdotes my parents share about my brother as a youngster involve him showering praise with brutal honesty. For example, when he remarked to a senior Army officer at his party that his “chick’s legs are great”, contentedly munching on a Tandoori drumstick. That’s spontaneous, endearing and dare I say, real (my parents agree today, but at that time were mortified enough to wish the earth would rend itself open and swallow them whole).

Somedays I get tired of scrutinizing praise for tone, motive and benefit. Kids tell it like it is. Kids tell a like, like it is, and I’m grateful mine does too.

A few days ago I was getting ready to go out. As I pulled on my jacket, I stood contemplating its suitability and its general ability to soften my wholesale ugliness. Tyke was lolling close by and piped up with “that’s handsome daddy!”. I may have looked like the world’s biggest square or the Hunchback of Notre Dame but I can tell you I strutted into that restaurant with the firm belief that I deserve all eyes on me. Because my son said so.

Speculation is rife that the intended aim of the attack was to disrupt normal democratic proceedings but the situation quickly took a turn for the worse when they realized such proceedings had never existed in the first place.”

Change.

Knee-jerk reactions are characteristic of an empty clamor for change. The current system doesn’t work so let’s change it.  Anna Hazare’s clever media strategies have ensured the Lokpal has become a predominant symbol of people power. Junta swag.

A Lokphallic symbol, if you please.

This reminds me of the Emperor’s New Clothes. The restless, dissatisfied Emperor hankers for the best clothes. Ornate, bejeweled, dazzling garments representative of his status.  He wants change. CHANGE, CHANGE, HIS KINGDOM FOR A CHANGE. But there aren’t any. Not immediately anyway. So he’s fooled into shedding his old garb, something which may not have been the most comfortable but which kept him warm all these years. He’s fooled into believing his new clothes are befitting of his status and their magnificence will make his detractors tremble. But they see him for how he is – naked. Naked and foolish.

Change, change, our kingdom for a change. That is exactly what we’ll be giving up.

Here’s Scumbag Steve, otherwise a gentleman called Blake, advising the victim of another internet meme, the girl in Annoying Facebook Girl on how to deal with her new-found fame.

The internet defines our social interactions today. It also has a humorous, inventive and at times, vile underbelly. When you put them together, it has the ability to break you apart when you’re not looking.

Scumbag Steve and Annoying Facebook Girl are two memes I’ve thoroughly enjoyed and when Blake writes “they’re just relieved it’s not them” I’m in agreement. I’m relieved it’s not me. That, is the scary power of the internet and also the reason we eagerly participate in its witch-hunts.

There’s standing on the shoulders of giants and then there’s firing from the shoulders of giants. Both are immensely satisfying.

I was led to my table but the seat was really uncomfortable so I squirmed a lot. When the waiter took our order, I went for the noodle soup. I was really hungry and the soup was taking too long so I shouted in disgust at the waiter. Everyone stared at me but I didn’t care. It was taking so long! When the soup arrived I eagerly tucked in. It tasted so good I wanted to eat as many noodles as I could in one go. There was soup dribbling down the corner of my mouth and noodles plonking back into the bowl. It was delicious! I finished and let out a loud burp of satisfaction. Mmmm, felt good.

By the time my entree arrived, I was hungry and impatient again. My colleague’s dinner conversation was boring the heck out of me so to distract myself I played a game by spitting out the morsel of steak in my mouth and tried to hit the Waterford emblem on my plate. My colleague seemed surprised and embarrassed. He quickly changed the subject so I decided to interest myself in what he had to say. The ensuing anecdote was rather funny so I guffawed loudly. That seemed to embarrass him too. I can’t understand why. I really found his anecdote funny so I thought I’d let him know! People at other tables were looking at us and it seemed to make my colleague conscious. Not me! I wasn’t sitting at any of their tables; I hadn’t done anything to them.

As the evening wore on, I started getting tired and sleepy. The conversation was stifling me so I decided to get off the chair and stretch my legs a bit. Of course I didn’t mean any disrespect to the others at the table but my legs were falling asleep. This seemed to perturb them again. During my little break, I met someone who seemed interesting so I engaged in a bit of banter, but that seemed to disturb the people at *her* table. Sigh.

It was time for dessert. I wanted something with Chocolate but it was off the menu that night. Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate, chocolate, chocolate, but I wanted chocolate! I was asked to put up with Strawberry or shut up. Grumpily, I ate it. The full meal made me sleepier than ever so I leaned on my colleague’s shoulder for a quick nap. That seemed to be the last straw. They all quickly settled their bill, got up and left with me in tow, reluctantly dragging my sleepy self as a whining entourage of one.

Do you believe any of this? Of course not! I’m an adult, not a child.

I went to dinner, shuffled impatiently as I was made to wait for a table, indulging in banal small talk with my colleagues. I found the seat uncomfortable but kept quiet about it and kept my squirming to a minimum. I really liked the soup but was careful not to let any of it dribble down my chin and was reserved in my praise as befitting a dignified ensemble of professional colleagues. I laughed politely at my colleague’s unfunny jokes and chewed food with my mouth closed. I wanted Chocolate ice cream but did not protest at its absence, apart from a silent click of the tongue. I was incredibly sleepy after the meal so I hailed a cab and left quietly after bidding my group goodbye.

But I WANTED to do all those things I told you about.

Let’s not lose sight of the fact that adults are just children with better masks. Masks, which if removed, will result in fractured relationships and sore egos. You see, a gradual hoarding of ego is what makes us “behave” with each other as adults. I’m not advocating juvenile anarchy but I strongly feel social propriety is mostly about masking true feelings. This, to me, is one of the core reasons behind the clamor for ‘child-free’ spaces in restaurants and airplanes. Children are a nuisance because they are uninhibited and God knows, hard-working adults deserve their quiet time away from these monsters, especially if they’re paying for it.

Honestly, that is exactly what I used to think before I became a parent. It took me a while to appreciate the similarity between kids and adults. I do understand the need for quiet but adults are equally capable of being obnoxious. How about booking a ticket in first-class only to find the guy in the cabin next to you singing away loudly to a song? Or perhaps, dining at a fancy restaurant only to have the table next to you occupied by a loud joke-teller who’s ruining your meal’s mojo? It happens.

It’s just that kids are more *likely* to be a nuisance than adults. I get it.

And so with that throw of the loaded dice, I’ll go ahead and endorse “child-free” spaces, because we all deserve a peaceful environment in which to rest, recuperate, enjoy and hide.

This post was originally featured on Kiducere.

Steve Jobs

Dev Anand

Mario Miranda

Peter Roebuck

Har Gobind Khorana

Joe Frazier

Bhupen Hazarika

Dennis Ritchie

Jagjit Singh

MAK Pataudi

Shammi Kapoor

Amy Winehouse

MF Husain

Sidney Lumet

Elizabeth Taylor

Mike Starr

Uncle Pai

I may not have followed all of them faithfully but there was no denying I had partaken of their genius at some point in my life. 2011 got them all.

As I read of Hitchens’ passing today, the words of a prophet occurred to me. This prophet left us a decade ago but his prose full of wry wit, humor and genuine insight lives on. He had woven a charming tale around dolphins. Dolphins who were the second most intelligent beings on the planet (the most intelligent being mice). As the destruction of Earth neared, they tried to warn us but we misinterpret these warnings as barrel rolls, elaborate jumps and playful whistles for food.

If the world is ending in 2012, is this the final exodus of the dolphins? Intelligent beings who tried to warn us, educate us and we misinterpret their efforts as mere milestones in their glittering careers?

Will we wake up one day to find a gift-wrapped crystal bowl inscribed with the words “So Long and Thanks For All The Fish”?

I know it sounds silly, but it was just a thought in passing….

End already, wretched year.

So I decided to write a short song which captures the bleeding obvious headlines of today, sung to the tune of Billy Joel’s iconic “We Didn’t Start The Fire”.

Shit doesn’t just happen. It keeps happening.

(Guidelines for enjoyment

- Each section has three paragraphs, the last one is sung more stridently before culminating in a blood vessel-popping yell, which is why the last verse is in CAPS

- The chorus is sung to the tune of “We didn’t start the fire/ It was always burning/ etc etc

- OK enough, here’s the original

Now. SING.)

WHY’S IT CALLED THE “NEWS”?

Obomo did something wrong
Fox News, play along
Congressman tweeted his dong
Baier, Coulter’s nuts

Republicans are kinda dumb
Can’t remember rules of thumb
Have affairs, pro guns
When in doubt, Ronald Reagan

He starts a war, I clean the mess
I promised more but gave them less
These partisans, they give me stress
JUST GET ME RE-ELECTED!

<Why’s it called the “news”?
It’s the same old hurling
As the bowels keep churning>
<Why’s it called the “news”?
It’s the same old hurling
As the bowels keep churning>

Europe’s spent all its cash
Hunting for a whole new stash
Everyday, a new nation
Fucked beyond belief

DSK, molested maids,
Silvio’s, crass tirades
Resignations, Remonstrations
Markets in turmoil

Germany, hear us whine
We’ll forget, ’39
Please give us more moolah
OR WE’LL BURN IN A CHOOLAH!

<Why’s it called the “news”?
It’s the same old hurling
As the bowels keep churning>
<Why’s it called the “news”?
It’s the same old hurling
As the bowels keep churning>

Fodder, Adarsh, 2G
Cash for Votes, CWG
Packed off to Tihar jail
Parliament grants them bail

Maunmohan don’t say a thing
UPA, Ka-ching
Sonia pulls the puppet strings
But BJP’s worse

Spent too much buying up new planes
Airline’s up shit creek again
baj gayi band, hat in hand
TAXPAYERS WILL BEAR THE PAIN!

<Why’s it called the “news”?
It’s the same old hurling
As the bowels keep churning>
<Why’s it called the “news”?
It’s the same old hurling
As the bowels keep churning>

Kashmir, disputed land
Sees more shit with every hand
POK, LOC
Borders are porous

Terrorists attack again
Kill civilians, hijack planes
A thousand mothers lose their kids
Trotting out the tropes

“Deplorable”, “condemn”
New dossier, sent to them
Added stages, stoked rages
KASAB’S IN OUR CENSUS PAGES!

<Why’s it called the “news”?
It’s the same old hurling
As the bowels keep churning>
<Why’s it called the “news”?
It’s the same old hurling
As the bowels keep churning>

Chetan Bhagat, Arindam
Mediocre, makes us numb
Arnab on the telly
Ruining someone’s night

Sachin didn’t get his ton
Dravid did, but let’s move on
INDIA WON, and lost the next
I hate them, I love them.

Today a woman had no rights
Today a woman lost her fight
Voices with sense rose in vain
TASLIMA TWEETS SHIT AGAIN!

<Why’s it called the “news”?
It’s the same old hurling
As the bowels keep churning>
<Why’s it called the “news”?
It’s the same old hurling
As the bowels keep churning>